Deadly Dreams (25 page)

When they were on the sidewalk again, she turned to face them. “Any of you know anything about a bar that used to be in this neighborhood?” She recited the address. “It burned down around 1986. Called Tory’s.”

“Eighty-six?” The speaker wore a do-rag and a large tat on the right side of his throat. “Man, I wasn’t born ’til ninetyone.”

She slanted a look at Nate. “Geez, they’re all fetuses.” He’d tensed. A moment later she noticed why.

The stranger approaching them was at least a decade older than the ones on the stoop in years, far more in experience. It was in his eyes. In the flat, hard expression with which he regarded them. “You don’t got business here.” The stranger wore a thigh-length black leather jacket and low-brimmed hat and held sunglasses. She’d lay odds he was carrying.

“Now, how would you know that?” Nate asked, the slightest edge to his voice. “You have a name?”

“They looking for Juicy,” one of the stoop sitters offered. “They already been inside and talked to Jasmine.”

The man’s head jerked toward the speaker. “Nidge you better shut it before I bust a cap in your ass.” The crowd on the porch went silent again.

“Tell Juicy I want to talk to him. My card’s inside.”

“I don’t take orders from you.” The stranger spit on the sidewalk, narrowly missing Risa’s shoe.

“No, I’ll bet you take orders from Emmons, though.” She smiled at him, mockery dripping from her words. “I’ll bet you jump through every hoop he holds out.” The tightening of his lips was evidence that her words had found their mark. “The longer he takes to come in, the more company you’re going to be getting in this neighborhood. That can make it difficult for things around here to get back to normal.” She shrugged. “If that’s what Juicy wants, no problem.”

They moved away toward the car. Got in. As they drove off, the unidentified man on the sidewalk was still staring after them. “No matter how high he is in the organization, it’ll be Emmons making the decision about whether to come in or not.”

“I’m guessing they’re starting to think about what constant visits from the force will do to their ability to conduct business. At least we can hope so.” She turned to cock a brow at him. “What’s next?”

He was silent for a moment. Then, “How about we make the rounds in a radius around the convenience store and collect any security tapes we can find before heading back for the briefing?”

“Only if you promise to let me run into the convenience store for a hot sandwich and restroom break.”

“I’ll do better than that.” He shot her a grin as he nosed the vehicle through a green light. “I’ll buy you popcorn for when we go over the security tapes later.”

Risa leaned her head against the seat rest and smiled. “I have a feeling that’s the best offer I’m going to get all day.”

He’d waited for the old lady to leave the house. Drove behind her for a couple blocks and saw her sitting at the bus stop. Once she’d actually gotten on the bus, he circled around and parked in back of her block. Cut across the yards and headed for her back door.

It was just past dusk, but Chandler’s car wasn’t out front yet. He had time. Just enough for a peek inside the house, a quick look through her things. He hadn’t decided yet if she posed any particular threat. Had almost dismissed her. She didn’t seem like anything special. But he’d never been caught because he didn’t overlook anything. So he’d be thorough.

The security system was better than decent but his skills were outstanding. He wasn’t standing outside any longer than someone having difficulty with his key. Still he resolved to be quick inside, in case one of the neighbors got nosy.

The first bedroom was the old lady’s. He swiftly went to the next. Found the tailored suits and bright tops in the closet and knew he had the right place. He looked around for a computer and realized disappointedly she’d probably have it with her.

There wasn’t much else to see, but he went through her drawers, checked her closet to be sure. Found nothing of interest, because
she
was of no interest. No threat. Not even worth the time wasted thinking about her.

He grinned, cocky now. His plans were set and neither she nor McGuire could prevent the inevitable. In an effort to be meticulous, he opened the drawer of the bedside table. Whistled soundlessly when he saw the holstered weapon there. It was impossible to resist taking it out. Drawing the gun from the holster and sighting it.

The Beretta was a bit too small in his hand but probably was a good fit for the woman. Checking, he discovered it was unloaded. Either he’d overlooked a magazine in his search, or she didn’t have ammunition for it. Either way, it didn’t worry him.

He replaced the weapon and started to head out of the room, brushing a pad of paper off the bedside table to the floor. He picked it up, searched for the pencil that had gone rolling. Everything had to be left exactly as it was found.

Idly, he flipped through the pad, and when he saw the sketches, he stopped to look more closely. Then felt the blood congeal in his veins.

The fire was so real he could hear its crackle and hiss, even in the black-and-white drawing. The trees hemmed the clearing, not so close that the fire would be in danger of spreading to them. He hadn’t made that mistake twice. He turned the page, saw a sketch of the old oak with the crossed branches.

Everything inside him went still. He stopped breathing for a moment.

And there he was. A black silhouette against the flames, arms out-flung in exultation over what he’d accomplished.

The pad started shaking. It took a moment for him to realize his hand was trembling. She knew everything. Had seen everything.

Frantically, he flipped through the pictures, examining every page with desperate eyes. He wiped a hand over his face, fought for calm. The drawings were all of the same scene. Painstaking details of Christiansen’s death. It was as if she’d been there, documenting how it went down.

But that wasn’t possible.

It wasn’t possible, he assured himself and worked his shoulders impatiently. The bitch wasn’t there because nobody had been there. He’d made damn sure of that. If she had been, if she’d been close enough to see the detail for these sketches, she’d have seen
him
.

And if she’d seen him, he’d be in jail right now.

The logic of it calmed him as nothing else could. It was just a figure of a man. The details didn’t identify him. Of course. She was working on the case. She’d seen pictures. Maybe even been to the scene. It’d take nothing but memory and a little talent to draw a visual of what must have transpired that night.

He’d almost believe that. He looked through the sketches again, his heart still racing. If it weren’t for the figure she’d drawn. The familiar pose of it. And try as he might, he couldn’t find a reasonable explanation for that portion of the sketch.

With quick, jerky motions he shoved the sketchpad under his sweatshirt. Strode toward the kitchen. He had to get it together. Too many years had been spent planning. Chandler wasn’t going to interfere with that. There was nothing here to convince him to deviate from his schedule. Preparations were made. Everything was set.

But there was enough, more than enough, to convince him that once he’d dealt with more pressing issues, Chandler would have to die.

The detective pushed the door shut behind him and locked it before dropping his keys on the wicker table nearby. He hated wicker. Even the name sounded wimpy, but Cheryl had insisted that decorating the house was her domain. If the house were her domain, he’d have figured the bedroom was his. But a year ago he’d found out she was using it with their accountant to go over more than their numbers.

It’d seemed only fair then that he’d kept the house. Or probably she just hadn’t given a damn. She’d moved in with the boyfriend in the suburbs. When the divorce was final, he was going to load up all the shit she’d bought. Every last damn flowered curtain, vase of dried flowers, and for damn sure, all the wicker. He’d haul it to her new home and dump it on the front lawn for her fuck buddy to deal with.

He’d start over and fill the place with stuff a guy could feel comfortable in. The first thing he’d done after she’d walked out was smash the collection of antique teapots displayed on a unit in the family room where a TV should have gone.

The second thing he’d done was go out and buy the biggestscreen TV he could find.

He toed off his shoes and padded stocking footed to the kitchen. Opened the fridge to grab a beer. Twisting off the cap, he tossed it to the counter and kept the refrigerator door open, peering inside as he drank, hoping the contents would change.

They didn’t. The one thing he still missed about having Cheryl around was that she’d taken care of the grocery shopping. It looked like it’d be peanut butter again tonight.

He let the fridge swing shut with the intent of trying the cupboard when he heard a small sound. Instinct had him going for his weapon as he turned. He stopped in midmotion when he found a Sig P220 equipped with silencer shoved in his face.

“Jesus.” In a split second, he evaluated his chances of completing the draw. Found them dismal.

“You think you’re that fast? Want to see?”

The whispered voice was vaguely familiar. But the oversized hooded sweatshirt the guy was wearing shadowed his face. “What the fuck do you want?” But, God, he knew what the cocksucker wanted. His body knew anyway. His knees felt like Jell-O and his heart was pounding hard enough to tear through his chest. Sweat slicked his brow.

“Turn around.”

Slowly, mind racing, he did as he was told.

“Hands behind your head.”

His arms rose slowly. He wasn’t going like the others. Knowing what was in store for him made the decision easy. He’d take his chances with the gun. Hell, he might take a bullet but he could still get a shot off.

And he’d rather go down in gunfire than be torched like the rest of the guys.

He felt the Sig pressed against his spine. Half expected a bullet to shatter it as he went for his weapon, turning at the same time. He hadn’t completed the turn when something was shoved in his face. A nauseatingly sweet, pungent smell filled his nostrils. As he dropped to his knees, his weapon clattered out of his hand.

The first thought that made it through his groggy brain was that he had a helluva headache for not stopping at the bar tonight.

Then comprehension rushed in. His bowels went to ice water. He was in a cellar. At least the stone all around him seemed like one. But there was a mess of stars overhead. A slivered moon. It was probably no more than a crumbling foundation somewhere. Outside the city maybe.

Far from help.

Fear unlike any he’d ever known had Randolph lunging forward. Chains jangled. His hands were fastened above his head and secured to a spot in the stone behind him. And the smell that filled the air was terrifying.

Gasoline.

Panic did a fast sprint up his spine. “What do you want? I’ll give you anything you want.”

Except the words came out muffled. He shook his head, trying to dislodge whatever was surrounding his face.

“That’s a smoke mask, Jack.” The tone was conversational. “Hate to go to all this trouble and have you succumb to smoke inhalation too quickly. Seems rude not to stay alive long enough to appreciate all I’ve done here. How tough are you? Let’s find out, shall we?”

A match scratched and flared in the darkness. Illuminated the face of the last man he expected to see here. Shocked disbelief filled him. “You? But why?”

“That’s right.” The match was tossed in a slow descent toward his feet. “It’s me. And we’ll have a lot of time to talk about why.”

Frantically Randolph stomped out the match that landed near his foot. And the next one. Then the one after it. Soft laughter sounded. The entire matchbook was lit and made a slow arc toward his feet. He tried to stomp it, too, but the hem of his pants flared. “No!”