Hidden Fire, Kobo (6 page)

"Saturday," she said.

"How many years?"

"Fifteen," she said.

Sarah's mouth dropped open of its own
accord. Janie laughed and her spirit obviously lightened. "What can I say?
We got married two days after we graduated high school."

"Congratulations. Seriously, fifteen
years is an accomplishment these days."

"Oh, we've had our ups and downs. We've
learned not to take anything for granted."

Right. Like assuming your husband will be
home for dinner, but he gets murdered.
A chill ran through her as she realized Janie would have
dealt with these worries almost daily
.

"Is something wrong?" Concern
flooded Janie's face and Sarah realized her memories of the five years she and
David had together must have shown. Randy always said she had a transparent
face. Damn, there they were again, Randy and David, clogging up her thoughts.

You're Sarah. Not David's wife anymore.
And you don't belong to Randy. You're your own Sarah.

She mustered a smile. "Sorry.
Woolgathering."

Now, Janie seemed bent on cheering her. "What
do you think about a bowl for a floral arrangement?"

"Crystal's the traditional gift for
your fifteenth. We have some nice ones over here."

Janie shook her head. "We're not
into that much tradition." She stepped across the shop toward another
display. "I'd love a Garrigue piece, but that's a little out of my price
range right now. These wooden ones are nice."

Sarah plucked a wooden vase from the
table. "This one's fifteen dollars," she said, hoping her face didn't
give away the blatant lie. "And it'll look good all the time, not just
when you're having special dinners. Placemats and napkins seem to end up in a
drawer somewhere and you forget about them." As she spoke, Sarah peeled
the price sticker from the bottom of the vase.

Janie took the creation, turning it in
her hands, running her fingers over the smooth pecan wood. She frowned and
pursed her lips. "It's lovely. Really, it is, but," she furrowed her
brows and looked at Sarah, "do you think it's an anniversary present?"

"Wait a minute. I have an idea. Come
with me." Sarah rushed across the room with Janie at her heels. She took
two blue glass bowls from the spiral staircase. "These are perfect."

Janie's brow furrowed even deeper. "Sarah,
I know I'm on a tight budget, but bowls?"

"Ah, but the real present is what
you do with them. After your special dinner, which undoubtedly will be
delicious, you get your husband to wash the dishes—or at least clear and rinse.
Then you have him fill each bowl with some double-rich ice cream you happen to
have in the freezer and some hot fudge sauce waiting to be nuked. He can manage
that, right?"

Janie laughed out loud. "Yes, after
fifteen years, he's trained in the kitchen department."

"Good. While he's attending to
dessert, you're in the bedroom changing into the slinky number you're going to
buy, or the one you set aside for these occasions. Or maybe nothing but a piece
of jewelry he gave you. Anyway, you have him bring dessert into the bedroom
and—"

"Sarah, you're a devil. Or a genius.
I can see why Randy loves you."

Sarah almost dropped the bowls. "What?
How do you know that?"

"Come on. It's no secret is it? I
saw the way he looked at you at the Fourth of July picnic. Mooney-eyed, I
think, my grandmother would have called it."

"Oh," she said in a tiny voice.
"I didn't realize it was common knowledge."

"Only to anyone who's seen the two
of you together." She looked at her wrist. "Good heavens. I've got to
run and pick up the kids." She opened her purse. "How much are the
bowls?"

"Consider them my contribution to
your anniversary present."

"No, I'll pay."

Sarah took the bowls to the counter and
began wrapping them in tissue paper. "It's my gift. But I would like to
talk to you sometime. About living with a cop. How do you cope? I mean, people
have been coming in here all day wanting details about the murder. Don't they
ask you, too?"

"They used to. But they've learned I'm
not privy to any juicy cop stuff and even if I know something, I won't tell
them without clearance, so they leave me alone." She grinned. "That's
probably why they're bugging you. Be glad it's not reporters. They're the real
sharks. They've even had the nerve to call us at home at ungodly hours. They
can take 'no comment' and make it sound ominous."

Sarah thought about Penny Scholnik's
serial murder question. "Yeah. I agree. Their motto seems to be, 'Never
let the truth get in the way of a good story.' But even if the customers want
gossip, they're buying, so I won't complain. But will you answer one question,
if you've got clearance?"

"If I can." Janie's expression
turned cautious.

"Randy's never referred to your
husband as anything but Kovak. He must have a first name."

Janie's laugh bubbled like the river
after a spring rain. "He does, but I'm sworn to secrecy."

Sarah put the bowls in a bag. "Surely
you don't call him Kovak."

"No, I call him Peek. But I'm afraid
you'll have to get permission from him as to why." Janie breezed toward
the door.

Charlotte's tone snapped Randy alert. He
leaned over her for a closer look at the man's pulpy face and swallowed
involuntarily. "What am I supposed to see?"

"Hang on." She shook her head. "Whoever
was on duty last night left it out of his report. Won't happen again," she
muttered under her breath. She stuck her gloved fingers in what was left of the
man's mouth and twisted. "Here."

Randy smiled, his queasiness banished by
the adrenaline rush of a possible lead. "Bridgework. Maybe we can track
down the dentist."

"That, my detective friend, is your
job. You and the CSI folks." Her camera documented the find and she
cleaned the bridge and bagged it for him. "The CSIs set up a countywide
network of dentists so you can send the information to everyone at once. Not
all of them signed on, but it should save you some time."

"Thanks, Doc." He set the bag
on the counter. "Can you identify the tool the killer used for the
carving?"

"It was sharp." She poked and
pointed at the edge of the cut. "Single-edged blade would be my guess. But
the ants and roaches have obliterated much of what might be identifiable tool
marks."

"So if we find a weapon, you couldn't
say it was the one used on the victim?"

"I could give you pretty good odds,
but any decent defense attorney would toss it. I'll give you the best I have in
my report." She peered up at him, as if anticipating his next question. "Which
you'll get when it's ready. Stomach contents are being analyzed and they're
doing a tox screen. Given how long it takes to get results, your best bet's
going to be a match on the carvings. My guess is a right hander."

"Well that eliminates what, ten
percent of the population?" Randy said. "Leaves us ninety percent."

"This kind of signature is usually
male, so that cuts your list almost in half." She smiled as she delivered
the words. "And you can probably rule out children. See you've narrowed
your search already."

"Yeah. Down to right-handed adult
males. Thanks, Doc. You're a big help."

Once the autopsy reached the tissue
sampling phase, Randy left Charlotte to her work. Any additional discoveries
would have to wait for lab reports.

Randy took the bag with the man's dental
work down the hall to the lab. A genuine lead. Leads were good. His step
lightened despite the fatigue. He might meet Kovak for lunch after all.

After scrubbing his hands and face with
institutional-strength soap to get rid of some of the morgue smell, he hit the
vending machine for a couple of candy bars. The sugar and caffeine would do the
job of yet another dose of coffee without the acid kick and he could use the
energy boost. He glanced at his watch, not wanting to calculate how long it had
been since he'd slept—or how long it would be until he could. He strolled once
around the building, breathing in the pine-scented air until he felt refreshed
enough to tackle the drive back to Pine Hills.

An hour later, seated in a back booth of
The Wagon Wheel, exchanging information with Kovak helped him straddle the next
wall of fatigue, but the obstacles to clear thinking were arriving closer and
closer together, the way commercials did during the last ten minutes of a
television show.

"We're at that waiting phase,"
Randy said. "Maybe we can both crash for a couple of hours."

"I agree. I think I'm starting to
hallucinate, or is your hamburger dancing?"

Randy lifted his burger and waggled it on
the way to his mouth. "Don't they always?" His phone rang and
vibrated. "See. There's the music." He set the burger down and
checked the phone's display. "Damn."

"Let me guess. The chief."

"Got it in one." Randy took the
call. "Yes, sir. On our way." He scarfed down the rest of the burger,
gulped his soda and tossed bills on the table. "Let's roll."

Kovak's eyebrows lifted expectantly. "Good
news? An ID? A lead?"

"We should be so lucky. A damn press
conference and our presence is required."

"Crap." Kovak wrapped the
remains of his corned beef sandwich into his napkin and headed for the door,
snagging a few peppermints on his way.

Less than thirty minutes later, they
stood at attention on the Municipal Building steps while Chief Laughlin fielded
questions. Randy picked a point in the distance and stared, trying to look like
the man his chief was now describing as
an expert in his field, a true
professional, with the welfare of all Pine Hills citizens at heart
. He
almost gagged. Media relations were
not
his thing. His mind wandered,
then went blank. A nudge to his ribs brought him back. He gave Kovak a quick
nod of thanks and scanned the crowd, looking for—what? Someone holding a sign
saying, "I'm the killer"? Besides, surveillance cameras were in place
and they could review the tapes later. Faces blurred.

The next thing he knew, Kovak nudged him
again. "Hey, big guy. Better crash before you collapse and embarrass the
force."

"Huh?"

Kovak clapped a hand onto Randy's shoulder
and guided him inside. "You're out on your feet. I'd say go home, but you'd
probably kill yourself or some poor unsuspecting citizen. Get a uniform to
drive you."

"No, I'll catch a nap downstairs."
He'd done it before—crashed on a mat in a corner of the gym. Hell, he'd crashed
at his desk enough times, too, but the chief wouldn't approve during a
high-profile case. "You go home. I'll have someone alert me if anything
breaks, but we've done everything we can at this point. If I don't call you, I'll
see you in the morning."

"You sure?"

"You gave me the lead. I'm taking
it. Go home."

His brain whirled, the caffeine surged,
but his body demanded downtime. After instructing the duty officers where to
find him and what was
not
important enough to wake him, Randy dragged
three mats to a corner of the gym in the basement of the station and plopped
down, laying his cell beside his head. Visions of the autopsy wouldn't leave
him alone, triggered, he assumed, by the odor that had permeated his clothes.

He groaned, sat up and yanked off his
shirt. He stumbled into the locker room where he swapped it for a clean
t-shirt, then peeled off his slacks and yanked on his cotton workout shorts. In
lieu of blanket and pillow, he grabbed a few towels and trudged to his corner
in the gym. Much as he'd like to stay unconscious for the next day and a half,
for now, he'd have to settle for the minimum battery-charge allowance. He set
his watch alarm for an hour and repositioned his cell where he'd hear it. At
the far end of the room, someone was running on a treadmill and the whirr of
the belt and the slap of feet set a hypnotic background rhythm. Settling onto
the mat, he took deep breaths to clear his mind.

The morgue disappeared with the second
breath. Sarah appeared on the third. He closed his eyes and joined her. Instead
of death and disinfectant, he smelled the peach fragrance of her shampoo. Her
eyes, blue as the stone in his grandmother's brooch. Her cheeks, sprinkled with
freckles. Her lips, lush and full. Her nimble fingers tracing his jaw down his
neck to his shoulders. Along his chest, stopping at his nipples. Then lower,
lower, along the center line of hair on his torso, teasing his navel, moving
lower still. Stroking his cock. Taking it in her hand. In her mouth.

She whispered his name. "Detective.
Sir. Detective Detweiler."

"Don't be so formal," he
mumbled. "Call me Randy."

"Um, sir. It's me. Greg. Officer
Brody."

Randy drifted upward. "Mmph."
His surroundings snapped into focus. A red-faced Greg Brody stood above him,
looking pointedly at a spot on the wall beyond.