Ashes to Ashes (38 page)

It had to break her parents’ hearts to look at this, Quinn thought. In the baby’s face they would see their daughter as she had been when her world was simple and sunny and full of wonderful possibility. And in Lila’s face they would see the lines of hard lessons learned, disappointment, and failure. And the hope for something better. Hope that had been rewarded with a brutal death not long after these photographs had been taken.

Quinn sighed as he held the picture under the lamplight, committing Lila White’s image to memory: the style of her hair, the crooked smile, the slight bump in the bridge of her nose, the curve where her shoulder met her neck. She would join the others who haunted his sleep.

As he went to set the picture aside, something caught his eye and he pulled it back. Half obscured by the strap of her swimming suit was a small tattoo on her upper right chest. Quinn found his magnifying glass and held the snapshot under the light again for closer scrutiny.

A flower. A lily, he thought.

With one hand he flipped through the murder book to the White autopsy photos. There were about a third of the photos of the victim believed to be Jillian Bondurant. Still, he found what he was looking for: a shot showing a section of flesh missing from Lila White’s upper right chest—and no tattoo in sight.

KATE SAT CURLED into the corner of the old green leather sofa in her study, another glass of Sapphire on the table beside her. She’d lost count of its number. Didn’t care. It took the sharp corners off the pain that assaulted her on several different fronts. That was all that mattered tonight.

How had her life taken such a sudden left turn? Things had been going so smoothly, then BAM! Ninety degrees hard to port, and everything fell out of the neat little cubicles into a jumbled mess that came up to her chin. She hated the feeling that she didn’t have control. She hated the idea of her past rear-ending her. She’d been doing so well. Focus forward, concentrate on what was ahead of her for the day, for the week. She tried not to think too much about the past. She tried never to think about Quinn. She never
ever
allowed the memory of his mouth on hers.

She lifted a hand and touched her lips, thinking she still felt the heat of him there. She took another drink, thinking she could still taste him.

She had more important things to think about. Whether or not Angie was still alive. Whether or not they had a hope in hell of getting her back. She’d made the dreaded call to Rob Marshall to inform him of the situation. He had the unenviable task of passing the news on to the county attorney. Sabin would spend the rest of the night contemplating methods of torture. Tomorrow Kate figured she would be burned at the stake.

But a confrontation with Ted Sabin was the least of her worries. Nothing he could do to her could punish her more than she would punish herself.

Every time she closed her eyes she saw the blood.

I should have stayed with her. If I’d been there for her, she would still be alive.

And every time she thought that, Angie’s face morphed into Emily’s, and the pain bit deeper and held on harder. Quinn had accused her of being a martyr, but martyrs suffered without sin, and she took full blame. For Emily. For Angie.

If she’d just gone into the house with the girl … If she’d just pressed a little harder to get a little closer … But she’d pulled back because a part of her didn’t want to get that close or care that much. Christ, this was why she didn’t do kids: They needed too much and she was too afraid of the potential for pain to give it.

“And I thought I was doing so well.”

She rose from the couch just to see if she could still stand without aid, and went to the massive old oak desk that had been her father’s. She picked up the phone and dialed the number for her voice mail, feeling the lump form in her throat before she punched the code to retrieve the messages. She’d listened three times already. She skipped through messages from David Willis and her cooking instructor to hit the one she wanted.

10:05 P.M., the mechanical voice announced. A long silence followed the tone.

10:08 P.M. Another long silence.

10:10 P.M. Another long silence.

She had left the cell phone in the truck. Hadn’t wanted to go back out to get it because she was spooked. Any callers could leave a message. She’d check her voice mail later, she remembered thinking.

If those calls had come from Angie …

But there was no way of knowing, and nothing to do but wonder and wait.

THE CALL CAME into Hennepin County 911 dispatch at 3:49 A.M. A car fire. Kovac listened with one ear out of habit. He was cold to the bone. His feet felt like blocks of ice. Snow blew in the window he had kept cracked open to prevent carbon monoxide poisoning. Maybe he should set
this
car on fire. The heat could thaw his blood out, and the powers that ruled the motor pool could move him up to something better—like a Hyundai with a hamster wheel under the hood.

And then came the address, and adrenaline instantly burned off the chill.

They’d sure as hell drawn Smokey Joe out with the meeting, all right. He gunned the engine and rocked the car away from the curb and onto the street half a block down from Peter Bondurant’s empty house.

Their killer had just lit up his fourth victim … in the parking lot of the community center where the meeting had been held.

KATE RAN OUT the back door with her coat half on, half off. She had managed to pull on a pair of snow boots, but the heavy soles were little help as she hit the ice on the steps. An involuntary shriek raked her throat as she tumbled down into the yard, where what looked to be half a foot of wet snow cushioned her landing. She didn’t even allow herself to catch her breath, but kept her legs moving and pushed herself upright.

Kovac had called on his way to the community center where the meeting had been held. A car fire in the parking lot. Reports of someone in the vehicle.

Angie.

No one knew at this point, of course, but the thought that it could be Angie burned in Kate’s mind as she ran for the garage, fumbling in her pocket for her keys.

Quinn had given her an earful of his opinion on her garage. Terrible location. Poorly lit. Left her vulnerable. All of which was true, but she didn’t have time to think about it. Anyone wanting to mug her or rape her would just have to wait.

God help her if she got pulled over en route, she thought as she hit the light switch. She probably had no business getting behind the wheel of a vehicle at all, but she wasn’t waiting for a ride. No one was on the streets this time of night anyway. It wasn’t five minutes to that community center.

She was halfway to the 4Runner before she realized the garage light hadn’t come on.

The realization held her up a step, a fraction of a second in which time all her senses sharpened and her heart gave an exaggerated thump. She hit the key for the remote lock, and the truck’s interior lit up.
Keep moving
, she thought. If she kept moving, she wasn’t allowing an opportunity for anyone to stop her. A ridiculous notion, but she grabbed on to it, yanked the door of the truck open, and hauled herself up into the driver’s seat.

In a quick succession of moves, she locked the doors, started the engine, punched on the four-wheel drive, and put the truck in gear. It rocked back into the snow, pulling to the left. The exterior mirror missed disaster by a fraction of an inch. The back bumper kissed the neighbor’s privacy fence, then she was rolling forward, the engine revving loudly. She pulled the wheel too hard as she hit the street and skidded sideways, just whispering past the front end of a black Lexus parked on the street.

Stupid to rush, she thought, fighting the sense of desperation, trying to lighten her foot on the accelerator. Whoever it was in that burning car would not be going anywhere, but still the urgency burned in her veins, in her gut. If there was any chance of discounting her fear—and thereby absolving herself of one stone of guilt—she wanted to grab it.

The street in front of the community center was clogged with emergency vehicles, red, white, and blue lights rolling like so many carnival rides. Mixed in among them were the omnipresent news vans, spilling reporters and cameramen and equipment. The house-to-house canvass had already begun, rousing neighbors from their beds. Overhead, a state patrol chopper cruised above the rooftops, spotlight washing down on lawns and shining in windows, flashing briefly over a pair of K-9 dogs and their officers.

If Smokey Joe had driven the car to the lot to set it ablaze, then it followed that he had left on foot. There was a good chance he lived in or near this neighborhood. Not five minutes from Kate’s, though she didn’t let herself think about that now.

She slid the 4Runner in behind the KMSP van, slammed it into park, and abandoned it sitting cock-eyed to the curb. Despite the hour, some of the neighbors had come out of their homes to get the scoop and to further clutter the periphery of the scene. One of them could have been the killer, come back to recharge his batteries watching the resulting chaos his act had touched off. There was no way of knowing, and Kate had set her priority elsewhere. She dodged through the gathering throng, bumping shoulders, pushing, shoving.

Her eyes were on the emergency personnel working inside a circle of uniformed cops some distance away from the burned-out car. The paramedics swarmed around the victim, snapping off rapid-fire medicalese.

One of the uniforms caught Kate by the arm as she tried to pass, and held her back.

“Sorry, ma’am. Authorized personnel only.”

“I’m with victim services. I’ve got ID.”

“This one ain’t gonna need you. He’s toast.”

“He?”

The cop shrugged. “It. Who can tell?”

Kate’s stomach double-clutched.
Oh, Jesus, Angie
. “Where’s Kovac?”

“He’s busy, ma’am. If you’ll just step over to the side—”

“Don’t ‘little lady’ me,” Kate snapped. “I’ve got cause to be here.”

“I can vouch for her, Officer,” Quinn said, holding up his ID. “Better let her go before you lose a hand.”

The cop scowled at the order and at the FBI ID, but relinquished his hold. Kate bolted for the paramedics. Four steps closer, then Quinn caught her from behind and pulled her up short, holding tight as she fought to twist away from him.

“Let me go!”

“Let’s find out what Kovac knows. If this is Smokey Joe, then there should be an ID around here somewhere.”

“No. I have to see!”

“It’s going to be bad, Kate.”

“I know that. I’ve seen it before. God, what
haven’t
I seen?”

Nothing. She’d spent years poring over photographs of unspeakable horror. She knew every evil thing one human being could do to another. Still, there was nothing quite like the stark, raw reality of an actual crime scene. Photographs never captured the sounds, the electricity in the air, the smell of death.

The smell of burnt flesh was horrific, and it hit her in the face like a club, the sensation it caused something akin to pain. Her stomach, already rolling on anxiety and half a tank of gin, pitched its contents up the back of her throat, and she nearly turned and vomited. It felt as if her knees turned to water. She couldn’t understand why she didn’t fall, then realized Quinn had hold of her again, his arms wrapped around her from behind. She sank back against him and made a mental note to chide herself for it later.

Of the hundreds of victims she’d seen, none had potentially been someone she’d known.

Hideously charred and half melted, the body lay on one side, limbs bent and fused into a sitting position. The heat of the fire had to have been incredible. The hair was gone, the nose was gone; the lips were twisted and burned away, revealing the teeth in a macabre grimace. The sternum was exposed, white bone shining where the thin layer of flesh had been seared away. The uniform had been right: At a glance there was no determining gender, except that the scraps of fabric that clung to the back of the body might have once been women’s clothing—a piece of pink sweater, a swatch of skirt.

A burly paramedic with soot on his face looked up and shook his head. “This one’s for the bonepicker. She was long gone before we got here.”

Kate’s head swam. She kept trying to think of what to do, how to know if it was Angie. The ideas seemed to bend and elongate and swoop through her brain.

Dental records were out of the question. They didn’t know who the hell Angie DiMarco was or where she had come from. There were no parents who could give them dental records or medical records that might have pointed out old bone fractures to look for when the body was X-rayed. There were no personal effects to pick through.

Earrings
. Angie wore earrings.

The ears of the corpse had been burned down to charred nubs.

Rings
. She had half a dozen, at least.

The hands of the corpse were black and curled like monkey’s paws. It looked as if there were fingers missing.

A shudder went through Kate that had nothing to do with the cold. Quinn drew her away a step at a time.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled, still staring at the body. The toes were pointed like a gymnast’s, a result of tendons constricting. “I don’t know.”

She was shaking so badly, Quinn could feel it through her heavy wool coat. He pulled her out of the traffic flow and pushed her hair from her face, tipping her head back so that she had to look up. Her face was ashen beneath the sodium vapor lights of the parking lot. She stared up at him, her eyes glassy with shock and dread. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to pull her close and hold her tight.

“Are you all right, honey?” he asked gently. “Do you need to sit down?”

She shook her head, looking away from him to the ambulance crew, to the fire engines, to the glare of lights around the television people. “I—no—um—oh, God,” she stammered, her breath coming too hard and too fast. Her eyes found his again and her mouth trembled. “Oh, God, John, what if it’s her?”