Fire Angel
Susanne Matthews
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2013 by M.H. Susanne Matthews
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6760-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6760-5
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6761-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6761-2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123RF/Rudy Bagozzi, Olga Miltsova
To my husband, John, without whose unfailing love and support, I would not have had the courage to pursue my dream. My life is better because you are a part of it.
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Jake
McKenzie pulled into the police lot and parked in the spot that bore his name. He got out of the vehicle and locked the doors. He went around back, opened the hatch, and removed his laptop, his cane, and the lunch Minette, his future sister-in-law, had insisted on packing for him. He would ask someone to collect the two boxes of evidence from the recent fires that Everett had dropped off at the inn, hoping to lure him into the investigation â it had worked. He had never been able to turn his back on a puzzle. He walked the short distance to the door and went into the police station.
Jake had done criminal profiling work for the Paradise Police Force before going to Afghanistan. Not much had changed since his last visit. The electronic doors swung open into a foyer, but the only way to go any further was to be buzzed in by the dispatcher on duty at the desk. A Plexiglas partition separated her from the rest of the world, ensuring her security. As soon as she saw him, Lynette Wilson pressed the buzzer that released the door into the inner sanctum.
“John Jacob McKenzie! Well, you're a sight for sore eyes. It's about time you got back to work. I've missed you, darling.”
She came around the desk and took him into a bear hug that forced him to put down his packages and stoop his six foot four inch body to meet her five foot two inch frame.
“I missed you too, Lynette,” he said returning the affectionate greeting. “How are Harry and the kids?” he asked the diminutive dispatcher who ruled the detachment with an iron fist and boxes of homemade cookies. The feisty gray-haired dynamo kept everyone on their toes, especially the chief. If there was something you wanted to know, all you had to do was ask Lynette; the one thing she couldn't do was keep a secret.
“They're growing like weeds. Timmy started high school this year and Thomas will graduate in June. Now, when are you going to settle down and start a family?”
Jake laughed. “I'm still looking for the one who got away.”
In his mind, he pictured a slender platinum-blonde with incredible almond-shaped blue-green eyes. His heart ached at the reflection. Another memory, far more sinister and painful intruded. No one needed to dwell on his first marriage, and the tragedy it had spawned.
“Do you want to let the chief know I'm here?” He changed the topic.
“Already did, sweet cheeks. I called him as soon as you pulled into your parking spot. There's Frank,” she said, indicating the town's mobile canteen owner. “Right on time; I ordered those chocolate brownies you like so much. We get all our coffee from him now; he brings in an urn in the morning that lasts all day. That man sure makes a good cup of coffee.” She rushed to open the door and helped him bring his goodies into the station.
“Hey, Jake,” Frank said as he carried the eighty-cup urn through the door. “Nice to see you back at it,” he chuckled, but the humor didn't reach his eyes. “By the way, I give a twenty-five percent discount to law enforcement people.” He smiled. “Is Minette still planning on prime rib for dinner on Sunday?”
Jake laughed. Frank and his cronies had persuaded his brother's fiancée, the inn's assistant manager, to move prime rib night to Sundays, the night they met at the restaurant for their weekly gabfest and dinner. So far, the move had been a good one.
“Yeah, she's got that window table of yours all reserved.”
“Hey Jake, nice to see you,” said Pierre Leduc, one of the uniformed officers working out of the station. “Is that one of Min's lunches?” He eyed the bag the way a man in the desert eyed water.
Jake laughed. “Yes, she's afraid that now that I'm back to work, I'll starve to death. I can't wait for David to muster out and give her someone else to mother.”
The young officer reached for it. “Well, don't leave that lunch unguarded in the staff room; they're like vultures in there, stealing and scavenging food left and right. My wife sent in muffins the other day, and they were gone before I even got one.”
“Thanks for the tip. I'll keep it at my desk just in case.”
Pierre snorted. “Well, if a lunch like Min's is just lying around, a man's got to rescue it, doesn't he â you know, serve and protect?”
“If you're smart, you'll keep it in the mini-fridge in your office,” said Police Chief Everett Lewis coming up behind him.
Just over fifty, the chief reminded him of the newspaper editor in the Spiderman movies, with his steel-gray brush-cut hair and matching mustache. He had piercing blue eyes and a no-nonsense air about him that made him perfect for his job.
“Jake, let me welcome you officially as a consultant with the Paradise Police Force. Here, let me get that,” he reached for the computer bag. “Come on; I've got the guys waiting for you in the briefing room.”
Jake followed the chief down the hall. He noted the freshly painted walls â why did they always paint them that cheerless shade of gray? When he entered the room where the station's personnel were assembled, he was pleased to see many faces he recognized. He shook hands with old friends, and their obvious pleasure at having him back gave him a much needed boost of confidence. He could do this â no, he would do this!
Before Afghanistan, he had had his choice of assignments and had generally chosen the more active, current cases, like those that had involved serial killers piling up bodies left, right, and center; however, since his return, he had avoided such cases. At first, he had refused all profiling jobs, but helping Minette run the inn he and his brother owned did not provide enough stimulation for him, especially now that he couldn't handle all of the physical chores the way he used to. There were things he could do easily, some he had learned to do differently, and others that he could not do at all. It was those others that chipped away at his confidence.
With Minette's encouragement, he had come out of full retirement and began accepting cold cases, those that were covered in dust, unsolvable as far as the police were concerned. As a profiler, he saw things that others might have missed. Families wanted answers, needed them; with evidence and photos in hand, they approached Jake for closure. He had more than enough work to keep him busy, and had built quite a reputation for himself, but the chance to prove that he was as good as he used to be was too great to miss.
Recently, a couple of fatal fires had kept the arson squad busy, and when they had made a connection between them, Everett had come to see him and begged him for help. They had six bodies and no leads. He needed Jake's eyes, the eyes of a profiler, to get into this guy's head and find him before he struck again. Paradise was a small town, and a crazed firebug made people nervous.
The chief called for attention and the room quieted.
“Before you go off this morning, I'd like you all to welcome Jake McKenzie. Jake has agreed to work with us as a special consultant, profiling the felon in the arson cases. Until a couple of days ago, we didn't know that the cases were connected. I've had Conference Room C converted into an office for him. He'll need to interview the firefighters, witnesses, and some of you as well. I know that you'll give him all the cooperation he needs.” The chief turned to Jake. “Would you like to let the team know where we stand?”
Jake walked steadily over to the lectern, his wet palms the only sign of his nervousness.
“Thank you, sir.” He turned and addressed the room.
“I haven't had a lot of time to familiarize myself with all the aspects of this case, and at this point, we don't have a lot to go on, but I have some theories, and I'm open to any ideas that you may have as well.” He opened his computer case and removed the documents he had placed there for this briefing.
“Before I volunteered to go to Afghanistan, I worked with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police as an independent criminal profiler; some of you remember me from that murder case I helped you solve six years ago. In Afghanistan, I did the same thing, looking for the insurgents and members of radical groups before they struck and teaching the local police force how to do the same thing.”
Memories, best forgotten, hovered on the edge of his consciousness. Would he ever be able to discuss his job without feeling the guilt of that one failure overseas?
“I learned a few lessons over there, one of which was not to get cocky; another was never to underestimate the enemy. I'm a psychologist, trained in forensic and behavioral science. I study the way people conduct themselves. I examine the clues they leave behind; it's my job to look at the photos, the diagrams, the recreations, and the notes to figure out what kind of individual is committing these crimes.” He took a drink from the water bottle the chief had given him.
“I'm not a miracle worker, nor am I psychic. If you expect me to tell you that âI looked at the file and the arsonist is Joe Blow,' then you might as well send me home now, and save the province some money.” There was a scattering of laughter in the room that relieved some of his tension.
“As much as I wish it did, it doesn't work that way. What I can do is describe the characteristics of the person's mental and emotional state based on the evidence found at the scene of the crime. From those characteristics, I can extrapolate personality traits that will help you identify and catch this guy. I'm a long way from a complete profile, but here are a few points I can share.”
He turned to the white board and picked up a marker. He had noticed that most of the people in the room had pad and pen in hand. He wrote as he spoke.
“Statistically speaking, we're looking for a white male in his mid-thirties. He may be local, but a frequent seasonal visitor isn't out of the question. Our guy is able to get close enough to his victims to roofie them â Rohypnol was found in half of the bodies. You've interviewed people who saw the most recent victims shortly before their deaths, and no one saw anything or anyone unusual. He moved those people from point A to point B without any difficulty. It could be a woman, but it's unlikely â someone would have remembered a woman, especially one strong enough to move a body weighing more than two hundred plus pounds.”
“Yeah, that last guy was no light weight, Jake, more like three hundred, if you ask me.” Several people laughed.