Silent Scream (10 page)

“I agree. But if she wasn’t,” Kane said, “and if her being there was just very bad timing, we have to wonder what drove her
there. To that building.”

“If she’s not local, how would she know about it? You can’t see it from the road.”

“But you can see it from different points around the lake,” Kane said.

“Right again.” She took a sheet of paper from the briefcase at her feet. “I printed a map of the lake, which is primarily
residential. Small houses, a lot of vacation cabins.”

“Good. We can take her photo around, see if anyone’s seen her and ask if anyone noticed any unusual activity last night. It
would have been hard to see through the fence, but we might get lucky. We can’t ignore the possibility that it was an inside
job.”

“I did a search on Rankin and Sons this morning. I was hoping to find they were on the verge of bankruptcy or something that
would make the motive for the arson clear.”

“But Rankin’s solid?”

“Well, they were before last night. A good percentage of the shoreline property has been bought up by a company named KRB,
which planned to build six condos in total. It’s supposed to be a planned community and Rankin was hired to build phase one,
which were the luxury condos. Phase two will be two more buildings, targeted to upper-middle-class families. Construction
is scheduled to begin in the spring.” She studied the map. “A lot of these cabins will be leveled.”

“Homeowners might be angry about that,” Kane said.

“Angry enough to set a fire, though?”

“Maybe. We should see if any of the homeowners have protested the construction project. Is Rankin the builder of the next
phase?” Kane asked.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Olivia replied. “The newspaper article I read said that KRB would evaluate Rankin after phase one, to
see how well they managed budget.”

“Barlow said they’d fired a security guard because they were running over budget.”

“Yeah, he did. So Rankin may have been in a spot. Depending on how badly they were screwing up, arson may have seemed a good
idea to somebody at the time. Anyway, phase three would be two buildings for retirees and an assisted-living facility. Future
plans show shopping, a medical center, an entire planned community. Last night’s fire took out the first building, so I’m
betting the whole schedule is up in the air.”

“Who owns this KRB company?”

“I was just getting into that when the morgue called. I forwarded what I had so far to Faye and asked her to finish the search.”
Abbott’s clerk was a research whiz. “I did run the construction manager through the system. Squeaky clean.”

“Does the construction manager own a gun?”

“He doesn’t have a permit. Micki did a residue test on his hands last night. He didn’t fire a gun, or if he did, he was smart
enough to wear gloves.”

“We’ll need to check his finances and those of KRB. When we’re done here, we should start warrants.”

“Unless SPOT claims responsibility and then we have to bring in the Feds.”

Kane shrugged. “I’ve worked task forces with the Feds before. It’s not so bad, so stop worrying. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”

“I’ve already got wrinkles,” Olivia muttered. Thirty-one and she was falling apart.

He stuck out his hand. “Give me another sandwich.”

Frowning, she dug into the bag on the seat between them. “You’re not leaving any for the firefighters.” She slapped one into
his hand. “No more for you after this.”

They’d hit the Deli on their way out of the city, the coffee/sandwich shop that catered to cops, students, and
professors, and anyone else who liked a good meal. It had been her turn to get breakfast, so she’d ordered Kane’s favorite—egg
and pastrami on rye—then on impulse, added a dozen breakfast sandwiches for the firefighters, who wouldn’t have any trouble
wolfing them down. When the Deli’s manager had found out who the food was for, he’d thrown in a thermos of coffee for free.

“There are still ten left,” Kane said. “How many can one pretty-boy firefighter eat?”

Olivia’s face flushed hot. “Kane,” she said warningly.

He looked unapologetic. “We’re almost there. You should do something with those bags under your eyes. Powder or something.”

She drew a breath. “Kane,” she said, the warning gone ominous.

They’d stopped at a red light, so he leaned over and pulled her purse from the glove box and dropped it in her lap. “Little
lipstick wouldn’t hurt either.”

The light turned green and he started through the intersection without another word. Fuming, she flipped the visor down and
checked the mirror. And winced. “Ye gods.”

“Indeed,” Kane said gravely.

She gave him a dirty look. “At least my hair’s okay.”

Kane shrugged. “If it makes you feel better to think that.”

Her long hair was pulled back in a tidy bun at the base of her neck. Which made her tired eyes look even more haggard. She
sighed. “I really hate you sometimes.”

“No, you don’t.” He glanced over at her. “Any more than you hate him. You didn’t see your face, Liv,” he added when she opened
her mouth to protest. “When
Barlow said Hunter had nearly fallen four stories, you went white as a ghost.”

“I’m always white as a ghost. I never tan.” But she snapped her compact open and powdered her face with hurried strokes. Worse
than driving up to the scene all haggard would be driving up while doing her face. She did have some pride, after all.

Kane handed her his comb. “Lose the bun, girlfriend. Braid it if you have to, but lose the bun. It makes you look”—he gave
a mock shudder—“like a librarian.”

She laughed as he’d wanted her to and he grinned. Kane’s wife was a retired librarian and Olivia knew he loved her dearly.
“Jennie would kick your ass for that.”

“Not if she knew it made you laugh. Hurry, now. We’re almost there.”

Monday, September 20, 9:45 a.m.

Eric found the bench and the padded envelope taped underneath. He leaned forward as if to tie his shoe and grabbed the envelope,
slipping it inside his jacket, his fingertips brushing the cold steel of his gun as he did so. Heart pounding, he sat back,
sure everyone on the street was watching him, sure they all knew he had the gun.

But no one glanced his way. Everyone was busy going about their own lives while he sat on a bench in plain sight, a fucking
gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans and picking up packages like he was some James Bond wannabe.

I am an engineering student. I’m on the dean’s list. I’m one of the good guys. This cannot be happening
. But it was. He walked the six blocks back to his car and got in.

He stared at the envelope, then ripped it open and shook out a cell phone and an MP3 player with a two-inch video screen and
earbuds. A brittle laugh broke free. Soon that guy from
Mission Impossible
would be telling him the tape would self-destruct.

But it wasn’t funny. This was a nightmare. Whoever this guy was, he had video that could bury them all. Eric found the texter
had painted a “1” on the back of the MP3 player and a “2” on the back of the cell phone with red nail polish.

Feeling like a fool, he put the buds in his ears and turned the MP3 player on. He hit
PLAY
and instantly the
Mission Impossible
theme blared in his ears. He gritted his teeth, then felt his stomach lurch when the video of the fire began to play on the
tiny screen. Fury boiled up within him and he wanted to throw the MP3 player out the window. But he didn’t, and seconds later
the music quieted and a computer-altered voice began to speak. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman.

“You followed my directions. Very good. It is now time for your first test. If you pass, you remain in my good favor. If you
refuse or if you fail, this video will be released to the police and the media and you will live the rest of your life in
a very small jail cell surrounded by ape-sized men who will find you most entertaining.”

A prison filled the screen, followed by a photo of a man being sodomized. A pain shot up Eric’s neck and he realized he’d
clenched his teeth almost to the breaking point.

“This is your target.” The photo changed and Eric let out a breath, swallowing the bile that had risen in his throat. The
new picture appeared to be a factory. “The address has been sent to your phone as a text. You are to
take your three pals and set fire to his place of business tonight. Make sure not a timber is left standing.”

And then Eric understood. The texter’s price was not money. It was far worse. Numbly he continued to watch the screen, but
no new photos appeared.

“The proprietor has a guard dog,” the voice continued. “Deal with it, however you wish. If you wish to tell your compatriots
the truth, feel free. If you fear they will not comply with your direction, tell them anything you choose, but know if even
one of you chooses not to participate, the video will be distributed and all of you will go to prison.”

The voice had not faltered once, had not shown a hint of emotion.

“If anyone stands in your way, kill them. If for any reason your target appears to have been warned, or if any inventory in
his place of business is removed unexpectedly, your video will be revealed. When you are finished, use the camera in the cell
phone to document your activity and text the photos to the number provided. More directions will be provided at that time.
Good luck, Eric, and if you should be caught”—now the voice laughed, a cruel, brutal, smug sound—“the world will know what
you’ve done.”

The factory faded, replaced by a single frame from the video of last night. The very image that haunted him. The girl, her
hands on the glass, her mouth yawning open in that horrible scream that, even in his mind, had no sound at all.

The file ended and the tiny screen went black. Eric opened the cell phone, clicked on the single text message it held. It
was, as expected, an address. He wondered what the “proprietor” of this business had done to earn the wrath of the texter.

And he wondered what the hell he was going to do.

For now, he’d go to his ten a.m. calculus class. Maintain his normal schedule. And he’d think. Hard. There had to be a way
out of this. There had to be.

He started his car and had put it in gear when the disposable cell chirped, startling him. He took a second to gather his
thoughts. And his courage.

He flipped the phone open. Another text.
yes or no?

Wildly Eric looked around, wondering if the texter had followed him, was watching him. His eyes searched windows and cars
and people standing idly on street corners. It could be anyone. Panic clawed up, grabbed his throat. It could be anyone.

Who r u?
he typed.

the invisible man.

A few seconds passed and the phone chirped again.
yes or no?
Next to the words was a link and before Eric even clicked on it he knew what he would see. The face in the window. His chest
was so tight he could barely breathe.
Yes
, he typed back. “You sonofabitch,” he muttered. Again the phone chirped.

wise choice. i look forward to seeing your pictures tonight
.

Eric closed the phone and stared at it. How had the SOB known he’d listened to the MP3 file and read the text? Either he was
standing nearby, watching, or he had the cell phone rigged. Eric looked around the interior of his car.
Or he’s wired my car and is watching me on a PC somewhere.

There had to be a way to track this guy.
And if I can’t? Or if I can’t before tonight?

Then you’ll have to do what he says
. “No,” Eric said firmly.

But when he pulled onto the street, his mind was already working the logistics of a factory arson. Just in case.

Monday, September 20, 9:55 a.m.

She’s here
. David’s hands stilled on the line he was reeling in. He watched Kane’s Ford pull through the construction gate, his heart
pounding and stomach jumping like he was thirteen and just about to ask a girl to his first school dance.

A pang of regret pushed through his sudden nerves.
And we all know how well that ended
, he thought bitterly. Nearly twenty years of service hadn’t been enough to atone. He was pretty sure a lifetime wouldn’t
be enough. He could only do what he could do. And make sure this time, with this woman, it ended differently.

“She’s here,” Jeff said, dragging the last few feet of line to the truck. They’d spent the last hour walking the five-inch
line, squeezing every drop of water from the hose. Every few minutes David had glanced toward the front gate, waiting. Now
she was here.

Jeff’s grin told him that any attempt at nonchalance would be folly. “I see her,” he said, half expecting his voice to crack
as it would have at thirteen. Gratefully it did not.

He watched as Olivia got out of the passenger side, the morning sun making her hair gleam gold. Then she bent over to get
something from the front seat, giving him a perfect view of her very round rear end and he couldn’t control the sudden breath
that hissed between his teeth. Vague recollections taunted him once again and he jerked his eyes away, staring instead at
his hands.

He knew how she felt. How those smooth round curves fit in his hands. Perfectly. He shouldn’t know, but he did. And he needed
to know again. Quelling a shudder, he exhaled, willing the need away. As if.

“I have to agree,” Jeff murmured in approval. “Very nice.”

David gritted his teeth against the urge to tell Jeff to keep his damn eyes to his damn self, making his voice deceptively
mild. “Kayla would gouge your eyes out.”

Jeff’s grin broadened. “She can’t say anything. I’ve caught her eyeing your ass.”

David rolled his eyes. “Barlow called to say they wanted to see the fourth floor,” he made himself say reasonably. “Give me
a hand with this line so we can leave.”

But Jeff continued to stare at the detectives’ car. “Hey, your lady brought food. From the Deli. That’s the good stuff. Take
a break, Dave. You know you want to.”