Noah hurried down the gravel lane into the darkness, fairly certain that the easement wouldn’t be blocked by debris. Some of the houses had fenced yards. Behind them dogs barked. In one he heard the splash of what sounded like a fountain. He heard TV sets, children, and adults talking. He listened but discounted them as not relevant as he counted houses back to the middle of the block and Cody’s residence.
He kept a tight leash on Harley who, in his work harness, knew he was to keep quiet. Bomb dogs were careful by nature. Almost delicate in their actions in sniffing out their targets. No one wanted an excitable dog who might knock over a device, setting off the explosion his or her handler was working to prevent. A positive find meant sitting down. Harley’s reaction to a big positive was to lie down, ears pricked forward, as if pointing out the direction.
There was only a three-foot high-cheap wooden fence around the back of Cody’s house. A half-hearted attempt to set a boundary. Noah opened the gate and ducked under an over-hanging branch as he moved toward the back door.
He knocked and listened. Nothing. He tried the door. Locked. In the shrouded darkness he couldn’t see much. After another knock, he chanced it and opened his phone, letting the meager light play over the door. It wouldn’t be hard to force. Breaking and entering. Compared to arson and manslaughter charges, that didn’t seem so bad.
He looked down at Harley. “I smell gas. Do you smell gas?”
He was in before he allowed himself to think hard. The kitchen smelled of stale pizza and something much worse. Spoiled eggs? Cabbage?
Harley sneezed twice.
“Yeah. Disgusting.” Chances were, Cody hadn’t been home in at least three days. Smells like that would have driven all but the sickest jerk-off to do a little cleaning.
Noah held his breath and hurried into the main room. The light of his phone wasn’t cutting it. He’d have to take a chance. He found a switch in the hallway and flipped it. There were three rooms off that hall. A bedroom at either end and a bathroom into which he stared. It was clean. He went toward the back bedroom.
There was a double bed made up with a chenille spread. A small floor lamp and a cheap desk with one drawer made of pressed board. Noah opened the drawer with a hand covered with the tail of his shirt.
The drawer was stuffed full of newspaper clippings. Several fell out. They were about Noah. He picked up a few more, uncaring that he was leaving prints now. Every article was about him. Photos of every honor he’d received or stories about when he’d closed an arson case.
He stuffed them back in and pushed the drawer closed.
He and Harley moved quickly to the front room. The blinds were drawn but he knew he was taking a chance opening his phone for light. This time he didn’t have to open or touch a thing.
He switched off the light and hurried through the back door, wedging it tightly so it wouldn’t be immediately apparent that it had been jimmied.
He forced himself to walk back down the easement. Harley trotted along, wanting a quicker pace too.
Durvan was leaning against the truck, parked at the end of the gravel road. Mark was still behind the wheel.
“He’s not here. And there’s no sign of Carly having been here either. No signs of a struggle.”
Durvan nodded. “We’re done.”
“Don’t think so. You might want to have a look at this.”
Durvan looked down at the phone Noah thrust at him. He’d pulled up photos—of photos. Two were shots of Noah and his son out at Fort Woof. Two were of him with Carly, taking in the shadow of her apartment building. In one they were kissing.
Durvan looked up. “What’s this about?”
“Those photos are taped over the bed in the front bedroom of Cody’s house.”
Durvan stared at the pictures again, his squint all but swallowing up his eyes by the time he was done. When he again looked up at Noah, the focused gaze of a hunter on the scent had appeared. “Looks like we got us a new person of interest.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Carly came awake sluggishly. One drink. She’d had one drink she didn’t finish because she wanted to get away from—
Jarred by the memory of Cody, her eyes flew open. The world beyond her gaze was black. She blinked several times. Each time her lashes touched and caught briefly against something. Covering. Over her eyes. The sensation carried a memory. She’d once done a photo spread with Arnaud where the models were blindfolded and told to grope around a set filled with designer bags, shoes, and other accessories until they touched something. They were to freeze in positions of surprise, delight, or awe—even though they had no idea what prompted those happy reactions.
But this time there was no groping possible.
Her hands were tied. Behind her back.
She opened her mouth to—No. She couldn’t open it.
Her mouth was taped shut.
Pure terror shot through her at the realization. For several seconds she twisted and bucked, trying in a blind panic to disentangle herself from whatever bound her mouth, hands, and feet. All she managed to do was fall off the edge of something onto a hard floor. The fall knocked the breath out of her.