She ripped open the plastic packet, took three quick steps forward, and tossed the contents into his face.
He reared back, coughing and blinking as the flower food hit his eyes, nose, mouth.
“What the . . .”
She grabbed the open jug of antifreeze, swirled it three times, and then . . .
A suspended heartbeat of time. He looked at her. Stared hard. And in that instant they finally saw each other. Not a ripped bartender. Not a stupid blonde. But dark heart to lost soul.
She sprayed the antifreeze straight into his face. Splashed it onto his exposed skin and the granules of potassium permanganate still clinging there.
One more heartbeat of time. Then . . .
The first tendrils of smoke. From his hair. His cheeks. His eyelashes. The man lifted his hands to his face.
Then basic chemistry took over, and the bartender’s skin burst into flame.
He screamed. He ran. He beat at his own head as if it would make a difference. He did everything but stop, drop, and roll, panic having its way.
She stood there. Not moving a muscle. Not saying a word. She watched until at last he collapsed into a pile of smoking ruin. Other sounds penetrated then. Neighbors calling out into the dark, demanding to know what was going on. The distant sounds of sirens, as apparently one of the smarter ones had already called 911.
The woman finally stepped forward. She peered down at her attacker’s remains, watched the smoky tendrils drift from his now blackened skin.
Friday night, she thought. She’d earned this.
Chapter 3
WHO IS SHE?”
“Don’t know. Neighbor over there, Kyle Petrakis, claims he found her standing over the body. Stripped naked, hands tied, face bashed.”
“She did all this with her hands tied?” Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren knelt down, studied the charred remains of their . . . victim? Perpetrator? Body was curled in a near fetal position, hands clenched over the young male’s face. A protective gesture, which, judging by the burn patterns across his head, shoulders, and face, had been too little, too late.
“Chemical fire,” the third detective spoke up. “Combine potassium permanganate with antifreeze and poof.”
D.D. ignored the third detective, glancing up at Phil instead. “So what do we know?”
“House belongs to Allen and Joyce Goulding,” her former squad mate rattled off. “Older couple, currently waiting out the winter chill in Florida. They left behind, however, their youngest son, twenty-eight-year-old Devon Goulding, who trains as a bodybuilder by day, works as a bartender by night.”
“This is Devon?” D.D. asked, gesturing to the body.
“Umm, gonna have to wait on the fingerprints for that one.”
D.D. grimaced, made the mistake of breathing through her nose, grimaced harder. “Where’s our victim turned vixen now?”
“Back of a squad car. Refused medical attention. Waiting on the feds, whom she called directly.”
“The feds?” D.D. rose to standing, voice curt. “What do you mean she personally invited the feds to our party? Who the hell is this girl?”
Detective number three did the honors: “She called the Boston field office and requested Dr. Samuel Keynes. Dialed the number off the top of her head, I might add. Would you still call it a party?” the newest member of Boston homicide asked conversationally. “Or is it more like a barbecue?”
D.D. walked away. Turned on her heel, left the body, exited the garage. In her new and improved supervisory role she could get away with such things. Or maybe it was due to her current classification as restricted duty.
The fact that detective number three had taken D.D.’s former position with her former squad—an assignment D.D. could no longer hold, given her recent injury—was no reason to shun the thirty-five-year-old recruit. No, currently D.D. held the woman’s name against her. Carol. As in Carol Manley. Sounded like an insurance agent. Or maybe a soccer mom. But definitely not a cop. No kind of serious detective went by Carol.
Of course, no kind of serious homicide unit sergeant obsessed about a new detective’s name, or was petty enough to hold it against her. Maybe.
A year ago, D.D. hadn’t worried about women named Carol. Or the future of her three-member squad. Or her own role with the BPD’s homicide unit. She lived, ate, and breathed death investigations and was a happier person for it. Until the evening she returned for a late-night analysis of a crime scene and startled the killer still lurking there. One brief altercation later, she’d toppled down a flight of stairs and suffered an avulsion fracture to her left arm. No more lifting her gun. No more lifting her small child.
For the next six months, D.D. had gotten to sit at home. Nursing her wounds, worrying about her future, and, yeah, losing her mind. But slowly and surely, as her physical therapist, Russ, had promised her, the hard work had started to pay off. Until one day she could shrug her shoulder, and another day she could slowly but surely raise her arm.
Her strength wasn’t there yet. Nor full range of motion. She couldn’t execute such things as, say, the two-handed Weaver stance for shooting. But her pain was manageable, her injury improving, and her overall state of health excellent. Enough to convince the powers that be to allow her to return under restricted duty status. Meaning she now spent more time supervising as a sergeant than engaging in hands-on investigating as a detective. She told herself she could handle it. The work was the work, and either way she was solving crimes.
Of course, she continued to engage in thrice-weekly occupational therapy sessions where she used a hand weight in lieu of her handgun and practiced the motion of unsnapping her holster, then drawing and firing over and over again. She also spent some time on the shooting range. One-handed. Not as reliable. Not department SOP. But she had to start somewhere.
Otherwise, Phil and Neil, two of the finest detectives on the force, would forever be saddled with a rookie.
The Gouldings’ garage was a detached, single-car unit set in the back of the property. Striding forward, D.D. vacated the structure, crossed the modest backyard, and headed for the street. Sun was just coming up. A gray, chilly dawn that seemed almost anticlimactic given the current level of activity. Patrol cars were stacked up along both sides of the busy neighborhood street, as well as the ME’s vehicle and several larger, more impressive media vans.
The first responders had done an admirable job of roping off the property. From the gray-painted two-story colonial to the dilapidated rear garage, the officers had seized it all, establishing a strict perimeter of yellow crime scene tape that would make D.D.’s job that much easier. Nosy neighbors contained to the sidewalk across the street? Check. Rabid reporters confined to fifty yards away from the closest law enforcement officer? Check. And now for the trifecta . . .
D.D. discovered the woman sitting in the back of the third patrol car, shoulders shivering slightly beneath a blue BPD blanket, face staring straight ahead. A district detective sat beside her. The rear car door sat open, as if they were waiting for something or someone. Neither was saying a word.
“Margaret,” D.D. acknowledged the officer on the far side of the vehicle. This close, she realized why the vehicle door had been left ajar. Back at the crime scene, investigators had marked a bag of rotting food that had been pulled out of a trash can and torn open. The woman must’ve been at least elbow-deep in that mess, given the scent of rancid meat and sour milk wafting from her skin, let alone the streaks of slime marring her cheeks and mucking her hair.