Karen Rose - Count to Ten

"No. That's why people like dealing with Abe better. But Abe's not here, so you're stuck dealing with me." She dropped her hands and stepped back. "Now you're ready, Sluggo. Check on our victim if you don't mind, since I don't have appropriate footwear."

Her sarcasm took the starch from his shorts. "Look, I…" What? You what, Solliday ? "Thanks." He grabbed his kit and headed for the house. "Can you get somebody to keep the crowd back while I go in? Also, call the ME."

"Will do."

Mia watched him enter Hill's house, flashlight in one hand, his bag of gizmos in the other. Nice going . Once again, she'd stepped on toes without meaning to. Or fingers, in this case. Just get to work, Mia .

She drew Mr. Wright off to the side. "I'm Detective Mitchell. You knew Mrs. Hill?"

His shoulders sagged. "She's dead, then? Penny's dead?"

"I'm afraid so. I'm sorry. Can you tell me exactly what you saw?"

He nodded. "I was asleep, but this squealing woke me up. I ran to the window and saw Penny's car take off down the street. A second later… Her house exploded."

"Did you see anybody behind the wheel, Mr. Wright?"

He shook his head miserably. "It was dark and it happened so fast… I'm sorry."

So was Mia. "Did she normally park her car in the driveway?"

"Just recently. Her daughter had to move out of her house into an apartment, so Penny was storing her stuff in the garage."

"Did you know Mrs. Hill's daughter?"

"I talked to Margaret once or twice, a month ago. She used to live in Milwaukee. I don't know where she's living now. Penny has a son in Cincinnati. His name is Mark."

"Do you know where Mrs. Hill worked?"

"She was a social worker."

Alarm bells went off. Social workers made great grudge targets. "Thank you." She pressed one of her cards in his cold hand. "If you remember anything, please call me."

She canvassed the crowd, but it seemed only Mr. Wright had seen anything of value. She walked to the back of the fire engine as they were rolling up the hose. David Hunter leaned with his back against the engine, his eyes closed, his face drawn.

"How are you, David?" she murmured and wearily he turned to look at her.

"How do you stand it?" he asked instead.

"Like you will. One day at a time. Most of yours won't be this way. Thankfully, most of mine won't, either." She rested her good shoulder against the side of the truck and looked up at him. He was taller than Solliday by several inches, but not nearly as broad. And David was clean-shaven, so there was none of that devil-look Solliday had down so well. "You sell your garage when you joined up?"

"No. I hired someone to run it for me. I go out there on my off days and yank engines. Whatever I need to do." He lifted a brow. "Your Alfa need a tune-up?"

"No, it's still good from the last one you gave it. So you're keeping busy."

He met her gaze squarely. "It seemed like the wisest thing to do."

David Hunter had a bad case of a wounded heart. Long ago he'd fallen for Dana, but Mia's friend had never seen it. Then Dana had fallen in love with someone else and nobody who'd seen Dana and Ethan Buchanan together thought they were anything less than perfect for each other. Mia was happier for her best friend than anyone else, but seeing the stark pain in David Hunter's eyes had always been like a kick in the gut. "Nobody knows, David. If it's up to me, nobody ever will."

His smile was sardonic. "I guess there's comfort in that somewhere." He pushed himself away from the truck. "So what's going on here, Mia. Really?"

"We don't know yet. Listen, have you seen any other fires that looked like this?"

"No, but I've only been here three months. You should ask Mahoney."

"I will. How about trash can fires? How many of them have you seen?"

"I'd have to think. A few, at least, but most of them are set by little kids, elementary school age." He looked back at the house. "This wasn't done by a kid."

She frowned. "Most arsonists are under the age of twenty, right?"

"Yeah. But your friend Solliday would be better for that kind of information."

He's not my friend . The sharp edge of the thought was unexpected. He's just temporary . "I'll ask him. Now I need to talk to Mahoney before you guys head out."

Tuesday, November 28, 1:35 a.m.

Now that , he thought, had gone a great deal better . He tossed a shovelful of mud to one side. Practice makes perfect, after all .

Quickly he covered the hole he'd dug, burying what he'd taken from the scene. The condom and bloody plastic bags would keep until he could come back and dispose of them properly. He should have stopped on his way back to dispose of them, but he'd been paranoid, constantly watching his rearview mirror.

His caution had been unnecessary. Nobody had followed him. Nobody had seen him. Penny Hill's car was now abandoned, its license plates and VIN tags removed. He'd moved it far enough off the deserted road to keep it from being found for a while. He knew he'd left nothing behind, but one could never be too careful. One hair could convict him.

Of course, they'd have to catch him first. And that, they'd never do.

He'd been careful. He'd been skillful. He'd been ruthless.

He smiled as he gave the earth a good stamp with his foot. She'd suffered. He could still hear Penny Hill's moans. Unfortunately they'd been muffled by the gag in her mouth, but that had been a necessary evil. But the gag hadn't hidden the hollowed, glazed look in her eyes when he'd finished with her. And she'd known exactly why. That made it all the sweeter.

He stopped abruptly, one hand gripping the shovel handle. Shit . He'd forgotten the briefcase. Penny Hill's briefcase was still in the backseat of her car. He made himself calm down. It was okay. He'd go back and get the briefcase when he could. He'd hidden the car well enough that nobody would bother it before then.

He looked up at the night sky. There were still hours before dawn. He could get a little sleep before his day officially began.

The boy watched at the window, his heart in his throat. He was there, again. Burying something, again. He should tell. He should. But he was so afraid. He could only watch as he finished, covering his hiding place once more. His imagination conjured all kinds of hideous pictures of what he'd just buried. But the reality of what he'd do if he told was every bit as bad. This the boy knew for sure.

Tuesday, November 28, 7:55 a.m.

She looked tired. It was Reed's first thought as he stopped in the doorway of the homicide bullpen, one hand clutching a pair of boots. Mitchell sat back in her chair, her scuffed boots propped up on her desk, her attention focused on a thick file in her lap.

Her eyes flew up when he let the heavy boots drop to her desk. She eyed them, then looked up with a half smile. "It's not even Christmas yet. I'm touched, Solliday "

He extended his hand and saw true appreciation light her face. "Now you're talking." She set the file on her desk and took one of the Styrofoam cups from his carton.

"It's real coffee," he said. "Not like that sludge over there in your pot."

"Yeah, but the caffeine concentration in the sludge is enough to keep us going for days." Warily she looked up at him, a plastic cream packet in her hand. "You want me to put the cream in yours, or are we going to insult each other again?"

He chuckled. "I take mine black." He looked down at the folder on her desk. "Roger Burnette's case files?"

"Not his files from Records. I requested those yesterday, but our clerk hasn't brought them up yet. These are Burnette's own notes. He was waiting when I got here this morning. Names, addresses, dates of anybody whose Wheaties he's pissed in the last few years. I think it helped him to feel like he was doing something."