Blue Smoke (19 page)

She found a garment bag, hung the outfit inside, and though she realized it was unnecessary, selected shoes, then underwear from the bureau.

Before she left the room, she turned to the bed again. “I'll light a candle for you, and have my mother say a rosary. Nobody says a rosary like my mama. Safe passage, Marge.”

R
eena took two hours' personal time to attend the funeral. He hadn't asked her to come. In fact, she thought he'd deliberately avoided asking her. She sat in the back, not surprised the Mass was so well attended. Her brief conversation with the pastor had cemented her conclusion that Margaret Goodnight had been a fixture of the church.

They'd brought flowers, as friends and neighbors do, so the church smelled of lilies and incense and candle wax. She stood and knelt, sat and spoke, the rhythm of the Mass as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. When the priest spoke of the dead, he spoke of her in personal and affectionate terms.

She'd mattered, Reena thought. She'd left her mark. And wasn't that the point?

When Bo walked up to the pulpit to speak, she didn't think Marge would mind if she admired the way he looked in a dark suit.

“My grandmother,” he began, “was tough. She didn't suffer fools. She figured you should use the brains God gave you, otherwise you were just taking up space. She did a lot more than take up space. She told me that during the Depression she worked in a dime store, made a dollar a day. Had to walk two miles each way—fair weather or foul. She didn't think it was that big a deal, she just did what she had to do.

“She told me once she thought she'd become a nun, then decided she'd rather have sex. I hope it's okay to say that in here,” he added after a ripple of laughter. “She married my grandfather in 1939. They had what she called a two-hour honeymoon before they both had to go back to work. Apparently, they managed to make my uncle Tom in that short window. She lost a daughter at six months, and a son in Vietnam who never saw his twentieth birthday. She lost her husband, but she never lost, well, her faith. Or her independence, which was just as important to her. She taught me how to ride a two-wheeler, and to finish what I start.”

He cleared his throat. “She's survived by her two sons, my cousin Jim and me. I'm going to miss her.”

Reena waited outside the church while people spoke to Bo before walking to their cars. It was a pretty morning, with strong sun and the smell of freshly mown grass.

She noted the two people who stayed closest to him. A man of about his age, about five-ten, trendy wire-framed glasses, good, dark suit and shoes. And a woman around thirty with short, bright red hair wearing sunglasses and a sleeveless black dress.

From what he'd told her, they couldn't be blood kin. But she recognized family when she saw it.

He broke away, walked to Reena. “Thanks for coming. I haven't had much chance to talk to you, to thank you for everything.”

“It's all right. I'm sorry I can't go to the cemetery. I have to get back. It was a lovely service, Bo. You did just right.”

“Scary.” He put sunglasses over his tired eyes. “I haven't had to talk in front of so many people since the nightmare of public speaking in high school.”

“Well, you aced it.”

“Glad it's done.” He looked over, and his jaw tightened. “I've got to ride out with my father.” He nodded toward a man in a black suit. His black hair had just a touch of silver at the temples, like gleaming wings. Tanned and fit, she thought. And impatient.

“We don't seem to have anything to say to each other. How does that happen?”

“I don't know, but it does.” She touched her lips to each of his cheeks in turn. “Take care.”

A
t ten on a rainy morning in June that turned the air to steam, Reena stood over the partially destroyed body of a twenty-three-year-old woman. What was left of her was on the nasty carpet in a nasty room in a hotel where “fleabag” would have been a generous adjective.

Her name was De Wanna Johnson, according to the driver's license in the vinyl purse found under the bed—and the desk clerk's statement.

As her face and upper torso were all but gone, official identification would come later. She'd been wrapped in a blanket, with stuffing from the mattress strewn over and around her to act as trailers.

Reena took pictures while O'Donnell started the grid.

“So, De Wanna checks in three days ago with some guy. She pays cash for two nights. While it is possible DeWanna decided to sleep on the floor, and set her own face on fire, I scent a whiff of foul play.”

O'Donnell chewed contemplatively on his gum. “Maybe the frying pan over there covered with blood and gray matter gave you the first clue.”

“It didn't hurt. Jesus, De Wanna, bet he did a number on you first. He had a good combustible source of fuel with the blanket and mattress stuffing, then you've got her body fat for the candle effect. But he screwed up. Should've opened a window, should have coated this carpet with
flammable liquid. Not enough oxygen, not enough flame to finish the job. Hope she was dead before he lit her. Hope the ME and radiologists confirm that.”

She stepped out to go through the rest of the room, the excuse for a kitchenette. Broken dishes on the floor, what she identified as ground beef mixed with Hamburger Helper sloshed over the graying linoleum.

“Looks like she was fixing dinner when they got into it. Remains of that in the skillet along with pieces of her. He probably grabbed the pan right off the stove.”

She turned from it, gripped her hands as if gripping the handle, swung out. “Knocked her back. Blood spatter here looks consistent with that. Comes right back with a backhanded follow-through. Knocks her back again, and down. Maybe pounds on her some more before he thinks, Whoa, shit, look what I did.”

She stepped around the body. “Figures to light her up, cover up the murder. But animal fat doesn't burn cleanly. Modest flame destroys tissues, takes her face and more, but it doesn't bring the room temp, not a closed room, up enough to ignite the stuffing, even the bulk of the blanket he wrapped around her.”

“So we're probably not going to be looking for a chemist.”

“Or somebody who planned ahead. Frenzy of the moment, not premeditated, from the looks of the scene.”

She moved into the bathroom. The back of the toilet was crammed with cosmetics. Hair spray, hair gel, mascara, lipsticks, blusher, eyeshadows.

Crouching down, she began to pick through the trash with her gloved hands. Moments later, she came back in holding a box.

“I think we've got a motive.” She held up the home pregnancy test.

T
he desk clerk's vague description of the man who'd checked in with the victim was given a boost by the prints Reena lifted from the frying pan.

“Got him,” she told O'Donnell, and swiveled around in her chair to face his desk. “Jamal Earl Gregg, twenty-five. Got a sheet. Assault,
possession with intent, malicious wounding. Did a stint in Red Onion in Virginia. Released three months ago. Got a Richmond address listed. De Wanna Johnson's driver's license had a Richmond address.”

“So maybe we'll take a field trip.”

“I've got a current MasterCard in her name. It wasn't in her purse, or on the scene.”

“If he took it, he'll use it. Asshole. Let's put out the alert. Maybe we'll save ourselves a trip down Ninety-five.”

Reena wrote the report, did a search for known associates.

“The only tie I can find to Baltimore is an inmate on his block at Red Onion. Guy's still inside, doing a nickel for dealing.”

“Jamal got busted for possession with intent. Maybe he came up this way looking to move in with his pal's connections.”

“There's no record on De Wanna Johnson. No criminal, no juvie, no arrests. But she and Gregg went to the same high school.”

O'Donnell tipped down the reading glasses he'd been forced to use. “High school sweethearts?”

“Stranger things. He gets out, scoops her up, and they're off to Baltimore—on her dime, in her car. Must be love. I'm going to call the address listed on her license, see what I can dig out.”

“Let me update the captain,” O'Donnell said. “See if he wants us to go to Richmond on this.”

When O'Donnell came back, Reena held up a finger. “I appreciate that, Mrs. Johnson. If you hear from your daughter, or hear anything about Jamal Gregg's whereabouts, please contact me. You have my number. Yes. Thank you.”

Reena pushed back in her chair. “High school sweethearts. In fact, so sweet, De Wanna has a five-year-old daughter. Her mother's got the kid. Jamal and DeWanna left three days ago—over the mother's objections. Job opportunity. She said her girl didn't have a brain cell working when it came to that no-account, and she hopes we lock the thieving bastard up good this time, so her girl has a chance to make a decent life. I didn't tell her the probability is high De Wanna's already lost her chance.”

“Got one kid by her. He just gets out of prison, ready to get something going, and she tells him she's got another cooking. He loses it, does her, lights her, takes her credit card, cash, car.”

“Works for me.”

“We're getting cleared to drive down to Richmond. Hold on.” He picked up his ringing phone. “Arson Unit. O'Donnell. Yeah. Yeah.” He scribbled as he spoke. “Stall the authorization. We're on our way.”

Reena was already up, grabbing her jacket. “Where?”

“Liquor store on Central.”

Reena grabbed a radio on the run, requested backup.

He was gone when they got there, and frustration had Reena standing in the rain, kicking the rear tire of the car Jamal had left sitting at the curb. She pulled out her cell phone when it sang. “Hale. Okay. Got it.” She clicked off. “Victim was six weeks pregnant. Cause of death, bludgeoning.”

“That's fast work for the ME.”

“I sweet-talked him. He couldn't have gone far. Even if he decided to ditch the car, he couldn't have gone far.”

“So we look for him. Get in out of the rain.” O'Donnell slid behind the wheel again. “Got the APB out. He's on foot. He's pissed off he didn't get his booze.”

“Bar. Where's the closest bar?”

O'Donnell looked at her and grinned. “Now that's thinking.” He turned the corner, nodded. “Let's have a look.”

It was called Hideout. A number of patrons seemed to be doing just that, holed up with a bottle on a rainy afternoon.

Jamal was at the end of the bar, drinking boilermakers.

He was off the stool like lightning, and sprinting toward the back.

Good eye for cops, was Reena's only thought as she ran after him. She hit the alley door three steps ahead of O'Donnell. She evaded the metal trash can Jamal heaved. O'Donnell didn't.

“You hurt?” she called back.

“Get him. I'm right behind you.”

Jamal was fast, but so was she. When he scurried up and over the fence backing the alley, she was right behind him. “Police! Freeze!”

He was fast, she thought again, but he didn't know Baltimore. She was faster—and she did.

The rain-drenched alley he'd run into this time dead-ended. He whirled, eyes wild, and flipped out a knife.

“Come on, bitch.”

Keeping her eyes locked on his, Reena drew her weapon. “What, are you just really stupid? Toss down the knife, Jamal, before I shoot you.”

“Ain't got the balls.”

Now she grinned, though her palms had gone clammy and her knees wanted badly to shake. “Bet me.”

From behind her, she heard O'Donnell swear and puff, and had never heard sweeter music. “And me,” he said, bracing his weapon on the top of the fence.

“I didn't do nothing.” Jamal dropped the knife. “I'm just having a drink.”

“Yeah, tell that to DeWanna, and the baby she was carrying.” Her heart pistoned painfully against her ribs as she moved forward. “On the ground, you bastard. Hands behind your head.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” He got down, laced his hands behind his head. “You got the wrong person.”

“This next stint you do in a cage, maybe you can study up on the properties of fire. Meanwhile, Jamal Earl Gregg, you're under arrest for suspicion of murder.” She kicked the knife away, cuffed him.

They were soaked to the skin and dripping when they heard the sirens. O'Donnell shot her a fierce grin. “Fast on your feet, Hale.”

“Yeah.”

And since it was over, she sat on the wet pavement until she got her breath back.

Well, it was done, Bo thought as he let himself into his house. At least he hoped to God it was done. Mostly. Lawyers, insurance, accountants, realtors. All those meetings, all that paperwork made his ears ring. Not to mention, he thought, a couple of go-rounds with his father.

Over and done, he decided, and couldn't figure out if he was relieved or depressed.

He set a packing box beside the one he'd already brought in and dumped at the foot of the stairs. One more in the car, he mused. He could just leave it there, deal with it all later.

And he could've sworn he heard his grandmother's voice, telling him to finish what he started.

“Okay, okay.” He pushed at his already dripping hair and headed back out.

A beer would be good. A beer, a hot shower, maybe some ESPN. Chill out. Decompress. Then, as he pulled the tarp up to get to the last of the boxes, Reena pulled in. He forgot all about an evening in his underwear watching the game.

“Hi.” He thought she looked a little pale and tired, but it might've been the rain.

“Hi back.”

She wasn't wearing a hat either, and her hair was a riot of tawny corkscrews. “Got a minute?” he asked her. “Want to come in?”

She hesitated, then gave a little shrug. “Sure. Need a hand?”

“No, I've got it.”

“Haven't seen you around much this week,” she commented.

“Work squeezed between meetings. Turns out I'm executor of my grandmother's estate. That sounds like it's really big and shiny. It's not like she was rolling in it or anything. Mostly it's just lawyers and paperwork. Thanks,” he added when she opened the door for him. “Want some wine?”

“About as much as I want to keep breathing.”

“Let me get you a towel.” He dumped the box with the others, walked down the hall and into what she knew was the half bath.

The house was nearly a twin of hers in its setup. But what he'd done set it apart. The trim and floors had been taken down to their natural color and varnished, and the walls were a deep, warm green that set off the honey oak. He'd suspended a mission-style light from the lofty ceiling.

The hall could have used a runner, she thought. Something old and a little threadbare and full of character. And he probably planned to refinish the table near the door where he threw his keys.

He came back with a couple of navy blue towels. “You've done some beautiful work in here.”

“Yeah?” He glanced around as he scrubbed his hair with a towel. “Good start anyway.”

“Really good start,” she said as she wandered into the living room. His furniture needed help. Slipcovers, or better yet replacement. And he had perhaps the biggest television she'd ever seen dominating one wall. But the walls were a slightly deeper shade of that green, the woodwork gorgeous. And the little fireplace had been fronted in creamy granite, framed in more of that honey oak with a wide, chunky mantel topping it.

“God, that's gorgeous, Bo. Seriously.” She crossed to the fireplace, ran her fingers over the mantel. There was dust, but beneath it was silky wood. “Oh, look what you've done around the window!”

It was flanked with shelves, mirroring the wood and beaded accents on the trim. “It's just the sort of detail a room this size needs. Brings it in without losing the sense of space. Makes it cozy.”

“Thanks. I'm thinking about fronting them with glass—pebbled maybe. Haven't decided. But I'm doing that with the built-ins I'm making for the dining room, so I may just leave these open.”

He was proud of his work, but her enthusiastic response gave him an extra boost. “Kitchen's done, if you want to see.”

“I do.” She glanced back at the fireplace as she walked out. “Can you do something like that in my place?”

“I can do anything you want.”

She passed him back the towel. “We'll have to talk about your rates.”

“I'll give you an infatuation discount.”

“I'd be a fool to say no.” She poked her head in other rooms on the way. “I'm nosy. What's this going to be? Like a TV room?”

“That's the plan. Room enough for a good-sized entertainment unit. I'm working on a design.”

“Using the monster in your living room as a measuring tool.”

He smiled easily. “You're going to watch, why not
watch
?”

“I'm thinking of using this space in my house for a library. Lots of shelves, warm colors, maybe putting in one of those little gas fireplaces. Big cushy chairs.”

“That wall'd be best for the fireplace.” He gestured with a lift of his chin. “Could do a nice window seat over there.”

“A window seat.” She considered him. “Just how infatuated are you?”

“I was going to have a beer and the ball game. Then I saw you.”

“Pretty infatuated.” She strolled out, glanced into the half bath. New tiles, she noted, new fixtures. Then the dining room, where she found major construction in progress. “It's a lot of work.”

“I like the work. Even when I have to shoehorn it in between active clients. Business is good, so this place is taking me longer than the last one. But I like it here, so that's a point. Then there's you.”

“Hmmm.” She left that without comment and wandered into the kitchen. “Holy crap, Bo. This is amazing. It's like a magazine.”

“Kitchens are the hub.” He opened the laundry room door, tossed the towels inside. “Major selling point. It's generally where I start the rehab.”

He'd done the floors in big slate-colored tiles, echoed that on the counters and used white-washed cabinets. Some were fronted with leaded glass. He'd put in a bar for casual seating, added in a box window to bring in the backyard. Wide windowsills were stone and called out for pretty pots of plants or herbs.

“You went high-end on the appliances. I know my appliances. I'd love to have one of these built-in grills.”

“I can get you a good price. Contractor's rate.”

“I love the lighting. This mission style is perfect.”

He flipped on a switch and made her eyes gleam. Light beamed down from under the top cabinets.

“Nice touch. Now I have kitchen envy. This display cabinet's great. Why don't you have anything in it?”

“Didn't have anything. Guess I do now. Some of my grandmother's stuff.” He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of white wine. “She left me everything. Well, she made a bequest to the church, but the rest she left to me. The house. Everything.”

“It makes you sad,” she stated softly.

“Some, I guess. Grateful.” For a moment, he just held the wine bottle, leaned back against the refrigerator. “The house is free and clear, and once I get over the guilt, I'll sell it.”

“She wouldn't want you to feel guilty. She didn't expect you to move in. It's just a house.”

He got glasses, poured the wine. “I'm coming around to that. Doesn't need much work. I've kept it up for her. I've started clearing stuff out. The boxes in the other room.” He handed her a glass. “Mostly photographs, some of her jewelry, and . . .”

“Things that matter.”

“Yeah, things that matter. She had a couple of pictures I drew her when I was a kid. You know, box houses with triangle roofs. Big round yellow sun. W birds flying around.”

“She loved you.”

“I know. My father's decided to be hurt and insulted because she didn't leave him anything. He's seen her maybe twice in the last five, six years, and he's playing the grieving son.” He stopped himself, shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Families are complicated. I should know. She made her choices, Bo. It was her right.”

“I get that.” But he rubbed his fingers hard over the middle of his forehead. “I could give him a cut when I sell the house, but she wouldn't like it. So I won't. She did leave my uncle and my cousin a few odds and ends. I guess she made her statement. Anyway.” He shook it off. “Hungry? Why don't I fix you dinner?”

“You cook?”

“A little turn of the leaf I made a long time ago—and by happy coincidence, I learned that having a guy cook is like foreplay to a woman.”

“You're not wrong. What's on the menu?”

He smiled. “I'll figure that out. While I am, why don't you tell me why you look tired?”

“Do I?” She sipped while he opened the freezer. “I guess I am. Or was. Hard day. Want me to bore you with it?”

“I do.” He found a couple of chicken breasts, put them in the microwave to defrost, then opened a vegetable drawer.

“My partner and I worked this case. Flop hotel in south Baltimore. Single victim, female. Her head and most of her torso were . . . and I've just realized this is not really pre-dinner conversation.”

“It's okay. I've got a strong stomach.”

“Let's say she was badly burned, in an attempt to hide the fact that she'd been beaten to death. He didn't do a good job of it, either. It's all right there, like flashing lights.”

She ran him through it, watching as he whipped something up in a small stainless steel bowl, dumped it over the chicken.

“It's hard, what you do. Seeing what you see.”

“You have to walk a line between objectivity and compassion. It gets shaky. I guess it shook a little for me with De Wanna. All her cosmetics piled on the back of the toilet, the meal she was trying to put together.
She loved the son of a bitch, and he's so annoyed she's pregnant again—like it was all her fault—he smashes her face with a frying pan, then beats her to death with it, panics, sets her on fire. Sets her hair on fire. It takes a special kind of callousness to do that.”

Bo poured her more wine. “But you got him?”

“Wasn't hard. He's dumb as a brick. Used her credit card—or tried to. Made us, though. Smelled cop the minute we walked into this sluggy little bar. Ran out the back, tipped my partner over with a garbage can. I'm in pursuit, catching up with him, climbing over a fence, rain's pouring. I'm not even thinking then, just doing. He doesn't know the city, traps himself in a blind alley. Turns around and pulls a knife.”

“Jesus, Reena.”

She shook her head. “I've got a gun. A gun, for God's sake. What does he think, I'll go
eek
and run away?” But a part of her had wanted to. “I've had to draw my weapon before, a few times before, but it was almost an afterthought. This . . . my hands were shaking, and I was so cold. Inside, not from the rain. Because I knew I might have to use it. I've never had to fire my weapon. I was cold because I might have to fire. I was cold because I knew I could. Maybe wanted to, because . . . I still had the picture of what he'd done to her in my head. I was scared. It's the first time I've really been scared on the job. I guess it caught me by surprise. So . . .”

She took a breath, and a drink. “Your offer of wine and dinner was well timed. I'm better off with company than alone. And it's not the sort of thing I like to talk about with my family. It worries them.”

It worried him, too, but that didn't seem like the right response. Instead he gave her another that came to his mind. “Regular people don't—can't—understand what you deal with. Not just the stress, which must be through the roof, not even the personal danger. But the emotion of it, I guess. What you see, what you have to do about it, and how that sits inside you.”

“There are reasons I got into this type of work. What happened to De Wanna Johnson's one of them. And I feel better, so thanks for letting me go on about it. Writing a report doesn't have the same cathartic benefit. Want a hand with dinner?”

“No, I got it. It loses the seductive value if I ask you to peel potatoes.”

“You seducing me, Bo?”

“Working up to it.”

“How long does it generally take for you to get through the working-up-to-it stage?”

“Not usually this long. Especially if you count back the full thirteen years.”

“Then I'd say it's been long enough.” She set her glass down, rose. “You're going to want that chicken to marinate awhile anyway,” she added as she crossed to him.

“I feel like I should say something clever right now. But my mind's blank.” He put his hands on her hips, sliding them slowly up her body as he drew her in.

His head dipped, then paused with his lips a whisper from hers, just to catch her quick breath of anticipation. His eyes stayed open, watching hers, as he changed the angle, grazed his teeth over her bottom lip.

Then slowly sank in.

She smelled of the rain, tasted of wine. Her hands gripped his shoulders, then combed up through his hair and fisted there as that tight, angular body fit to his. He moved without thinking, half turning so her back was braced against the counter, locking her there while his mouth did a long, thorough exploration of hers.

Her teeth clamped lightly over his tongue, shooting his blood from hot to fevered. And the sound she made was something between a laugh and a moan.

His vision blurred.

Her hands weren't quite steady when she tugged his shirt out of his waistband. “You're good at this,” she managed.

“Right back at you. Reena.” His mouth raced to her throat, branded its way up to her lips again. “I want to . . . let's go upstairs.”

Everything inside her was open and aching and ready. With her hands under his shirt, she dug her fingers into hard muscle. She wanted that body on hers, the brawn of it, the heat of it, the need of it. “I like your floor. Let's see how it holds up.”

He thought he heard his heart knocking, hard, insistent bangs. When he pulled back far enough to yank her jacket down her arms, he recognized the knocking on his front door. “Oh, for the sake of the tiny baby Jesus.”

She closed her teeth over his jaw. “Expecting someone?”

“No. Maybe they'll . . .” But the knocking only increased. “Damn it. Listen, don't move. Breathe only if you have to, but don't move.” He gripped her shoulders. “Oh God, look at you. I could just . . . Just wait here, right here because I can just slip right back into position after I go kill whoever's at the door. It'll only take a minute for me to murder them.”