Ashes to Ashes

22

CHAPTER

KATE RAN OUT the back door with her coat half on, half off. She had managed to pull on a pair of snow boots, but the heavy soles were little help as she hit the ice on the steps. An involuntary shriek raked her throat as she tumbled down into the yard, where what looked to be half a foot of wet snow cushioned her landing. She didn't even allow herself to catch her breath, but kept her legs moving and pushed herself upright.

Kovac had called on his way to the community center where the meeting had been held. A car fire in the parking lot. Reports of someone in the vehicle.

Angie.

No one knew at this point, of course, but the thought that it could be Angie burned in Kate's mind as she ran for the garage, fumbling in her pocket for her keys.

Quinn had given her an earful of his opinion on her garage. Terrible location. Poorly lit. Left her vulnerable. All of which was true, but she didn't have time to think about it. Anyone wanting to mug her or rape her would just have to wait.

God help her if she got pulled over en route, she thought as she hit the light switch. She probably had no business getting behind the wheel of a vehicle at all, but she wasn't waiting for a ride. No one was on the streets this time of night anyway. It wasn't five minutes to that community center.

She was halfway to the 4Runner before she realized the garage light hadn't come on.

The realization held her up a step, a fraction of a second in which time all her senses sharpened and her heart gave an exaggerated thump. She hit the key for the remote lock, and the truck's interior lit up. Keep moving, she thought. If she kept moving, she wasn't allowing an opportunity for anyone to stop her. A ridiculous notion, but she grabbed on to it, yanked the door of the truck open, and hauled herself up into the driver's seat.

In a quick succession of moves, she locked the doors, started the engine, punched on the four-wheel drive, and put the truck in gear. It rocked back into the snow, pulling to the left. The exterior mirror missed disaster by a fraction of an inch. The back bumper kissed the neighbor's privacy fence, then she was rolling forward, the engine revving loudly. She pulled the wheel too hard as she hit the street and skidded sideways, just whispering past the front end of a black Lexus parked on the street.

Stupid to rush, she thought, fighting the sense of desperation, trying to lighten her foot on the accelerator. Whoever it was in that burning car would not be going anywhere, but still the urgency burned in her veins, in her gut. If there was any chance of discounting her fear—and thereby absolving herself of one stone of guilt—she wanted to grab it.

The street in front of the community center was clogged with emergency vehicles, red, white, and blue lights rolling like so many carnival rides. Mixed in among them were the omnipresent news vans, spilling reporters and cameramen and equipment. The house-to-house canvass had already begun, rousing neighbors from their beds. Overhead, a state patrol chopper cruised above the rooftops, spotlight washing down on lawns and shining in windows, flashing briefly over a pair of K-9 dogs and their officers.

If Smokey Joe had driven the car to the lot to set it ablaze, then it followed that he had left on foot. There was a good chance he lived in or near this neighborhood. Not five minutes from Kate's, though she didn't let herself think about that now.

She slid the 4Runner in behind the KMSP van, slammed it into park, and abandoned it sitting cock-eyed to the curb. Despite the hour, some of the neighbors had come out of their homes to get the scoop and to further clutter the periphery of the scene. One of them could have been the killer, come back to recharge his batteries watching the resulting chaos his act had touched off. There was no way of knowing, and Kate had set her priority elsewhere. She dodged through the gathering throng, bumping shoulders, pushing, shoving.

Her eyes were on the emergency personnel working inside a circle of uniformed cops some distance away from the burned-out car. The paramedics swarmed around the victim, snapping off rapid-fire medicalese.

One of the uniforms caught Kate by the arm as she tried to pass, and held her back.

“Sorry, ma'am. Authorized personnel only.”

“I'm with victim services. I've got ID.”

“This one ain't gonna need you. He's toast.”

“He?”

The cop shrugged. “It. Who can tell?”

Kate's stomach double-clutched. Oh, Jesus, Angie. “Where's Kovac?”

“He's busy, ma'am. If you'll just step over to the side—”

“Don't ‘little lady' me,” Kate snapped. “I've got cause to be here.”

“I can vouch for her, Officer,” Quinn said, holding up his ID. “Better let her go before you lose a hand.”

The cop scowled at the order and at the FBI ID, but relinquished his hold. Kate bolted for the paramedics. Four steps closer, then Quinn caught her from behind and pulled her up short, holding tight as she fought to twist away from him.

“Let me go!”

“Let's find out what Kovac knows. If this is Smokey Joe, then there should be an ID around here somewhere.”

“No. I have to see!”

“It's going to be bad, Kate.”

“I know that. I've seen it before. God, what haven't I seen?”

Nothing. She'd spent years poring over photographs of unspeakable horror. She knew every evil thing one human being could do to another. Still, there was nothing quite like the stark, raw reality of an actual crime scene. Photographs never captured the sounds, the electricity in the air, the smell of death.

The smell of burnt flesh was horrific, and it hit her in the face like a club, the sensation it caused something akin to pain. Her stomach, already rolling on anxiety and half a tank of gin, pitched its contents up the back of her throat, and she nearly turned and vomited. It felt as if her knees turned to water. She couldn't understand why she didn't fall, then realized Quinn had hold of her again, his arms wrapped around her from behind. She sank back against him and made a mental note to chide herself for it later.

Of the hundreds of victims she'd seen, none had potentially been someone she'd known.

Hideously charred and half melted, the body lay on one side, limbs bent and fused into a sitting position. The heat of the fire had to have been incredible. The hair was gone, the nose was gone; the lips were twisted and burned away, revealing the teeth in a macabre grimace. The sternum was exposed, white bone shining where the thin layer of flesh had been seared away. The uniform had been right: At a glance there was no determining gender, except that the scraps of fabric that clung to the back of the body might have once been women's clothing—a piece of pink sweater, a swatch of skirt.

A burly paramedic with soot on his face looked up and shook his head. “This one's for the bonepicker. She was long gone before we got here.”

Kate's head swam. She kept trying to think of what to do, how to know if it was Angie. The ideas seemed to bend and elongate and swoop through her brain.

Dental records were out of the question. They didn't know who the hell Angie DiMarco was or where she had come from. There were no parents who could give them dental records or medical records that might have pointed out old bone fractures to look for when the body was X-rayed. There were no personal effects to pick through.

Earrings. Angie wore earrings.

The ears of the corpse had been burned down to charred nubs.

Rings. She had half a dozen, at least.

The hands of the corpse were black and curled like monkey's paws. It looked as if there were fingers missing.

A shudder went through Kate that had nothing to do with the cold. Quinn drew her away a step at a time.

“I don't know,” she mumbled, still staring at the body. The toes were pointed like a gymnast's, a result of tendons constricting. “I don't know.”

She was shaking so badly, Quinn could feel it through her heavy wool coat. He pulled her out of the traffic flow and pushed her hair from her face, tipping her head back so that she had to look up. Her face was ashen beneath the sodium vapor lights of the parking lot. She stared up at him, her eyes glassy with shock and dread. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to pull her close and hold her tight.

“Are you all right, honey?” he asked gently. “Do you need to sit down?”

She shook her head, looking away from him to the ambulance crew, to the fire engines, to the glare of lights around the television people. “I—no—um—oh, God,” she stammered, her breath coming too hard and too fast. Her eyes found his again and her mouth trembled. “Oh, God, John, what if it's her?”

“If it's her, you didn't put her there, Kate,” he said firmly.

“Rotten kid,” she muttered, fighting tears. “This is why I don't do kids. Nothing but trouble.”

He watched her fight, knowing she wasn't half as tough as she pretended to be, knowing she had no one in her life to turn to and lean against. Knowing she probably wouldn't have chosen him for the job now. Knowing all those things, he whispered, “Hey, come here,” and drew her close.

She offered no resistance—strong, independent Kate. Her head found his shoulder and she fitted against him like his missing half. Familiar, comfortable, perfect. The noise and commotion of the crime scene seemed to recede into the distant background. He stroked a hand over her hair and kissed her temple, and felt complete for the first time in five years.

“I'm here for you, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I've got you.”

“Is it her?” Rob Marshall scuttled toward them on his too-short legs. He was bundled into a fat down parka that appeared to be creeping up around his ears; a stocking cap sat tight on his round head.

At the sound of his voice, Kate stiffened, straightened, moved a step away from Quinn. He could almost see her reining in the emotions and hastily reconstructing the wall around them.

“We don't know,” she said, her voice husky. She cleared her throat and swiped a gloved finger beneath one eye. “The body is unrecognizable. No one's found an ID yet that we know of.”

Rob looked past her to the paramedics. “I can't believe this is happening. You think this is her, don't you? You think this is your witness.”

Your witness, Kate noted. He was already distancing himself from the disaster, the same way he'd distanced himself from the decision to take Angie to the Phoenix in the first place. The miserable toad.

“How did this happen?” he demanded. “I thought you were watching out for her, Kate.”

“I'm sorry. I told you on the phone I was sorry. I should have stayed with her.” The admission grated now because it was a concession to her boss, and she automatically wanted to disagree with him.

“We chose you for this case for a reason.”

“I'm well aware of that.”

“Your background, the strength of your personality. For once I thought your stubbornness would actually work to my benefit—”

“You know, I'm blaming myself enough for both of us, Rob,” she said. “So you can just get off my back, thank you very much.”

“Sabin is furious. I don't know how I'll placate him.”

The witness was hers to lose, the peace was his to make. Kate could already hear him whining and wheedling to Sabin, taking her name in vain every chance he got.

“I'm sure you'll be fine,” she snapped, too angry for prudence. “Just get down on your knees and pucker up like you always do.”

Rob's whole being quaked in a spasm from his feet up, the fury erupting from his mouth. “How dare you speak that way to me! How dare you! You've lost the witness. Maybe gotten her killed—”

“We don't know that,” Quinn intervened.

“—and still you have the gall to talk to me that way! You've never shown me an ounce of respect. Even now. Even after this. I can't believe you! You fucking bitch!”

“Back off,” Quinn ordered. He stepped between them and knocked Rob in the sternum hard with the heel of his hand. Rob stumbled backward, lost his footing in the snow, and landed on his butt.

“Why don't you go take a look at what Kate's just seen,” Quinn said, not bothering to offer a hand up. “Get a fresh perspective as to what's important here right now.”

Rob scrambled to his feet, muttering, jerked around and stomped toward the ambulance, dusting the snow off his jacket with quick, angry movements.

“Dammit, John, I wanted to knock him on his ass,” Kate said.

“Then I probably just saved your job for you.”

The sudden possibility that her career might indeed be in danger struck Kate belatedly. God, why wouldn't Rob fire her? He was right: She'd never given him more than the barest requirement of respect. Never mind that he hadn't earned it. He was her boss.

She watched him as he stood near the ambulance with a mittened hand over his mouth. The crew was preparing to put the body in a bag. When he came back, his face looked both waxy and flushed.

“That's—that's—horrific,” he said, breathing heavily through his mouth. He pulled off his glasses and wiped his face with a mitten. “Incredible.” He swallowed a couple of times and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “That smell . . .”

“Maybe you should sit down,” Kate suggested.

Rob partially unzipped his coat and tugged down on the bottom. His gaze was still on the ambulance. “Incredible . . . horrible . . .”

The search helicopter swept near, blades pounding the air like the wings of a giant hummingbird.

“He's challenging us, isn't he? The Cremator,” he said, looking to Quinn. “Taking the girl. Doing this here, where the meeting was held.”

“Yes. He wants to make us look like fools while he makes himself look invincible.”

“I'd say he's doing a damn good job of it,” Rob said, staring across the way as the paramedics loaded the corpse into the ambulance.

“Anybody can look like a genius if they have all the answers ahead of time,” Quinn said. “He'll screw up eventually. They all do. The trick is to get it to happen sooner rather than later. And to get him by the balls the instant he stumbles.”

“I'd like to be around to see that happen.” Rob wiped his face again and adjusted the parka. “I'll go call Sabin,” he said to Kate. “While we still work for him.”

Kate said nothing. Her silence had nothing to do with the county attorney or the suddenly precarious disposition of her job.

“Let's go find Kovac,” she said to Quinn. “See if they've found the driver's license yet.”

KOVAC STOOD ARGUING jurisdiction with an African American woman in a dark parka with ARSON printed across the back. The car, smallish and red, was the centerpiece in a ring of portable lights. The fire had gutted it and blown out the windshield. The driver's door hung open, twisted by the tools the rescue squad had used to wrench it free. The interior was a mess of ash, melted plastic, and dripping foam fire retardant. The driver's seat had been eaten away, the flames leaving nothing but a carcass of distorted springs.

“It's an arson, Sergeant,” the woman insisted. “It's up to my office to determine the cause.”

“It's a homicide, and I could give a shit about the cause of the fire,” Kovac returned. “I want B of I in that car to get whatever evidence your people haven't already fucked up.”

“On behalf of the Minneapolis Fire Department, I apologize for trying to put out a fire and save a life. Maybe we'll get that straight before someone sets your car on fire.”

“Marcell, I should be so lucky someone sets that piece of crap on fire.”

As crime scenes went, this one was a disaster, Kate knew. Called to a fire, the firefighters didn't worry about trampling the scene. Their job was saving lives, not finding out who might have taken one. And so they ruined car doors and sprayed foam over any trace evidence that might have survived inside.

“The thing's already burned to a crisp,” Kovac said to the arson investigator. “What's your hurry? Me, I got a flame-throwing fruitloop running around killing women.”

“Maybe this was an accident,” Marcell shot back. “Maybe this has nothing to do with your killer and you're standing here arguing with me and wasting our time for nothing.”

“Sam, we got the plates back.” Elwood waded toward him through the snow. He waited until he was near enough for confidentiality, even though there was no hope of keeping this news under wraps for long. “It's a

'ninety-eight Saab registered to Jillian Bondurant.”

The arson investigator saluted Kovac and stepped out of his way. “As pissing contests go, Sergeant, you just wrote your name in the snow.”

THE B OF I Team swarmed over the burned-out Saab like vultures cleaning an elephant carcass. Kate sat behind the wheel of Kovac's car and watched, feeling numb and exhausted. The body—whoever she was—had been transported to HCMC. Someone else's corpse had just been knocked to number two on Maggie Stone's itinerary for the day that would soon be dawning.

Quinn opened the passenger door and climbed in on a cold breath of air. Snow clung to his dark head like dandruff. He rubbed a gloved hand over it.

“It's pretty clear the fire was set on the driver's side,” he said. “It burned hottest and longest there. The dashboard and steering wheel are melted. Our two best bets for fingerprints gone.”

“He's escalating,” Kate said.

“Yes.”

“Changing his MO.”

“To make a point.”

“He's building toward something.”

“Yes. And I'd give everything I have to know what and when.”

“And why.”

Quinn shook his head. “I don't care why anymore. There are no valid reasons. There are only excuses. You know all the contributing factors as well as I do, but you also know not all kids with abusive parents grow up to abuse, and not all kids with emotionally distant mothers grow up to kill. At some point in time a choice is made, and once it's made, I don't care why, I just want the bastards off the planet.”

“And you've appointed yourself responsible for catching them all.”

“It's a shit job, but what else have I got going for me?” He flashed the famous Quinn smile, worn around the edges now, running on too little sleep and too much stress.

“You don't need to be here now,” Kate said, feeling the fatigue and the pressure in every muscle of her body. “They'll fill you in at the morning briefing. You look like you could use a couple hours' sleep.”

“Sleep? I gave that up. It was taking the edge off my paranoia.”

“Careful with that, John. They'll pull you out of CASKU and stick you in The X-Files.”

“I am better-looking than David Duchovny.”

“Far and away.”

Funny, she thought, how they fell back into the old patterns of teasing, even now, even after all that had gone on tonight. But then, it was familiar and comforting.

“You don't need to be here either, Kate,” he said, going serious.

“Yes, I do. I'm the closest thing Angie DiMarco has to someone who cares about her. If that body turns out to be hers, the least I can do is miss a little sleep to hear the news.”

She expected another lecture from Quinn on her lack of culpability, but he didn't say anything.

“Do you think there's any chance that body is Jillian Bondurant?” she asked. “That she wasn't victim number three, and she did this to herself?”

“No. Self-immolation is rare, and when it does happen, the person usually wants an audience. Why would Jillian come here in the dead of night? What's her connection to this place? Nothing. We'll know for certain if it's Jillian after the autopsy, seeing as we can compare dental records this time, but I'd say the chances this is her and the fire was self-inflicted are nil.”

Kate turned up the corners of her mouth in a pseudo-smile. “Yeah, I know all that. I was just hoping that corpse might be someone I wasn't responsible for.”

“I'm the one who called the meeting, Kate. Smokey Joe did this to say ‘Fuck you, Quinn.' Now I get to wonder what set him off. Should I have been harder on him? Should I have tried to pretend I feel sympathy for him? Should I have stroked his ego and made him out as a genius? What did I do? What didn't I do? Why didn't I know better? If he was at the meeting, if he was sitting right there in front of me, why didn't I see him?”

“Guess your super X-ray vision that allows you to see what evil lurks in the hearts of men is on the fritz.”

“Along with your ability to foresee the future.”

This time the smile was genuine, if sad. “We're a pair.”

“Used to be.”

Kate stared at him, seeing the man she'd known and loved, and the man the intervening years had turned him into. He looked tired, haunted. She wondered if he saw the same in her. It was humbling to admit that he ought to. She'd fooled herself into believing she was fine. But that was all it had been: an act, a ruse. She had fully realized that truth an hour ago as she stood in the warm shelter of his arms. It had been like suddenly having back a crucial part of herself she had spent years refusing to acknowledge was missing.

“I loved you, Kate,” he said softly, his dark gaze holding hers. “Whatever else you think of me, and of the way things came apart, I loved you. You can doubt everything else about me. God knows, I do. But don't doubt that.”

Something fluttered inside Kate. She refused to name it. It couldn't be hope. She didn't want to hope for anything with regard to John Quinn. She preferred annoyance, indignation, a dash of anger. But none of that was what she really felt, and she knew it, and he would know it as well. He'd always been able to read the slightest shadow that crossed her mind.

“Damn you, John,” she muttered.

Whatever else she might have said was lost as Kovac's face appeared suddenly at Quinn's window. Kate started and swore, then lowered the window from the control panel on the driver's door.

“Hey, kids, no making out,” he quipped. “It's after curfew.”

“We're trying to save ourselves from hypothermia,” Quinn said. “I have a toaster that gives off more warmth than this heater.”

“Did you find the DL?” Kate asked.

“No, but we found this.” He held up a microcasette tape inside a clear plastic case. “It was on the ground about fifteen feet from the car. It's a pure damn miracle one of the firemen didn't squash it.

“It's probably some reporter's notes from the meeting,” he said. “But you never know. Every once in a blue moon we find evidence there is a God. I've got a player somewhere on the seat there.”

“Yeah, that and the Holy Grail,” Kate muttered as she dug through the junk on the seat: reports, magazines, burger wrappers. “Are you living in this car, Sam? There are shelters for people like you, you know.”

She came up with the player and handed it to Quinn. He popped the cassette out and carefully inserted the one Kovac handed him on the end of a ballpoint pen.

What came from the tiny speaker ran through Kate like a spike. A woman's screams, thick with desperation, interspersed with breathless, broken pleas for mercy that would never be delivered. The cries of someone enduring torture and begging for death.

Not proof there was a God, Kate thought. Proof there wasn't.