Joe Junior at last. He put the car in park and pulled out his notepad. "Mr. Dougherty. I'm sorry to have to contact you this way."
There was a heavy sigh. "Then it's true? My house is gone?"
"I'm afraid it's true. Mr. Dougherty, we found a body in the kitchen."
There was a beat of silence. "What?"
Reed wished he could have spoken to the man in person, but his shock sounded sincere. "Yes, sir. The neighbors said you had somebody watching your house."
"Y-yes. Her name is Burnette. Caitlin Burnette. She's supposed to be very responsible." Panic had taken the man's voice a little higher. "She's dead?"
Reed thought of the charred body and swallowed his sigh. Yes, she's very dead. "We're assuming the body we found was your house sitter, but we'll have to investigate before we're certain. We'd appreciate you leaving any notification of the family to us."
"Of…" He cleared his throat. "Of course."
"When will you be back in town, Mr. Dougherty?"
"We weren't supposed to come back until Friday, but we'll try to get home today. When I know our flight times, I'll call you back."
Reed tossed his phone to the passenger seat, only to have it ring again. Caller ID this time was the morgue. "Solliday."
"Reed, it's Sam Barrington." The new medical examiner. Barrington had taken over when the old ME went out on maternity leave. The old ME had been efficient, astute, and personable. Barrington… well, he was efficient and astute.
"Hey, Sam. I'm on my way into the office. What do you have?"
"Victim's a woman, early twenties. Best I can tell she was five-two, five-three."
Sam wasn't one to call with such basic information. There had to be more. "And?"
"Well, before I started to cut I did an initial X-ray of the body. I expected to see the skull in fractured fragments."
Which was the general way of things. Bodies subjected to that kind of heat… the skulls sometimes just exploded from the pressure. "But you didn't."
"No, because the bullet hole in her skull vented all the pressure."
Reed wasn't surprised. Still, now he had to share. He got the arson, the cops got the body. Too many damn cooks in the kitchen. He winced. So to speak. "Any evidence of smoke inhalation?"
"Haven't gotten that far yet," Sam said briskly. "I'm going to start the autopsy right away, so you can come by anytime this morning."
"Thanks. I will." He pulled onto his quiet tree-lined street, flipping on his wipers against the rain. It had been a while since he'd worked with Homicide, but he thought Marc Spinnelli was still the lieutenant there. Marc was a straight shooter. Reed only hoped the detective Spinnelli assigned wouldn't be a know-it-all hotshot.
Monday, November 27, 8:30 a.m.
Mia Mitchell's feet were cold. Which was really stupid, because they could be warm and toasty, propped up on her desk as she sipped her third cup of coffee. But they're not, because here I am, she thought bitterly. Standing on the sidewalk, cold rain dripping from the brim of the battered hat she wore. Staring at her own reflection in the glass doors like an idiot. She'd passed through these doors hundreds of times before but today was different. Today she was alone.
Because I froze like a damn rookie. And her partner had paid the price. Two weeks later, the moment was still enough to make her frozen. She stared at the sidewalk. Two weeks later she could still hear the crack of gunfire, see Abe crumble and fall, the bloodstain on his white shirt spreading as she stood, slack-jawed and helpless.
"Excuse me."
Mia jerked her chin upward, then up again, her fist clenching against the reflex to draw her weapon, her eyes narrowing beneath the brim of her hat to focus on the reflection behind her. It was a man, at least six feet tall. His black trench coat was the same color as the neatly trimmed goatee that framed his mouth. After a beat she lifted her chin another notch to his eyes. He was staring at her from under an umbrella, dark brows furrowed.
"Are you all right, miss?" he asked, his voice that even, soft tone that she herself used to calm skittish suspects and witnesses. Her lips quirked up mirthlessly as his intent became clear. He thought she was some nutcase off the street. Maybe she looked that way. Either way, he'd gotten the drop on her and that was unacceptable. Pay attention for God's sake. She searched her mind for an adequate response.
"I'm fine, thanks. I'm… waiting for someone." It sounded lame, even to her own ears, but he nodded and stepped around her, pulling the door open as he closed his umbrella. Background noise filtered through the open door, and she thought that would be the end of it and him. But he didn't move. He stood, studying her face as if memorizing each detail. She considered identifying herself, but… didn't. Instead she met his scrutiny with her own, the cop part of her brain now back on full.
He was a good-looking man, darkly handsome, older than his reflection had appeared. It was his eyes, she thought.
Hard and dark. And his mouth. He looked like he never smiled. His eyes dropped to her bare hands, then lifted, his expression softer. It was compassion, she realized, and the notion had her swallowing hard.
"Well, if you need a place to warm up, there's room at the shelter on Grand. They might be able to get you some gloves. Be careful. It's cold outside." He hesitated, then held out his umbrella. "Stay dry."
Too stunned to speak, she took it. Her mouth opened to set him straight, but he was gone, hurrying across the lobby. He stopped at the desk sergeant's station and pointed at her. The desk sergeant blinked once, then nodded soberly.
Hell, Tommy Polanski was at the desk this morning. He'd known her since she was a snot-nosed kid tagging behind her dad at the firing range, begging for a turn. But Tommy didn't say a word, just let the man walk away thinking she was some street person. Rolling her eyes, she followed the path the man had taken, scowling when a broad grin took over Tommy's face.
"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. If it isn't Detective Mia Mitchell, finally come back to do an honest day's work."
She took off her hat, shook it dry. "Got tired of the soaps. How's it going, Tommy?"
He shrugged. "Same old, same old." But his eyes twinkled.
He was going to make her ask, the old bastard. "So who was that guy?"
Tommy laughed. "He's a fire marshal. He was worried you were planning to storm the place. I told him you were a regular"-his grin went wicked-"and harmless overall."
Mia rolled her eyes again. "Gee, thanks, Tommy," she said dryly.
"Anything for Bobby's girl." His grin faded, his eyes giving her a head to toe once-over. "How's the shoulder, kid?"
She flexed it inside her leather jacket. "Just a graze. Doc says I'm good as new." Actually it hadn't been a graze and the doctor had said she needed another week on disability, but at her growl he'd shrugged and signed her release form.
"And Abe?"
"Getting better." So the night nurse said, every night when Mia called anonymously at three a.m.
Tommy's jaw stiffened. "We'll catch the punk that did this, Mia. Don't worry."
Two weeks later and the little punk bastard that shot her partner was still on the streets, no doubt boasting how he took down a cop twice his size. A wave of rage hit her hard, but she bit it back. "I know. Thanks."
"Tell Abe I said hi."
"I will," she lied smoothly. "I need to go. I don't want to be late my first day back."
"Mia." Tommy hesitated. "I'm sorry about your father. He was a good cop."
A good cop. Mia bit the inside of her cheek. Too bad Bobby Mitchell hadn't been a better man. "Thanks, Tommy. My mom appreciated the basket." Fruit baskets filled the kitchen table of her mother's small house, tokens of respect for her father's long, long career. Three weeks after her father stroked out, the fruit in the baskets was going rotten. A fitting end, many would say. No, many wouldn't. Because many didn't know.