"It would explain the severe burns on the second victim- the Ledford woman," Sam said. "Even though her body had no accelerant, she was closer to the origin."
"And finally, I found what looked like ammonium nitrate deposited deep in the carpet fibers. Somehow the egg ended up on the floor, with enough force to break it open."
"She kicked it?" Mia asked and Reed shrugged.
"It's possible."
Sam shook his head. "Her legs were broken. It's hard to believe she kicked it."
"The doctor said it was hard to believe she was still muttering after being sedated," Mia said. "She was in excruciating pain, yet she kept asking for me."
"She tried to stab him," Jack commented. "We found a butcher knife on the living room floor with Adler's fingerprints on it. Unfortunately, no blood, so she didn't get him."
"I think Brooke Adler was a lot stronger than I gave her credit for yesterday." Mia's smile was bitter. "Again, that came as a great comfort to her parents."
"Mia." Westphalen's mouth bent in sympathy. "You told both families back to back?"
"I'm sure it hurt them a hell of a lot more than it hurt me. But, speaking of hell, I'm thinking he said go to hell' as some kind of symbolic tie to the fire."
"Makes perfect sense," Westphalen agreed. "So the people he's killed have done something that he's condemned them to hell for doing. What about 'count to ten"?"
"His fuse," Reed said. "Penny Hill's neighbor, Mr. Wright, said that he heard the tires squeal, saw the car driving away and a second later the house blew. Now assuming Wright is… well, right, and assuming Hill's killer ran as soon as he lit the fuse, he would have had about ten to fifteen seconds to get away. I tried it."
"But why 'ten'?" Westphalen mused. "It has to have some significance besides a Clint Eastwood-esque belligerence."
Mia's face tensed. "I hope it's not the number of people he plans to kill."
There was a half beat of silence. "Well, that's an uplifting thought," Jack muttered.
"Let's have some encouraging news," Spinnelli said pointedly. "Jack?"
"We ran prints all day and night. Theoretically, all the prints in the art room and the science lab should be accounted for. Everybody at Hope Center has been printed, staff and residents. But one set of prints was unmatchable to any of the prints on record. And although it's redundant at this point, they don't belong to Manny. Also, the prints don't match anything in AFIS, so our guy doesn't have a record."
"Someone's had access to the school without being printed," Spinnelli mused.
"Maybe." Mia met Reed's eyes and he could see her wheels turning. "But Secrest didn't seem like a slouch. He's a secretive SOB, but he knows what goes on at that place. I can't see him letting just anyone stroll through Bixby had print cards on every teacher and juvenile, past and present. Every print should have been accounted for."
Reed thought he knew where she was headed. "So Secrest missed somebody or one of the print cards Bixby gave us was wrong. Either through design or oversight."
Spinnelli's jaw tightened. "Print everybody at that school. If they balk, haul 'em in."
Mia's smile was sharp. "My pleasure."
"Have you found any connection between Burnette's and Hill's files?" Spinnelli asked.
"Um, no." Her composure slipped for an instant and Reed couldn't help but think about what she'd been doing instead of reading files. But they were entitled to some time of their own. He wouldn't feel guilty about it. He hoped she wouldn't either. She cleared her throat. "We'll keep looking. Did the news shows given the women's names?"
"I caught two of the local broadcasts," Aidan offered. "Both Channel Four and Seven said they were withholding the names of the victims until their families were notified."
"I saw Channel Nine news," Westphalen added. "Same thing."
"And the fire started after press time for all the papers," she said.
Reed followed her train of thought. "So, we may be able to assume that Bixby and his friends haven't heard about the murder yet, unless they're somehow involved."
She nodded, brows lifted. "I think we'll go back to Hope Center this morning. I want to see if the Axis of Evil can look us in the eye."
Reed's lips curved. "The Axis of Evil? Bixby, Thompson, and Secrest. It works."
She smiled back, then her month was grim again. "And I want to tell Manny that Brooke is dead. Maybe that'll unsettle him enough to tell us what he's hiding."
"Wait until I've talked with him," Westphalen requested. "I'm afraid if you push him any harder, he'll break and we won't get anything from him. I'll be done by lunchtime."
"All right. But no later. I don't want him having time to get his story right."
"What about Adler's apartment?" Murphy asked. "Any cameras?"
"No," Reed said. "This was a no-frills place and what they had wasn't maintained properly. A couple of the units didn't even have working smoke detectors. We're going to have to question all the residents the old-fashioned way to see if anybody saw him."
"Murphy and Aidan, you get the statements," Spinnelli said. "Anything else?" he asked as everyone stood up. "Then let's meet back here at five. I want a suspect with a name. Mia."
She sighed. "One can hope."
Thursday, November 30, 8:15 a.m.
He had to squint as he scanned the headlines. He was tired. He'd debated calling in sick, but that would have looked somewhat suspicious. Under the circumstances.
But what circumstances they'd been. He'd been on a roll last night. Four. Zapped. Gone. That had to be a record. It was for him anyway. My personal best. He chuckled and flipped to the next page of the Bulletin. They seemed to be the fastest with new stories, so he'd started with their paper. But there wasn't anything new about him on page one. Just recycled hash from the press conference the day before. He sat a little straighter. He'd rated a press conference. Cool.
He scanned the other news. And stopped at the bottom of page three when he saw two familiar names. Joanna Carmichael and none other than Detective Mia Mitchell.
Apparently Mitchell had been shot at on Tuesday night. A gunman had fired shots in her neighborhood, at 1342 Sedgewick. Well, that was something you didn't see every day. A cop's address printed in the paper. That had to be fate or karma or something. He was becoming a firm believer in fate. Apparently this gunman had some kind of grudge against the good detective, related to another shooting almost three weeks ago. Apparently the gunman was a piss-poor shot and ran away.
He tore the article and meticulously trimmed the edges. Mitchell was a busy lady. Lots of enemies. She'd come too close yesterday. With Brooke Adler dead, she'd have every reason to come closer. If she got shot, they'd just put on more cops. But they'd be looking for this guy. He ran his finger under the name of the gunman. Melvin Getts. If Mitchell happened to die, they'd look even harder for the poor bastard.
It would be distraction and that's all he really needed now. Just a little distraction to buy a little time.
He shoved the article in his book, along with the others. He could sleep when it was over. Now, he had a loose end to tie up, then a sad face to put on. Poor Brooke was dead. He'd be devastated. And quick to offer his personal assistance to the cops.
It was the least he could do.
Thursday, November 30, 8:35 a.m.
A giant yawn nearly split Mia's head in two. "I'm tired."
"Me, too." Solliday was typing at his computer with a slow methodical rhythm.
He looked crisp and professional and not tired in the least and for a second she allowed herself the luxury of remembering what he'd looked like sprawled in her bed after the third bout of the best sex she'd ever had. "What are you doing?"