Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(5)

She hadn’t lied to him before. He didn’t know her. Which had been his first, and would now be his last, mistake.

Behind her, the garage door began its shaky ascent. Him dragging out the suspense as he slowly heaved it open.

No more time to wait. No more time to plan. She gripped the packet between her palms, then grabbed the nearly empty jug of antifreeze. Moving swiftly across the cracked concrete floor until she stood beneath the row of eyebrow windows. The weak light streaming above her, bathing the middle of the space in a dim glow while keeping her in shadow.

Garage door. Quarter of the way open. Now a third. A half.

She released her grip on the packet. Grabbed the antifreeze jug first, pinning it between her feet, then used both hands to press down the child-safety lid and twist. The plastic cap clattered to the floor, but the rattle of the heaving metal door covered the sound.

Two-thirds of the way open. Now three-quarters. Enough for a grown man to walk through.

She placed the antifreeze to the side. Forced herself to take the time to shake the packet, settling the crystals to the bottom. Couldn’t afford to waste any if this was to work.

He stepped into the space.

The bartender with the amazing pecs. Shirt already off. Muscles rippling in the moonlight. A beautiful physical specimen.

She should feel guilty for what she was going to do next.

But she didn’t.

She stepped forward into the dim stream of light. Her nakedness clearly exposed. Her wrists clearly bound.

He smiled, right hand already moving to the waistband of his jeans.

“You don’t know who I am,” she said clearly.

He paused, regarded her quizzically, as if she’d challenged him with complicated math.

Then . . . the bartender moved toward her.

She ripped open the plastic packet, took three quick steps forward, and tossed the contents into his face.

He reared back, coughing and blinking as the flower food hit his eyes, nose, mouth.

“What the . . .”

She grabbed the open jug of antifreeze, swirled it three times, and then . . .

A suspended heartbeat of time. He looked at her. Stared hard. And in that instant they finally saw each other. Not a ripped bartender. Not a stupid blonde. But dark heart to lost soul.

She sprayed the antifreeze straight into his face. Splashed it onto his exposed skin and the granules of potassium permanganate still clinging there.

One more heartbeat of time. Then . . .

The first tendrils of smoke. From his hair. His cheeks. His eyelashes. The man lifted his hands to his face.

Then basic chemistry took over, and the bartender’s skin burst into flame.

He screamed. He ran. He beat at his own head as if it would make a difference. He did everything but stop, drop, and roll, panic having its way.

She stood there. Not moving a muscle. Not saying a word. She watched until at last he collapsed into a pile of smoking ruin. Other sounds penetrated then. Neighbors calling out into the dark, demanding to know what was going on. The distant sounds of sirens, as apparently one of the smarter ones had already called 911.

The woman finally stepped forward. She peered down at her attacker’s remains, watched the smoky tendrils drift from his now blackened skin.

Friday night, she thought. She’d earned this.





Chapter 3


WHO IS SHE?”

“Don’t know. Neighbor over there, Kyle Petrakis, claims he found her standing over the body. Stripped naked, hands tied, face bashed.”

“She did all this with her hands tied?” Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren knelt down, studied the charred remains of their . . . victim? Perpetrator? Body was curled in a near fetal position, hands clenched over the young male’s face. A protective gesture, which, judging by the burn patterns across his head, shoulders, and face, had been too little, too late.

“Chemical fire,” the third detective spoke up. “Combine potassium permanganate with antifreeze and poof.”

D.D. ignored the third detective, glancing up at Phil instead. “So what do we know?”

“House belongs to Allen and Joyce Goulding,” her former squad mate rattled off. “Older couple, currently waiting out the winter chill in Florida. They left behind, however, their youngest son, twenty-eight-year-old Devon Goulding, who trains as a bodybuilder by day, works as a bartender by night.”

“This is Devon?” D.D. asked, gesturing to the body.

“Umm, gonna have to wait on the fingerprints for that one.”

D.D. grimaced, made the mistake of breathing through her nose, grimaced harder. “Where’s our victim turned vixen now?”

“Back of a squad car. Refused medical attention. Waiting on the feds, whom she called directly.”

“The feds?” D.D. rose to standing, voice curt. “What do you mean she personally invited the feds to our party? Who the hell is this girl?”

Detective number three did the honors: “She called the Boston field office and requested Dr. Samuel Keynes. Dialed the number off the top of her head, I might add. Would you still call it a party?” the newest member of Boston homicide asked conversationally. “Or is it more like a barbecue?”

D.D. walked away. Turned on her heel, left the body, exited the garage. In her new and improved supervisory role she could get away with such things. Or maybe it was due to her current classification as restricted duty.