Page 14 of Over the Flames

Two medicolegal investigators from the examiner’s office cut the zip ties around Phil Anderson’s wrists and ankles and attempted to lift him from the chair, but the fire had burned too hot. Hot enough to fuse the steel to the remains. Nausea churned in his gut as chunks of the victim crumbled under the investigators’ touch, and he turned toward Arden as she stared out toward the front of the house, away from the scene.

The setting sun dipped below the churning clouds overhead and highlighted the flawlessness of her face and neck, a perfect distraction from the horrors that would haunt his sleep until this case was closed. “Phil Anderson was killed before Baldwin and Jacqueline. Unless there are more victims out there, that would make him the killer’s first.” Lack of variance in her voice told him she was trying to distract herself from the scene they’d uncovered as much as he was. From finding Phil Anderson killed in the same manner as her friend and mentor or for the simple, gruesome act of violence, he didn’t know. She’d wrapped her arms around herself again, a useless protection against the oncoming danger. “A serial’s first victim is special in a case like this, isn’t it? Something about Phil Anderson or his work could’ve caused the killer to snap.”

Serial. Three victims spanning two months, same MO. Gasoline and fire.

“There are other variables that could’ve made this victim the killer’s first target.” Lawson stared down at the notebook in his hand, fighting the urge to ease the obvious tremors wracking through her. Temperatures had dropped, but his gut said Arden was doing everything in her power to keep herself from falling apart in the middle of a crime scene. For an investigative journalist, a civilian, she’d impressed the hell out of him, but there was only so much of his job a caring, creative, and warm woman he knew she was deep inside could handle before the cracks started to show. “He could’ve lived closest to the killer’s hunting grounds or been the easiest to get to considering nobody—not even his wife—seemed to have contact with him. He hadn’t been reported missing by anybody these past two months. The killer could’ve known that and taken advantage in order to bide their time before the next murder.”

“Jacqueline Day was discovered burning in her car after the National Newspaper Awards had ended,” Arden said. “And I found Baldwin… I found him minutes after he’d been killed. Do you think that has any significance?”

“I’m not sure yet.” A crime scene unit technician descended the steps on the back porch with the presumed murder weapon already bagged and tagged for collection. The award engraved with Phil Anderson’s name in gold. Arden had been right before. From what they’d learned of their killer thus far, which wasn’t much, every kill had been premeditated. Whoever murdered Phil Anderson would’ve brought their own weapon to get the job done and taken it with them when they were finished disposing of the body, but the scene in the living room suggested something had gone wrong, that there’d been a struggle. Lawson headed toward the house. CSU would do a sweep of the entire property, but there had to be something he and Arden had missed during their first search. “It’s possible the killer realized his first kill hadn’t gotten the fanfare it deserved and learned from his mistake when he went after Jacqueline Day. Maybe after he locked his victim’s body in the shed, he started choosing the kind of prey that would be missed, the kind that would make headlines.”

Arden followed him back into the house, her body heat tunneling through his coat and into his core. The brush of her arm against his reminded him there was another side to this investigation, that there was more to his work than the narrowed focus on the dead, and her proximity injected a shot of heat into his system. The hollowness in his chest flexed with the onslaught, but Lawson knew better than to trust his biological instincts when it came to Arden. “Phil Anderson worked for a smaller paper, barely fifty-thousand subscriptions. Jacqueline Day wrote for The Seattle Post, which reported a hundred thousand subscriptions last year, and Baldwin…” The hesitation in her voice pulled his attention from the blood spatter on the wall. “Baldwin wrote for the largest newspaper in the state.”

“It’s a pattern.” One they hadn’t seen until now. King County Sheriff’s Department had managed to keep the fact Jacqueline Day and Baldwin Webb were murdered out of the headlines, but that wouldn’t last long. Not after the medical examiner got a positive ID from Phil Anderson’s remains. “It’s possible that’s what the killer is after. The attention. He wants the public to know he’s behind the murders.”

“Then why doesn’t the shed show any signs of fire damage?” She nodded toward the CSU technician studying the scratches on the back door deadbolt. “If Phil Anderson had been killed in this living room then dragged to the shed and set on fire, we’d see the evidence, but someone tried to hide him instead. If it’s publicity the killer wants, why hide the victim in the shed?”

“That’s a good question. The basement doesn’t have signs of fire either, which means he wasn’t burned here.” Another shot of surprise lightninged through him as he considered Arden. He’d known she’d moved into investigative journalism for a source of income after the divorce, but he hadn’t realized she’d gotten so damn good at it. Because, shit, she was right. The killer wouldn’t have moved the body if they’d wanted the world to know what he’d done. Someone else had, and he hadn’t seen it. “We need to find the location Phil Anderson was burned.”

“There’s an open field behind the back fence. I saw part of it when I was searching along the side of the house. Phil Anderson’s nearest neighbor is a quarter mile to the west. The killer could’ve burned the victim’s body out there and gotten away without ever being seen.” Once again, she headed for the back door, careful of her steps as she maneuvered around the technician dusting for fingerprints on the edge of the frame. She pointed over the fence from the top step of the stairs leading down into the back yard. “I think the killer dragged Phil Anderson out there.”

Open field spread for nearly eight acres in each direction from behind the victim’s property. Descending the stairs, he followed close on Arden’s heels through thick grass and even longer weeds. Stained sections of old wood made up the long stretch of fence from one end of the yard to the other. “No sign of a gate. The killer would’ve had to have lifted the victim over the fence in order to get him in and out. That’s a lot of heavy lifting to get a body over the fence then bring him back after he’s been set on fire.”

Arden trailed long fingers across the slats as she moved along the fence. She stopped, pressing her face against the opening between two pieces of wood. She held out her hand. “Give me your knife.”

Lawson unpocketed the switch blade she’d gifted him for Christmas the first year they’d been married and handed it over. He’d already been with the bureau for a half a decade by then, but his safety had been her main concern. Agents weren’t usually allowed to carry personal weapons in the field, but he’d kept it hidden well, to have a piece of her with him when he faced the worst kinds of evil on the job. “How did you know I haven’t gotten rid of it?”

“For the same reason I still have the tactical baton you gave me for our anniversary.” She flicked the blade open and inserted it between the slats. Lean muscle flexed beneath her jacket with a couple tugs upward, and something on the other side clicked. A section of fence peeled away from the rest and swung open. Turning her proud, bright gaze to him, she handed back the knife. “I filed for divorce, Lawson, but that didn’t mean I stopped loving you. You were all I had after Rey died, and I think there’s a part of you that still loves me.”

Rey. He tried to swallow past the tightness in his throat as Arden disappeared through the hidden opening she’d discovered. She’d said their daughter’s name out loud, and the black hole in the center of his chest shrank a bit. She’d admitted a part of her still loved him, as a piece of him still loved her. He didn’t know what to do with that, if there was anything to do about it, but the weight he’d shouldered all these years seemed to lighten slightly. She hadn’t just been a woman in his life. She’d been the woman, but the fact she’d run from their marriage instead of facing the challenge together cut through him. Lawson stepped through the gate and took in the expanse of several acres of bare land.

The storm had gotten rid of any footprints the killer or the victim had left behind, leaving only thick mud. It climbed up the side of his shoes and caked to the hem of his slacks as they searched the area in silence. Until he caught sight of a patch of blackened weeds. He crouched beside the unnatural circle of burned wildflowers. This was where the killer had set his victim on fire. “Over here.”

Mud suctioned the bottoms of her boots as she closed in on him. Another gust of wind threw her long hair out behind her and beat against her face as she studied the surrounding area. “These are the only wildflowers that are charred. This must’ve been where the killer burned the body.”

“Still doesn’t explain how Phil Anderson got in that shed. The scene is at least two months old. Any number of storms coming through here would’ve washed away evidence the killer left behind or any footprints that might’ve been here.” Lawson straightened. It wasn’t much, but it was progress. “Arden, listen. I’m—”

His phone vibrated from his pocket. He drove his hand into his slacks to retrieve it and read the caller ID. Sheriff Sanders. Answering, he turned his attention back to the house and spotted the sheriff’s SUV along the curb. “What do you have?”

“Rose Hindley’s nanny corroborated her alibi for yesterday morning. She wasn’t on duty at the time Baldwin Webb was killed, which, according to her, meant Rose Hindley herself would’ve had to watch her son during that time. I confirmed the nanny’s work schedule through the agency, but that doesn’t mean Hindley didn’t have another babysitter on staff to take up the job.” Static punctured through Sheriff Sanders’s side of the line. She must’ve headed down into Phil Anderson’s basement. “The plagiarism accusation against Baldwin Webb was enough for a judge to grant a warrant for us to take a look at Rose Hindley’s financials, but so far we’re not seeing any evidence she had another nanny in the home or that she hired anyone to kill Baldwin Webb for her.”

“Keep me updated if you find something that doesn’t fit. Because so far, the plagiarism accusation is all we have to go off of, but that doesn’t explain why Jacqueline Day or Phil Anderson were targeted by our killer.” Lawson watched the controlled chaos of the CSU team processing the scene in the shed. “According to Dr. Moss’s timeline, Phil Anderson was the first victim. Killer got the drop on him in the living room then dragged him out here behind the property fence and set him on fire.” He lowered his gaze to the perfect circle of ash and charred vegetation. “I found the burn site.”

Arden shifted her weight between both feet, arms crossed over her chest as big, round drops of rain started pelting the ground.

“I’ll get a couple technicians to meet you out there to photograph and collect any evidence we might be able to salvage,” the sheriff said. “Then I need you to meet me in the basement.”

His nerve endings prickled. He hit the speaker button and settled the phone between them. Arden’s gaze lifted to his, and she stepped closer. She’d become as much part of this investigation as he had. Anything the sheriff had to share with him, he’d share with her. “You found something.”

“I have copies of an article Phil Anderson was obviously working on. Drafts from the looks of it. It’s typed with handwritten notes and changes in the margins.” The sounds of rustling paper were ripped away by the howl of wind in Lawson’s ears. Rain peppered his phone’s screen and warped the timer under Sheriff Sanders’s name. “Only thing is, there are three different sets of handwriting on these pages. He wasn’t working alone.”

Chapter Thirteen

“You believe Phil Anderson was working on a story despite the fact his editor told you he’d given up publishing?” Lawson strode across the basement as though he owed the scene.

“Looks that way,” Sheriff Sanders said.

Arden’s boots reverberated off the unfinished stairs as they descended into the basement. A combination of humidity and staleness closed in as confusion warped and contorted inside her. The sole of Arden’s boot skidded across a loose piece of cement from a long crack in the settled floor. “What’s the story?”

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