Cold Spite (Cold Justice: Most Wanted #5)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

T he wail of sirens lit up the night. Nothing unusual there, but they snagged her awareness as she ran closer to home. She passed the elementary school before she realized fire trucks were pulled up in her complex. Flames visible over the roofs of the buildings.

Her heart pounded.

She pushed through the crowd, chest heaving as she caught her breath. Aghast, she stared as fire crews rolled out hoses toward her section of the condos. She turned the corner and horror rushed through her as she realized it was her unit and the one below it that was on fire. That lower unit had been empty for the last couple of weeks.

“Valerie!” she shouted and looked around, frantically searching for her friend. She couldn’t see her.

What the heck had happened?

Flames were visible through her living room windows and licked the roof tiles. She pushed to the front of the crowd and headed toward one of the firefighters.

“There’s someone inside!” she yelled.

His expression darkened. “You’re sure?”

She hesitated. “Not a hundred percent, but she was home when I left for a run thirty minutes ago.” She swung around. “Maybe she got out?”

Of course she got out. It was a short walk to the front door. Unless the floor collapsed, or she’d been overcome by fumes…

Glass shattered in a small explosion, showering her Bucar with lethal shards.

Her hand went to her mouth.

“You need to step back.” The firefighter’s blue eyes met hers, sympathetic, but also determined. “I’ll let the chief know the owner is possibly inside.”

She opened her mouth to correct the record, but he’d already moved away. She could mention she was FBI, but it wouldn’t make much difference right now. Her badge wasn’t going to put out that fire.

She clenched her jaw and squeezed her hands into tight fists. What had happened in the short time she’d been gone? An electrical fault? Someone squatting in the ground floor apartment with a lit candle or unattended stove?

Her home was gone, but she refused to think about it. Possessions, even precious ones, were nothing compared to people’s lives.

Her eyes smarted. Surely Valerie would have gotten out when the smoke alarms went off? Delilah replaced the batteries religiously every year.

Perhaps Valerie was in her car…

Delilah hurried back through the throng of onlookers. Valerie’s old, battered Sebring convertible sat in her other assigned parking space.

Delilah tried the handle, unsurprised when it opened. Valerie rarely bothered to lock anything.

It was empty.

Delilah leaned against the side for a moment, trying to calm her panic, to think.

She used her work cell to call Valerie’s phone. No reply.

Trepidation crawled up her spine and made her lips feel numb. Sweat cooled on her skin and she started to shiver. There was a blanket on the back seat, and she dragged it out and huddled beneath it.

A terrible reality hit.

What if Valerie was still inside her apartment?

She closed her eyes for another minute, fighting not to break down. The scent of smoke coated the back of her throat and made her want to gag. Finally, she put the blanket back in the car and forced herself to head to her condo again. Careful not to trip over fire hoses and equipment, she arrived on the edge of the crowd. The fire looked under control now. She caught the eye of the firefighter she’d spoken to earlier and stepped to one side to talk to him.

“Do you know anything?” Her voice was rough with smoke and emotion.

“We haven’t been able to enter yet but…” His voice trailed off filled with obvious compassion.

“What?”

“One of the guys on the ladder spotted someone on the chair inside. Looked like a female, but she wasn’t moving. Then the beam collapsed.”

Gore rose up in her throat as anguish assailed her. She covered her mouth with her right hand. Tears flooded her eyes.

“We’re going to need a statement from you.”

She nodded and her knees wobbled.

His hand gripped her arm and kept her upright. His eyes were kind. “Take your time. We’re probably going to be here for hours yet, but we need to talk to you. Any idea how this started?”

She shook her head. She could barely see through the sudden onslaught of tears. She backed away. “I need to grab some water. I’ll be back.”

She hurried to her SUV parked along the street. She felt grimy and cold. Disoriented and numb. The world had shifted ninety degrees off-kilter. Her stomach threatened to rebel. She needed to find her center before she could talk to anyone. She needed to change clothes and get her shit together.

She climbed inside. Slumped as all energy left her. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Tears ran down her face and dripped off her chin and down her neck. Snot clogged her nose and throat.

She needed to report the damage of her Bucar and tell her boss about the incident. But there was no point disturbing them until she had a few more facts.

Valerie’s mom…

Oh, God .

Should she call her?

What if the victim by some miracle wasn’t Valerie? What if the firefighter was mistaken and had just seen the cap and a sweatshirt? For the second time in her neat, orderly little life she didn’t know what to do.

Last time, she’d called Valerie.

A sob ripped out of her throat, and she covered her mouth again as if trying to shove it back inside.

She knew she had to make a statement, but she desperately needed to talk to someone first. It wasn’t like she was going to disappear.

She needed a friend. She texted David.

I’m coming over.

He didn’t reply, but he’d know something major was up for her to invite herself over like this. Hopefully, he didn’t have company.

David lived in a gorgeous five-bedroom house on a quiet cul-de-sac less than a five-minute drive from her own home. He had an outdoor barbecue, a kidney-shaped pool, and a hot tub complete with pool house. You could see the ocean from the balcony off the master bedroom—or so he’d told her. He’d bought it with money inherited from his grandmother, and she hoped he wouldn’t mind putting her up for the night until she could figure out her next move with the insurers.

She pulled onto the driveway, parking in front of the three-car garage beside his Bucar. Her legs shook as she climbed out of her SUV. Even here streaks of gray were visible against the night sky. The smell of smoke tainted the air. She checked her cell. David still hadn’t replied.

Maybe he was in the pool. Or out?

It felt presumptuous to grab her go-bag, so she left it in the trunk.

She went to the front door and rang the bell, noticed that the door wasn’t latched properly. She pushed and it swung open. Unlike Valerie, this wasn’t like the careful, competent agent she knew.

Even the thought of Valerie made tears flood her eyes.

“David?”

Her voice echoed disconcertingly off the Italian marble floors.

He could be in the pool. He could have a guest who had perhaps failed to shut the door properly. The beat of her pain-filled heart ratcheted up a notch.

Something didn’t feel right.

She drew her backup Glock from the holster. Her service weapon was in her burned-out shell of a home along with her best friend from college.

The lump of grief wedged in her throat was so big it threatened to suffocate her.

“David?” she croaked.

She crept into the foyer, listening to the sixth sense that told her something was wrong.

She eased through the hallway and headed left toward the living room where David liked to relax and eat dinner in front of whatever sport was playing on TV.

A hockey game was muted on the screen, but David wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She went to the kitchen. A pint glass like the ones she’d had in her home sat beside the sink. A wineglass beside it. She glanced out of the window at the incredible backyard that was lit with pool lights.

The feeling of unease increased. Where was he?

She walked over to the French doors, and her eyes widened in shock.

David lay face down, unmoving on the flagstones. She ran outside to his unmoving form. A pool of blood soaked the slabs beneath his head. She didn’t want to move him, so she slipped her fingers into the collar of his shirt and searched for a pulse in his neck. His skin was warm but there was no pulse beneath his skin. No breath being drawn in and out of his lungs.

He was dead.

He’d been dead for a while.

It didn’t make sense.

Another wave of grief slammed into her.

She sat back on her heels as her brain tried to compute the events of the evening. What on earth was going on?

Was this an attack on the FBI? Did she need to warn her fellow agents? She fumbled for her phone then spotted a Glock lying on the pool deck.

David’s service weapon?

She went over and squatted beside it.

A Glock 23.

She frowned.

David carried a Glock 22 as his service weapon.

She noticed a familiar scratch on the barrel. Her blood stalled inside her veins, and the world started to spin.

That was her service weapon.

She placed her hands on the ground to combat the dizziness.

Absolutely nothing made sense.

Until it did.

Cold washed over her.

She stared at poor, beautiful David whose life had been stolen from him. Her friend. Her colleague.

Someone had used her service weapon—a weapon that had been in her home when she’d left for her run—to murder her colleague and then left it here for the authorities to find. Presumably, that same someone had also set fire to her apartment? Had they murdered Valerie thinking she was Delilah? She flashed back to her friend wearing her FBI ball cap. They had similar hair and features and were enough of a similar size to raid each other’s closets. Her living room had been in darkness except for the TV.

Her stomach churned, but she dared not puke.

Oh, God.

Had someone—Joseph Scanlon immediately sprang to mind—created some sort of murder-suicide scenario in an attempt to get away with killing her? Disgracing her—the way he’d disgraced himself and his uniform?

Assuming the killer had come straight here from her place after killing Valerie and setting the fire, it would be difficult for a Medical Examiner to distinguish whether Valerie or David had died first.

Bile rose up her throat at the thought of these two beautiful souls being murdered. No way this was a coincidence—not when she tied them together so neatly. She forced the nausea away and breathed deeply.

The terrible beauty of this plan was that once authorities figured out the body at her place was Valerie and not Delilah, investigators would likely believe she was involved with a double homicide.

Had she seen anyone who could alibi her in the last few hours? The firefighter? Maybe she’d luck out and be spotted running on someone’s doorbell camera. Unfortunately, nothing said she couldn’t have murdered Valerie before setting the fire and going for a run, then come over here to shoot David dead.

She’d even texted him her intention for goodness’ sake.

Scanlon.

It had to be Scanlon.

No one else she’d put away would be this coldly vindictive. Or this dangerous .

The question was, what did she do about it?

Did she go to Ridgeway?

He was strictly by the book and would suspend her from duty until an investigation was completed, which would take months if not years. And it wouldn’t take Scanlon long to discover she wasn’t really dead, which would put a giant bullseye on her back.

She had no doubt he had an alibi all lined up for tonight.

She glanced at the gun. Scanlon wouldn’t be sloppy enough to leave his own DNA or prints on the weapon. And, despite what they showed on TV, the chance of the lab being able to match what was left of the slug that had killed David back to her gun with any degree of certainty, was remote at best.

David deserved justice.

So did Valerie.

Delilah made a decision, one that would probably cost her her career. But no way would she leave the incriminating evidence behind and make herself the target of an investigation that would sideline her indefinitely when she knew she was innocent. She ran into the kitchen and used a dish cloth to open the drawer where she knew David kept his freezer bags. Pulled out two and hip-checked the drawer closed again. She froze as she noticed the dirty glass beside the sink again. It had an eagle carrying a barrel—from her favorite brewery.

It was hers.

She knew it was hers.

The son of a bitch had taken the used glass from her apartment after murdering her best friend, presumably mistaking Valerie for Delilah.

She put the glass in the sink and ran the water until it became hot. Used the dish towel to grab the detergent and squirted a big dollop of soap inside the glass. She washed it thoroughly then rinsed it inside and out with the searingly hot water.

That should get rid of any trace of her DNA and prints.

She left the glass in the sink.

Next, she went back outside to David. Wished she could go back in time and save him. But wishes were pointless and did neither of them any good.

The most effective way to hunt Scanlon would be to pretend she was dead. She’d make some calls as soon as she got somewhere safe.

She had connections.

They’d help her.

She scooped up her service weapon using the large Ziplock bag. She checked the chamber and the magazine. Looked like one bullet had been fired. One was enough when it hit the right place.

Presumably, the killer had used a suppressor and had taken that with him. How had he murdered Val?

She flinched away from even thinking about it.

Hopefully, Val had died quickly. Scanlon was a former sniper and Navy SEAL. He knew a thousand ways to kill someone.

She crouched and looked around for the bullet casing.

Didn’t see it.

Where would Scanlon have shot from?

She glanced at the house.

The shadows—where else?

She scooted toward the side of the house and, after a brief search, spotted the gleam of brass along the narrow pathway that edged the south side of the building.

She put the bagged weapon and the bullet casing into her large inside jacket pocket and then retraced her steps, wiping down anything she might have touched.

On a small, recessed, kitchen counter that David used to stash his mail, she spotted his old cell phone and forty dollars in cash. He’d dropped the cell a couple of weeks ago, and the screen had cracked, but she knew it still worked because she’d teased him about his need to have the best of everything.

The lump in her throat kept growing.

Why shouldn’t he have the best?

He deserved it.

A tear dripped down her face, and she wiped her cheek impatiently on her arm. She took the money with the vow to pay it back, then slipped the cell into her pocket along with a charger. Then she powered down her work cell and popped the SIM card. Slid the phone into her pocket and the SIM into her wallet beside the hundred and forty dollars, which was all she had on her person.

Then she went back to her car, keeping her head down as she climbed inside, killing the dome light.

There was no reason now for the FBI to be chasing her in response to David’s murder—unless she’d missed something else Scanlon had planted, but she doubted it. A murder weapon and a used glass were more than enough physical evidence to tie her to the crime scene—especially combined with the fire at her place.

Her fingers gripped the steering wheel as she tried not to panic. Maybe she was acting crazy. Maybe talking to Ridgeway was the most sensible move?

She realized she was physically shaking. If she went to Ridgeway, she’d be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life even if he believed her. The former Navy SEAL was a talented marksman, and there were a million ways he could get to her without her even spotting him.

She refused to live like that.

There was no proof it even was Scanlon, not yet anyway.

She wouldn’t let him get away with what he’d done. Even if it cost her the only job she’d ever wanted, she wouldn’t let the killer walk calmly away and not face the consequences.

She drew in a deep breath. David would have applauded this plan. She knew he would.

Another tear tracked down her left cheek. She scrubbed it away.

It would be a couple of days before Valerie’s body was formally identified, which gave Delilah time to make a solid game plan.

Grief hit her all over again that these two brilliant, vibrant human beings had been murdered. The fact it had been because of their association with her made the guilt pile high, but also increased her determination to find their killer while she held the upper hand. It wouldn’t last for long.

She forced herself to move. To reverse her SUV and drive calmly away even though it went against everything she’d been trained for, everything she believed in.

It felt like a disservice to Valerie and to the friends, colleagues, and family members who would mourn both Delilah Quinn and David Gonzales. But by going off the grid, she could track down Scanlon before he realized anyone was onto him. Find their killer. And then she’d take great pleasure in taking him down and putting him away. Again.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t do it alone, and she was going to have to ask for help from the one man she’d hoped never to talk to again. Her personal feelings had nothing to do with this anymore. He needed to know about the danger. And he had resources she wanted access to.

Plus, he owed her, even if he would never fully understand the depth of how much he’d hurt her. He owed her.

He might be a rat bastard, but he was an honorable rat bastard.