The Detective(19)

I nodded toward the house. “Do you know if anyone was at home?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. The doctor and his wife split up a few months ago, but his kids still live here. They’re in school.”

I pulled a pen and a mini notebook out of my jacket pocket. “How old are the kids? Do you know?”

“High school age,” she answered. “Anthony and Carissa, a boy and a girl.”

“The men entering the house, can you tell me anything about them?” I held my pen angled, ready to take notes.

“One of them was tall and thin, the other was short and a little plump. They were white, but I could only tell by their hands. They were wearing dark ski masks.”

“Did you see how they got here?” I looked around. “Was there a car, or were they on foot?”

She shrugged her tiny shoulders. “I’m not sure. I didn’t see a car, but there was a lot going on.”

A blue sports car rolled to a stop in the middle of the street and a teenage boy—black, short hair, six feet—stepped out of the driver’s side. The fear in his eyes told me exactly who he was. “Anthony Withers?” I took a step toward him.

His gaping mouth didn’t respond, but he nodded slightly.

“Anthony, look at me,” I said.

He blinked and we made eye contact. “Th… that’s my house.”

I gripped him by the arms to hold his attention on me. “Anthony, do you know if anyone was at home?”

“Uh…” He looked around. “My sister, Carissa, was supposed to come home after school.” His eyes were becoming frantic as he searched the crowd. “Where is she?”

I got in his face again. “Anthony, I need you to stay here. I’m going to go and find her.” I grabbed the other deputy by the jacket and looked at him seriously. “Keep an eye on him,” I said, shoving him toward the frightened kid.

I took off in a jog across the lawn toward the burning home. Two firefighters were carrying the hose toward the front door. “Hey, there might be a girl in the house. A teenager!” I shouted over the commotion.

“They’re clearing the house now!” one of them replied, not pausing to look at me.

Another firefighter was up on a ladder to the second floor, using an axe to bust out another window. I was watching him rip the glass out of the frame when someone shouted my name from the front door. A large firefighter dressed in full gear was waving his arms. I ducked through the people coming and going from the front entrance.

“Nathan, it’s Rob Burgess!” the man shouted, lowering his mask so I could see his face. Rob was a captain at the fire department. It wasn’t the first time we’d been at the same crime scene.

I shook his hand. “How’s it going in there, Rob?”

“I’m afraid we have a fatality.”

A boulder, the size of Saturn, dropped into my stomach.

“Looks like the fire was started to cover up a homicide,” he continued. “She’s burned pretty bad, but she’s got an obvious gunshot wound to the head.”

I thought I might vomit.

“How soon can I get in there?” I asked.

He nodded back inside. “The fire is pretty well contained to the second floor and we’ve almost got it under control. I’ll keep you posted.”

He disappeared back into the house, and I turned back toward the lawn with my radio out ready to call in a homicide. Across the yard, the deputy was still having to restrain Anthony Withers.

His sister was dead and scorched inside the house behind me.

I thought of my little sister, Ashley. Then I turned and puked on the rose bushes.





EIGHT





CARISSA ANGELIQUE WITHERS had been shot in the head at point blank range in the doorway of her bedroom. She was fifteen. Laying next to her charred frame was a ten thousand dollar murder weapon: a hand-engraved, 1853 Remington revolver.

I’d lost four pounds by Thursday because I couldn’t eat. Or sleep.

A few things became clear to me after we’d collected all the evidence from the house fire. These weren’t seasoned criminals as I had originally thought. No criminal would carry an antique handgun that hadn’t been fired in a century to a robbery. They were lucky it hadn’t blown up in their hand. My theory was the gun was taken as a nifty trinket from the safe in the Carreras’ home, and it was carried by an amateur, albeit brilliant, thief to the next target. They hadn’t expected Carissa to be at home during the time of the robbery, and she was shot by a remorseful shooter because she surprised them. The handgun—complete with a set of at least partial fingerprints—had been discarded and set on fire to cover up the accident because they didn’t know what else to do.