Been there, not doing it again. No matter how sexy the package.
“Then I guess you have yourself a partner.” Her smile was a little mean, and she knew it. “We will bring the guy down.”
• • •
Some habits were hard to break.
He watched the man stumble down the street. The guy flashed cash at some punk kid and got a small bag in exchange.
The kid vanished. His prey didn’t.
He’d started to think about the man last night. Wonder about him. The guy had been pulled from the second story of that hell on LeRoy.
How long had he been up there? What all had he seen? Heard?
The flickers of fear had come then, and he wasn’t one given to fear.
Larry Powell. Finding out the guy’s name had taken two minutes. Picking apart the guy’s life—five.
Larry had made him change his plans. He wouldn’t have chosen tonight for the flames, but he couldn’t afford to wait. Not with Larry talking to the cops and that ass**le agent.
No time to waste.
Larry scurried down the street, slinking and hiding like a rat in the dark.
This rat wasn’t gettin’ away. Not this time.
The fingers of his right hand rolled the match he carried.
“I read the case files.” Kenton leaned back and heard the vinyl booth cushion groan as he motioned for the waitress. “Different accelerants were used in all the crimes, different points of origin for the fires—hell, even different structures.” The woman might not believe it, but he actually did his homework.
On all of his cases.
Because Kenton took one thing in this world very seriously, and that was his job with the Serial Services Division. When his boss, Keith Hyde, told him to jump, well, he touched the freaking sky. So when Keith had given him a stack of files and told him to hit the road—he’d hit it.
“What can I get you?” the waitress asked, offering a broad smile.
He pointed to Lora’s disappearing beer. “Same thing. Thanks.” Kenton waited for the woman to ease away, then he leaned in toward Lora. “Arsonists are like serial killers—”
“Uh, come again?”
“They like patterns.” So he’d been told by Monica Davenport, the SSD’s profiler extraordinaire. “They set their fires in a certain way, follow a kind of ceremony with them. This guy…” His fingers tapped on the tabletop. “He’s all over the place. There is no pattern.” If they were even looking at the same guy.
“The victims are the pattern.” Her voice came, slow, certain, and with a smoky, husky edge that ran right over his flesh.
Focus.
But focus wasn’t that easy when she sat there, wearing a too-tight black tank top—really great br**sts—and probably those hip-hugging jeans she’d had on at the morgue.
And yeah, the woman had one fine body. Long, lean, but curvy in just the right places. Curvy in perfect places.
Kenton cleared his throat and realized that by bringing her on as his partner of sorts, he’d set himself up for some suffering and long nights. “What about the vics? They were all different: a woman, an older guy, a firefighter—”
He caught the slight wince on the last one. Of course, she would have known the guy. Probably worked with him. “Ah, Lora, sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It doesn’t matter that the vics were different.” She shoved the beer away and tried to scoot away from him, too. Tried but failed. There wasn’t much room in the booth, and with that music blaring, he had to stay close to hear her. “That’s what Seth said. He thought the arsonist wasn’t the same at first because of every reason you’ve just given.”
Ah, that’d be Seth MacIntyre, the lead county arson investigator. The guy was already on Kenton’s list of folks to contact ASAP.
“I was there,” she said, “I saw what he did. And I know we’re looking at the same guy.”
He stared down at her bent head. “Just what did he do?”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “He trapped them, and then he let the fire kill them.”
Another run-down building. Another drug hole for his prey to hide inside.
But this time, he’d be careful. He’d do a sweep of the building and make absolutely sure no one else was lurking around.
He pulled his ball cap low and tucked his match behind his left ear. He had some gasoline in his truck. Just waiting.
He’d planned for Larry Powell. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his gloves and took his time putting them on. A guy couldn’t be too careful.
Slowly, not making any sound, he crept toward the door. Just one story this time.
And really, half his work was already done. The windows of the ramshackle drug house were boarded up, all of them sealed with wood except the one on the far right. The one his prey had used to sneak inside.
The one he’d use, too.
Bending, he eased through the opening and smiled. Oh, this place would burn so well.
It was small inside, a tight, cramped space. The floor was littered with trash. A mattress had been shoved against the back wall and—ah, there was Larry. His prey rocked back and forth on the mattress, muttering.
He crept toward Larry and whispered his name.
Larry spun around, eyes wide, hands up.
He eased back, narrowly missing a swipe from those flying hands. “Easy…”
Larry blinked. “D-do I—do I know you, man?” It was dark inside, with thin strips of light coming in that one window. If the streetlights hadn’t been there, he could have worked in total darkness.
He’d always liked the dark.
His fingers curled into a fist. The leather stretched over his knuckles. “Maybe.” It didn’t really matter now if Larry had seen him at the last fire. The thrill of the hunt heated his blood. Power pumped through him. Rage. Hunger.
Larry’s eyes widened. Bulged. “Wait! I—I saw you b-before… you—you’re the one—”
He slammed his fist into Larry’s face.
“For some arsonists, it’s all about the fire.” Lora’s beer was empty. She didn’t order another. “They like to watch the flames, like to see the burn.”
“This guy doesn’t?” Kenton asked.
“People are in the buildings he burns. He knows that; it’s why he picks the places.” Her palm flattened on the tabletop. “The first victim, Jennifer Langley, was in a second-story apartment. He jimmied her sprinklers so they wouldn’t work. Nailed her windows and her door shut. We had to beat our way inside with an ax.”