What Burns Within (10 page)

“Don’t you want me to ask them to keep their eyes open on future calls? I saw the paper this morning. If there’s a link we’re going to have another fire on our hands soon.”

“You can’t say anything to anyone.” Ashlyn sighed. “Every firefighter you have who’s been on these calls is going to have it figured out. But right now, we don’t want the press catching wind of this. The last thing we need is distraught parents showing up at fire scenes thinking their child is in side.”

“Good point.” Quinlan stood. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll just call Tain and have him meet us there.”

“Constable Tain,” a voice called.

Tain stopped midstride, turning to see the smartly dressed officer—the one who’d escorted Mrs. Brennen away the day before when Tain had stopped her from assaulting her son—approaching him in the hallway.

“Constable Sims, right?”

The man nodded. He was one of those people who instantly pissed Tain off on some levels, with a uniform that seemed perfectly in place, like it was designed for him. Sims wasn’t a big man, but he was fit, with short, dark hair, no glasses to conceal his blue eyes, and a dimple that seemed eager to show itself without the man even properly smiling. Hawkins was the poster boy for the leaders and established career officers. Sims was the quintessential pin-up boy for the recruits.

“Sergeant Daly asked me to run a background check on Mrs. Brennen yesterday. I thought I should update you.”

Tain glanced at his watch. “Can you drive me to meet my partner?”

“Sure. I did the check. As you probably already know, there wasn’t anything on file with social services. No reports of abuse, no reason for intervention with the family at all. Parents divorced three years ago.”

Sims was right. Social services had told him that yesterday. Tain followed Sims to a car and waited until they were both inside to ask, “Is that all?”

“Mom has a record. Nothing new since her kids were born, but there was a time she was pretty active in the system.”

Tain relayed the address he needed to be dropped off at. “Let me guess.”

“Solicitation.” Sims started the car. “And assault.”

Tain thought of the way Connie Brennen’s hand had struck him the day before, like someone accustomed to using her fists to make a point. “Who filed the charges?”

“Her alleged pimp. A guy with the street name John-John.”

Tain snorted. “That’s original.”

“I did a search. I wasn’t sure if you were familiar with him.”

Sims paused again. Tain let the silence be his answer.

“He’s been in and out of the system forever. Street fights, money hustling, a series of break-and-enter charges, an armed robbery conviction that didn’t stick on appeal. He did a two-year stretch for breaking the jaw of one of his working girls, and he was the main suspect in the abduction of a five-year-old child of another woman who worked for him.”

“But not charged?”

“No. The child turned up suddenly when the cops started putting the heat on. Then the mother disappeared with her kid. The mother was the one who’d filed the initial report when the kid went missing, so without her and without a missing child to look for…” Sims switched lanes.

Tain frowned. Without a missing child the case dissolved, as though there’d never been a crime. If this got out prematurely, it could keep them from taking control of the abduction cases. He’d have to check it out quietly. “Did you find anything on why the investigating officers thought he did it?”

“Rumors she was holding out on him, taking some straight dope jobs on the side and not cutting him in.”

Tain frowned. Why would John-John be interested in Connie Brennen’s daughter now?

“The lead investigator was Corporal Frank Hay. He transferred to Vancouver Island a few years ago. His partner during the time of the case was Tim Winters.”

“Corporal Tim Winters?”

“Yeah.” Sims paused. “Didn’t you work with him?”

“Yes,” Tain said sharply. Sims looked like a puppy dog waiting to be patted on the head, eager to earn approval. On the one hand, if Daly was going to assign someone to collect data, at least Sims wasn’t useless. But there could be such a thing as being too eager to please.

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be able to tell you more, but there might just be a reason why John-John would be interested in Taylor Brennen now.”

Tain glared at Sims, waiting for him to continue.

The dimple disappeared. “Well, I know this street girl named Cocoa….” He glanced at Tain. “She told me that the word back then was that Connie got herself pregnant as her get-off-the-street card and that Nick Brennen was just the idiot who fell for her act. The only guy Connie was consistently, um, with when she was working was John-John.”

“And Cocoa knows this how?”

“When I said ‘girl,’ I meant in name only.”

“I see. So she’s been a player for a long time.”

“Mostly dealing these days.” Sims glanced at him again. “I’m sure you know how it is. You need people willing to talk….” Sims shrugged.

Tain turned to look out the window. “Yeah. Good work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Tain will do.”

“Right.”

Sims stopped the car, and Tain unclipped his seat belt.

“Now, there’s something else you need to do.”

Sims nodded. “Will it get me her phone number?”

Tain glanced up through the windshield. “Constable Hart isn’t a door prize.” He felt the fingers on his right hand tightening into a fist and consciously reached for the door handle, hoping Sims wouldn’t see and that his own face didn’t look as taut as it felt. He filled Sims in on what he needed and got out of the car.

The room remained as dark as it had been when she’d arrived, though she had a sense of light outside the black space she was trapped in. She couldn’t put her finger on it exactly, but it was like waking up at home and having the room be entirely dark, but knowing that was only because the thick, denim curtains were drawn shut.

It was the way her mom liked the house after what she called a bender, after she’d come home laughing and stumbling down the halls late at night, so late she thought Taylor and Nicky were already fast asleep. The next morning Mom would always be the same, someone to tiptoe around. It took only a few backhands to know the late nights should never be followed by early mornings.

Even the afternoons usually consisted of Mom sitting in a dark room with the blinds down, moaning over a cup of coffee, which Taylor thought was disgusting. The fact that her sick mother could drink it seemed unbelievable. Whenever Taylor felt sick she didn’t even want chocolate or sweet ’n’ sour candies. Just the smell of coffee when she felt fine was enough to make her tummy do somersaults.

There was no real recognizable smell she could detect now, other than pee. Her desperate search for a bathroom had led her only to a bucket in the far corner, and when she couldn’t cross her legs any longer she gave in and used it.

There was another faint odor she could barely detect. She guessed it was dust, if dust had a smell. Something about the lack of freshness, the absence of soap or cleaners…It reminded her of the smell in Grandfather’s storage shed, the one where he kept the lawn mower.

Taylor heard the sound of shuffling feet coming toward her and hugged her legs to her body. Shafts of light shone in on the floor, falling short of the bed she huddled on, and the light behind the figure silhouetted him, making him look like only a dark form between her and the world outside the concrete walls she was surrounded by.

The door closed behind him, and for a moment, all she could hear was the sharp intake and release of breath, not unlike the mechanical sounds of a ventilator, like the one she’d seen Great Gran hooked up to before she’d died or like the sound of Darth Vader sucking air through his mask.

Then the dark figure shuffled toward her. She hugged her legs tighter and squeezed her eyes shut.

“What’s that?” Lori asked as Craig returned to his desk, papers in hand.

“A list of all known sex offenders in the area, parolees and their modus operandi.”

She scurried over to Craig’s desk. “How did you get your hands on that? I’ve been stonewalled for half the damn day trying to get outstanding rape case reports.”

“It’s Sunday. You won’t get anywhere. I called for this yesterday.”

She straightened up. “Well, maybe there’s something in there that can help.”

“Bit like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Craig said. “Must be dozens of perps here, and we haven’t even got a clue what we’re looking for.”

“Sure we do. We’re looking for some sick schmuck who gets his rocks off by forcing women to bend over.”

“I thought rapists usually had a type they preferred. Brunette, blonde, redhead. Some defining characteristic they use to choose victims.”

“Well, what have we got? Karen Chalmers was our first victim, at least, from what’s been reported. She had black hair. Sara McPherson…” Lori looked up at Craig.

He leafed through a stack of folders, extracted a photo and passed it to her.

“Redhead,” Lori said. “Hmm. Next is Stephanie Bonnis. She’s blond.”

“And Cindy Parks is blond.”

“No brunettes, though. Guess I’m safe.”

“Not enough information to base a pattern on,” Craig said.

“What about locations?”

Craig shook his head, passing her the map. “I’ve marked all the spots. They’re randomly configured, as far as I can tell.”

“Yeah, I agree. Scattered in Coquitlam and Port Coquitlam. Karen Chalmers lives in Port Moody. I thought rapists were supposed to hunt in their own territory, stay in their comfort zone.”

“There’s only one thing about this guy I can say with absolute certainty,” Craig said.

Lori arched an eyebrow. “Besides the fact that he’s a sick sonofabitch?”

“Goes without saying. I’m just talking in terms of a profile. Nothing seems to fit any of the standard textbook talk about rapists. He’s experienced. That’s the only thing I’d bank on.”

“There must be something that connects them.”

“You and I both know it could be as simple as means and opportunity, but we’re going to have to look through everything to see if we can figure out how he’s picking his victims.”

Lori sighed. “Just let me call home and cancel my plans for the next five years first, will you?”

“Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t dream of letting anyone in,” Paul Quinlan said as he passed Ashlyn and Tain helmets and boots. “If you need to bring a camera or anything, get it now. No telling if there’ll be a next time.

“And at the first sign of trouble, we’re done. No arguments, no bullshit. Either of you gives me any grief, I’ll make sure you push paper for the rest of the year.”

“Understood, Paul.”