Hidden Fire, Kobo

  HIDDEN FIRE

  © 2011 by Terry Odell

  Cover photo by Jason Odell

  Cover art by Davy Fymbo

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  HIDDEN FIRE

  By Terry Odell

  Dedicated to all the men and women who run toward gunfire. We thank you.

  Chapter One

  Under the table, Sarah's toes found the cuff of Randy's pants and inched their way up his calf, the coarse hair tickling her foot. His eyes widened, his eyebrows arched, and the standard restaurant candle-in-a-jar caught the hazel flecks in his otherwise brown eyes. He brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, but it flopped back the way it always did.

  She smiled at the hovering waiter, placed her hand over her empty coffee cup and shook her head. "No more, Tony. Thanks."

  Tony refilled Randy's coffee cup and whisked away his empty pie plate. Randy's eyes returned to Sarah, moving between her dessert and her face. He smiled, but she could sense his impatience. She continued her torment by dipping her spoon into the chocolate mousse in front of her. Slowly, carefully, she filled the spoon with the rich delight.

  His call had surprised her yesterday, when he announced he'd be coming back from San Francisco a day early. She wriggled her toes higher up his leg, trying not to laugh as he squirmed. She'd chosen her outfit with special care this morning. Demure didn't begin to cover it. Prim? Prissy? That was closer. Navy blue slacks, a pale blue silk blouse buttoned to the neck and a navy blazer. Not quite a suit, but close enough. Of course, the thong beneath the slacks and the lace demi-bra under the blouse were anything but prissy. She'd sensed Randy's eyes on her behind as they walked up the steps to the restaurant. And maybe his hand had crept a little lower than the small of her back as he'd guided her to their booth.

  She poised the mousse-laden spoon in front of her mouth, parting her lips a fraction. With her other hand, she fingered the pearl button at her neck.

  "It's warm in here, isn't it?" One button, then a second, slipped through its hole. Randy leaned forward.

  "You're killing me," he whispered.

  Her tongue wrapped around the mousse. Her eyes closed. She sighed.

  "You're going to finish that, aren't you?" he asked, resignation in his tone.

  Without opening her eyes, she said, "Every bite."

  He blew out a long, slow breath.

  She met his gaze and smiled at his obvious annoyance. "It's chocolate. Some things shouldn't be rushed."

  She slid her foot out from inside the restriction of his slacks and worked it up his thigh. He reached for his glass and swigged gulps of water. When her toes met his lap, he choked. Coughing, eyes watering, he reached down and encountered her waiting foot. Still choking, he clutched it closer to his groin and she felt his hardness. She lowered her eyes to her mousse and took another bite, swirling her tongue around her lips.

  Tony appeared and refilled Randy's water glass. "Are you all right, Detective Detweiler?"

  Randy nodded and waved him off, gesturing for the check. Sarah covered her mouth with her napkin, trying to erase her grin.

  "So, tell me all about your violent-crime work," she said. "Not much call for that in Pine Hills. Or do people get violent when they get parking tickets?"

  He wiped his mouth and set the napkin beside his plate. "To tell you the truth, Sarah Tucker, I'm thinking about all the gruesome pictures, which is the only thing keeping me from embarrassing the hell out of myself right here."

  Heat burned in his eyes. Her nipples pebbled behind the lace of her bra and moisture pooled between her legs. She scraped the remnants of the mousse from her dish, the clicks of metal against glass barely audible over the blood pounding in her ears. She wanted him. Now.

  Tony returned and dropped the check on the table, not meeting Randy's eyes. "Whenever you're ready, Detective." He pivoted on his heel and left.

  "All finished," Sarah said, smiling. "You want to go, or have more coffee?"

  In response, Randy dumped some bills on the table, angled himself out of the booth and extended his hand. She fumbled, trying to get her foot back into one of the sensible pumps she'd worn to complete her stodgy look. Grasping his fingers, she scooted across the vinyl bench. He gave her the leverage she needed and she rubbed against him as she stood.

  He stroked her hand. "After you." His aftershave wafted to her nostrils, counteracting the myriad cooking aromas.

  He quickened his pace. By the time they hit the porch surrounding the rustic restaurant, he half-dragged her down the steps and elongated his stride across the unpaved parking lot. Earth and pine scents mingled, still unable to compete with his special scent. Spice and Randy. A lethal combination.

  "Hey," she said with a laugh. "You in a hurry? I'm not six-six, remember? Short legs."

  In response, he simply scooped her up and covered the rest of the distance to his pickup. "If I hurry now, maybe I'll be able to take it slow when it counts. Damn, woman, I've missed you."

  "Me, or the sex?" she said.

  He paused, as if he wasn't sure. "You," he said at last. "You, you, you."

  "Oh, so you don't want the sex?"

  He unlocked the doors to his truck and worked the passenger door open, then lowered her onto the seat. "You're going out of your way to torment me, aren't you?"

  She ran her tongue across her lips. "Maybe."

  "No maybes about it." He wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her hair. She reached around him, his wool sweater rough against her cheek.

  "I missed you, too." She raised her face and parted her lips. "Welcome home."

  He leaned into the cab, meeting her mouth with his own. He cradled her face in his hands and she surrendered to the warmth of his kiss. She ran her fingers through his hair, sending tingles all the way to her toes. Tongues teased and danced with promises of more to come. He tasted of apples and cinnamon, of coffee and Randy. A vague impression of couples passing, of headlights coming and going, of car doors opening and closing hovered at the edge of her consciousness. A whistled catcall broke through the final barrier.

  "Guess we should go," she said. "I've got a few surprises for you at my apartment."

  "My place is closer," he murmured between kisses.

  When his cell phone rang, he swore.

  "Duty calling?" Sarah said, trying to keep too much annoyance from her tone. "Now?" After a six-week separation? How could they? How could he leave her?

  "I'm off duty, dammit. I'm not here. I'm out of town until tomorrow. Noon at the earliest," he growled as he released her and fumbled for the phone at his belt. He studied the display. "Shit."

&
nbsp; She smoothed her hair and reached behind her for the seatbelt. "Guess we won't be going to your place or mine."

  "Let me check. Maybe it's a false alarm." He got behind the wheel and punched buttons on his cell. "Detweiler."

  His jaw dropped. Sarah watched as a cop replaced her lover.

  "Should I call a cab?" she asked.

  "No way. I'll drop you at your place. But that was the chief. I've got to go."

  After a hurried goodbye, Sarah trudged up the stairs to her apartment, thoughts milling through her head. Struggling to keep her shop afloat after her husband David's untimely death. Finding out someone she'd thought was a friend had been sabotaging her business. Meeting Randy. Falling in love again.

  Tonight wasn't their first instance of dateus interruptus. Six weeks apart had blurred the memory of how much time his job demanded. She and David had worked side by side, their jobs and their lives inextricably entwined. With Randy, it would be different.

  She loaded her CD player with Simon and Garfunkel, then changed her mind. Justin Timberlake? Alanis Morrissette? Melissa Etheridge? What the heck. She put all three into the machine, hit "shuffle" and settled into her nightly routine.

  She leafed through her mail, separating the junk from the bills. Her answering machine had two hangups, one recorded sales pitch and a reminder from Saint Michael's that they'd canceled the pottery class she taught Tuesday night because they would be stripping the floors in the rec room. Could she come Monday instead and help with a children's dance recital?

  She returned the call and marked it on her calendar. The seniors loved it when kids came in and performed, no matter how amateur the production.

  After recording her daily sales data into her computer, she smiled. Business was definitely on the rise. And Hugh Garrigue's new pottery collection would kick autumn sales up another notch. In years past, he'd given her shop half a dozen pieces once or twice a year. Now Hugh allowed his wares in one or two shops at a time. She'd scored a coup when he'd agreed to a three-month exclusive for That Special Something.

  How best to display it? She closed her eyes and did a mental walk-through of her shop, with its out-of-the ordinary fittings. The spiral staircase? Or the library table? Maybe the roll-top desk or the Welsh dresser. Or should she clear the center of the room and set everything on the picnic table she and David had refinished as their first real display table?

  She decided she'd wait for the shipment to arrive tomorrow. Her assistant, Jennifer, would be in and she always had good ideas.

  Sarah turned off her computer and the CD player and called it a night. She yawned. After Randy's message yesterday, she hadn't slept well, thoughts of their reunion keeping her brain charged. And a few other parts.

  In her bedroom, Sarah sighed as she folded her new silk nightgown and put it back in the drawer. She pulled on her cotton nightshirt and shuffled into her bathroom. As she brushed her teeth, she glared at her reflection in the mirror.

  You should have gone along with Randy's suggestion, idiot. Dessert first, then takeout. He still would have gotten the call, but you wouldn't be so—frustrated. Oh, say it. You're horny.

  She checked her alarm and crawled into bed. Tomorrow, they'd start where they'd left off tonight and if they never got to dinner—well, they'd have a big breakfast.

  She'd drifted off when the phone rang. Her pulse raced as she fumbled for the receiver. Was Randy finished with his case already? Before she could answer, Maggie, her neighbor from across the hall, spoke breathlessly.

  "Sarah, go turn on the Channel Six news. I saw Randy. I'm coming right over."

  * * * * *

  A familiar sense of apprehension filled Randy as he approached the location Chief Laughlin had given him. The property, a land development gone bust years ago, bordered on the city-county line. Over the years, there was talk of turning it into a park, a campground, a resort, and someone had even tried to convince the people of Pine Hills they needed a mall out here. However, the absentee owner paid his property taxes, preferring to leave twenty-five acres of Oregon the way Mother Nature had created it.

  The portable banks of lights, five Pine Hills vehicles, plus another three County Sheriff cars, yellow crime scene tape and the CSI van filled Randy with his expected pre-case jitters. The sort that honed his senses. The anticipation of the unknown, of a jigsaw puzzle dumped in the middle of the floor with no picture to go by and you didn't know if all the pieces were there, or if they even belonged to the same puzzle.

  He eased his Ford F-150 behind a patrol car and took a slow, cleansing breath. Then another, not so slow, when he saw Salem's Channel Six News van pull up behind him. A camera-ready reporter, microphone outstretched with a cameraman backpedaling in front of her, beelined toward him. The cameraman was dressed for the wooded terrain, but the reporter was having a hell of a time with the uneven footing. Randy didn't recognize her—probably a newbie out to make a name for herself.

  He rubbed his jaw. At least he'd shaved before his date with Sarah. He'd look presentable while he told her where she could stick that microphone. He shoved the truck's door open and strode toward the patrol officer on perimeter duty, avoiding eye contact with either the reporter or the camera. She pivoted to jog behind him, motioning for her cameraman to follow.

  Not slowing his pace or shortening his stride, he begrudgingly acknowledged her approach.

  "Detective Detweiler? Penny Scholnik, Channel Six News. What can you tell our viewers?" She thrust the microphone toward his face. Since she was barely five feet tall in her bare feet, she had to stretch her arm to its full length to get the mic anywhere near his mouth.

  "Give us a break, Miss Scholnik," he said. "I just arrived. I'm not going to speculate before I get some facts."

  "Do you think this might be the work of a serial killer?" she said, holding the mic in front of her mouth, then extending it toward him.

  He stopped dead in his tracks. She almost collided with him. The cameraman's reflexes were a bit sharper. Too bad. Maybe one less camera on scene would make his job easier.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, Randy turned and stared directly into the camera. "Right now, all we know is we have a dead body. Until we determine how he died, we can't even say it was a homicide. It's unconscionable to create unnecessary fear in the citizens of our community for the sake of a story. When we have facts—facts we can substantiate—I will be the first to let you know. However, at the moment, you are interfering with a police investigation and I strongly suggest you and your camera get back to your van. It's your job to report the news, not create it."

  He spun on his heel and resumed his trek toward the crime scene. He gave his name and badge number to the officer at the edge of the yellow tape, who printed them on his clipboard in a neat, careful hand, then turned it so Randy could sign. Randy scrawled his name, noting at least a dozen names above his. Crap. Forensics had enough to do without eliminating evidence from people who wanted a look-see. Many of the names were unfamiliar.

  "These all official?" he asked. "No press, right?"

  "Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. They're all law enforcement."

  He took a closer look at the officer. Brody. He searched his memory. Craig? No, Greg. A rookie. Redhead with freckled complexion to match. Baby-faced. A little green around the gills. Probably sent out here where he wouldn't embarrass himself.

  "Tough scene?" Randy asked. "Your first?"

  "Yes, sir, to both." He stood at attention, met Randy's eyes. "I'm fine, sir."

  Did he detect disgruntlement in the rookie's tone? "I don't doubt it. You're not being punished, Brody. Your job here is vital. Every extra footprint, every bit of cigarette ash, fiber or hair contaminates the scene and makes our job harder."

  "Yes, sir. I know my job, sir."

  Randy scanned the names again. He was pleased to see Charlotte Russell, the medical examiner, near the top of the list. Once she removed the body, they could work the scene in earnest.

  "Yes, sir," Brody said
again. "Sergeant Kovak and Mike Connor are on scene." He stood even more erect and tapped the clipboard. "A lot of these are from out of area. The Deputy Sheriffs said it's close enough to the city-county line."

  Randy resisted the urge to pat the kid on the head. "Keep it up, Brody." He scanned the area for Kovak. He didn't see his partner, but he did see Mike Connor, Pine Hills' head forensics investigator. He moved toward the flashes from the man's camera.

  Connor lowered the camera and turned, catching Randy's eye. "Hey, Detweiler. Welcome back."

  "Yeah, you guys know how to throw a party." Randy stepped to Connor's side. "What do we have?"

  "White male, five-eight, about one-fifty. Shot in the back of his head, stripped to his birthday suit, abdominal cuts, but the M.E. will have to determine in what order. Four kids found the body and called it in. Kovak took their statements. Released them to their parents, who are probably giving them holy hell for coming out here in the first place. I've got names and addresses."

  "The kids contaminate the scene?" Nothing like puking on a corpse to mess up the evidence.

  Connor shook his head. "They dropped everything and ran." He pointed to three six-packs of cheap beer and a stack of girlie magazines near a trail of trampled dirt and grass. "I've already got finger and shoe prints for elimination and they said they didn't get close to the body once they smelled it." He smiled. "They won't be getting their beer back. Think I should give them the magazines?"

  Randy chuckled. "They might need them. I have a feeling they'll be confined to their rooms for a good chunk of the foreseeable future."

  "On the down side, no telling how many other kids have used this place as a bedroom substitute. Once the body is out of here, I'll be able to focus on what's in the immediate vicinity. I'd hate to have to analyze twenty-five acres' worth of trace. Hell, the condoms per square foot would keep the state lab working round the clock for a month, easy."