Flight of the fallen, p.14
Into The Fire (Mason Ashford Thriller Series Book 4), page 14
The bartender leaned in. “That’s him now.”
Spotting Beck from across the room, the man took a seat at the bar. His jet-black hair was neatly trimmed. An easy smile parted his sculpted face, and subtle scruff darkened his jaw.
He offered his hand. “I’m Gabe. Everyone calls me Ramirez.”
CHAPTER 31
“Kitchen still open, Stacy?” Ramirez asked the bartender.
“Sure is,” Stacy replied.
“Great. I’ll take a burger. Give me a shot of Jameson’s with a beer back.” He examined the empty beer bottles in front of Beck. “And another round for my new friend.”
Stacy scoffed. “You hit the lottery, Gabe?”
Ramirez tossed back the shot. “Closed a big sale tonight.”
Beck picked up a slight accent. Maybe Texas. “What do you sell?” Beck asked.
“Industrial and farm equipment,” Ramirez said. He hoisted the beer bottle.
Beck clinked glass and sipped.
“That sounds….” She let her statement hang in the air.
“Boring as hell?” Ramirez chuckled. “Hey, I didn’t get your name earlier.”
Beck blinked. “Claire,” she said. “Claire Stokes.” She pressed on a smile. Her stomach curdled as she tossed out the name of Mason’s murdered wife. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. The current of frigid air flowing around the bar carried them away before Ramirez noticed.
Beck glanced away from the newcomer. Her fingernail found a loose corner on the beer bottle label. The distraction calmed her.
“Well, Claire Stokes, what brings you out into the middle of nowhere?”
Beck shrugged. She glanced up and found herself captivated by the warmth in his dark eyes.
A moment passed. “I needed a drive,” she said.
Ramirez asked, “Where did you drive in from, Claire?”
“Hmm? Oh,” Beck muttered. “Pine Village. Heard of it?”
A flash of recognition. A waver in that perfect smile.
“Never.”
“Not surprised.” Beck swept an errant lock of hair behind her ear.
Ramirez slid into the seat next to Beck. “What’s this?” He traced the outline of the tattoo on her forearm. “You served?”
Beck warmed at the touch. “Captain. Army for six and change.”
Every instinct told Beck to run. But a mix of grief and regret left her hollowed out. She didn’t want to run.
“No kidding?” Ramirez pulled up his sleeve. A tattoo of crossed flintlock pistols overlaid with a skull covered his shoulder. “716th Military Police Battalion.”
They clinked bottles again and drank.
Beck sensed the danger lurking behind those brooding eyes. She shrugged it off. Beck needed something. Pain, pleasure, or peril. Anything was better than the numbness.
She bent toward him. Ramirez met her lips as her last remaining barriers melted away.
A microwave beeped behind the bar. The tone yanked her back to the hospital room where her father seized, a concert of wailing machines in distress as doctors and nurses flooded in. Her father’s broken body giving up.
Beck touched Ramirez’s shoulder, grounding her in the present. She shoved the memory aside.
Ramirez broke off at the contact. “You okay, Claire?”
The false name—another ghost—pulled her back. “Unexpected. That’s all.”
“Want to slow down?” he asked.
Beck slid a hand under the bar, gliding it up his leg. Her breath mingled with his. “How about somewhere a bit quieter?” she suggested, her voice husky.
Ramirez nodded, a smirk playing on his lips. “I know a place.”
Beck withdrew her hand. “Not your car. I’m a lady.”
Ramirez laughed. “I’m driving a janky delivery truck. We’d both get tetanus.”
“Then where?”
“Stacy,” Ramirez called out. He dropped some bills on the bar. “A bottle of 1800. Blanco. For the lady.”
Ramirez sauntered across the parking lot, headed for the motel. Beck followed. He swigged from the bottle and passed it. She sipped, wrapping an arm around his waist. Her hand grazed the hard angles of a pistol.
A surge of adrenaline triggered long-dormant instincts.
Beck coughed on the tequila and stumbled.
Ramirez wrapped an arm around Beck, pulling her forward. He grabbed the bottle away, gulping.
Beck snatched the bottle back, coveting his attention. She coated her lips with the peppery alcohol and pulled his lips to hers.
Behind the motel counter, an Indian woman scowled, the bright colors of her sari clashing against the muted reds and browns of the makeshift lobby. Her demeanor softened as Ramirez slid a crisp hundred-dollar bill across the counter. Beck caught the knowing glance the woman flashed him as she pocketed the cash, her gold bangles tinkling.
Beck’s stomach tightened. Was Ramirez a regular here? Had she become the next woman brought to the same room?
The parking lot stretched beside them as they walked to the motel room. The buzzing sodium lights flattened everything into two dimensions. The world felt clinical. Too bright. Too demanding.
Beck caught a faint scent of antiseptic. Her boot heel scuffed as she slowed, the memories of her father in the hospital pulling her back.
Ramirez drifted a step ahead of her now, casual, unguarded. Every instinct screamed at her to stop. She didn’t.
He slid the key into the lock. He disappeared inside.
Beck followed.
Ramirez kicked off his boots and sat on the bed, the worn mattress squeaking beneath him. Beck hesitated in the doorway, her heart thudding in her ears. The shadows seemed darker here, the risk hiding within them. She felt herself balanced on a knife’s edge, ready to plunge deeper into peril just to escape the emptiness waiting behind her.
CHAPTER 32
A ray of sunlight snuck in through a narrow gap in the curtains. Mason Ashford rolled away from it, shoving a pillow over his head. The vanilla remnants of Rylee’s perfume stirred him awake. He reached across tangled sheets, expecting to bury his hand into a mass of chestnut hair.
Discovering nothing but cold fabric, Mason snapped awake and sat up in the bed. He swore as a stab of pain rippled through his shoulder. Working the joint loose, he surveyed the room for the first time in daylight.
Familiar Swedish furniture with unpronounceable names filled the bedroom. Mason had similar pieces to round out his tiny garden apartment back in Washington, DC.
A distant lawnmower buzzed outside, contrasting with the quiet of the house. No running shower or sizzle of cooking coming from the kitchen.
Mason grabbed his underwear off of the branch of a plastic houseplant.
“Rylee?” he called out. No answer.
Mason hunted around the pristine home for the rest of his clothes. He found his T-shirt hanging from a massive television mounted in the living room. One sock hid under a brown leather sofa.
The other found its way onto a bare quartz island in the kitchen. Grabbing it, he spotted a handwritten note pinned to the refrigerator door with a Daffy Duck magnet.
Have an early shift at the clinic. See you tonight? Breakfast is in the fridge.—Rylee.
She had scrawled her number below the note. Mason looked around for his jeans. He found them in a crumpled heap by the front door. He fished his phone out of a pocket and tapped out a message.
Was it something I said?
Rylee
You’re finally awake! Duty called, Mr. Ashford. Did you make breakfast?
Make breakfast? I don’t cook.
Rylee
Luckily you have other talents. ;) Will I see you tonight?
It’s a date.
Rylee
LOL okay, I’ll cook. Message you later. Off to do rounds.
He swung a leg into his jeans and grazed a pile of mail stacked on a coffee table, scattering it over the floor. Mason bent down and swept the envelopes into a rough pile. A loose sheet slipped free, gliding silently to the floor. He retrieved it, his eyes narrowing at the crisp legal lettering: Annual Compliance and Beneficial Ownership Confirmation–Panama Pacific Trust.
He scanned the paper, finding a page of legal jargon followed by an account number. The sight of the account number jarred Mason back to the present. He grimaced at invading Rylee’s privacy and stuffed the paper back into the pile.
Stepping into the bathroom, Mason pawed through the medicine cabinet as he hunted for something to dull the pain in his shoulder. Rows of amber bottles lined the narrow shelves. Curiosity got the better of him.
The bar-shaped tablets of Xanax sat next to a few remaining capsules of Ambien. Both bottles showed the prescriptions were filled in the last month.
A green bottle held baby-blue tablets of propranolol, a beta blocker. He knew it as a drug used to calm jitters for performance anxiety. Mason hesitated, suddenly aware of how intrusive his actions were. Still, the assortment of drugs intrigued him. Behind the green bottle, he found a small vial containing ketamine, a powerful anesthetic and painkiller.
The sickly gray pills of oxycodone stood out from another bottle. Common enough for an aging former athlete like Rylee, he supposed, but still surprising.
Next to that rested a towering bottle of Adderall—the least surprising thing on the shelf. Mason knew the orange tablets were the performance enhancement drug of choice for law and medical students.
Mason pushed the bottles aside and popped three ibuprofens with a handful of water from the sink.
Stomach growling, Mason turned to the spacious kitchen. Stainless steel appliances gleamed in the morning light, reflecting onto the empty countertops.
He opened the refrigerator, silently hoping Rylee kept her fridge the way Mason kept his—full of half-eaten takeaway containers, the food inside somewhere between barely edible and a science experiment.
Instead, the fridge held an empty container of orange juice, a staggering mix of sauces and condiments, and a few eggs in a battered carton.
Mason closed the refrigerator and resumed his search.
Rummaging through the cabinets, he turned up a jar of bright-green olives and a tin of sardines coated in dust. A protein bar with an equal amount of dust hid behind the olives.
Mason wandered around the house as he gnawed on the tasteless bar. He zeroed in on a cluster of mismatched picture frames arrayed on a wall.
A faded photo of Rylee’s parents claimed the center spot. Mason couldn’t remember their names, but he recalled the chilly reception Rylee’s father had given him the first time they met. Next to that hung a posed shot of Rylee in her scrubs outside the University of Indiana hospital, stethoscope draped around her neck. In another, Rylee stood next to a younger Leo Blackwood as he graduated from the sheriff’s academy. The last vestiges of Leo’s hair grew straight out from his skull as he looked awkwardly at the camera.
A silver frame in the arrangement displayed a picture of a man in a suit. The setting behind him, arranged flowers on tablecloths, gave wedding vibes. He mugged for the photographer, offering a warm smile bookended with dimples. Dark hair grazed his ears.
Mason recognized the man from the photo in Mrs. Whittaker’s restaurant. Sheriff’s Deputy Kyle Thornton stared back at him. He hunted for other photos of the missing deputy. A quick search of the spartan living room turned up nothing.
Mason flopped onto the couch. His cheeks puffed out as he exhaled a long breath at the ceiling. His neck stretched with a series of pops. Rolling his head back down, he spotted a glossy folder under the coffee table.
Figuring he knocked it over with the rest of the mail, he pulled it close with his foot. It bore the logo for Wilkinson Real Estate Ventures.
Mason rubbed at scratchy stubble and leaned back in his chair. A glossy folder rested on the table. It bore the logo of Wilkinson Real Estate Ventures.
He fished a business card from his jeans pocket. The same name and logo stared back at him. A hand-drawn line struck through the printed phone number, and a new number was scratched in above. The office address was in West Lafayette, one town over.
Mason checked his watch. A few minutes after eleven in the morning. He scrolled through his phone, thumb hovering over Beck’s number.
They hadn’t spoken since their blowup in the barn the previous morning. Mason didn’t like how he’d left it with his sister, but he’d experienced her uncapped fury before. He knew Beck needed time to cool off.
Was twenty-four hours enough? He dialed his sister to find out.
CHAPTER 33
Sheriff Francis Pope waved at the patrolman on traffic control. The heat warmed her face even from the far end of the parking lot. She navigated around the fire trucks and emergency vehicles and stopped next to another cruiser. The acrid smells of a house fire hung in the air.
Donning her wide-brimmed campaign hat, she surveyed the scene. Fire hoses snaked from hydrants, across a boot-stomped lawn, and into the condo. Warped vinyl siding bubbled and melted as it slid down the facade of the building. Dark smoke drifted from a second-story window, staining the wall black.
Pope stepped over the hoses as she headed into the townhouse.
“Hold on there,” a voice called out.
Pope spun on a heel.
A woman in street clothes marched over to the sheriff, a badge clipped to her belt. The woman towered over the sheriff.
“Can I help you…Officer?” Pope asked.
“Detective Voss. Christine Voss. That’s an active crime scene, Sheriff,” Voss said.
Pope pointed to her badge. “Maybe you haven’t noticed. Usually, the uniform gives it away.”
Voss crossed her arms. “I appreciate the badge, Sheriff, but that’s for Green County. This here’s Tippecanoe County. You’re a civilian here.”
Pope tipped her hat a fraction of an inch. She scanned the other uniforms at the scene. “Is the scene commander around?”
“You’re talking to her.”
The sheriff cocked an eyebrow. “Well then, Detective, I have a missing deputy who lives right there.” She pointed next to the residence with the hoses trailing from the front door. “I want to know if this fire is somehow connected to his disappearance.”
“Kyle’s missing?” Voss asked.
“Hasn’t reported in days. His car’s missing. You know him?”
Voss relaxed. “We’ve got a monthly poker game. Kyle’s a regular.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?” Pope asked.
Voss scratched the back of her neck. “Three weeks ago. He seemed fine.”
“Y’all ever discuss work?”
Voss shook her head. “A bunch of cops playing cards? Of course we talked about work. Calls, mostly.”
“Kyle ever seem off?”
“Not that I can think of,” Voss said. “He had a nasty breakup a few months back. That messed with his head for a while, but it seemed like he was on the other side of it.”
“Any idea who he was dating?”
“Kyle didn’t share much about her. Said she worked in Indy. They dated for maybe a couple of months, off and on. Then she called it off,” Voss said.
“He ever mention any trips planned? Family anywhere?”
“No, nothing like that. Kyle never mentioned family.”
“How’d you two meet?” Pope asked.
“He interviewed at West Lafayette PD right before the deputy position opened in your department. Your department pays more.”
“Thanks for your help, Christine,” Pope said. “May I call you Christine?”
“Sure, Francis.”
Pope glared back. “You can call me Sheriff Pope.” Pope turned her attention back to the smoldering house. “Any idea what caused the fire?”
“Not my department, Sheriff.” Voss waved to the fire trucks. “They’ll investigate and get back to us with the findings. If it turns out it’s arson, one of our detectives will lead the investigation.”
“Any idea who lives in the burned-out place?” the sheriff asked.
Voss flipped open her notepad. “LaTanya Moore. Twenty-six. Nursing student at Purdue. She has one daughter: Ada. Three years old.”
“Any sign of them?”
Voss pocketed her notepad. “We’ve got a call into the university, but nothing yet.”
A commotion from inside the burned-out building drew everyone’s attention. The radio crackled.
“We have victims.”
“Looks like it’s mine now,” Voss muttered. She keyed the mic on her shoulder. “Police are coming in. Advise the fire department. This has gone from a structure fire to a possible murder.”
“It’s definitely a murder,” Pope offered. “Mind if I tag along?” she asked.
“Come on,” Voss said.
Voss sniffed the air as she entered the house. “Perfume?”
A firefighter stopped ripping open walls with his ax. “Acetone. That’s the accelerant. Whatever’s left of it, anyway,” a firefighter said.
“Arson?” Sheriff Pope asked.
He shrugged. “Legally, I can’t say.” He jabbed at a charred and twisted cage of metal. “I can say it’s rare for a couch to burst into flames.”
Voss scanned the room before heading upstairs. Pope followed a few steps behind.
A cluster of firemen crowded the top of the stairs, blocking the doorway to the remnants of a child’s bedroom.
“Make a hole,” Voss commanded. The men parted and allowed her through.
Flames and smoke tainted the formerly pink room. A row of stuffed animals, now melted together, crammed against a wall on one side of a blackened mattress.
Inside a cramped closet were two bodies, their skin charred and blistered. Voss knew the bodies intertwined in front of her were LaTanya and Ada Moore.
Voss leaned closer, avoiding disturbing the scene further. Thick tape wrapped the ankles and wrists of LaTanya. Her face, ravaged by fire, was frozen in a silent, sightless scream.
