Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,137

her.

“Just like old times,” she gasped as she cuffed her prey. Being an administrative sergeant, this was her first takedown in a bit. It felt good, even if she couldn’t catch her breath and was dangerously close to ruining the moment by vomiting.

“Anything for my partner.”

Carol who? D.D. thought. She and Phil shared a smile. Then both of their attentions turned to Rocket, facedown against the hood.

“Who hired you?” D.D. demanded to know.

“Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Yes, you do. And if you want any help saving yourself after today’s fire show, you’d better start talking.”

“I don’t know his name,” Rocket hedged.

“Sure you do.” She leaned closer. “We know, Rocket. We know everything. Now the question is, who makes the deal first? You? Or some criminal lawyer who played you from the very beginning and won’t hesitate to throw you under the bus. Talk.”

Rocket’s eyes widened. “You know about Mr. Delaney?”

“Mr. Delaney? That’s interesting. Keep going.”

Rocket did. About burning a crime scene, then about the attorney who deactivated his own security system so Rocket could have access. Followed by the distraction fires to pull everyone into Harvard Square. Exposing his real target. A fucking awesome Colonial in Cambridge.

“Those old homes,” Rocket said with a gleam in his eyes. “Man, do they burn.”

Phil and D.D. exchanged a glance. They could hear sirens in the distance.

“Flora’s already there,” D.D. said.

Phil didn’t need her to explain anything more. He threw Rocket in the back of his car, and they headed for the fire.

• • •

I REACH THE second platform of the fire escape easily enough. The metal is already heating up from the flames inside the home. Smoke pours up from the windows below me and I can smell the undertones of grease, like that night Rocket and I tossed bottles of vegetable oil into the fire drum.

The fire escape on this level leads to an old double-hung window. The neighbor had said she saw someone in the second-story bath. I’m tempted to shatter a pane of glass, reach through to unlatch the window and open it up. But at the last second I hesitate.

I’m not an expert, but I know fire likes oxygen. If I burst open a window and introduce a huge gulp of fresh air into an inferno, I’m pretty sure something bad happens.

I don’t know if this is my best idea or worst, but I keep climbing. Third level of the fire escape. Much smaller window. A tight squeeze—but not a problem for a woman whose nervous energy keeps her on the emaciated side of skinny.

I have some experience smashing windows. Briefly, I think of another time, another place, another girl dying in front of my eyes as I desperately try to break us both out of a house. Then I force it from my mind. Elbow is your best tool. If you’re a female in a hand-to-hand combat situation, an elbow is better than your fist any day of the week. Let alone what you can do with your knee, or the heel of your foot.

I turn my head away, count on my heavy coat for protection as I jab my elbow into the middle of the pane. Glass rains down. Quickly, I shrug out of my down coat, wrap it around my forearms, and use it to clear the rest of the glass from the pane. Then, for good measure, I lay my jacket over the bottom sill as I shimmy headfirst through the narrow space.

I land with a thud. No graceful tuck and roll, more like ass over teakettle. But I’m in. I cough instantly, smelling the smoke.

Okay, now I just have to make it down a level, find Evie, her mother, whomever, and watch out for a homicidal defense attorney. I tell myself I’ve been in worse situations. But the fire still makes me uneasy. Rocket Langley is right: Flames have a lethal sort of magic all their own.

The door of the room is closed. I have a vague memory from childhood fire safety drills that I should touch the door with the back of my hand first before tugging it open. It’s warm, not hot. I stand behind the door, then yank it open.

Nothing. But beneath me I hear an ominous sound. Sort of a scary cackle, like a witch, or blades of flame, sensing the fresh input of oxygen from above, and greedily changing course.

Quick, I realize. Whatever happens next, it’d better be quick. The fire will give me one shot