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“You called her to the scene, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve seen her picture in the paper.” He whistled. “She’s smokin’.”
Very true. “And prickly when called to a homicide scene in the middle of the night.”
He chuckled. “Wouldn’t you be?”
“Maybe.” He unfastened his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves.
“Is it true about the picture in the victim’s wallet?” Riggs asked.
Word traveled fast. “Yep.”
“What’re the chances? How’d Vargas take it?”
“Difficult to get a read on her.”
“Had to be a kick in the balls. Did she know the victim?”
“She says no. But she was seven at the time of the victim’s death. You said you saw her picture in the paper. What do you know about her?”
“A buddy of mine told me she worked undercover in Virginia Beach. He said she had a solid record. Some have said she’s a natural like her old man.”
“Why did she leave?”
“I’m not sure if it was her choice. The last bust captured a shit-ton of drugs, but it went sideways, and she nearly died.”
“What happened?”
“One of the guys she was shadowing during the operation made her as a cop. Started beating her. There was some confusion about whether she was in trouble, and when the backup team finally busted the door, she was in bad shape. Had to take six weeks of paid leave to recover.”
He thought about her smooth pale skin. How sometimes she flinched a little when he touched her face. A rush of anger and outrage made it hard to keep his voice steady. “Bad shape, how?”
“Beaten up and then some. The paramedics wanted to order a rape kit, but she refused. Said it wasn’t necessary. They didn’t press, but my buddy said the cops had their doubts.”
“About a rape?”
“Yeah. But she denies it happened.”
Shit. He leaned back in his chair trying not to imagine Julia Vargas beaten and bloodied. Raped. She wore her pride like a mantle, and to think some animal had tried to strip that away. “Did she ever see a counselor?”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“You know it all, my friend. If anyone knows what’s going on in any department in Virginia, you’re the man to ask.”
Riggs grinned. “I make an effort to keep up. You don’t.”
“What about Vargas seeing a shrink?”
“That, I’m not privy to.” Riggs held up a large index finger.
Novak thought about the first time he’d touched her. He’d sensed tension. Nerves. He’d figured it had been a while and she was edgy. “Keep your ears open.”
“Always.”
“You get my text last night?”
“Yes, and I’ve requested all the files on the Hangman’s case. Records promised them this morning. And by the way, they told me your pal, Julia Vargas, put in a similar request while she was on leave. She made copies of all the files.”
“Last night she told me she was reopening the case.”
“She decided to put to rest the rumors about her old man?”
“Maybe.”
“There are a few who think the past should stay in the past.”
“I suspect when she sets her mind, there’s no changing it.”
“What do you think of her?” Riggs asked.
“She’s tough. Has a temper.” Her old man had killed himself, and an assault could leave deep scars. Both were red flags.
“Hotter looking in person?” Riggs teased.
“Yeah.” He reached for his telephone.
The reality of a detective’s job was hours of tedious phone calls, knocking on doors, record searches, and walking crime scenes. And yet, in a second, violence out of nowhere could shatter the tedium.
“Who’s your contact in Virginia Beach?” Novak asked. “I want to ask him a few questions about Vargas.”
Riggs scrolled through his phone and sent the contact information to him. “Why?”
Novak couldn’t articulate why he should care. Instead, he said, “You know her old man killed himself.”
“And you think the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?”
“I don’t know. I do know suicide makes a hell of an impression on a kid.”
“Bella’s doing fine.”
“Yes, she is.”
Shaking his head, Riggs turned back to his computer. “If you think Julia’s hot, ask her out.”
He tried to look like he didn’t care one way or the other. “Now you’re a matchmaker?”
Riggs grinned as he sipped his coffee. “You don’t make a move, I might.”
Novak met his partner’s gaze and before he thought, said, “Don’t.”
Riggs raised a brow. “Well, all right. Looks like the old man might be back in the game.”
“I don’t know what I am.”
“But she’s off-limits?” Riggs said, laughing.
“Yes.” He dialed the number of Riggs’s contact at the beach and found himself in voice mail. He left his name and number and asked for a callback.
Irritated, he refocused on the case. The first order of business was to determine the history of the homeowners where Rita Gallagher had been found. He made calls to the city records offices and was given the name of William Delany, who had owned the property until his death early in 1992. Delany’s son, Marcus, inherited the property but had failed to pay the taxes in the last couple of years before the city had taken it over. Marcus Delany was in his early fifties and living south of the city in Chesterfield County.
Next, he pulled up the arrest record for Rita Gallagher. He learned that by her twentieth year, she was convicted three times for prostitution and once for possession. At the time of her last prostitution conviction, she was looking at several years in jail, but a day before trial, charges were dropped. No reason was given.
Her next of kin was her brother
, Brad Gallagher. He helped her make bail the first time. The contact information listed was twenty-five years old.
He rose, pulling his jacket off the back of the chair. Riggs was on a phone call as Novak headed out to his car. His first stop was the crime scene so he could meet with the arson investigator, and then he’d knock on a few doors.
It was almost nine when he parked in front of the old Church Hill home behind the fire vehicle. Out of the car, he ducked under the crime-scene tape and made his way into the building.
He found a burly man with a thick mustache, wearing a city fireman’s uniform, inspecting the socket in the room where the fire had done the most damage.
“Captain Fletcher, I’m Detective Novak. What do you think?” he asked, nodding to the socket.
The man rose and shook Novak’s hand. “The socket was rigged. Someone shoved a wire inside, which short-circuited the outlet and caused the fire.” He pointed to black burn patterns on the wall. “Area is also testing positive for accelerant. My guess is gasoline. When the socket short-circuited, fire sparked and caught the area on fire. Gasoline fires burn hotter and leave a residue.”
“I didn’t think the house had electricity to it?”
“When Rice Renovation took it over, they had it turned back on. All someone would have to do is screw in a fuse.”
“Any prints on the fuse?”
“No.” Fletcher studied the scorched wall as if reading words on a page.
“Was it enough to destroy the building?”
“Never can say with fire. In this case, the flames stayed contained in this room.”
“You see a lot of arson in this area recently?”
“No more than the usual. And from what digging I could do this morning, Rice Renovation is a solid company.”
“Right.”
“Any more information on the woman in the basement?”
“Still working on that one.” The burn patterns in the wall were black and dark all around the outlet, but as they climbed the wall they diminished. “I’m going to have a look upstairs.”
“Sure.”
Novak heard a dog bark and looked toward the front entrance, where a young woman stood with a hound dog. She had blond hair pulled into a thick ponytail, which emphasized her brown eyes and full lips. He moved toward her and introduced himself.
