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“I already asked the front desk to send me Erikson’s badge ID,” Ross reported. “Let’s make sure he’s a real fed.”
Vic debated whether to call Simon in case Erikson went to Grand Strand Ghost Tours next and decided to wait. Simon’s psychic abilities would warn him of an irregular visitor, and the agent hadn’t actually threatened Vic.
He was forcing himself to concentrate on email when Ross gave a quiet whoop of triumph. “Get this…” He turned to Vic excitedly. “Erikson is a real FBI agent, but he doesn’t have a squeaky-clean record. The details are sealed since I’m not in the government, but he’s been officially reprimanded on more than one occasion for ‘interference.’”
“Throwing his weight around,” Vic translated.
“Probably. And it also says here that he was sent to a required ‘ethics refresher’ program last year,” Ross said. “Pretty sure those cover things like avoiding conflicts of interest.”
“If the FBI didn’t really send him here, who did? And what did they think Murphey could have told me that was still that important?”
“I don’t know, but you might have more than just the fire spirit gunning for you,” Ross warned.
“That’s me, Mister Popularity,” Vic joked, but Ross would know he was taking the threat seriously.
Vic’s cell phone rang. He expected it to be Simon, figuring his husband had clued into the FBI visit psychically. Instead, it was the warden from the correctional facility.
“Detective D’Amato? I wanted to let you know that Frank Ferretti died, and it was under very suspicious circumstances,” the warden said.
“Suspicious, how?” Vic knew Ross was eavesdropping.
“He burned to death in a locked cell. According to the security camera, he just went up in flames for no reason. Didn’t happen to anyone else, didn’t damage the facility. Do you have any theories on what happened?” the warden asked.
Vic had plenty, none of which would sound remotely sane. “Not really. I’ve heard about spontaneous combustion, but I’ve never run into a case with it before.”
“Neither have we. Did he ask you for any flammable materials? Did you give him anything that could have been used to ignite his clothing?” the warden pressed. Vic knew the man was grasping at straws and didn’t envy him the paperwork bound to come from the situation.
“No, Warden. Give me a little credit; I’ve been a cop for a long time. Didn’t give him anything, didn’t take anything from him. Afraid I can’t help you.”
“That’s what I figured, but I had to ask.”
“If you find out what happened, I’d appreciate hearing about it,” Vic added. “Hell of a strange thing.”
“I’ll be in touch,” the warden told him and ended the call.
“Ferretti’s dead,” Vic told Ross, and gave him the scant details. “Hm…was it the entity or a mob witch? Or just shitty timing for a vendetta about something completely unrelated?”
“Just to be safe, my bet is that it’s related somehow. First Murphey, now Ferretti. Both with fire?” Ross asked.
“Erikson didn’t say anything about fire, and I knew if I asked it would kick off a whole new round of interrogation because I clearly ‘knew too much,’ so I didn’t,” Vic replied.
“Maybe be careful who you talk to and make sure no one’s following you. But is the killer just cleaning up old loose ends, or ticked off because they talked to you and afraid you’ll put the kibosh on some nefarious scheme?” Ross asked.
“I wish I knew.”
Ross gave him a tired smile. “Go home. Talk it over with Simon. Make a plan. Eat something and have a stiff drink. You’ll feel better.”
“Sounds just like what the doctor ordered.” Vic shut down his computer and grabbed his phone. “Simon and I have both put out feelers to a lot of friends in the know. I hope we hear something back soon. We can’t afford to let it escalate.”
Ross fixed him with a look. “You and Simon are doing all you can. You’re not personally responsible for everything. Take a break and breathe. Your friends will come through for you.”
Vic said goodnight and headed home, acutely aware of his surroundings after the near-miss earlier.
Although his motorcycle was warded and he had his protective amulets and tats, Vic still felt vulnerable. I’d probably feel that way even in an armored truck.
Still, the night seemed darker than usual. He had debated whether to stick to familiar routes or mix up his routine and choose a new path that kept to well-lit streets. In the off-season, many shops closed in the early evening, and tourists were scarce. That meant less traffic, less light from storefronts, and fewer potential witnesses.
Vic caught motion out of the corner of his eye and tensed. It’s only a shadow, he thought.
