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  Dark and Deadly

  Jeanne Adams

  “YOU SMELL LIKE GRASS,” HE MURMURED. “AND MOONLIGHT.”

  Where had that come from? He didn’t know, but it was true. There was a wild night perfume that was driving him to speak, to act.

  “Paul?” Torie whispered his name. But she didn’t move away. Didn’t retreat this time. He shoved the past away and focused on the now.

  “You’re safe here, Torie. I don’t want you to think otherwise, but I need to—”

  “To what?”

  “This,” he said, leaning into her, pressing his lips to hers. He wanted to snatch her up, devour her, pull her into his arms and fill himself with her.

  DARK and DEADLY

  Jeanne Adams

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I want to thank my beloved family for their unflagging support. You’re the best.

  In addition, I’d like to thank Kenneth I. Korenblatt, Battalion Chief, Montgomery County Maryland Fire and Rescue, Fire and Explosives Investigations for the information he provided about arson investigation and Molotov cocktails. I’d also like to thank Barbara Watkins of State Farm Insurance for her assistance in figuring out timelines on the insurance issues. Last but not least, I want to thank Laura Graham Booth, fellow author and Washington Romance Writers member, for her insider’s knowledge of Philadelphia.

  Trust me, any errors, missteps, oddities, or omissions in this work are mine!

  No dedication would be complete without acknowledging the amazing and wonderful support of my fellow readers and writers: The Avocats, the wonderful Banditas at The Romance Bandits’ blog, http://www.romancebandits.blogspot.com; and the fab ladies Romance Novel TV and Romance Buy The Book. You rock, ladies! Nor could I ever go without thanking my fabulous editor, Kate Duffy; and my wonderful agent, Laurie McLean.

  DARK and DEADLY

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “What do you mean we can’t get married?” Torie’s words were a panicked screech. “Todd, there are five hundred guests in the church. The music’s started. They’ve seated our mothers, for God’s sake.” She gestured, and rose petals flew from her bouquet, drifting to the floor like snow.

  Panic filled her. Half of Philadelphia was waiting for her to walk down the aisle. Her sorority sisters were there. His fraternity brothers, mostly sober, were there. Even the lawyers from his new firm, and her boss from the engineering firm, were there to see her marry Todd.

  “I know, I know. But, I can’t do it Torie. I can’t. Not now.”

  “What changed, Todd, between Monday, when I left the conference in Raleigh and today?” Torie’s heart stuttered. “Oh, my God. You slept with someone. You had a fling.”

  “No, no, no,” Todd protested, his face stricken, grabbing her waving hands, bouquet and all. “I didn’t, I swear. What happened is—”

  “Tell me,” she insisted. “I have a right to know.”

  “I won the jackpot,” he blurted. “Three hundred and sixty-eight million dollars. I never expected, I mean, you know, I always buy a ticket on special days.”

  He did. She knew that. They’d always talked about what they’d do if they won.

  Her mind whirled. Oh, good Lord, he’d won.

  “You won?” she managed faintly. “All that money?”

  They would never have to scrimp. Her mother’s complaints about Todd’s spendthrift habits and frat-boy ways would be nothing against that kind of income. They could—

  Torie went very still as his words sank in. He was choosing the money over her, over the life they’d planned.

  Devastation came first. Then hot anger boiled in her veins. He didn’t want to share a new, financially prosperous life with her.

  She wasn’t good enough.

  Oblivious to her reaction, he just shook his head. “I know, it’s crazy. But you understand, right? This changes everything in my life.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Torie snarled as she balled up her fist.

  The door from the bride’s room to the church opened, but Torie barely heard it, and didn’t look around. The bouquet disintegrated, and the best man gasped as Torie decked her groom.

  Chapter One

  Five years later

  Grunting with the effort, he hefted the bundle from the trunk and into the wheelchair. He hadn’t expected the body to be this heavy. It wasn’t like the guy was fat or anything.

  He was sweating like a pig by the time he got to the church door. Nudging it open, then kicking it shut behind him, he let the wheelchair topple as he dragged Todd’s solid weight backward toward the altar. The round hole in the corpse’s forehead stared at him accusingly, like an eye from another world.

  He ignored it.

  As much as he’d enjoyed the actual killing, he hated having to go to the worst parts of town to buy unregistered, illegal guns. Dealing with those people was distasteful.

  “You may have had everything, you prick,” he grunted to the dead man, finally tossing him on the steps leading to the pulpit. “And because of you, I got nothing. But thanks to me—” he laughed now, still wheezing from the effort as he arranged Todd’s limp hands—“you never got to enjoy it. Not one bit. Not really.”

  He placed one of Todd’s hands at his crotch, the other at his forehead like a fainting woman. He giggled, thinking that when the body went into rigor mortis the coroner wouldn’t be able to move the hands from their position. What a great picture for the police file. Todd would look as silly in death as he’d made others feel in life.

  “There now. A fitting tribute. You got to fuck the woman I wanted, and you were always whining like a stupid bitch over the details.” He pitched his voice high like a girl’s. “Is it legal? Blah, blah, blah. Now everyone will mourn you. Hell,” he giggled again, “I’ll mourn you. No one will ever guess. Hee hee.”

  Uncapping a bottle, he sprinkled blood on Todd’s shirtfront, then rubbed some blood on the knuckles as well. It hadn’t been easy to get it, but blood drive volunteers, especially well-known ones, weren’t watched that closely.

  Ripping open an envelope he pulled from inside his jumpsuit, he plucked a series of long blond hairs from it, draping one across the lapel of the designer suit Todd wore. He then dropped the others around the body, making sure at least one stuck in the blood on Todd’s knuckles.

  With a skipping step, he practically danced over to the thermostat. Setting the controls to the lowest possible air-conditioning setting, he then programmed it to come back up to regular temperature within twenty-four hours. The body would probably be found on Saturday of course, when parishioners came to the church to prep for the Sunday service. Then again, it could be Sunday morning. Nice thought. Either way, if all the TV shows and books were right, the cold temperatures would delay determination of time of death.

  Perfect for what he wanted.

  Within minutes, he’d stashed the wheelchair and relocked the church. It took only two more minutes to park the car he’d used to transport the
body at the gas station on the corner. He slipped through the concealing shadows to his own car four blocks away. The first layer of gloves he’d stripped off went into a plastic bag. He’d dispose of them across town.

  So many idiots left evidence too close to the crime scene. Stupid. Then again, most criminals were morons. The crime shows were sensationalized, of course, but most were built on brainless things people had actually done, like dropping gloves or weapons a block or less away. No wonder they got caught.

  The second rental car was parked in the public lot downtown. He’d parked his own car on the street and put enough quarters in the meter to get him past the time the meters were in effect. Snapping on another pair of latex gloves, he popped the trunk on the junky car to be sure the pipe bombs and Molotov cocktails were still in their protective cushioning. Grinning at them, he carefully shut the trunk. He didn’t want the fireworks to start early.

  As he drove off the lot and turned north, he couldn’t stop laughing. He cranked the radio, and sang along to the songs as they came on. He felt so free. No one would ever know.

  It wasn’t the perfect crime because there was no way now he could get the money. In some ways, that made it better; there was no obvious motive for him to do anything to anyone.

  It was revenge at its purist. He didn’t profit, but neither of them would have it, or each other.

  At this point, that was enough.

  He’d practiced and practiced tossing the bombs and bottles. He knew it would work faultlessly because he’d had plenty of time to perfect his technique. Five long years to plan, to decide, to study. To practice.

  He dabbed his forehead and neck with his handkerchief. He was still sweating from moving the body, drat it. He’d worked out with a trainer to prepare, but he really needed to get more exercise, as annoying and disgusting as it was.

  He hated it, but he needed to go to the gym more often. Otherwise, how could he possibly manage his new life, once his revenge had run its course?

  Two left turns got him onto the quiet Society Hill side street where she lived. To his delight, his scan for dog walkers and busybodies showed nothing. No one was out.

  That would change quickly, he decided with another giggle. It was the work of seconds to jump out, throw the bombs, light the bottles and throw them, then dive back into the car.

  The devices arched through the air, breaking the windows just as he’d envisioned it. Perfect. Everything was perfect. He tossed the last pipe bomb hard enough to break the windows in her car where it sat out front.

  Fire blossomed with a roar in the house as he sped away.

  “What a total rush!” he exalted.

  Behind him, the boom of the explosives he’d tossed in both house and car shattered the calm night. “Woooo-hoooo!” he screamed, laughing like a loon. The only thing that would be better was if he could stay and watch.

  That’s how real criminals were exposed though, he reminded himself. His work was about justice. Not crime. So he knew better than to make low-class, un-educated mistakes.

  Slowing to a sedate pace, he drove to another lot on Chestnut, switched the plates to a different rental car, and dropped that rickety junker back at a third, unrelated agency four blocks away. Peeling out of the workman’s coverall he was wearing, he packed the clothes, gloves, and wig into a plastic bag, and put that in a plain black gym bag. He threw the second pair of gloves into a McDonalds’ trash can as he walked up to Fifth and hailed a cab. There were always cabs in Society Hill, even at night. The bars and nightspots were popular, and since both the Phillies and the Flyers were playing at home, the town was busy.

  His elegant suit was only slightly rumpled, and it got him immediate attention.

  “Where to, sir?” the cabbie inquired.

  “Market and Ludlow, over by the Shops at Liberty Place. My car’s on the street there. I had to bring an, uh, mmm, tipsy friend home.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the cabbie nodded with sage understanding and a glance at the gym bag. As hoped, the cabbie assumed he had been unlucky in love. “Bummer. You want I should drop you at the car, or somewhere else?”

  “I think this was enough of a letdown that I’ll head on home.” Pretending to be tired was far more difficult than he’d imagined. Delicious joy pulsed within him.

  Todd was dead. Hopefully Torie was, too.

  They deserved it. Every bit of it.

  Now, there was only one last thing to do. He nearly giggled aloud at the thought. He was so high, it would be easy. Easy peasy rice and cheesy, he singsonged the playground chant in his mind.

  What a wonderful day.

  Torie dropped her keys on the hall table and headed back to the kitchen. Stopping only long enough to plunk her purse and grocery bags on the counter, she continued through her townhouse to the stairs.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called to the dog whining behind the baby gate across her bedroom door. Her young Labrador retriever was wiggling in doggie ecstasy as she approached, as if to say, “You’re home! You’re home!”

  Torie kicked off her shoes in the hall and grabbed the dog’s collar before she disengaged the gate. Hanging on for dear life, she managed to keep Pickle’s feet mostly on the ground, preserving her skirt and blouse.

  “C’mon, Pickle, let’s get you outside, girl.”

  With the dog bounding around the small backyard, Torie hurried upstairs to change. For the first time in weeks, she hadn’t brought work home. She was going to cook herself a nice dinner, and spend the evening with the dog and a good book.

  She was tired of work, tired of being everyone’s go-to girl. She figured she’d beat her mother to the punch, call early and get off the phone right away. As much as she loved her mother, the prospect of an evening free of questions about her dating habits and marital prospects was worth the pain of being the first to call. Now that her mother was in assisted living, her chief entertainment was calling Torie and bedeviling her only daughter about her social life.

  Torie decided jeans and a sweatshirt would withstand Pickle’s enthusiasm. Her bare feet were silent on the lovely wood floors as she padded to let the dog in. She was absorbing the licks and absolute happiness of the dog’s greeting when she heard it.

  The crash was loud. The sound of breaking glass was unmistakable. So was the pungent smell of gasoline. And fire. What on earth? Had someone hit her car? The house? Struggling to her feet, she held Pickle’s collar. The dog barked frantically as they started toward the living room.

  Then the world exploded.

  Flung backward, she and the dog slammed against the wall. It was a moment before the sounds and smells penetrated her shock. The roar of flames, the nauseating smell of burning curtains and upholstery.

  Phone. The phone. She had to get it, call nine-one-one.

  A whimper made her pause. Pickle was struggling to rise as well, and Torie scooped her up with a grunt, grabbed her purse, and ran for the back door.

  The second explosion threw them through the door and into a heap on the back deck. She saw stars as her head connected with the edge of the concrete planter.

  Sirens wailed in the darkness as Torie groaned and tried to get up. Someone had seen the flames. Thank God. Still, she fumbled for her purse. The phone—she had to get to the phone. Wrestling it from her bag, she dialed nine-one-one.

  “Philadelphia Dispatch. What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “Fire,” Torie croaked, giving her address. “Ambulance. I’m on the back deck. I need my vet.” Pickle was whimpering in pain, her leg at an awkward angle. She managed to stutter out the vet’s name before the pain in her head registered. “Oh, shit,” she mumbled as the dispatcher firmly requested her status. Staring at the red liquid covering her hand. “I’m really bleeding. A lot.” Her vision wavered and her forehead throbbed.

  She hated blood.

  The roar of sirens and heavy engines filled her ears. Or was that the blood rushing out? How could you tell?

  The dispatcher’s vo
ice was getting farther and farther away. Everything narrowed to the blood on her hand. She pressed her head again, and her palm came away wetter and redder.

  “Fascinating,” she whispered a moment before she pitched forward onto the deck next to the whimpering dog.

  Everything was swimming and swaying. Voices echoed in her head and all around her. She couldn’t identify any of it.

  “Wha…” she tried to speak, to sit up.

  Firm hands held her down. “Be still, ma’am. We’re taking you to the emergency room now. They’ll check you out, get some stitches in that cut.”

  “Cut?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You have a pretty serious cut on your forehead.”

  “My dog,” Torie struggled to sit up again. “Pickle. My dog. She was hurt.”

  “Please, ma’am. Don’t try to sit. I don’t know about the dog, but I’m sure the firefighters got her, and are looking after her.”

  The wait was interminable—the wait for the doctor, for the numbing agent to work on her head, the wait for word on Pickle. Waiting for everything.

  No one would talk to her about what had happened. Her stomach was in knots, her head was pounding so hard she could hardly see. They wanted to give her a pill to kill the pain, then keep her overnight, but she needed to know about Pickle, and her house. And she needed to know why? Why would anyone set fire to her house?

  “Miss?” she called out to a passing nurse. “I’m sorry to bother you, but has anyone from the fire department come or called yet?”

  The nurse had pity in her eyes. It was the third time Torie had asked. Every nurse on the floor probably knew about the pitiful woman who was worried about her dog and her house.

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse replied, stepping to the side of the bed to fluff the flat pillow. “If you could relax for a bit, I’m sure someone from the police will be along to let you know. We’re going to move you upstairs as soon as we can.” She unclipped the chart and frowned. “Why don’t you go ahead and take the pain medication? We’ll wake you up when the officers arrive.”