When the fire was out and the fire department had left a small crew there to watch the smoldering debris, Kent took Barbara and the kids to a hotel and checked them in. With a maniac on the loose, they couldn’t go back home. He rented a room for himself next door to them and tried to sleep, but rage pounded through his veins, throbbing in his head. He had to know whether Bo drove a dark four-door sedan. He got on the phone and got the dispatcher to check on the make and model of both Bo’s and Carter’s cars.
Bo’s was a 2000 Maxima, dark gray. It could have been the same car. Carter drove a pickup truck, but his dead wife had a burgundy Altima.
He wondered if Bo had been at work tonight. If he smelled like booze, gasoline, and smoke.
Kent’s clothes still smelled of smoke, but he didn’t care. He loaded his weapon, holstered it, and pulled his jacket over it. Then he slipped out of his room, careful not to let Barbara hear in the room next door.
“Where you going?”
Lance’s voice startled him. Kent spun around and saw the boy sitting on the floor in the hall. “Lance — why are you out here?”
“I was talking to April on the phone. I didn’t want to wake up Mom and Emily.”
“Go back in. Your mother might wake up and get scared.”
“I know,” he said. “But that stupid doper Tyson showed up at her house again. She said she’d call me right back. I’m waiting.”
Kent could see the pain on Lance’s face. “Well, don’t wait much longer, okay?”
“Okay,” Lance said. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t sleep. I thought I’d go take care of a few things.”
“About Emily’s case?”
He didn’t want to lie to Lance. “Sort of.”
“Want me to go with you?”
The innocent question moved him. “Not tonight.”
Lance’s phone chimed as Kent got on the elevator.
The drive to Bo Lawrence’s house, where Kent had worked the scene of Devon’s murder, took twenty minutes across town. In this lower-income neighborhood, men loitered on corners. He slowed as he passed them, wondering if one of them could be his culprit.
There were flower bouquets around a cross on the front lawn of the Lawrence house. There was no light in the windows.
His headlights lit up a car in the driveway. It was an older model sedan, all right. Dark, four doors. It seemed bigger than the one Kent had seen at his house tonight, but then, he’d been stressed at the time, probably not as observant as he habitually was. And it didn’t have a dented fender. Maybe he’d imagined that or the streetlights had cast shadows.
He slowed in front of the house, wondering if Bo smelled like gasoline and whether his tennis shoes matched the pattern they’d found in the yard. He couldn’t barge into Bo’s house and insist on smelling the guy.
Still . . . he had to know. He pulled his car into the driveway and went to the door. No answer, and no sounds inside. Either he was hiding, sleeping, or he’d gotten a ride somewhere.
He went back to his car. If by some chance Bo was at work, he could easily walk into his store and confront him. He had to find out. He pulled out of the driveway, suddenly sure what he had to do. He drove around for a few minutes, making a plan.
His heart hammered. His head pounded.
He turned around and headed to Bo’s convenience store. It wasn’t far from where Bo lived. He thought of the morning that he’d gone in and told the guy his wife was dead. He’d truly seemed surprised and grief-stricken. But the man could be a good actor.
Kent pulled into a parking space in front of the store, peered in through the barred windows.
There sat Bo behind the counter, talking to a co-worker. Kent quelled the urge to run inside, grab him by the collar, and shake the truth out of him. You trying to kill people I love? Trying to destroy my home?
That would be stupid. He had to be professional.
He set his chin, pulled his lips tight, and got out of the car. Quietly, he closed his door. He didn’t delude himself into thinking Bo would confess, but maybe he could trip him up.
He pushed open the glass door and stepped into the store. Bo’s back was to him, but his co-worker looked up at Kent.
“How ya doin’?”
Kent didn’t answer, just strode toward the counter.
Bo turned around and looked startled to see him. “Hey, Detective.”
Kent’s lips were so tight he could hardly speak. “Criss-cross,” he said.
Bo stared at him. “What?”
Kent didn’t repeat it. “How long have you been here tonight, Bo?”
Bo took a step back. “What’s going on?”
Was that smoke he smelled? Something in his chest snapped. “I asked you a question. How long have you been here tonight?”
“Okay, I’ve been here since seven o’clock. This guy’s been with me the whole time.”
The co-worker, who looked about seventeen, nodded. “Yeah, man. No lie. He’s been here all night.”
Bo’s intense gaze was almost convincing. “What’s going on? Did something else happen? Other police were here earlier tonight, asking me questions, but they wouldn’t say why.”
So Andy and Strand had already been here. Kent stood there, his chest heaving. Had they confirmed Bo’s alibi?
Kent closed his hands into fists. “I saw your car at my house. The one sitting in your driveway.”
“My car ain’t been out of the driveway in two days. I have a flat and haven’t had time to change it. Go back and look!”
Kent set his chin. “Your shoe. Take it off. I want to see it.”
Bo twisted his face as if he thought Kent was crazy, but he slid his tennis shoe off and handed it to him across the counter.
Kent turned it over. The pattern wasn’t like the one he’d seen in the yard. That had had more of a bull’s-eye pattern. This one had a grid pattern with horizontal lines.
Maybe it wasn’t him.
Bo took his shoe back. “The person who killed Devon . . . he’s still doing stuff, ain’t he?”
Kent just stared at him.
Bo leaned on the cash register. “Maybe Carter did all this — killed Devon . . . came to your house.” His voice cracked, and he looked like he struggled to hold back tears. “Look, man, I know I trashed her while I was in treatment. I said things. But when I got home, things were better. I was sober, and the kids really liked it, and Devon and I were going to free counseling at this church she found. We were trying to get help. But then, somebody came into my house and murdered her . . .”
“How did you know about Cassandra?”
“Are you kidding?” Bo said. “The police have interviewed me over and over. They wanted my alibi.” Bo broke down then, his mouth twitching. “So if Carter did this . . . if he killed Devon and Cassandra . . . he must have relapsed and gone off the deep end. But he never called me. I ain’t talked to him since rehab.”
If that was true, Carter’s actions didn’t make sense. Why would he kill Bo’s wife? There was nothing in it for him, even if he was high.
“Let’s go see him,” Bo said. “Right now. I can’t go in my car until I can fix my tire. But we could go in yours.”
The co-worker nodded. “Head out, man. I would if I was you. I’ll hold down the fort.”
Was this a trick? Kent knew his anger dulled his professional reasoning skills. He had to get a grip.
“You’re a cop,” Bo said. “You’re armed. I’m the one who should be afraid to go with you. But no lie, I want to confront Carter.”
Kent’s chest was so tight he thought it might burst. “I just want to see his car.”
“Fine. But go back and look at mine,” Bo said. “It ain’t been nowhere, man. It’s also got a hole in the radiator, so even before the tire went flat, I couldn’t drive it far.”
Kent didn’t want to believe him, but he couldn’t walk away. He just stared at Bo.
“Man, if there’s a chance that Carter killed Devon, I want to know,” Bo said. “Whoever did it changed my life. My kids are suffering. Now I have to raise ’em by myself without their mama. Her parents are tryin’ to get custody, because they don’t trust me to stay sober. Can’t blame ’em. I don’t trust myself. And there’s no way Emily Covington did any of this.”
Kent felt suddenly fragmented, not sure what to do next. His house was uninhabitable. The people he loved were displaced, and their lives were still in jeopardy. The person doing all this was getting sloppy, taking risks. Why, then, was it so hard to prove who it was?
“Come on, man,” Bo said. “Let’s go see Carter. If he did it, I’ll be able to tell. I know the guy. His emotions show on his face, and I know what he looks like when he lies. He can’t hide it from me if he did it. If he’s the one, I’ll testify against him.”
If Kent had been assigned to the case, he would never consider something so unprofessional. But now he was just a victim, fighting for the lives of the people he loved. He considered Bo, standing there with lines of grief and fatigue on his face, waiting for the word.
Bo couldn’t be the arsonist if he’d truly been here all night. And when Cassandra was killed, it was highly unlikely that Bo could have pulled it off, when Kent had spent so much time with him that day.
It had to be Carter. There might be evidence in his car. His phone might have tracked where he’d been tonight. Kent had to know, and if he was right, then he could get Andy and Strand to make an arrest. He doubted seriously that they’d gone to Birmingham tonight in search of his arsonist. He couldn’t make an arrest without a warrant, but he could question the man, look through the windows of his car.
He let out a long sigh. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Bo gave a few instructions to his friend, then followed Kent out to his car.
As Kent pulled out of the parking lot with Bo next to him, he prayed he wasn’t making a mistake.