An Inner Fire (31 page)

He couldn’t go on with this charade much longer. Benson had tried to circumvent him and make his own deal with the Russians. The idiot broke into Davis’ office to steal his files and then lit Grayce Walter’s house, all to prove he had the
shit
to work for the mob without a handler.

He didn’t want to think about what Zavragin had done when he found out about Benson’s activities.

He blamed himself. He should’ve known Benson would have grandiose visions, see himself as a player. True to his criminal nature, Benson believed he was above the rules. He should’ve seen it coming; Benson’s obsession with the color red had been a warning signal.

Then Davis’ investigation had uncovered Benson’s involvement with the Fisherman’s Terminal fire and Zavragin had eliminated him. The Russians had staged the murder in Benson’s storage unit to look like a suicide. They never left loose ends; loose ends led right back to the source. After a few laced drinks, Benson had passed out in the driver’s seat of his Corvette with the engine running. Then they clipped a note to his sun visor, taking full responsibility for the fire, as well as several other fire fatalities the department had never solved.

Davis would follow the threads and uncover the proof that Benson was the torch. But Zavragin had that much right: dead men could give evidence, but they can’t turn state’s evidence.

He pulled his car out of the church parking lot and headed home. The freeway was open, no twisting lines of cars. He drove in silence. Benson’s suicide and the confession note that admitted to lighting both fires would close the case for the department and delay Davis contacting the FBI to investigate the Russian’s drug smuggling. Benson was their patsy.

Three more days, and then his work was finished. He had cashed out his retirement.

He didn’t expect that anyone in the department would understand. He hoped Davis might. But in the end, they would hold him responsible for Benson’s death. And they would be right.

Chapter Forty-Five

Grayce stood at Mrs. Leary’s front door. Mitzi watched her from the car, barking frantically when Mrs. Leary opened the door. Grayce turned to find Mitzi jumping at the car window.

“Is that your dog, Dr. Walters?”

“She’s a friend’s dog, spending the day with me.”

She had been out-maneuvered by Davis, who had dropped Mitzi off when she went to her parent’s house to shower. Either she had to call him or accept Mitzi as her companion for the next few days. It was an easy choice.

At the sound of their voices, Mitzi began another frenzied round of barking.

“She’s upset.”

“She’ll settle down in a minute. She misses her owner.” Great, now she appeared cruel by leaving the dog in the car.

“Oh, I don’t want her to suffer. Have her come in.”

“Beowulf will be distressed by having a dog in his house,” Grayce said.

Mrs. Leary took Grayce’s hand. “Beowulf’s not skittish. He loves dogs.”

“I’m not sure Beowulf considers loving dogs as a compliment.”

The older woman tittered, her warm eyes sparkling. Mitzi gave a pitiful cry.

The dog could have a career in Hollywood. “Are you sure Mrs. Leary? Really, Mitzi will settle down once we’ve gone in.”

“I think Beowulf would like the company.”

On cue, Mitzi gave her high-pitched yelp.

“I’ll bring her in, but you must tell me if you feel it’s too much for Beowulf.”

The delicate woman patted her on the arm. “It’s going to be fine. Don’t worry.”

She walked to her car and unlocked the door. “Nice job, you’re invited in.” The dog’s entire demeanor went through a radical change. A relaxed Mitzi walked next to Grayce to greet Mrs. Leary.

“What a beautiful dog.”

Mitzi sat on the porch and placed her head under the old woman’s hand.

“You didn’t want to be by yourself. I understand.” The stooped woman leaned down and rubbed the dog’s head. “Beowulf is sleeping in the living room. Please, both of you come in.”

Mitzi, followed Mrs. Leary into the small living room, filled with an oversized chair and couch. Pictures of smiling children lined the side tables.

Beowulf slept on the couch. He opened his eyes, briefly acknowledging Grayce and Mitzi, but remained motionless. His respirations were shallow, but he didn’t appear to be in pain.

Mitzi, venturing from Mrs. Leary side, walked slowly toward the cat. She paused, doing her own assessment, then gently licked the giant cat’s head. Beowulf closed his eyes and purred softly.

Mitzi repeated the gentle gesture. Beowulf remained still. After a few more licks, Mitzi laid down in front of the cat.

“Isn’t that amazing? Mitzi is offering comfort to Beowulf, as if he were visiting a dear friends in the hospital,” Mrs. Leary said.

“You’re right.”

Grayce felt the familiar ache, the hole that opened up inside her, the gaping wound of grief. There were no further treatments, no magic healing that she could perform against death. There was nothing in her large fund of knowledge to stop the process of dying. When she had trained to heal, she never fully anticipated how often she would need to help animals die and then care for the people who loved them. And how often she would have to revisit her own loss.

It was Beowulf’s time. Mitzi, without years of training, knew what needed to be done—gentle comfort.

“Come sit down, Dr. Walters. I appreciate that you and Mitzi have come. Beowulf knows you cared and did all you could.”

She had come to help Mrs. Leary; instead, the woman was soothing her. Tears pooled in her eyes. She seldom cried, but, in the last few days, she had turned into a geyser.

“Come, sit down by Beowulf. I’ll get the tea.”

“You mustn’t bother.”

“It’s no bother. It’s ready.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

Mrs. Leary limped toward the kitchen.

“Can I carry the tray for you?”

“Not necessary my dear. I have a push cart. You sit with Beowulf.”

Grayce sat next to the giant cat and put her hand on his head, barely touching him.

“Beowulf, it’s almost time, my sweet friend. You’ve done your job.”

Mitzi sat up. Like a lioness with her cub, she tenderly licked the cat.

“You’ve been a great cat. Mrs. Leary wants you to go. Your time to rest. Don’t worry about Mrs. Leary. Mitzi and I will visit her.”

Beowulf didn’t open his eyes. He continued his shallow breathing. He waited for his mistress.

She looked into Mitzi’s eyes. They both understood the moment. Mitzi put her head in Grayce’s lap.

The three sat together, sharing a bittersweet peace.

Grayce drove away in silence. She wasn’t in the mood for music. An erect Mitzi sat next to her in the passenger seat.

“Thank you for your help.”

Mitzi leaned over and put her head on Grayce’s arm.

“I’m sad too.”

An inadequate word to describe grief, the primitive physical pain of loss, your body aching with misery, making it hurt to breathe, making it hurt to remember.

Grayce grieved. She grieved for Beowulf, for the light in Mrs. Leary’s life now gone. She grieved for a relationship with Davis that might have worked if only she could’ve shared her real self.

Grayce was glad to have Mitzi going back to the office with her. Davis told Hollie he would come for Mitzi when the case was resolved. She refused to start reanalyzing their relationship and whether Davis could accept that she communicated with her dead sister, had visions from his dog, or that when she healed, she channeled her energy into a different plane of consciousness. Not easy things for a logical, left-brained man to accept, or a woman of science to explain.

Chapter Forty-Six

Davis steered his car around the speed bump in the trailer park. He pulled into Benson’s driveway. The dilapidated trailer stood as testimony to Benson’s alcoholic decline.

Davis had been desperate to find Benson, once Ferette had identified him from his keycard as the intruder who had broken into his office. His assignment on the West Seattle fire delayed the trip to Kent. And now he was too late. Benson was dead.

“Come on in.” Betty, Benson’s widow dabbed at her nose with a knotted Kleenex, a cigarette in her other hand.

Davis sat, avoiding the darkened spots on the threadbare couch. The haze of heavy smoke didn’t lessen the reek of stale beer and garbage.

“I can’t believe he killed himself.” Betty gulped, trying to suppress a sob when she inhaled from her cigarette.

He couldn’t understand why the woman grieved for the bastard who had treated her so badly. A memory of one of Benson’s abusive, drunken scenes with his wife at a department holiday party flitted across his brain. Life with an alcoholic was never predictable or pretty.

“I know this is really hard for you.”

The haggard woman couldn’t be older than thirty-five. Her mouth was lined from years of dragging on too many cigarettes. Betty had probably been pretty in high school, with her blond hair and blue eyes.

“When was the last time you saw Rob?”

“We weren’t together.” She twisted the Kleenex. “But we were thinking of getting back together.”

He could imagine the dysfunction. He really didn’t want to hear the details of the abusive relationship.

“You saw him recently?”

“Last week.”

“Did Rob find work after he got laid off?”

“Must’ve, he had money.”

“What was he doing?”

“He said he was finally getting to be his own boss.” She reached for another cigarette. “He bought that red Corvette. He kept it in storage so the paint would stay nice and shiny, but mostly so no one would steal it. He was going to take me to Las Vegas, just like the old days.” She started to cry again. “He called me baby.” Her face twisted. Black ran down her cheeks from the heavy mascara.

He shifted his weight on the musty couch. He hesitated. “Did Rob ever talk about killing himself?”

“He said he was like his dad, too mean of an S.O.B. to die.” Her laughing bark was followed with a dry hacking cough. “It just don’t make sense. He was so excited about the car, his new job, me…”

His gut was right. Benson wasn’t a candidate for suicide. He would never take the blame for any of his mistakes.

“Was he still mad about being retired from the department?”

“He stayed pissed. You couldn’t talk to him about it. After they let him go, he got real mean and his drinking got real bad. He would go on about how the department went down the toilet. He couldn’t believe that they hired women and blacks but let him go over a little booze.”

“Did he stay in touch with any of the guys from the department?”

Betty smashed her cigarette in the loaded ashtray. He was probably getting lung cancer, just sitting in the smoke infested room.

“I don’t know.”

“Did he ever mention anyone?”

“Only the nice chaplain.”

“He never told you what his new job was?”

“Nah, but he liked it. That’s why it doesn’t make sense. Why would he kill himself, now?”

He waited through another ten minutes of a winding monologue. Betty wasn’t going to reveal anything significant. Unsure of Betty’s financial situation, he took a $100.00 bill out. “I don’t think Benson would’ve liked flowers. You decide what to do for him.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry you couldn’t make the funeral. He looked real nice. I put him in his uniform. He would’ve wanted it. I had ’em dye his hair back to brown.”

He tried to sound nonchalant, but his pulse raced. “Rob changed his hair color?”

Betty examined the $100.00 bill. “He got real mad when I told him I didn’t like it. It was weird for a man his age to have red hair.”

His gut did a little turn over before settling. “Did he say why he chose red?”

“Nah, just if I didn’t like it, to cram it.”

He walked outside, taking his first real breath since he’d arrived in Kent. His mind was buzzing. Benson had combined the brake fluid with chlorine to get the big bang. And with his 20,000 bucks, he’d bought himself a red corvette. Only one problem—red hair wasn’t enough evidence to prove that Benson lit the fire.

Benson must’ve been the bastard who knocked Grayce down the stairs and lit her house. He didn’t want to think about what he would’ve done if the asshole wasn’t dead.

Davis got into his car, his brain trying to make all the connections. Assuming Benson was the torch, why had he burned Grayce’s house after he threatened her? Grayce and James followed Maclean after the party, so there wasn’t any need to threaten her unless she was correct about Maclean’s huge gambling debts and criminal connections.

But had Maclean killed Benson? It seemed too much of a fantasy. He couldn’t see Benson organizing large scale crimes, negotiating with the mob. But Davis could imagine Maclean being incredibly competent at managing every critical detail of mob crimes.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Grayce woke herself out of the nightmare. Her heart pounded against her chest, making it hard for her to breathe. She had been too late, too late to save Davis from falling from a great “height” but she couldn’t remember whether it was a cliff on Mount Rainier, or the window in his condo, or a burning high rise, but Davis was falling, and neither she nor Mitzi could do anything to prevent his plummet.