"I hear you, trust me," O'Malley said. "But in a case like this, I'm willing to overlook her direct opposition of my orders, seeing as how she managed to do in one day what our entire department could not-bring in this guy. Now...he's being questioned and we've got a small Forensics team scouring his house for other proof. As of about ten minutes ago, we've also discovered several scattered bones buried in his backyard but they are almost certainly the remains of a large dog."

"Are we still lacking evidence to point towards the use of humans in his little experiments?" Avery asked.

"So far, yes. And d.a.m.n it, Black...don't you dare go doubting me on this. You nailed this b.a.s.t.a.r.d and I've put you back on task. Don't b.u.t.t heads with me on this."

"Yes sir," she said reluctantly.

O'Malley sighed and placed his hands on his hips. "For the sake of argument, Black, what are your concerns?"

"My concerns are that if he is our guy, he wasn't burning human bodies in his home. Torching a cat in a cooler is one thing. But you're not going to be able to burn a human body in a cooler, sir. If this is our guy, he's got another location somewhere and I think we should be putting our time and resources into finding it."

O'Malley nodded in an appreciative way. "I want a team on that right now," he said, looking around the table. "But as of right now, all signs are pointing this being our guy. Further digging shows that he also tried getting jobs at two other crematoriums in the city. He also attempted to take cla.s.ses at the community college dealing with human anatomy but failed out after one semester. There were trace amounts of gasoline in the lining of those coolers, which shows he has no problem keeping the necessary materials on hand. Two plus two equals four, people. Sometimes we get lucky and it all matches up. d.a.m.n good work, Black. You too, Ramirez."

More eye rolls and a brief smattering of reluctant applause filled the room. Avery looked to Ramirez, who gave her a sly little grin.

"That's it," O'Malley said. "It's late and we need to get feelers out for a second location this creep was using. Break, people! Get to work."

The small crowd got up from the conference room table and disbanded. As Avery tried to do the same, Connelly stepped in front of her. "One second, Black."

She stepped to the side as the last of the attendees filed out. Ramirez hung behind, remaining in his seat. "Do I need to go?" he asked.

"No, you're her partner," O'Malley said, joining Connelly. "You should probably hear this, too."

He closed the door and took a seat at the conference room table. Connelly joined him and the two men shared a brief glance that Avery could not read. A thick and uncomfortable silence filled the room, making Avery feel like she was on trial for something.

"Here's the deal, Black," O'Malley said. "Yes, you disobeyed me yet again today. But you also managed to get stellar results without anyone's help. We understand that Ramirez came to your side, which technically puts him on my s.h.i.t list but I'm willing to overlook it. Black...I don't even know what to do with you. The results you bring in time and time again can't be ignored. And the fact that you were on your own today and got more done than our entire department shows that you don't mind going it alone. And Ramirez...you complement her well. You could have taken full credit for finding Bailey today but gave credit where it was due. There aren't many men on the force that would do that."

Again, silence fell over the room. Avery was starting to wonder if they were looking for an apology out of her. If that were the case, they were going to be sorely disappointed.

Instead, O'Malley said something that floored her-something she had not been expecting.

"When this one is all over, and the last of the paperwork is filed away and Phillip Bailey is behind bars, we want to talk to you about a promotion to sergeant."

She was speechless. Words literally would not form on her tongue. Did I hear him right?

"Black?" Connelly asked.

"Thank you," she said. "But...I guess I just don't understand."

"You deserve it," Connelly said.

"More than that, I think you'd be a great sergeant," O'Malley said. "If you can bring the same results you produce as a detective to the position, it could be a great fit."

"Can I think about it?" Avery asked, still astounded.

"Yes," O'Malley said. "Think it over. We'll start the actual discussion on this when Bailey's case is done."

"And it is just about done," Connelly said. "Do you understand that, Black? This is our guy. Unless someone comes to the front door of the A1 with a confession that says otherwise, Phillip Bailey is our killer. So don't go digging this hole any deeper."

But what if we need to go deeper?

It was an alluring thought but she kept it to herself. In the wake of the totally unexpected conversation they had just had, it seemed foolish to stir up the hornet's nest.

"Again," O'Malley said, "good work today, you two. Now both of you go home and get some sleep."

With this comment made, Avery saw a thin smile touch the corners of Connelly's mouth. He definitely suspects there's something going on with me and Ramirez, she thought. So much for keeping it a secret.

O'Malley and Connelly left the room, closing the door behind them. Ramirez gave her a grin from across the table and shrugged. "Going home to get some sleep," he said. "Sounds like a pretty good idea, huh?"

"Maybe."

"We could go together," he said. "Maybe end up in the same bed."

"I don't think there would be much sleeping involved if we did that," Avery said.

Ramirez nodded, as if she had just made a very good point. "Still...I guess it doesn't matter," he said. "I've seen this look on your face before. You're not sure Bailey is the guy, are you?"

"There are some lingering doubts, yes."

"So you're working a late night, huh?"

She nodded. "Ramirez...the other night was great. It was better than great, actually. But I can't let that define our working relationship, too. And right now, until this case is really over, I don't know that I'd be able to draw a line between the two."

"I got it," he said. "You do your thing, Black. I'm going back to my little corner of the building and see what I can do to help wrap up the paperwork on this. If you need me, let me know."

She got the clear impression that this was his way of giving her a second chance-to come back home with him when she was done for the night.

"I will," she said. "Thanks, Ramirez."

He got up from his chair and gave her a light and rea.s.suring squeeze on the shoulder as he pa.s.sed her and made his exit. Avery was left alone at the table. She stared into s.p.a.ce, feeling the sense of uncertainty wash over her.

If Bailey was not their guy, the killer was still out there. And if he had showed them anything so far, it was that he moved quickly-almost as quickly as the fire he used to kill his victims.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

He stared out of the pa.s.senger side window of the car, looking at the two-story house beside him. It was a nice house, complete with a pool in the backyard. The neighborhood wasn't a particularly nice one, but this woman lived on the nicer cul-de-sac. It was easily one of the nicest houses in the subdivision.

He had never met the woman but knew a good deal about her. Her name was Sophia Lesbrook. She was able to live in the house because her husband had worked as a very successful real estate broker. Her husband, though, had died two months ago. He had been able to get her address by calling the flower shop that had taken the bulk of orders from family and friends when her husband had pa.s.sed away and placing his own fake order which he later cancelled.

Sophia had been a tough one to get. With the others, he had studied their movements and schedules. But Sophia had not gotten out much after her husband had died. She was fifty-two years old. They had never had any kids so she was living in this nice house by herself, visited only by a sister that stopped by once or twice a week. He knew this because this was not the first time he had parked across from her house. In fact, he'd done it six different times.

He was going to have to take some risks tonight if he wanted to procure her. He was pretty sure there were no electrical alarms or security systems within the house. He also knew where the spare key was; he had seen the sister take it from beneath one of the six flower pots that lined the porch.

He'd never broken into anyone's home before. In fact, up until he had taken Keisha Lawrence, he had never broken the law. He had done some things that he knew others would frown upon and might be considered deranged, but he had never broken the law.

So when he stepped out of his car and headed for Sophia Lesbrook's house, there was a whole new excitement to it. He had no gun, he had no knife...but he did have the drive behind his work and a pair of hands with the full strength of his toned arms behind them.

It was two in the morning and the entire subdivision was eerily quiet. It made every movement he made seem thunderously loud. He made his way up onto the porch and quietly lifted the fourth flower pot from the right. The silver spare key glittered in the moonlight like a beacon.

He picked it up and the feel of it sent a shock of excitement through him. He was really going to do this. He was about to cross a line that could never be uncrossed. Now it was more than just the fire that drove him...now it was the sense that he could do anything he wanted and could not be stopped.

He slid the key into the front door lock. When he turned it, his mind oddly turned to thoughts of his mother. She would be so disappointed in him. Breaking and entering. Kidnapping. Murder. He had clearly not become the upright young man she had desired him to be.

Well, f.u.c.k her, he thought. This is her fault. She did this to me. She sent me on this path.

It felt like a thin excuse but it was good enough for him.

After his father had died, his mother had kept his ashes in an urn on the mantel in the living room. He had been twelve when it happened, staring at that urn for more than seven years until he finally moved out. He recalled the arguments his mother and grandmother had often had. His grandmother tearing into his mother because she claimed her son had not wanted to be cremated. It had been nowhere in his will and he had deserved to be buried in the family plot out by their church. But his mother had always insisted that it had been the right thing to do. He would stare at that urn sometimes and wonder how someone's entire life and being could be held by it.

When he was twenty, his mother had made him spread the ashes. They'd done it out at a lake where no one had been in attendance. She had been drunk as he scattered the ashes, murmuring about how this was what he would have wanted...this was the best thing. By that point, his grandmother had moved to another state and there had been no arguments. And he had felt that it had been very wrong.

It had seemed wrong to him then and it still seemed wrong. To burn someone's dead body when they had not wanted such a thing for their final remains. To scatter them in what had seemed like a random location was even worse. He'd hated his mother for it for the longest time. It made him think of her as a witch who had kept his ashes for emotional reasons he had never quite understood.

When he opened the door to Sophia Lesbrook's house, he almost hoped his mother was hearing it wherever she was these days. He hoped she was dreaming it and that this act of disobedience was pulling her from her sleep.

Ahead of him, the house was dreary and dark. It was a lovely house, the living room opening up on the right to show a fifty-inch television over a fireplace set into the wall. Everything was immaculately cleaned and he could smell something that had been baking earlier in the day-cinnamon rolls, perhaps.

He ventured through the house, enjoying the thrill of seeing the interior of a house he did not belong in. But he did not let himself get distracted. He went from room to room, finally finding Sophia's bedroom upstairs.

She slept with a noise machine on the bedside table. It was tuned to basic white noise, a hiss that made the room feel small in an odd way.

He stepped to the side of the bed and watched her sleep for a few seconds. With a slight frown, he then made a fist of his right hand, drew it back, and delivered a hard punch to the side of her head.

Her eyes sprang open as she sprang hard to the right. She opened her mouth to cry out but his hand was quick to cover her lips. He crawled onto the bed and straddled her. He drew his right hand back and hit her again. This time, an ache went spiraling through his wrist. Beneath him, her body went limp.

In an almost anticlimactic way, he removed himself from the bed and looked down at her. He removed the covers from her body and stared at her. She was pretty for her age and he wondered what it might be like to be the kind of man that would take advantage of her unconscious body. But that was not him. He would never sink to those depraved depths.

But really...he had never thought he'd break into someone's house. How much further was he capable of going?

With some effort, he was able to get her out of the bed. He carried her threshold style, feeling the slight rise and fall of her breaths against him. He carried her down the stairs and looked back into the living room. He paused for a moment before leaving.

He stared into the living room. On the mantel between the fireplace and the television, there were a few pictures of family members and of a man he a.s.sumed had been Sophia's husband.

And in the midst of it all, there was an urn...the final resting place of her husband's ashes until they were scattered.

But with her gone, he didn't think those ashes would ever be scattered.

He gave the urn a final longing look and then carried Sophia's unconscious body back out into the night.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

Avery gave up on the hope of sleep sometime after one in the morning. She put on a fresh pot of coffee in the A1 break room and was on her second cup when her thoughts once again turned to her odd meeting with Howard Randall. Randall had never been one to just hand out information. He preferred to provide clues in an almost cryptic form, making her work for it.

Is that what he was doing when I visited him? she wondered. Was his mood a hint?

It was a stretch. All she knew was that his insistence that she never visit him again was not like him at all. He usually enjoyed her visits, mainly because he got off on the fact that someone of her caliber relied on his insights. So why the sudden the change of a heart?

It made her wonder if his direction had been misleading. He had suggested that she not worry so much about the arson aspect of fire...that it was totally symbolic. She agreed with it but it was hard to find a suspect based on nothing more than symbolism. There had to be something else...something she was missing.

She rifled through the papers on her desk and pulled out the details on the victims. She read through them a few times, waiting for a link to jump out at her.

All women so far.

The third was rushed, the body not burned. No positive ID as of yet.

The manner in which he leaves the remains indicates that he wants our attention but has no desire to be caught. He wants to gloat about what he's doing but is content to do it for the attention.

That again made her think of what she and Dr. Sloane Miller had discussed. Arsonists often revisited the scene of their crime to watch the destruction. So maybe the killer was coming back to his crime scenes to watch Avery and her fellow detectives and law enforcement officials try to figure out the method to his madness. But why? What was it about their psychological makeup that drove them to do such a thing?

There was another question, still: if he was using fire as a symbolic means, maybe the symbolism didn't stop at the fire. Maybe it came down to the victims, too.

What am I missing?

She was about to pore over the information on the victims again when a knock sounded out at her already open door. She looked up and saw Ramirez peeking in. He looked tired but still had that boyish sort of energy to him when he smiled at her.

"Anything new?" he asked.

"No. Just dead ends and frustration. You?"

"Phillip Bailey has a lawyer coming in tomorrow morning. He'd still insisting he has never killed a person-that his perversions never extended beyond animals."

"So things with him are at a stand-still for now?" she asked.

"Yeah, until tomorrow when the lawyer comes in. Why? You still have your doubts?"

"I do, but I don't know why."

"Well, give your brain a rest," he said. He walked into the office and walked behind her as she remained sitting. He started to ma.s.sage her shoulders and she instantly felt herself relax. She couldn't remember the last time a man had rubbed her back.

"My brain never rests," she said. "And Ramirez...while what you're doing feels amazing, that's crossing the line we keep talking about."

"To h.e.l.l with that line. There's no one else on this floor right now."