Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story G.P. Sorrells (books to get back into reading TXT) 📖

He worked the hook into the deadbolt and fiddled with the mechanism until the tumbler fell into place. He returned the tool to his pocket and opened the door. A stale burst of air greeted him as he stepped inside, stifling if not entirely unexpected. The restaurant had been closed for five hours and there was no reason to keep the temperature cool with no bodies.

The parlor housed a plethora of flammable goods for a place who chief function was to make food that required a high level of heat to achieve proper results. Tacky red and white tablecloths draped every table, and they plastered the walls with stock wallpaper depicting various scenes of the Old Country. Micah briefly wondered if anyone believed the tales the wallpaper told about life in Italy in those days. Or if they associated any of it with the staff.

Not keen to waste any more time than he had already, Micah quickly worked his way around the parlor, dousing every bit of space with gasoline. Although he knew he could achieve his end goal without this extra work, he felt like giving the act a bit of flair, being creative. Most of all, he wanted to create doubt with the Fire Marshall who would eventually investigate the fire to determine the cause. Rather than make it obvious that foul play had been involved, he figured it would be more interesting to make the task extra challenging with a dose of negligence and an Act of God thrown in for good measure.

Once he was content that enough of the interior had been home to at least the vapors of the crude cocktail, he walked back to the side door and pulled out a Zippo with a U.S. Army logo on it. He ignited the lighter and tossed it into the building. The fire started slowly, as though there was some uncertainty around whether it could develop into more than a few stray sparks. It erupted in flames a moment later.

By the time he heard the first explosion, Micah had reached a pier that stretched out from the beach for what seemed like a mile. The old, well-traveled wood creaked underneath his weight with each step as he walked to the end and stopped. He stared at the water and thought about the events of the past twenty-four hours, telling himself it would all be worth it in the end. Amongst only the darkness, Micah heaved the gas container into the tranquil waters of the Atlantic and walked away as though he had simply tossed a couple pieces of bread into the water for a nearby group of seagulls.

Chapter 8

The Mercedes was no longer silver. Two-plus hours of constant heat from the flames had turned it to a color more closely resembling soot. At a quick glance it looked like Santa had found an extra naughty boy or girl and, instead of a small piece of coal in their stocking, he had given them a boulder that they could display on their front lawn for all to see as a reminder of how not to act. All that remained of the windows were tiny shards along the edges of the doorframe. The license plate was also missing.

Osteen and Vivian reached the scene of the aluminum s’more just in time to see the fire crews spraying it down to prevent any further sparks from popping up. The detectives made their way past the yellow police tape that blocked off the perimeter and found the crime scene technician that made it to the blaze first. She was briefing the responding officer of her findings to that point.

“Afternoon, detectives,” the tech said. The way she carried herself, calm and confident, belied the fact that she hadn’t done this as often as Osteen would have guessed. In fact, the green light to assess crime scenes on her own was a more recent development; she was only a few months removed from graduation. It would be a little while yet before she could move forward into the glamourous side of the role, if such a thing existed, but she was content to earn her chance to step into the big leagues.

“Find anything yet?” Osteen had been hoping for a juicy lead that could make solving the case much quicker than his gut suggested it could take. He had crossed his fingers that the incessant feeling emanating from his gut was all just a matter of indigestion from some undercooked tacos.

“Unfortunately, there’s not much physical evidence that anyone other than the late Edgar Jennings drove this vehicle more recently than the past few days,” the tech relented. “We pulled a set of prints off the steering wheel, and another set off the door, but both matched the set we had from the victim’s body.”

“He wore gloves,” Vivian said, as much to herself as to Osteen and the tech. “That would explain the lack of fingerprints on the knife and on Jennings’s head.”

“It would seem likely. At any rate, we’re still looking over the car. If we find anything, I will give you guys a call.”

“Thanks,” Osteen said as he and Vivian turned and walked back to his car. The tech waited for that exact moment to let out a sigh of exasperation. “This just isn’t adding up to the simple carjacking it initially appeared to be.”

“No, it isn’t,” Vivian agreed. “Why would someone carjack a man and kill him, only to bail from the car just a couple blocks away, then torch it before fleeing the scene? Never mind the fact that they just left the vic’s wallet.”

“I suppose the possibility exists that our perp was simply overcome with emotion with the way things with South on him.”

“I don’t buy that. And I sure as hell know you don’t,” she said, opening her door and sitting down.

“No, I don’t. But until we have something more