Read an Excerpt

Down to the Needle

A Mystery Novel

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By Mary Deal

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Mary Deal
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4401-9820-5

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Chapter One

"The perp torched himself," a fireman said, shouting to be heard over the clamor.

Angry red and orange flames from the still burning back half of the warehouse licked at the night sky. Glowing yellow embers, blown by April's night breezes off the nearby ocean, took flight. Fire trucks encircled the building. Firefighters scrambled over strewn equipment. Men wearing army fatigues darted about. Two ambulances waited for the injured.

An officer cupped a hand around the side of his mouth and also yelled. "The perp's inside?"

Abigail Fisher and Joe Arno nudged in closer to hear the conversation between firefighters and the police.

A fireman pointed to the front section of the building where the flames had been doused. "Burned himself into a corner." He shook his head. "Still got the gas can in his hand."

"How soon can we get in there?" the officer asked.

"You aren't going to ID this one right away," the fireman said. "He melted like wax."

Abi carried some of Joe's peripheral filming equipment though only to make her look acceptable so she could tag along. He was a part-time stringer for Seaport's major TV station. Abi stayed on his heels. She would indeed help now that they were there. The work they did when called out to cover a story was meaningful, though it paled in comparison to what Abi envisioned would happen when the greatest predicament in her life would be solved. While anticipating a happy and momentous culmination to a personal tragedy, she always helped others when called upon. The hope she held inside never dimmed but seemed detached from her everyday life. Presently, she worried about the reason for the numerous fires. Seaport and neighboring Creighton had an average number of fires greater than most same-sized cities.

Spectators had gathered, held back by police. From where had they all emerged, considering this was a building at the edge of the industrial section of Seaport? The crackling of the fire and rumbling of the building collapsing drowned out most other sounds.

"Look out!" Abi said, screaming to be heard over the chaos. She gestured frantically in the direction where a portion of a front wall began to shift.

"Coming down!" the Fire Captain yelled into a loud speaker as everyone fled.

Two firefighters dashed out of the building just as the outer wall and roof beams collapsed, propelling a gust of air that sent sparks flying.

Caught off-guard, Abi and Joe wore dinner clothing when unexpectedly called out from the restaurant to film yet another burning. Abi frantically dusted hot embers off Joe's jacket and then noticed a couple holes had burned through. "Say so long to this Ralph Lauren," she said, almost smiling. She dusted ash from her silk slacks and knew she would soon be shopping to replace them as well. This wasn't the first time their clothes had been ruined at a crime scene. But it was just clothing, replaceable and not forever lost, like a human life snatched away.

Tin sheets began sliding off the collapsing roof. Firefighters jumped out of range of the razor edges.

Joe kept the lens directed toward each new event and moved about quickly. He whirled around suddenly, "Abi?" he asked, looking for her.

"Over here," she said over the noise, having paused to snuff a hot ash that had settled on her sleeve.

Joe pulled her aside. "I ought to hire you," he said. "Where's the rest of my crew?"

"You give new meaning to the term dinner and a movie," she said, shaking her head.

"Glad you could help again." He flashed a ridiculous grin.

This was not the first time Abi and Joe raced to a news event. Actually a photojournalist, Joe picked up jobs whenever he could get them. Crews covering breaking stories in the fast-growing towns of Seaport and Creighton were often unavailable. Way too many fires had happened over recent years, way too many. Though Abi found it stimulating, even rewarding trailing along at Joe's side, only one occurrence yet to happen could provide the fervent excitement for which she hungered. It would be the highlight of her existence and would heal a heartbreaking tragedy and set her life back on course. Excitement filled her days, but hope was what kept her alive.

"Look at us," she said, laughing. "Our clothes are ruined again." She swatted at ashes in both his and her hair.

"Wouldn't want life to be too dull, would you?" His humor helped keep her emotions on track, always buoyed her when her own problems seemed overwhelming.

They picked their way through the area and got a few shots of the gutted ruins. From a distance, Joe zoomed in on the charred body.

"All these fires, Joe," Abi said. "I've even thought about moving back to Lawton again. She looked around at the all too familiar scene and shook her head in dismay. "The gang violence here, it's gotten way out-"

"Ha!" he said. "You haven't lived in Lawton in five years. The gangs there are worse than here."

Finally, they were on their way to the TV station. Seaport had not enough news to employ full-time stringers like the hotshots down in Lawton who used satellite power to relay their video clips.

Inside Joe's Range Rover, Abi said, "Strange how the army guys cleared out so quickly."

"Why stay?" he asked.

"A lot of people wear camouflage these days," she said, pausing. "Does the Army really send people to help?"

Chapter Two

News of the warehouse fire aired as yet another in a string of mysterious arsons. The remains of the body found in the ruins were beyond recognition. At best, they had only the teeth, skull, and bones with no telltale marks on them. The best clues to the person's identity would come from the coroner's examination.

Two days later as Abi and Joe watched a newscast Abi became intrigued by police photos of an angry-looking young woman with a shaved head that appeared in the upper corner of the TV screen. Abi paused from setting the table to watch. Joe crossed the room behind her carrying a hammer.

"Upcoming on Top o' the Hour News," the commentator said, "more about the abominable plight of inmate Megan Winnaker, one of only fifty-or-so women sentenced to death in the United States."

Abi stepped forward, studying the photos. Joe stopped to watch, too, but then a commercial intruded.

"Suppose a radical like her turned out to be my daughter," Abi said.

"It's a sad world," he said, shrugging. "Anyone could be standing beside a murderer and never know it."

"Pity that poor girl," she said as she resumed placing utensils on the table.

"If any help was coming for her, it would have happened by now," Joe said.

They had placed a small occasional table and chairs directly in front of the fireplace, their favorite spot to enjoy meals, instead of in the dining room. Glow from the embers cast flickering shadows over the dinner table and danced through prisms of the crystal water goblets. Half-spent logs crackled and popped in the fireplace, the heat staving off the nighttime chill. The smell of burning oak was always synonymous with shelter from winter's ragged edges.

Daily rains and a lingering bite in the air dashed all hopes for an early spring. Still, Abi felt changes stirring, similar to the spring fever she felt when she and Joe met five years earlier. The excitement of a new relationship had triggered metamorphoses on all levels.

"Her eyes were too close," Abi said, mumbling to herself as Joe headed for the dining room. "Nose ... too long." She had never seen a close-up of Megan Winnaker in all the years the case had lasted.

From the day her five-year-old was abducted, Abi vowed never to stop looking till her daughter was safely returned to her arms. Twenty-three years had passed without a trace of Becky Ann. Multiple fruitless searches had caught up with Abi and worn her ragged. Over the years, she had gone so far as to become involved in several missing-person cases. She stayed involved till each young girl was reunited with family, or whose skeletal remains were identified. With each disappointment, alone in bed at night, she ached for the families and suffered their tragedies with them. In luckier cases, she felt their elation and triumph. Those inspirational reunions gave her hope toward an eventual happy ending with her daughter. They were rehearsals, meant as a sign that she and her daughter, too, would be re-united. Abi's need to find her little girl intensified until, at times, she found herself grasping at the most intelligible of clues.

After years, when weariness took over, Abi sometimes thought that her gifted child had slipped through the cracks of society. That's why she had to look everywhere and at every young woman. As time wore on, clues diminished. Fewer and fewer cases turned up with girls the same age as her daughter.

Not until recent years did Abi learn to tone down her desperation. She had grown envious to the point of resentment each time she heard of someone else's joyous reunion. Morose had been her state of mind when Joe Arno happened into her life. He was a breath of sanity she so urgently needed. So she suppressed her despair, yet kept alert to any possibilities, still determined to leave no clue untested.

Stirrings of renewal brought on by an unexpected relationship helped her change her image and outlook on life. She cropped her thick dark wavy hair so it required minimal care, and exercised to tone back he firmness she once had. She shed a few pounds and looked younger than her forty-eight years. How could she have let herself go? Soon after her renewal, pseudo-friends drifted away, taking morbid curiosity and pity with them. It was just as well. Abi needed to stay strong, healthy and focused both physically and emotionally. She never knew when a clue to Becky's whereabouts might appear.

"No, thank heaven," she said. "That one's not my daughter."

Suddenly, Joe was standing beside her again and touched her shoulder. "Abi," he said, interrupting her reverie. "What did you just say?"

She had to think a moment. "The inmate," she said as she glanced at him quickly. "She doesn't look a bit like me."

Joe seemed instantly repulsed. "She's not your daughter." His voice was exaggerated, misdirected, and made the idea seem ludicrous. Such a gesture was not typical of his gentle, oftentimes-humorous nature, but he did have a way of making a point. This special man was a pillar of strength and carried himself more like a stately baron than a hotshot photographer. He seldom raised his voice. What could be eating at him?

It was times like this that reminded her of the private hell she suppressed. When Joe suggested they have dinner at her home that evening and watch his documentary, Abi had thought to finally explain the secret she kept hidden in the spare bedroom upstairs. He had not seen all the rooms of the house since just after she remodeled. With him definitely edgy about something else, it would not be an opportune time to divulge yet undisclosed skeletons in her closet.

"How can you say that?" she asked, mostly curious about the tone of his words. "I have to look at everyone if I'm to find-"

"Sh-h-h!" he said, grabbing up the remote and turning toward the TV.

"This just in," the news anchor said.

Joe laid the remote on the tabletop. "Listen!" he said, taking a step closer to the TV as the insets popped up again.

"As we continue our coverage of inmate Megan Winnaker in these final months," the news anchor said in a voice that droned. "Rachter Valley Prison psychiatrist, Dr. Gilda Sayer, reports that Winnaker is deeply despondent and has succumbed to pneumonia yet again."

A photo of the inmate in prison appeared over the newscaster's shoulder. Abi stepped closer trying to get a better look at the young woman's face.

Joe still held the hammer and tapped the head in his palm as he watched. "Damn it!" he said under his breath. "Why?"

The newscaster continued to speak without showing emotion. "The psychiatrist states that although Winnaker maintains her innocence, she will be put to death immediately should she lose her final appeal. She is both physically and emotionally exhausted, which is probably the cause of her failing health." Other photos of the inmate flashed across the screen.

Several motorcycles intrusively rumbled past on the street outside Abi's home. The air itself seemed to vibrate. She strained to hear till the noise abated.

"Winnaker's mental state is also deteriorating," the newscaster said. "Dr. Sayer claims this is caused by a repressed wish to die, an unconscious effort to extract her from a situation she can do nothing more about."

Abi glanced at Joe, whose gaze was glued to the TV screen. "Joe ...?"

"Wait, Abi!"

A picture of the state capital building appeared as the newscaster continued.

"Winnaker's appeal is now before the state Supreme Court," he said, as the building in the background disappeared and the newsroom showed again. "But due to the backlog of cases, their decision is not expected till early next year. Though Winnaker has been adamant all along about proving her innocence, all the lower courts upheld her conviction. The Supreme Court's favorable decision would be her final chance for a new trial and an attempt to overturn the sentence of death by lethal injection."

The wind howled and the patio door windows that Joe was repairing in the dining room rattled. He seemed as if he might go back to work on them but couldn't break away from the news.

The newscaster's expression changed somewhat. "As we all know," he said, "Winnaker's is the most sensational women's case since back in the 1950's when vice girl, Barbara Graham, cried out, 'I want to live!' as she was being escorted to the gas chamber."

The Winnaker crime scene flashed across the screen: a night sky lit by a home engulfed in flame and paramedics loading a man receiving oxygen into the back of an ambulance. The newscaster continued, saying that Winnaker was convicted of the deaths of three people under heinous circumstances, the attempted homicide of another, and all other related charges in the gang-style torch burning of a home outside Creighton over eight years earlier. Her accomplices were never apprehended because, to this day, Winnaker insisted she had nothing to do with the fire and, therefore, could not name names.

Winnaker claimed she had been drawn to the Seaport area after seeing pictures in a travel magazine. A magazine page with photos flicked on screen for less than a second then dissolved back over the newscaster's shoulder. At the time she was arrested and all through court proceedings, Winnaker stuck to the story that the Nazi memorabilia found in her possession was all her father left behind when he died unexpectedly. Prosecutors alleged she migrated westward, enticed by the number of insurgent gang members accumulating in Creighton.

Joe kept shaking his head. What could he find so interesting about an arson-murder case?

"Which gang, Joe?"

"In this case," he said, "the Dregs. But don't forget the White Liners and the Bangers either. They're all a sordid bunch."

Newspapers occasionally carried reports of gang-style violence. Anyone rejected as a member of the motorcycle gangs or the neo-Nazis, eventually found their way into the Dregs. That much Abi knew. The Dregs had a reputation for being the scum of the earth and everything in which they were involved proved it. Some shaved their heads imitating the Aryans. Some spiked and dyed their hair in gaudy colors. Some dressed like the biker crowd. Oftentimes, their appearances misdirected police when trying to solve crimes.

The newscaster picked up his notes and moved them aside, a sign this story was about to end. "In order to support herself," he said, "Winnaker claimed she had been trying to sell at the flea markets what she thought was her father's worthless junk. Being homeless, she lived out of a mini-storage cubicle and ate her meals at The Beacon, one of the soup kitchens for the homeless. And, of course, at the mini-storage was where police found incriminating evidence that tied Winnaker to the crime."

Abi felt puzzled watching Joe stare at the screen, oblivious to the fact that the co-anchor had introduced a new topic. It was happening again: that streak of impatience that flared up as he tried to understand something, that pensive look in his deep-set eyes, the set of his proud square chin held steady as his mind took off on a tangent. Even the gray at his temples accentuated his mood. At that moment, his expression revealed an intensity she dared not challenge.

A loss he suffered in his younger years had toughened him and taught him how to keep his emotions afloat. After she met Joe, he was instrumental in teaching her to laugh again. In spite of some bouts of impatience, his overall mood seldom varied. Th rough him, she found a deeper measure of stability. They lived to bolster one another. He had always been patient with her, encouraging and supportive, even witty. Yet, in the past few weeks he seemed edgy, distant, might even have avoided her. Unexpectedly, he suggested they have dinner and watch one of his documentaries. But that news fl ash about Megan Winnaker was not his work and he didn't need an ulterior motive for them to be together.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Down to the Needle by Mary Deal Copyright © 2010 by Mary Deal. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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