Fight Fire with Fire Page 2

  Devon Whitelaw lay on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, looking out the window at the flickering neon sign.

  "The Dunn-Inn Motel," he read in a whisper, and gave a short, humorless chuckle.

  That pun certainly fits, he thought. This place is definitely done in. He pushed a lock of brown dark hair off his sweaty forehead and looked around at the cheap motel room, taking in the limp, frayed curtains; stained carpet; and dingy, peeling paint. This room looks almost as lousy as I feel, he told himself ruefully.

  He returned to staring at the crack in the ceiling over the bed, something he had been doing for quite some time. The room had no air-conditioning and was so hot that his jeans and T-shirt stuck to his body. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead and onto his cheek. He didn't bother wiping it away.

  He didn't care about much of anything. Even his search for a home and family no longer interested him. He needed to find a legal guardian in order to receive his twenty-million-dollar inheritance. But after all he'd been through, the money didn't seem so important anymore.

  It was money that had caused all his problems. At the moment he was content to live without it. He decided he could live for five eternities, just passing his days in the anonymity of this room. At least he wouldn't have to deal with a bunch of users anymore.

  Devon rubbed his hands over his eyes. If it weren't for my father's will, I would never have ended up in this ridiculous place, he thought.

  "I wish I'd never left Connecticut," Devon told the empty room. Then he let out a rueful laugh. That was something he never thought he'd hear himself say. All his life his main goal was to get as far away from the East Coast and his so-called family as he could. And this dingy motel room in Death Valley certainly seemed a world away from the snobby Connecticut society he had lived in for so many years.

  Devon sighed and thought back over the events of the last few weeks. Although it seemed as if an eternity had passed, it wasn't so long ago that he had stood in the foyer of his Connecticut mansion and heard the news that his parents had been killed in a car accident. Their deaths had been instantaneous.

  From that moment the phone had rung off the hook. Cards and letters full of sympathy and emotion had poured in. But while the rest of the world had seemed to be mourning his loss, Devon had only felt numb.

  His father, James Allan Whitelaw, had been a wealthy financier; his mother a professional socialite. Neither one of them had ever shown him much affection. Basically they had ignored their sole child, paying only the amount of attention required to control him. Devon supposed he was sorry they had died, but he couldn't say he missed them.

  You can't miss what you haven't had, Devon thought bitterly. He never had felt like part of a family. And a family was what he had always wanted more than anything.

  A few days after his parents' funeral Devon had left his Connecticut home in search of a guardian. Not just a guardian, he thought with a brief, stabbing pain of sadness. Someone to be my family. Someone to really be there for me.

  The search had led him first to the home of his uncle Mark and aunt Peggy and his two cousins Ross and Allan. They lived in a modest split-level house in Ohio. It was a far cry from the lifestyle to which Devon had become accustomed, but it was the family's very normalcy that had given Devon comfort. Aunt Peggy and Uncle Mark seemed to be happy with the simple home they had created for themselves.

  Devon got a bad taste in his mouth as he remembered how he had been taken in by his relatives. Taken in and totally duped. They had pretended to care for him and welcomed him with open arms, but all along what they really welcomed was his money.

  One night Devon had overheard his aunt and uncle talking and giggling about their plans for Devon's inheritance, plans that didn't include Devon at all. At that moment Devon's heart had hardened, and he knew what he had to do. He told Mark and Peggy that his parents had left him bankrupt, with nothing but the clothes on his back. Knowing they had already accrued a huge debt, Devon left them in the lurch, without a penny to repay their many loans. Devon knew it was vindictive, but he was also sure that his relatives had gotten what they deserved.

  Next his search had led him to Las Vegas. He'd heard countless stories about his uncle Pete, who was renowned as the black sheep of the Whitelaw family Devon figured that if normalcy had failed him in Ohio, maybe the complete opposite would serve him well.

  "What a joke," Devon muttered, heaving himself off the bed and onto his feet. He paced the dingy room angrily.

  I was so desperate for a family that I would have talked myself into anything, Devon thought. He kicked at a dust ball with the toe of his boot.

  In his mind he had turned his uncle's rough edges into a harsh honesty he found appealing. And his uncle had said that he didn't care if Devon had money or not because he didn't need any.

  Devon's lip curled. That was the truth, he thought, though Devon hadn't found out exactly why Pete was so wealthy until later.

  Next door someone turned a radio on full blast. It was a country-western station. "You left me with nothing but a bro-oken heart," wailed the singer.

  Devon banged on the wall with his fist. "Turn that thing down!" he yelled.

  The guy in the next room banged on the wall too, then cursed. But he lowered the volume.

  How could I have been so desperate as to think I could spend my life in that tawdry, sleazy town? Devon wondered as he crossed the room and stared through the crusty window. I was actually willing to plan a life spent in hotel rooms and casinos with a crook.

  Devon had finally found out his uncle was using him to deliver stolen merchandise to Pete's partner. She was a woman named Linda who helped Pete sell what he stole—diamond jewelry, gold lighters, designer watches—whatever he could get his hands on.

  Devon smiled bitterly. All that time he had thought he was delivering gifts to Pete's girlfriend, when in fact he was unwittingly participating in a crime ring. Once he'd told Uncle Pete exactly what he thought of the way he made his money, Devon had gotten out of Vegas as quickly as possible.

  Devon stuffed his hands into the pockets of his torn, faded jeans.

  "What next?" he asked aloud. After all the pain he'd suffered, he felt as if he'd run out of steam.

  Maybe I should just stay here, he thought, turning to look around the dilapidated room once again. At least no one would be trying to get my money, or use me, or take advantage of me the way my dear old relatives did. At least there were no lies in this lonely room. It was the perfect place for the guy who had everything, and yet nothing at all.

  Chapter 2

  As he drove through midday traffic in downtown Sweet Valley, Steven Wakefield's fingers gripped the steering wheel of his yellow Volkswagen so tightly his knuckles shone bone white. The glare of sunshine on the streets was blinding. Steven's brown eyes, usually so calm and confident, squinted and flitted nervously from side to side. Sweat beaded his forehead.

  Steven kept hearing the D.A.'s harsh, raspy voice telling him that if he bailed Lila out of jail, his internship—maybe even his career as a lawyer—was finished. The knot in his stomach twisted a little tighter.

  Am I doing the right thing? Steven wondered.

  He had to admit there was a lot of evidence pointing to Lila's guilt. After the fire at the Fowler Crest mansion, a hospital worker had found traces of sulfur on Lila's fingers. They had also discovered a book of matches in her pocket and an empty gas can in the back of her car. Later, Steven himself had uncovered an extremely incriminating piece of evidence—gas-soaked gloves, monogrammed with Lila's initials, hidden in the bushes in front of her house. Those powerful clues were hard to ignore.

  Steven knitted his brow. Although the D.A. was convinced that Lila was the prime suspect, Steven couldn't come up with a good reason why she would want to destroy her own house. There had been tears in her eyes when she had described seeing her magnificent mansion in ruins.

  Steven didn't think Lila would firebomb a restaurant either. True, she
had been away from the table when the bomb had come crashing through the window, but he didn't think she had been gone long enough to execute the crime. Plus the entire dining room had been instantly engulfed in flames. It was a miracle someone hadn't been seriously hurt—even killed. He didn't believe Lila was capable of doing something that would put people in danger. She was too sweet and intelligent. Plus even if she was guilty, she would never be stupid enough to leave bomb paraphernalia in her car at the scene of the crime.

  Steven stepped down on the accelerator and shot through a space between a brown Toyota and a blue Lincoln into the next lane. I've got to get to the station fast, he thought. He couldn't bear to think of Lila in a jail cell. He felt hollow inside just imagining how frightened and confused she must be over the arrest. The experience of being behind bars was probably driving her to despair. The only reason he had waited this long was because he had known the D.A. was going to be angry with him, and he had wanted to explain his reasoning for bailing Lila out in person.

  Suddenly the guy he had just cut off leaned his head out the window of his brown Toyota. "Jerk!" he shouted. Steven twisted around and got a glimpse of his chubby face, reddened with anger. "Why don't you learn to drive?" the man yelled.

  Steven glanced in his rearview mirror. "Sorry, man," he whispered. "I've got more important things on my mind." Things like getting my girlfriend out of jail and clearing her name. He ran his finger nervously under his collar.

  Lila had seemed so fragile and alone when they forced her into the squad car. Her beautiful hair had been disheveled, and her eyes had looked panicked. She had reminded him of a frightened little girl.

  Steven raked a hand through his brown hair. He remembered the many times she had told him that she needed him. Much as he had tried to keep their relationship all business, her fragile vulnerability had combined with her exquisite beauty to tug at his heart. Soon he had found himself thinking about her more and more—and not just as a suspect or as one of his sister's friends.

  The brown Toyota swerved in front of him. The driver shot Steven a superior smile as he passed. Steven barely noticed. He didn't hear the horns honking at him either. He was lost in thought.

  Suddenly the image of the computer printout someone had dropped anonymously into his in box appeared in his mind's eye. It had listed common characteristics of arsonists: Someone who needs affection and excitement. Someone who is crying out for help and attention. In the weeks Steven had been dating Lila, he'd found that those qualities fit her perfectly.

  There was another item on the list that fit Lila as well—at least partially. She seemed to be fascinated by fire. She collected souvenir matchbooks from restaurants, and a mesmerized look came over her beautiful face whenever she stared into a candle flame.

  Do I really know her as well as I think I do? Steven asked himself.

  Distractedly he steered the Volkswagen into the next lane and made a left-hand turn. The Web page had turned out to be more trouble than it was worth. It had been the subject of one of Steven's first arguments with the D.A.

  The printout had been slanted at an odd angle. He had seen the same slanted lines on pages that came from John Pfeifer's printer at the Oracle office. Steven had been sure that this evidence proved that John had burned down Fowler Crest and tried to implicate Lila by leaving the Web page on Steven's desk. The D.A. hadn't agreed with his theory. In fact, he had practically thrown Steven out of his office.

  Steven gritted his teeth. He knew he was right about this. Pfeifer certainly had the motive. Some time ago Lila had told everyone that John had attempted to rape her, and another girl had come forward with a similar story of her own. Although neither girl had brought formal charges against him, John had become an outcast at Sweet Valley High. Even Elizabeth avoided being alone with him in the newspaper office.

  An exceptionally sharp blast of a horn started Steven out of his thoughts. He looked into his rearview mirror and saw a blue sedan close on his tail. At first he was annoyed, but then a quick check of the speedometer showed that he had slowed way below the speed limit.

  Steven stepped on the gas. He told himself he'd better stop daydreaming and pay attention to the road, but he found his mind wandering once more.

  Elizabeth and Lila had both confirmed that ever since Lila had confronted John about the attempted rape, he had hated her. Steven thought John had gotten off much too easily. He should have been prosecuted.

  But now, it seemed, it would be Lila who would face prosecution. Steven still thought all the evidence against her was circumstantial, but even he had to admit, the situation was looking more and more bleak.

  This last incident—the firebombing of the Palomar House restaurant—was particularly disturbing.

  The fact that she wasn't in the dining room when the bombing occurred made things look bad enough for Lila. But then the police had found an empty can of nitrate fertilizer in her car, along with traces of fuel oil in the upholstery and a torn label from a box of blasting caps. It was all basic homemade firebomb material. As far as the police were concerned, that evidence sealed Lila's guilt.

  But that stuff could have been planted, Steven thought. He decided he'd have to question Lila some more. So far all he really had to go on was his belief that Lila was too scared about everything that had happened for her to be guilty. It was enough to convince him of her innocence, but he'd have to come up with more to convince anyone else—especially the D.A.

  The car up ahead was looming too close, and Steven jolted back to reality. It was the brown Toyota. He jammed on the brakes, and they caught with a sickening squeal. He shot forward until his forehead nearly touched the windshield. Then the seat belt yanked him backward. He slammed against the seat with a thud.

  "Moron!" the guy behind him yelled. "You're going to get someone killed. Get off the road!"

  Steven took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Get a grip, Wakefield," he muttered.

  He turned the wheel and eased out of traffic. As he pulled into a space at the curb his heart was pounding and his hands were cold and clammy.

  Steven leaned his head against the leather cover on the steering wheel and took several deep breaths. After a few moments he sat back in his seat. He felt sick to his stomach.

  Am I doing the right thing? the nagging voice in his head asked again.

  Yes, he answered silently. I still think Lila was set up.

  "What if I'm wrong?" he asked himself, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "What if I'm just too stubborn to face facts?"

  An image of Lila's beautiful face appeared in his mind. He remembered how perfect life seemed when he held her in his arms and felt the gentle pressure of her lips as she returned his kiss. Her silken hair was so soft and smelled so sweet.

  He turned the ignition and carefully pulled back onto the street, turning in the direction of the police station. As he drove away he remembered John Pfeifer's words when he had warned Steven to stay away from Lila: "She destroys everyone who cares about her."

  Steven shook his head. In spite of John's warning he knew it was his own fault he had lost the job, not Lila's. If he had it to do over again, he would still stand up for his principles. He knew that he could prove without a doubt that Lila was innocent.

  He had to.

  Or Lila might be locked away for a long, long time.

  Elizabeth dropped her slice of pizza back on her plate and sighed.

  "What's the matter, Lizzie?" Jessica asked, taking a huge bite out of her own slice and washing it down with a sip of soda. "Aren't you hungry?"

  "I don't know how you can eat after that scene with Steven back at the D.A.'s office," Elizabeth said, reaching for her glass of water.

  "How can you not eat?" Jessica answered. "A good fight always makes me hungry. And Guido's pizza is perfect for a pick-me-up."

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes and looked around the familiar restaurant. The atmosphere was upbeat and social as different groups of SVH students crammed into booths and greet
ed friends. But even though Jessica and the rest of the world seemed to be perfectly happy, Elizabeth couldn't force herself to crack a smile. She had this overwhelming feeling that Steven was headed for a major disaster.

  Jessica popped a last bit of pizza crust into her mouth. "Come on, Liz," she said after she swallowed. "You have to break out of this funk."

  "I just think Steven's taking a terrible risk by bailing Lila out of jail." Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair. "I know it sounds terrible—but I still think it's possible that Lila is guilty." She held up her hand like a stop sign when she saw her sister open her mouth to protest.

  "Wait a minute and hear me out. I know Lila's your best friend. . . ."

  "Was my best friend," Jessica grumbled.

  "Was," Elizabeth amended, "until the two of you fought about her seeing Steven. And the idea that someone we've known practically forever could be an arsonist is pretty far-fetched. But people can surprise you."

  "Look, Liz," Jessica said, leaning forward. "I might think Lila's insane for dating someone as completely wrong for her as Steven, but I don't think she's psycho enough to burn her own house down. I mean come on. Do you really think she'd put her designer wardrobe at risk? Let alone all her fabulous jewelry and her private screening room and—"

  "Think about it," Elizabeth interrupted. "Every time some criminal is caught, there are always a bunch of people who come out and say they never would have thought that person was capable of the crime."

  Jessica's face twisted into an exaggerated grimace of disbelief. "Liz, you're being ridiculous!" she cried. "Lila isn't an arsonist. She's a good person. Well, at least most of the time."

  She crumpled up her napkin and threw it down on the table. Her lips curved down into a frown. "Lila isn't guilty of anything more than stealing our brother."

  Elizabeth used a straw to poke at a piece of ice in her glass. She should have known Jessica would blindly defend Lila. She didn't want to believe her sister's lifelong friend would commit such a heinous act either, but there was a ton of evidence against her And Elizabeth had never teen one to ignore the facts.