by Nora Roberts
Of course, there was emotional attachment to be considered. Those same instincts told him she had a great deal of emotional attachment to this new endeavor. That was enough for some to try to eke out a quick profit to save a shaky investment.
But it didn’t jibe. Not with her.
Someone else in the company, maybe. A competitor, hoping to sabotage her business before it got off the ground. Or a classic pyro, looking for a thrill.
Whatever it was, he’d find it.
And, he thought, he was going to enjoy rattling Natalie Fletcher’s cage while he was going about it.
One classy lady, he mused. He imagined she’d look good—damn good—modeling her own merchandise.
The beeper hooked to his belt sounded as he stepped from the elevator. Another fire, he thought, and moved quickly to the nearest phone.
There was always another fire.
Chapter 3
Ry kept her cooling her heels for fifteen minutes. It was a standard ploy, one she’d often used herself to psych out an opponent. She was determined not to fall for it.
There wasn’t even enough room in the damn closet he called an office to pace.
He worked in one of the oldest fire stations in the city, two floors above the engines and trucks, in a small glassed-in box that offered an uninspiring view of a cracked parking lot and sagging tenements.
In the adjoining room, Natalie could see a woman pecking listlessly at a computer keyboard that sat on a desk overflowing with files and forms. The walls throughout were a dingy yellow that might, decades ago, have been white. They were checkerboarded with photos of fire scenes—some of which were grim enough to have had her turning away—bulletins, flyers, and a number of Polish jokes in dubious taste.
Obviously Ry had no problem shrugging off the clichéd humor about his heritage.
Metal shelves were piled with books, binders, pamphlets, and a couple of trophies, each topped with a statuette of a basketball player. And, she noted with a sniff, dust. His desk, slightly larger than a card table and badly scarred, was propped up under one shortened leg by a tattered paperback copy of The Red Pony.
The man didn’t even have respect for Steinbeck.
When her curiosity got the better of her, Natalie rose from the folding chair, with its torn plastic seat, and poked around his desk.
No photographs, she noted. No personal mementos. Bent paper clips, broken pencils, a claw hammer, a ridiculous mess of disorganized paperwork. She pushed at some of that, then jumped back in horror when she revealed the decapitated head of a doll.
She might have laughed at herself, if it wasn’t so hideous. The remnant of a child’s toy, the frizzy blond hair nearly burned away, the once rosy face melted into mush on one side. One bright blue eye remained staring.
“Souvenirs,” Ry said from the doorway. He’d been watching her for a couple of minutes. “From a class A fire up in the east sixties. The kid made it.” He glanced down at the head on his desk. “She was in a little better shape than her doll.”
Her shudder was quick and uncontrollable. “That’s horrible.”
“Yeah, it was. The kid’s father started it with a can of kerosene in the living room. The wife wanted a divorce. When he was finished, she didn’t need one.”
He was so cold about it, she thought. Maybe he had to be. “You have a miserable job, Inspector.”
“That’s why I love it.” He glanced around as the outer door opened. “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.” Ry pulled the office door closed before he turned to the uniformed firefighter who’d come in behind him.
Through the glass, Natalie could hear the mutter of voices. She didn’t need to hear Ry raise his voice—as he soon did—to know that the young fireman was receiving a first-class dressing-down.
“Who told you to ventilate that wall, probie?”
“Sir, I thought—”
“Probies don’t think. You’re not smart enough to think. If you were, you’d know what fresh air does for a fire. You’d know what happens when you let it in and there’s a damn puddle of fuel oil sloshing under your boots.”
“Yes, sir. I know, sir. I didn’t see it. The smoke—”
“You’d better learn to see through smoke. You’d better learn to see through everything. And when the fire goes into the frigging wall, you don’t take it on yourself to give it a way out while you’re standing in accelerant. You’re lucky to be alive, probie, and so’s the team who were unlucky enough to be with you.”
“Yes, sir. I know, sir.”
“You don’t know diddly. That’s the first thing you remember the next time you go in to eat smoke. Now get out of here.”
Natalie crossed her legs when Ry came into the room. “You’re a real diplomat. That kid couldn’t have been more than twenty.”
“Be nice if he lived to a ripe old age, wouldn’t it?” With a flick of his wrist, Ry tugged down the blinds, closing them in.
“Your technique makes me regret I didn’t bring a lawyer with me.”
“Relax.” He moved to his desk, pushed some files out of his way. “I don’t have the authority to arrest, just to investigate.”
“Well, I’ll sleep easy now.” Deliberately she took a long look at her watch. “How long do you think this is going to take? I’ve already wasted twenty minutes.”
“I got held up.” He sat, opened the bag he’d brought in with him. “Have you had lunch?”
“No.” Her eyes narrowed as he took out a wrapped package that smelled tantalizingly of deli. “Are you telling me that you’ve kept me waiting in here while you picked up a sandwich?”
“It was on my way.” He offered her half of a corned beef on rye. “I’ve got a couple of coffees, too.”
“I’ll take the coffee. Keep the sandwich.”
“Suit yourself.” He handed her a small insulated cup. “Mind if we record this?”
“I’d prefer it.”
Eating with one hand, he opened a desk drawer, took out a tape recorder. “You must have a closet full of those suits.” This one was the color of crushed raspberries, and fastened at the left hip with gold buttons. “Do you ever wear anything else?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Small talk, Ms. Fletcher.”
“I’m not here for small talk,” she snapped back. “And stop calling me Ms. Fletcher in that irritating way.”
“No problem, Natalie. Just call me Ry.” He switched on the recorder and began by reciting the time, date and location of the interview. Despite the tape, he took out a notebook and pencil. “This interview is being conducted by Inspector Ryan Piasecki with Natalie Fletcher, re the fire at the Fletcher Industries warehouse, 21 South Harbor Avenue, on February 12 of this year.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “Ms. Fletcher, you are the owner of the aforesaid building, and its contents.”
“The building and its contents are—were—the property of Fletcher Industries, of which I am an executive officer.”
“How long has the building belonged to your company?”
“For eight years. It was previously used to warehouse inventory for Fletcher Shipping.”
The heater beside him began to whine and gurgle. Ry kicked it carelessly. It went back to a subdued hum.
“And now?”
“Fletcher Shipping moved to a new location.” She relaxed a little. It was going to be routine now. Business. “The warehouse was converted nearly two years ago to accommodate a new company. We used the building for manufacturing and warehousing merchandise for Lady’s Choice. We make ladies’ lingerie.”
“And what were the hours of operation?”
“Normally eight to six, Monday through Friday. In the last six months, we expanded that to include Saturdays from eight to noon.”
He continued to eat, asking standard questions about business practices, security, vandalism. Her answers were quick, cool and concise.
“You have a number of suppliers.”
“Yes. We use American co
mpanies only. That’s a firm policy.”
“Ups the overhead.”
“In the short term. I believe, in the long term, the company will generate profits to merit it.”
“You’ve put a lot of personal time into this company. Incurred a lot of expenses, invested your own money.”
“That’s right.”
“What happens if the business doesn’t live up to your expectations?”
“It will.”
He leaned back now, enjoying what was left of his cooling coffee. “If it doesn’t.”
“Then I would lose my time, and my money.”
“When was the last time you were in the building, before the fire?”
The sudden change of topic surprised but didn’t throw her. “I went by for a routine check three days before the fire. That would have been the ninth of February.”
He noted it down. “Did you notice any inventory missing?”
“No.”
“Damaged equipment?”
“No.”
“Any holes in security?”
“No. I would have dealt with any of those things immediately.” Did he think she was an idiot? “Work was progressing on schedule, and the inventory I looked over was fine.”
His eyes cut back to hers, lingered. “You didn’t look over everything?”
“I did a spot check, Inspector.” The stare was designed to make her uncomfortable, she knew. She refused to allow it. “It isn’t a productive use of time for me or my staff to examine every negligee or garter belt.”
“The building was inspected in November. You were up to code on all fire regulations.”
“That’s right.”
“Can you explain how it was that, on the night of the fire, the sprinkler and smoke alarm systems were inoperative?”
“Inoperative?” Her heart picked up a beat. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“They were tampered with, Ms. Fletcher. So was your security system.”
She kept her eyes level with his. “No, I can’t explain it. Can you?”
He took out a cigarette, flicked a wooden match into flame with his thumbnail. “Do you have any enemies?”
Her face went blank. “Enemies?”
“Anyone who’d like to see you fail, personally or professionally?”
“I— No, I can’t think of anyone, personally.” The idea left her shaken. She pulled a hand through her hair, from the crown to the tips that swung at chin level. “Naturally, I have competitors… .”
“Anyone who’s given you trouble?”
“No.”
“Disgruntled employees? Fire anyone lately?”
“No. I can’t speak for every level of the organization. I have managers who have autonomy in their own departments, but nothing’s come back to me.”
He continued to smoke as he asked questions, took notes. He wound the interview down, closing it by logging the time.
“I spoke to your insurance adjuster this morning,” he told her. “And your security guard. I have interviews set up with the foremen at the warehouse.” When she didn’t respond, he crushed out his cigarette. “Want some water?”
“No.” She let out a breath. “Thank you. Do you think I’m responsible?”
“What I know goes into the report, not what I think.”
“I want to know.” She stood then. “I’m asking you to tell me what you think.”
She didn’t belong here. That was the first thought that crossed his mind. Not here, in the cramped little room that smelled of whatever the men were cooking downstairs. Boardrooms and bedrooms. He was certain she’d be equally adept in both venues.
“I don’t know, Natalie, maybe it’s your pretty face affecting my judgment, but no—I don’t think you’re responsible. Feel better?”
“Not much. I suppose my only choice now is to depend on you to find out the who and why.” She let out a little sigh. “As much as it galls me, I have a feeling you’re just the man for the job.”
“A compliment, and so early in our relationship.”
“With any luck, it’ll be the first and the last.” She shifted, reached down for her briefcase. He moved quickly and quietly. Before she could lift it, his hand closed over hers on the strap.
“Take a break.”
She flexed her hand under his once, felt the hard, callused palm, then went still. “Excuse me?”
“You’re revved, Natalie, but you’re running on empty. You need to relax.”
It was unlikely she would, or could, with him holding on to her. “What I need to do is get back to work. So, if that’s all, Inspector …”
“I thought we were on a first-name basis now. Come on, I want to show you something.”
“I don’t have time,” she began as he pulled her out of the room. “I have an appointment.”
“You always seem to. Aren’t you ever late?”
“No.”
“Every man’s fantasy woman. Beautiful, smart, and prompt.” He led her down a staircase. “How tall are you without the stilts?”
She lifted a brow at his description of her elegant Italian pumps. “Tall enough.”
He stopped, one step below her, and turned. They were lined up, eye to eye, mouth to mouth. “Yeah, I’d say you are, just tall enough.”
He tugged her, as he might have a disinterested mule, until they reached the ground floor.
There were scents wafting out from the kitchen. Chili was on the menu for tonight. A couple of men were checking equipment on one of the engines. Another was rolling a hose on the chilly concrete floor.
Ry was greeted with salutes and quick grins, Natalie with pursed lips and groans.
“They can’t help it,” Ry told her. “We don’t get legs like yours walking through here every day. I’ll give you a boost.”
“What?”
“I’ll give you a boost,” he repeated as he opened the door on an engine. “Not that the guys wouldn’t appreciate the way that skirt would ride up if you climbed in on your own. But—” Before she could protest, Ry had gripped her by the waist and lifted her.
She had a moment to think the strength in his arms was uncannily effortless before he joined her.
“Move over,” he ordered. “Unless you’d rather sit on my lap.”
She scooted across the seat. “Why am I sitting in a fire engine?”
“Everybody wants to at least once.” Very much at home, he stretched his arm over the seat. “So, what do you think?”
She scanned the gauges and dials, the oversize gearshift, the photo of Miss January taped to the dash. “It’s interesting.”
“That’s it?”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She wondered which control operated the siren, which the lights. “Okay, it’s fun.” She leaned forward for a better view through the windshield. “We’re really up here, aren’t we? Is this the—”
He caught her hand just before she could yank the cord over her head. “Horn,” he finished. “The men are used to it, but believe me, with the acoustics in here and the outside doors shut, you’d be sorry if you sounded it.”
“Too bad.” She skimmed back her hair as she turned her face toward him. “Are you showing me your toy to relax me, or just to show off?”
“Both. How’m I doing?”
“Maybe you’re not quite the jerk you appear to be.”
“You keep being so nice to me, I’m going to fall in love.”
She laughed and realized she was almost relaxed. “I think we’re both safe on that count. What made you decide to sit in a fire engine for ten years?”
“You’ve been checking up on me.” Idly he lifted his fingers, just enough to reach the tips of her hair. Soft, he thought, like sunny silk.
“That’s right.” She shot him a look. “So?”
“So, I guess we’re even. I’m a third-generation smoke eater. It’s in the blood.”
“Mmm …” That she understood. “But you gave it up.”
“No, I shi
fted gears. That’s different.”
She supposed it was, but it wasn’t a real answer. “Why do you keep that souvenir on your desk?” She watched his eyes closely as she asked. “The doll’s head.”
“It’s from my last fire. The last one I fought.” He could still remember it—the heat, the smoke, the screaming. “I carried the kid out. The bedroom door was locked. My guess is he’d herded his wife and kid in—you know, you can’t live with me, you won’t live without me. He had a gun. It wasn’t loaded, but she wouldn’t have known that.”
“That’s horrible.” She wondered if she would have risked the gun, and thought she would have. Better a bullet, fast and final, than the terrors of smoke and flame. “His own family.”
“Some guys don’t take kindly to divorce.” He shrugged. His own had been painless enough, almost anticlimactic. “The way it came out, he made them sit there while the fire got bigger, and the smoke snuck under the door. It was a frame house, old. Went up like a matchstick. The woman had tried to protect the kid, had curled over her in a corner. I couldn’t get them both at once, so I took the kid.”
His eyes changed now, darkened, focused on something only he could see. “The woman was gone, anyway. I knew she was gone, but there’s always a chance. I was headed down the steps with the kid when the floor gave way.”
“You saved the child,” Natalie said gently.
“The mother saved the child.” He could never forget that, could never forget that selfless and hopeless devotion. “The son of a bitch who torched the house jumped out the second-story window. Oh, he was burned, smoke inhalation, broken leg. But he lived through it.”
He cared, she realized. She hadn’t seen that before. Or hadn’t wanted to. It changed him. Changed her perception of him. “And you decided to go after the men who start them, instead of the fires themselves.”
“More or less.” He snapped his head up, like a wolf scenting prey, when the alarm shrilled. The station sprang to life with running feet, shouted orders. Ry pitched his voice over the din. “Let’s get out of the way.”
He pushed open the door, caught Natalie in one arm and swung out.
“Chemical plant,” someone said as they hurried by, pulling on protective gear.
In seconds, it seemed, the engines were manned and screaming out the arched double doors.
“It’s so fast,” Natalie said, ears still ringing, pulse still jumping. “They move so fast.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s exciting.” She pressed a hand to her speeding heart. “I didn’t realize.
