“Do we still have the jasmine tea?”
“I got more pearls yesterday.”
Hollie, new to the world of tea drinking, tried to surprise Grayce with new types of tea. “I would love some jasmine before I see Rowan the giant. I also need to talk with you at some point this morning.”
Chapter Fifteen
Standing at the fire scene, Davis kicked a pile of charred wood. This fire just didn’t add up. He didn’t have a good theory on how it had reached a high enough temperature to ignite the forty-foot-high lumber. He nudged a large piece of fir with the steel tip of his boot. He was missing something, but fatigue blocked any brilliant insights.
Absorbed in sorting through the rubble, he didn’t see Assistant Chief Maclean barreling toward him until he heard, “Davis.” By Maclean’s curt tone, his stride, and the angle of his head, Davis knew the other man was in a mood. Already peeved by his intrusion, Davis didn’t feel up for a verbal skirmish.
“Glad to see you working.” The assistant chief pressed his lips into a sneer that made him look more like someone who’d had a stroke than the angry bastard he was.
“Glad to see you, too.” He tried to swallow the sarcasm.
Maclean’s beady eyes focused on Davis. “I heard your damn dog got injured on the site? Why in hell would you bring a dog on the site?”
It was just like Maclean to have discovered his only breech of procedure in two years and come out to harass him about it. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t personal. Maclean couldn’t handle change—the words firefighter had never passed the man’s disapproving lips. Maclean still believed only a fireman, a Caucasian male, should work for the department.
“I didn’t bring my dog to the site. She jumped out of the car.” The excuse sounded lame.
“Your dog could’ve disturbed or destroyed evidence.”
“I know. The wall fell right after she got on the site.”
He was glad he had told no one how close the collapsing wall had come to crushing him. Things happened on the fireground.
“So did your dog find an accelerant?”
“My dog isn’t trained to smell for accelerants. She’s a French poodle.” He could see Maclean eyeing him. He knew exactly where the assistant chief’s thoughts were going. It was hard enough to live up to his Scottish background. “She’s my ex-girlfriend’s dog.”
Maclean stepped over the yellow tape, avoiding getting ashes on his shoes. Davis found it hard to believe his boss had ever gotten “wicked dirty” from the tar, the creosotes, and other by-products of the fire that clung to your clothes and skin at a fire scene.
“Are you planning on using Henny?”
Once he finished his digging, Davis planned to bring in Henny, whose nose was trained to detect possible accelerants. But to annoy Maclean, he refused to give him a straight answer. “I haven’t finished my digging. I’m going to need a crane.”
“Do you know how fricking expensive cranes are? You’ve got to fill out the paper work. And good luck with that.”
Maclean could see by the giant fallen lumber, a crane was necessary to excavate the scene. Davis took a slow, deep breath and swallowed the words he was dying to unleash.
“What about the pictures? Have you taken them yet?”
Maclean had a bigger bug up his ass than usual. Why was he here on a Saturday? He never got personally involved.
“I took some photos early this morning.”
“Have you uploaded them yet?”
He thought about the pleasure he would get from telling Maclean to go to hell. “I’m going back to the station after I finish the digging. Why so much interest in this fire? Don’t tell me the mayor and the press are going to show up tomorrow?”
“The press hasn’t started yet, but the port wants answers now. There’s a lot of interest in the wharf since they started filming that TV show down here. The port doesn’t want any bad press and neither does the chief.”
Maclean hadn’t just come to harass him about Mitzi. He came to tighten the screws on Davis, to demand that he finish the investigation, tidy and quick.
“Are you up for this one? Or should I assign a real fireman?” Delivering his sunny message, Maclean walked away. He spoke over his shoulder in his familiar patronizing voice. “And none of the usual attitude, no independent bullshit. Keep me in the loop.”
Davis could feel the blood pulsating at his temples, right above his clenched jaw. Independent…bullshit! It wasn’t an attitude. Fire investigators were separate. They solved crimes.
Something about this fire made him uneasy. Maclean hassling him added fuel to the fire, literally. He would’ve laughed at the pun if he wasn’t so frustrated.
Before he left, he needed to finish his inspection of the area surrounding the fire scene. Ordinarily, he would’ve scouted out the perimeter well before this, but the crashing wall and Mitzi’s injury had interfered. Davis headed to his Suburban to get Mitzi, glad that Maclean hadn’t seen the dog in the department’s rig.
“Come on Mitzi, let’s go for a walk.” The dog stretched her length on the back seat and then jumped out of the door.
He and Mitzi walked the entire wharf. They inspected other sheds that extended toward the Ballard Bridge, then turned and walked along the waterfront. The air hung with a salt water tang. They walked past rows of moored fishing boats.
A few clouds scuttled across the sky. The night walk was helping to clear his head of his crazy, disorderly thoughts. To solve a fire, you needed to fit the pieces together in a logical methodical process. But with this fire, everything was out of order, out of sync.
Underneath a monument to the Chinese who’d migrated to the Pacific Northwest in the early 19th century, Mitzi found the only clump of grass left in the area to relieve herself on. As a responsible citizen, he had his dog bag on hand for clean up, but he needed a garbage can in which to toss the full bag.
Scanning the area, he spotted two large dumpsters across the parking lot behind a metal fence. The gate to the fence hung open. He and Mitzi headed toward the dumpster, bag in hand. The sign “For restaurant use only” induced a little guilt, but he reasoned one little baggie wasn’t going to hurt.
Lifting the large lid of the dumpster, he was hit with the smell of rotting fish. He peered into the dumpster for possible clues. Nothing. It figured. It would’ve been just too easy to discover evidence sitting there, waiting to be taken to the landfill.
He lowered the lid. Mitzi had disappeared behind the dumpster. “Mitzi, come.” He used his command voice, but no response. Irritation prickled his skin. “I’m not up for this tonight.”
He heard a faint sound from behind the dumpster. He hoped it was Mitzi and not a Norwegian Rat the size of a small cat.
“Mitzi, come out. I don’t want to go looking for you. And I sure as hell don’t want to tangle with a rat.”
Davis could barely squeeze into the recess between the side of the dumpsters and the fence. Debris blocked his progress. He heard the rustle of papers and a scratching noise. A shudder coursed through his body. Shining his flashlight beam in front of him, he spotted his dog. “Mitzi, get out of there.”
She looked up briefly and then resumed her efforts to grab onto an empty container. At least it wasn’t something rotten or alive. On closer inspection, he could make out an empty canister of brake fluid. Brake fluid mixed with chlorine could make a big bang, just the type to set the forty-foot wall of solid fir ablaze.
“Good dog. Let’s see if we can find anything else of interest around here.”
Together they combed the area around the dumpster and office building. They walked up to Nickerson Street and scanned the grass along the curb, retracing the route the torch might have used for his exit. No chlorine bottles had been left lying on the side of the road. An empty container of brake fluid might be a dead end. But in this business, nothing could add up to something big.
Chapter Sixteen
Grayce took the steaming mug of tea from Hollie. I
ntricate patterns of blue and red tattoos wrapped around her assistant’s arm. “What time is Lieutenant Davis and Mitzi’s appointment this week?”
Hollie pulled the comfy treatment chair from against the wall and sat down across from Grayce. “He and Mitzi are scheduled for Thursday at 4:30.”
“Mitzi will need another treatment. She attacked a homeless man in Belltown.”
“What the f…? Mitzi’s not aggressive.”
“Mitzi jumped on the man to stop him from stabbing Lieutenant Davis.”
The idea that someone tried to kill Davis was doing weird things to her nervous system. She felt jittery, jumpy—like she had chugged a super-sized Diet Coke.
Hollie’s lips, the color of an eggplant, twisted into a smirk. “Mitzi, a street-fighting Poodle. I can just see the gangsters hangin’ with Poodles.”
Grayce laughed at the outrageous image.
“Did Davis know the dude?”
“No.”
“What was he after? Money? Drugs?”
“Neither, according to Davis. He is convinced that the guy was either mentally ill or high on something and didn’t know what he was doing.”
Now came the difficult part. She had never probed Hollie’s past. In their quasi-job interview, Grayce asked if drugs would interfere in Hollie’s ability to work. Hollie had declared “she was clean” and Grayce believed her. In the two months of her employment, Grayce had never had reason to doubt her.
Grayce chose each word carefully. She could feel the red moving into her face to the tops of her ears. “I’m not sure the guy was an addict…my only experience with drug addiction was volunteering at Teen Feed.”
Hollie’s purple lips emitted a brash laugh. “And you thought I’d know about junkies?”
“I wanted to get your perspective.”
Hollie arched her blackened eyebrow. “The dude must have been strung out to take on Davis.”
“That’s my point. Why would anyone take on a man of Davis’ size? There are so many easier targets. This guy didn’t act like an addict. He just didn’t have the detachment I’ve seen in kids who were high.”
Hollie cracked each knuckle painfully slow. The harsh sound punctuated each word. “Nothing matters to an addict ’cuz the junk owns ’em. They don’t care about anyone. My dad only cared about cooking meth.”
Grayce flinched at Hollie’s detached recital. Teen Feed was filled with kids who were running from either their abusive families or their abusive foster care placement.
Hollie sat upright and crossed her leg exposing black combat boots. “What does Davis think?”
“Davis is convinced that the guy is a street druggie with paranoid delusions,” Grayce answered.
“I’m with Davis, sounds like he was paranoid, probably snorting crank.”
“Maybe you’re right, but something felt wrong about the guy.” She envisioned the man’s steely determination. “This guy was focused…as if he was hired to hurt Davis.” As the words left her mouth, she knew. The man was a hired assassin. She took a big gulp of the hot tea, scalding her tongue.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” Except she didn’t feel fine. Her stomach plummeted and sunk to her knees like the drop on the roller coaster.
“Where did it happen?” Hollie asked.
“Second and Bell.”
“I could go down and check it out. See if anyone knows the guy.”
“What?” Grayce jerked her hand and spilled tea on the scattered papers on her desk.
“I’ll ask about the guy.” Hollie had the instincts of a pit bull and the loyalty of a yellow lab. “What did he look like?”
“If anyone is going to ask questions, it’s going to be me. Right now, I’m trying to figure things out.” She blotted the wet papers with Kleenex. She didn’t know exactly what she was trying to figure out.
Hollie flung herself forward in the chair. “The street is no place for you.”
“I’m not going to Belltown. I’m trying to understand what happened.” She didn’t mention that she was trying to gain perspective on her deep belief that someone was hired to kill Davis.
“Let Davis take care of himself. He can definitely handle it.”
“You’re probably right.”
Grayce’s logical brain agreed with Hollie’s take on the situation, but the twisted knot in her stomach vehemently reacted, sending spasms throughout her gut like a bad case of tourista.
Chapter Seventeen
“Davis, do you have any time this week to do Mt. Si?”
Davis turned toward Pete, a triathlon competitor who spent a great deal of his day at the gym. “Isn’t six a.m. a bit early for you, Pete?”
A grin crossed Pete’s sun-weathered face. He strode toward Davis. “I needed to get in a workout. Gotta be in Tacoma all day.”
Regulars already filled the Y-Gym. When Davis had first returned to Seattle during his father’s illness, Y-Gym had provided a refuge. A stranger adrift in his own hometown, Davis felt anchored at the popular gym among serious athletes like himself.
Pete inspected Davis’ regulation navy blue pants and shirt. “Man, you gave up your designer suits for that outfit? Those pants look like the ones I wore in parochial school. You shouldn’t have listened to Rod.”
A mutual buddy at the gym had provided the initial push for Davis toward fire investigation. “Hey, I want you to know these pants don’t have to be dry cleaned.”
“No time for Mt. Si?” Pete asked.
“Don’t think I can swing it. I’ll call you if this case magically solves itself.”
Both men left the gym, oversized bags slung over their shoulders. Davis took a deep breath when he stepped into the gray rainy morning. His workout had helped get his focus back.
“Good luck with the investigation. Maybe we can hit the mountain next week.”
“Yeah, I’ll need it by then. Hope traffic isn’t too bad.”
“With this rain, it’s going to be a bitch.” Pete swung into his jeep.
Davis started the steep climb to his condo, making a mental list of all he had to do during the day. Top of his list was to talk to Dr. Grayce Walters. He was going to make one final call. He didn’t seem to be able to get her or her guileless stares out of his mind. It wasn’t as if he was desperate for a woman’s attention, he just wanted to make sure she was okay.
He entered the black glass and steel building. At this early hour, the place was deserted. He wasn’t in the mood to be friendly. He assured himself his short fuse had nothing to do with Grayce Walters. At this stage of an investigation, he usually had a working hypothesis. With the wharf fire, nothing was falling into place except wild speculation.
Why hadn’t Grayce returned either of his phone calls? He couldn’t stop visualizing her face, so vulnerable after the attack on Friday night. He replayed the danger. What if he hadn’t walked her to her car? What if he hadn’t been there to protect her from the paranoid druggie?
He was heading down a familiar path—the knight in shining armor. Women loved a man who wanted to rescue them.
But Grayce was different than most women. She’d tried to shield him after the assault. Strong but sensitive, she confused him.
He punched the elevator button harder than he needed to.
* * *
Despite Napoleon and his 18 pounds walking on her head at four a.m., Grayce had slept without nightmares. Energized after her meditation, she was ready for a run. She brought up Sufi music on her iPod, stretched her hamstrings and twisted her hair into a pony-tail.
The phone rang. There was only one person who called her this early. After her sister died, both she and her mother had trouble sleeping. When Grayce left for college, they had established a routine to talk in the morning if either had a rough night. They never changed the routine.
“Sweetie, I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“I’ve been up for a while, Mom. Are you ready for your trip?”
Her mother answered in her pr
ofessional, no nonsense mode. “I’m leaving for the airport in a few minutes but wanted you to know how much your dad enjoyed dinner with you.”
“It was great for me, too.”
“Guess who your father ran into at the University Club?”
God, she hoped it wasn’t Peyton Archley, a former college boyfriend. Her mother still clung to the hope that they might take up their romance again. “I’ve no idea.”
“Dean Williamson. Your father had a nice chat with him about your interest in medical school.”
The muscles in her jaw started to tighten. Her mother was fixated on Grayce attending medical school again. Never a good sign. “Mom, I went to vet school.”
“He was quite impressed with your advanced degrees in the sciences and the awards you garnered at Michigan and Cornell. It sounds like your father couldn’t restrain himself from bragging.”
She wasn’t sure whether to scream or laugh. She unclenched her jaw. Her belief that the higher species should be able to moderate their response to adverse stimuli wasn’t working this morning. Knowing her mother was trying to take care of her, she felt like the lowest of worms. “Really?”
“Dean Williamson told your father to have you call him. He’d love to talk about your future in medicine.”
Her mother still hoped that as a “real doctor” no one would discover Grayce’s unconventional gifts. She attributed Grayce’s “quirkiness with animals” to the effects of Cassie’s death.
Grayce had been forced into therapy after that. She had made the mistake of revealing that she continued to feel Cassie’s presence. The psychiatrist had told her parents that Grayce’s “symptoms” were part of the grieving process, a refusal to accept her sister’s death. And in time Grayce’s visions would fade. He had been wrong.
Cassie still came to Grayce in her dreams—a bright energy that wrapped her in love. Many nights after Grayce had helped an injured or dying animal, Cassie would whisper words of comfort to her in her sleep.
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