Hot Water

by Maggie Toussaint

  She fought back a rush of excitement. With only one directive to follow, she could easily meet North’s deadline. And if he was such a by-the-book guy, she’d still have time after-hours for her scrap metals project.

  “Got it.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll get started.”

  “Oh, one more thing, Dinterman. That task force you put together, I’m handing that over to Harlow. I don’t want you to think about anything but this arson investigator for the next few days. Scrap metal theft is a low priority compared to catching a serial arsonist.”

  Her excitement fizzled. This was her baby. “I can keep up with the task force, sir. It won’t take that much time.”

  “I’ve seen how many calls you get on that. Too time-consuming for you right now.”

  “This North must be the governor’s son or something,” she muttered.

  “Or something.” He eyeballed her. “You’re the best we’ve got. I’m counting on you.”

  The unspoken message came through crystal clear. Don’t screw up. She squared her shoulders. “I’ll do my best.”

  Her best.

  Would it be good enough for Mr. I-want-everything-right-now?

  Darn straight.

  She’d be the best babysitter he ever had.

  Chapter 3

  Laurie Ann’s mouth watered as she flipped the spicy catfish filets on the grilling pan. “These are about ready, Dad. You got a plate in there?”

  “I got a whole cupboard full of plates,” Pete Dinterman answered from his kitchen. “Hang on a sec, oh, confound it. The potatoes boiled over. Again. I swear this stove is possessed.”

  More likely he’d forgotten to turn the heat down. Nothing new there. She’d learned to take charge of the entrée, or else the whole meal would burn to a crisp. Her dad was a great guy, a retired cop, but he couldn’t focus on cooking. Not when the world of hunting and fishing were so much more engrossing.

  Sure enough, he walked out holding a plate and the latest issue of Field and Stream magazine. “Look at the size of these rainbow trout. Lester and I are planning a trip to north Georgia in a few days to hook some of these beauties.”

  Sometimes she got annoyed because her father treated her cousin like the son he’d never had, but Lester Church had never known his father, so how could she begrudge him a hunting-and-fishing relationship with her dad?

  “I’m sure y’all will have a great time.” She used the spatula to lift the filets onto the plate and set the steaming fish on the patio table. Dining with a view of the creek was the best thing about her father’s place. “Is Lester back from his part-time job with the moving company?”

  “Came in a few days ago, but he’s been under the weather with a cold. Bessie’s been spoon feeding him chicken noodle soup and the boy hates all the attention. Says he’d rather sleep for a few days. But my sister won’t relent until he’s up and out of that bed.”

  Laurie Ann bit her tongue. Aunt Bessie had spent her life coddling Lester, and consequently Lester thought the world owed him. With both of them only children, she shuddered at the thought she could have turned out like him.

  “They’ll work it out. They always do. Go ahead and sit down. I’ll bring out the rest of dinner.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  She drained the potatoes and tossed in a whopping spoonful of butter. She’d tried to get her dad to cut back on starches and fats, but his yardstick was how his mother cooked, and there wasn’t any point in discussing health trends or cholesterol with him. She grabbed two beers from the fridge and the salad she’d brought over for dinner. Anything green was pushing it for her father, but she refused to eat like a cave man every time she visited.

  After she brought the food outside, they dug into their meal. Marsh hens and bobwhites sang the sun down, and a light breeze wafted over the creek. She sat on her paper napkin.

  Pushing his plate aside, her father looked at her for the first time that evening. “What’s this I hear about you being detailed on a special assignment?”

  She shrugged. “Some arson hotshot from Atlanta is coming down to study the Pirate’s Cove blaze. I’m his official escort.”

  His eyes didn’t miss the way she toyed with the last hunk of potato on her plate. “And?”

  “And I have mixed feelings about the detail. Sure, it adds to my resume and pads my field experience when I test for investigator, but Chief Tyler assigned the scrap metal task force to a new guy in our squad. He even pulled me off my patrol route.”

  Pete Dinterman whistled. “Who is this guy? Why does Tyler think he needs your full-time attention?”

  “The chief acted like he was some big muckety-muck, but if he’s such a hot shot, why does he need me? I think this assignment is a trial investigation, but it cost me the task force. I feel like I’ve lost ground.”

  “Policing isn’t linear like that. I spent thirty years dancing to my chief’s whim, and I never even gave testing for investigator a second thought. I loved being a patrolman. I was good at it, too.”

  “Maybe some of my problems at the station are because people know I plan to test. The guys are always giving me a hard time.”

  “Do I need to come down there and knock heads together?”

  Her gut burned at the thought of her father interfering. “I’ll work it out, Dad, but being on the force seems like an uphill battle.”

  “Ain’t easy to be a female cop. Add in your smarts and looks and the guys have to work double time to keep up with you. You’re going to make one fine investigator.”

  “As long as I don’t make any mistakes between now and the written exam.”

  “It’ll be a cakewalk for you. Dog this Atlanta guy and keep your nose clean, like I taught you. Soon you’ll outrank these yahoos giving you a rough time. That’s the best revenge.”

  Chapter 4

  The miles rolled by right on schedule. Wyatt North liked to operate on schedule. When events spiraled out of control, mistakes happened. He’d vowed never to be in that situation again.

  He couldn’t afford a mistake now that his two-year hunt for a serial arsonist had heated up again. This time he wouldn’t be a step behind. This time he’d make good on his promise to his partner.

  This restaurant fire fit the arsonist’s profile. Wyatt was closing in. Certainty thrummed through his veins as the miles rolled by.

  Between Macon and Savannah his phone rang. “You coming home this weekend?” his brother Virgil asked after they’d talked a little Atlanta Braves baseball.

  “Can’t make it,” Wyatt said, turning off the radio. “Got a new case. A restaurant fire down in Mossy Bog.”

  Virgil didn’t respond right away. “I thought we talked about this. You weren’t going to chase dead ends anymore. There’s so much more to life than one arsonist.”

  “You talked. I listened. I didn’t agree to anything.”

  “You’re going to miss Allie’s birthday if you keep this up. She won’t like that.”

  Allie was fourth in the North family birth order, but of the four boys and two girls, she was the most outspoken. “I’ll call her,” Wyatt conceded.

  “She was counting on us all being there. I think Butler finally popped the question.”

  “He’s a decent guy. He’ll take good care of her.”

  “Since when do you approve? I thought Butler had serious shortcomings in your eyes.”

  A red sports car zipped past his truck. Fool. Wyatt checked to make sure he was going the speed limit. “Butler and I had a come-to-Jesus moment when they visited me in Atlanta. He’d do anything for Allie. Can’t expect more than that.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “You were up to your scrawny neck with that blonde cheerleader woman. What was her name? Chloe?”

  “Chloe Tramell.” Virgil sighed. “What a hottie.”

  Another exit rolled by. “You still seeing her?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to end up like me. Take a less
on from Allie and find someone who thinks you make the sun rise each day.”

  “You wouldn’t be alone if you’d make an effort. Women want you.”

  “Women expect you to be at their beck and call. My job takes me all over the state. Nessa and Pat hated that I wasn’t dependable as an escort. I hated dealing with their disappointment.”

  “You’ll find somebody. You haven’t met the right woman yet.”

  Wyatt thought back to his phone call with the police chief and the woman he was about to meet. She had a no-nonsense voice, and she didn’t mince words. He liked that. They’d get along fine as long as she didn’t get in his way.

  “Why do you think this fire was set by your arsonist?” Virgil asked.

  “It’s a restaurant fire, and someone died. From initial reports, the place went up very fast. I’m banking on an accelerant, but I won’t know until I get down there and see the burn for myself.”

  “Speaking of there, where the heck is Mossy Bog?”

  “It’s a seaside town about an hour south of Savannah.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Doesn’t mean they don’t have my arsonist.” He paused, wanting to tell more and deciding to confide in his brother. “I’ve got a feeling this time, Virg. I’m close.”

  “I hope so. We want you to stop being obsessed with this guy.”

  “I owe it to Bobby to catch him.”

  Virgil sighed. “Bobby would want you to get on with your life. Your partner took full responsibility for his actions.”

  “I know you mean well, bro, but this is important to me. Until I make this right, I can’t move forward. I will catch this guy.”

  “Then hurry up. I’m tired of you pussyfooting around. I want you back for Saturday football and baseball doubleheaders. I miss tossing a football around in the yard. For Pete’s sake, Wyatt, you missed Thanksgiving and Christmas over this.”

  He’d been the quarterback on the high school football team. Virg had been his favorite receiver. They’d made the state playoffs in his senior year. Seemed like a lifetime ago. “I know.”

  After ending the call, Wyatt studied a passing billboard advertising a marina in Thunderbolt. One day he’d like to own a boat and have fun. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d hung out with his family. Virgil was right. He’d missed Thanksgiving and Christmas.

  And for what?

  Work?

  Chapter 5

  Wyatt flipped through the pages in the official Pirate’s Cove file. The fire folder held little information; the police file had a decent sketch and photos of the rubble. James Brown had died of smoke inhalation, and the medical examiner noted a hammer-head sized dent on the back of his skull. Could be from a fall, could be from someone knocking him out.

  The fire chief leaned toward arson for three reasons. First, there was no power in the old restaurant, and it hadn’t spontaneously erupted in flames. Second, he’d smelled gasoline. Third, he’d found evidence of candles and dryer sheets in the blaze.

  An accelerant would explain a lot. Gasoline and dryer sheets pointed to the arsonist Wyatt was chasing. So far so good.

  No fire sketches, no witness statements. Two fire companies had responded to the fire. The chief had pronounced the restaurant a total loss, with no mention of weather conditions or listing of possible suspects.

  Not nearly enough facts to suit him.

  Wyatt had his work cut out for him.

  He glanced across the conference table at Officer Dinterman. She appeared intent on filling out a report. She was everything her apple-crisp voice promised and more. Confident, hardworking. Sexy as hell. A feminine distraction he didn’t need. He needed to catch the arsonist before the bastard claimed another life. Wyatt had trailed this guy across the state, always one step behind.

  “I’d like to visit the burn site now,” he said.

  She glanced up. “Would you like me to drive?”

  “No thanks. We’ll take my truck. I’ve got my gear and sampling stuff.”

  “Would you like the fire chief to meet us at Pirate’s Cove?”

  From the brief notes in the log, the fire chief would be little help at all, but it was considered professional courtesy to meet the local chief. “Sure. Have Chief Pratt meet us at the restaurant.”

  After she made the call, he walked her out to his truck. He buckled his seat belt and caught another pleasing whiff of Dinterman’s citrus scent. “How long have you been on the force?”

  “Six years in June,” she said. “How about you? How long have you been an arson investigator?”

  “I started as a firefighter ten years ago and transitioned to arson investigation a few years back. Fire gets in your blood and won’t turn you loose.”

  She directed him to the address. City houses gave way to pine forests. She shot him an enigmatic look as they rounded a bend in the country road. “I looked you up online. You have quite a history of running into fires.”

  He cracked a smile, warming to her friendliness. “The good old days. I let the young guys play hero now. I’d rather study the fire after the fact.”

  Moss-swathed trees crowded the road near a cluster of two-story houses, giving Wyatt a timeless sense. Generations had passed under these trees. “You ever thought about being anything other than a cop?”

  At first, he thought he’d asked the wrong question. A subtle yet intense series of emotions played across her face before she spoke. “I’m third generation cop. My dad and grandpop were patrol officers, so I literally have cop running through my veins.”

  Her hesitation intrigued him. “But you’ve thought about doing something else?”

  “Who hasn’t? You have a bad day and you think ‘I don’t need this crap’. But every once in a while you have an awesome day where you help people, and it’s all worthwhile.”

  “I hear you.”

  A few miles later, she pointed out an old two-story clapboard house to him. “That’s the Busbee place. At one time, it served as our county courthouse. Now it’s waiting on a new owner. The last Busbee died six months ago. You wouldn’t believe the mantelpieces on those fireplaces.”

  “You like old homes?”

  “I do. What about you—old or new?”

  “Old is okay as long as it’s been brought up to code.” He shot her a grin. “Mostly, I’m against fire hazards.”

  “Makes sense.” Laurie Ann leaned forward. “The turn is just ahead on the right. Spyglass Road.”

  He turned as directed.

  “The restaurant is all the way at the end on the left,” she said.

  He noted no houses on the road, just pine forest. Convenient. No neighbors to notice activity at the burn site. “Do you know who had access to the site?”

  “The new owners are a Jacksonville couple. They planned to renovate it, but as far as I know, nothing had been done yet.”

  “When did they buy the place?”

  “About two months ago.”

  “So realtors might have had access?”

  “Marshview Realty handled the sale. I can ask them about access while they had it listed.”

  “Anyone else? Maybe a handyman to change the locks?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know the answer to that. But I can find out.”

  “I need to know.”

  He parked at the end of the road and donned his camera. A fully involved fire all right. No standing timbers. Just ashes and rubble. It was rare for non-arson fires to burn so completely. His hopes rose as they exited the truck.

  Not much to examine, but whatever was here, he’d find.

  He circled the burn site, making notes and taking pictures as he walked. He preferred to start from the outside and work in to the heart of the fire. He saw crumbling brick pilings which looked like building supports, a few twisted pieces of tin from the roof, pools of melted metal from the rest of the roof, galvanized piping, a couple of soot-covered toilets and sinks, some odd bits of metal, here and there a partially burnt hunk of wood. Given
the seventy-five-year vintage of the building, the framing timbers and heart pine floor had fueled the flames.

  “Walk me through it, from your recollection,” he said.

  She pointed due south, her cop hat riding low over her dark eyes. “One of my domestic violence moms was staying with a friend the next road over. I was following-up with her when the call came through. Because I was nearby, I secured the scene. Southside’s pumper pulled up a few minutes later. They dropped a hose in the creek and sprayed the fire. Investigator Rawson and Deputy Ballard arrived next and relieved me. Folks came from miles around to watch the fire.

  “I watched the blaze for a while. The fire chief had a fit when he arrived, because cars blocked the road. He ordered the deputies to clear the area. I left in the general exodus, before anyone knew there was a body inside. They found Brown early the next morning, two days ago.”

  He envisioned the scene she painted. From her recital of facts, he gathered she was analytical and organized. She took care with her appearance as well. Her uniform was pressed and tidy, her shoes glossy black, her burnished chestnut hair in a crisp regulation cut framing her chin.

  He glanced around. No plugs in sight. No wonder the pumper truck had to draft water from the creek.

  “Tell me more about the fire,” he said. “What color was the smoke?”

  She laughed, a melodic sound to his ears. “Smoke-colored.”

  “I meant was it more white in color or black?”

  “Black, I guess.”

  Black smoke came from a very hot fire. A blue pickup approached and parked next to his truck. An older gentleman eased from behind the wheel and limped over. “Looks like we’re all here,” Wyatt said.

  Dinterman introduced Fire Chief Buford Pratt. A Braves baseball cap covered the chief’s head, but he wore shorts, a T-shirt, and turnout boots. Definitely not standing on ceremony or dressing to impress.