by Burton, Mary
He had made a few calls and discovered that Lana Long had held a beautician’s license in the states of Colorado and Montana. And it was her Montana beautician’s license that had given him her current address. He’d placed calls to Jessica and Darren Halpern, hoping to get background information on Lana Long and to discuss the fire, but so far, his calls had landed in voicemail.
Out of his vehicle, he pushed back his jacket to clear his sidearm for easy access as he strode toward the manager’s first-floor apartment.
The curtains were drawn in the front display window, but a television’s wavy light leaked out around the edges, suggesting the manager was up and ready for him. He’d called ahead but had not shared specifics of his visit. For all he knew, Lana Long’s purse had been stolen, and he was not ready to raise questions about the woman until he had all the facts.
He pounded on the door and stood to the side. The call appeared to be straightforward, but too many cops had been shot or attacked on calls just like this.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. A security chain scraped out of its latch, and the dead bolt turned seconds before the door opened. The man standing in the doorway was midsize and stocky, with a full black beard and thinning long hair tied back at the nape of his neck. A plaid shirt skimmed over a full belly and was tucked into worn jeans. In the background, the television light glowed from a back bedroom and softly broadcast what sounded like an old western.
“Mr. Victor Oswald?” Gideon asked.
“That’s right.” His gaze settled on the seven-pointed gold star pinned to his brown overcoat. “Detective Bailey?”
“That’s right. Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Oswald.”
What should have been the living room of his apartment had been set up as a leasing office. A pizza box, a couple of dirty blue ceramic plates, and a few beer cans lined the breakfast bar attached to the kitchen.
Following Gideon’s line of sight, Mr. Oswald cleared his throat as he moved toward the kitchen and gathered the beer cans and dumped them into the trash.
He sniffed as he tucked in his shirt more securely. “You had a question about one of my residents?”
“That’s right. Her name is Lana Long?”
“Long.” He shook his head. “I know Lana. She moved in about nine months ago. We don’t get that many move-ins in the winter, so I remember her. Pretty little thing. She all right?”
“Her purse was found in town. This is more of a wellness visit to make sure she is.”
“The ladies do not like being separated from their purses.”
“No, sir, they do not. That’s why I’m concerned.”
“Did you call her?”
“I was hoping you could give me her phone number.”
“Sure. Let me check her records.”
The manager went to a computer resting on a desk shoved in a corner and typed several keys. “Ready?”
Gideon opened his phone. “Shoot.”
The manager rattled off the number, which Gideon typed into his phone. It rang twice and then, “This is Lana. You know the drill.”
Gideon left Lana a message instructing her to call him. Next step would be to check with the phone carrier to see if they could locate her cell. “She’s not answering. When was the last time you saw her?”
“Oh, it’s been a couple of weeks. She’s a hairdresser and works long hours.”
“Has she had any trouble or complaints?”
“No.”
“Can you direct me to her apartment?”
Mr. Oswald scratched the back of his head. “You’re going to a lot of trouble over a purse.”
“I just need to confirm she’s all right.”
Mr. Oswald grabbed a lightweight jacket, and as Gideon stepped outside, he closed the door behind him. “She’s in building two. It’s a quick walk.”
The few seconds in the manager’s warm apartment had sharpened the bite of the evening chill as they crossed the lot, full of potholes. The air was crisp and ripe with the scent of moisture. Snow in September was not uncommon, and he would bet money they were in for an early winter.
Mr. Oswald fished a ring of keys from his pocket and walked up to the first-floor unit. He knocked hard on the door several times. “Management,” he said in a clear, practiced voice. “Ms. Long, are you in there?”
They stood in silence, waiting outside the darkened door. If she was inside, she was either a heavy sleeper or passed out.
“Can you open it?” Gideon asked.
“I don’t know. Don’t you need a search warrant?”
“I’m just looking for the lady so I can give her back her purse.”
A fierce independence ran through Montana residents, as Gideon knew well; they were not fond of the law poking around. “You know exactly what you’re looking for?”
“One Ms. Long.”
“All right.” He selected a key from his ring and unlocked the door. He knocked harder, announced it was management again, and then, after no response, opened the door and switched on the light.
The apartment’s interior was dark and silent. The living room was similar to Mr. Oswald’s layout, though it appeared this unit had only one bedroom. The living room was furnished with a couple of lawn chairs, a folding table, and several boxes of books that lined the wall. A few of the books dealt with arson and the mindset of an arsonist. Could Lana Long have set the fire at the shop? If she had, she would not be the first arsonist to have underestimated the power of a fire and be consumed by their own blaze.
Gideon unholstered his sidearm. “Ms. Long, police!”
No response.
Mr. Oswald turned on the lights in the kitchen and hallway, calling out as he stayed behind Gideon while they walked toward the bedroom.
Another flip of the switch and they were staring at a single mattress on the floor, covered with a rumpled purple comforter twisted around gray sheets. Butted against the wall was an open suitcase neatly packed with clothes. Either Lana lived out of her suitcase or she was ready to leave town.
There were no pictures on the walls, and the bathroom was cleaned out except for a nearly empty bottle of lavender shampoo in the shower stall. The towels lay in a damp pile in the sink.
“Did she mention she would be moving soon?” Gideon asked.
“No. She signed a year’s lease. Said she was going to make a home here. A fresh start. But she wouldn’t be the first to skip out on rent.”
Gideon wondered how many folks planning on a new start in Big Sky Country ended up in his jail. These people figured moving to the edge of nowhere would solve their problems, until they realized their problems knew no zip code. As tempted as he was to search the open suitcase, he would wait. Better to have a search warrant.
“I should have known she was going to skip on the rent. Too positive and too cheery.”
“What makes you think she’s left town for good?”
“The skippers either avoid me altogether or smile like a fool whenever they see me. They think they’re pulling one over on me, but I’ve seen it all. Lana was always smiling.”
“How long have you managed this place?”
“Fifteen years. Like I said, I’ve seen it all.”
“Did Ms. Long pay on time?”
“A few days late a couple of times, but she always paid the late fine. Never gave me any excuses.”
“Did she talk about her job?”
“Said she liked it. Never complained to me. But she can talk.”
“The women I know speak when they have something important to say.”
“Well then, you’re lucky. My ex could talk the ears off a brass monkey.”
“Do you have the names of any women Lana works with?”
“Nope.”
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
“No idea.”
Gideon returned to the living room and knelt in front of the books. He noticed most had not been read. Slipping on gloves, he picked up the only one with a cracked
spine. It was a treatise on arson investigation.
“Thank you, Mr. Oswald.” He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to him. “Call me if she comes back.”
“Yes, sir. Will do.”
“I need to seal this apartment,” Gideon said. “No one in or out unless they are law enforcement.”
“Because of a purse?”
“Can you seal it for me?”
“Yeah, sure.”
As they exited the apartment, Gideon knew it would take at least another twelve hours before the crime scene would be cool enough to walk. If the woman he’d seen in the shop was Lana, then he would have to wait to prove it.
With Kyle at Ann’s for the night, he’d have time to conduct a preliminary search into Lana Long and determine if she had any police records. Next, he would pay a visit to Elijah Weston’s boardinghouse and properly welcome him back.
Elijah was not surprised to see the police car parked in front of Pickett’s house. He had spent ten years studying cops and their habits, and he would have been sorely disappointed if no one had come by to visit.
A tiny cinder of excitement flickered in his belly. They were going to talk about the fire, and as much as he did not trust cops, he was going to enjoy every bit of the dialogue.
Elijah recognized Gideon Bailey instantly as he settled his black Stetson and strode up the sidewalk, pausing to study the smudged graffiti before climbing the front porch steps.
In college, Elijah had known about Gideon, the local rancher’s boy who had tried his hand at cowboying for a couple of years before returning to college. He had been a receiver on the football team and had earned a partial scholarship, though his athletic talent was not enough to go pro. Not that Gideon would have left Montana. This state and the family ranch were in his blood.
Elijah leaned forward in Delilah’s rocker, tracing the rose pattern carved in the armrest with his fingertip. Always important to act calm and helpful, regardless. “Good evening, Detective Bailey.”
Gideon rested a foot on the bottom step. The brim of his hat shadowed his face a fraction, making it hard to read his expression, which Elijah supposed was the desired effect. Gideon had filled out in the last decade, but instead of growing soft and doughy like many men after college, his body was lean and rugged.
“Evening, Elijah,” Gideon said. “It’s been a long time.”
Elijah rose from his rocker and stepped to the porch railing. Gideon had attended his two-day trial, sitting in the back of the courtroom, seemingly absorbing every detail. The only time he had shown any emotion had been when Ann had testified. Had Gideon or Ann given him a single thought since then? “Ten years, to be exact.”
“You look like you’re doing well,” Gideon said. “I heard you finished your degree.”
So he had been paying attention. “I did. And I’m enrolled in my first master’s class. I’ll start on Wednesday.”
“That so? What are you taking?”
“Psychology 501. Dr. Bailey’s teaching it.”
“My sister’s class?” Gideon’s head tipped back a fraction so that Elijah had a full view of his frown.
“I’ve served my time, so there are no conditions to my release. Besides, she’s one of the best teachers at the university. Why would I not?” Elijah wanted to ask about Ann. He’d heard she and her husband had split. Was she relieved to be living apart from Clarke Mead? Smart women, foolish choices was the catchphrase, right?
“There isn’t another class you could take?”
“None that’s of interest.” He had served his time and was now completely rehabilitated. He planned to become involved with the community and give back exactly what it deserved.
“How are you paying for the schooling?” His tone was conversational, reserved for friends.
Elijah was surprised Gideon’s conversation starter did not focus on the fire. Gideon was always a little smarter than he let on. “There are tuition grants for people like me. And I’ll be looking for work to cover the rest. By any chance, is the police department hiring, Detective?”
Gideon nodded, not a bit of emotion showing.
“You come all this way to ask me about my schooling and job prospects?” Elijah asked.
“I did not, as a matter of fact.”
“The fire, then, I suppose.” When Gideon’s expression turned curious, he added, “Hard to miss the sirens.”
Gideon took another step closer. “I don’t suppose you know anything about it?”
“I do not, Detective. But if you need an alibi, please check with Mr. Pickett. He had eyes on me for most of the afternoon and evening. In case you’re curious, tonight’s dinner was meat loaf. And Mr. Pickett has a very specific way he likes his late wife’s recipe made. Extra bread crumbs and ketchup mixed with honey on top.”
“Not that I don’t take your word for it, but I’ll be checking with Mr. Pickett.”
The night air was getting cooler, but the underside of his skin burned hot with an old anger that had never been extinguished. “I didn’t set this fire, just as I did not set the College Fire ten years ago.”
“You’ve always maintained your innocence. You’re persistent. I’ll give you that much,” Gideon said.
“Because I am innocent.”
“Your DNA was attached to a partially recovered incendiary device found at the scene. Eyewitnesses put you in the vicinity. And the jury found you guilty, Elijah.”
He had a list of all the jurors’ names and would soon have their addresses. “I was framed.”
“Framed?”
“That’s right. Someone set me up. I reported my backpack had been stolen days before the fire. When I got it back, I discovered my sweatshirt was missing. That garment was used as a wick. And sure, I was in the area. I went to school there.”
Gideon frowned. “Where’s Mr. Pickett?”
“Gone to bed. According to the others here, he drinks on the first Saturday of the month. I hear he can’t hold his liquor as well as he used to and goes to bed about ten.”
“All right, then, I’ll talk to him in the morning.”
“By the way, what burned down?”
Gideon arched a brow. “The beauty salon on Main Street.”
“What type of structure was it?”
“Brick mostly, like the others around it.”
His heart rate sped up a beat. “Did the fire spread?” He should not be so curious, but he found the details hard to resist.
“No. Fire department stopped it.”
“Injuries?”
“Don’t know yet. Rubble is too hot.”
Elijah shook his head, sensing that the detective was withholding information. But then, Gideon was a smart one. He would not ask questions until he had a good idea of what the answers were. “I sure hope no one was hurt, Detective. Fire is a terrible way to die.”
Gideon’s expression darkened with suspicion. “Yes, it is.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Good evening, Elijah.”
“Yes, sir. You come back anytime. I’ll be here or at school.”
Elijah watched Gideon stride toward his SUV and then pause at the paint stain. “Trouble?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
With a nod, Gideon left, his long legs chewing up the distance to his vehicle in seconds. Yes, sir, he would have to be careful and not underestimate Detective Gideon Bailey.
Confessions of an Arsonist
Simple is best. No need for fancy devices. I can destroy anything with a milk jug, a cotton cloth, and gasoline. The trick is to remember fire is as dangerous as a wild animal. Pretty to look at, but it’ll kill you in a heartbeat.
CHAPTER SIX
Missoula, Montana
Sunday, September 6, 2020
7:00 a.m.
By early morning, Gideon had not gotten a wink of sleep. After leaving Elijah, he’d called over to Ann’s to check in. She’d had questions for him about the fire, but he had deflected them, promising she would have answers when he did. He had al
so given her a heads-up that Elijah had registered for her class. The silence stretched between them before she thanked him for the information.
The next couple of hours were spent trying to obtain a restraining order against Elijah. Though he did not want Elijah within five hundred yards of his sister, the magistrate had made it clear that Elijah had paid his debt, and until he proved otherwise, there was no limiting his comings and goings.
Gideon grabbed a large thermos filled with coffee from the station along with several cups, drove to the scene of the fire, and parked across the street. Two of the three fire engines had returned to their stations, but one truck remained.
While two firefighters continued to spray water on hot spots in the smoking rubble, Clarke roped off the area with yellow crime scene tape. It was a holiday weekend, and the tourists would soon be up for breakfast. He wanted to keep this as low-key as possible.
As Gideon got out of his vehicle, the sunrise bathed the east side of the mountains, showing off brilliant reds and oranges. Within weeks, the entire mountain range would be in full fall colors.
Thermos and cups in hand, Gideon crossed the street, reaching Clarke as he tied off the last of the tape. “How’s it going?”
“You missed a local reporter. She shot footage of the fire and promised to have it on this morning’s news,” Clarke said.
“Not sorry I missed her.” Gideon handed him an empty cup.
Clarke sighed as he held it out. “No getting around it.”
Gideon filled Clarke’s cup. “What about the guys on the truck? They need a hit of java?”
“I made a run for them a half hour ago. They had the lion’s share of the coffee, so this is much appreciated.” He took a long sip. “Did you find the woman who owned the purse?”
“I visited Lana Long’s apartment, which was stripped bare except for a bed and packed suitcase.”
“She was planning on leaving town?”
“Looks like it. She also had a few books on arson.”
