Burning Love

by Debra Cowan

  "Cut her a break, man," Terra heard Jerry French say to the cop. "The victim's a friend of hers."

  She ducked into an empty bathroom, boots squishing through ashy water and crunching over glass and splintered wood. Wet smoke and the rotten smell of death weakened her knees as she dragged in deep breaths of cold, rancid air. The bloated, unrecognizable mass of Harris's face floated through her mind. She closed her eyes, leaned her forehead against the wall and focused on breathing. She'd thrown up twice in her adult life; she battled to keep from doing it a third time.

  Tugging off one of her gloves, she pushed back her helmet and wiped at the cold sweat on her forehead, her nape. Tears burned her throat and she thumbed off the strays falling down her cheeks. The cop's disapproval of her pricked, but it didn't matter. What mattered was what had happened to Harris and she meant to find out.

  Despite how difficult this case was, fire investigation was her job, what Harris had trained her to do. What she would do. For him.

  Terra waited there until her stomach settled. She had to focus on her job, not Harris. You can't make it personal. That had been one of the first things he'd taught her. A sob ached in her throat, but she swallowed it. After another minute, she pulled her glove back on, adjusted her helmet more comfortably and returned to the bedroom.

  The medical examiner, Ken Mason, handled bodies for Oklahoma County, which included the town of Presley. He now stood beside the bed waving off a young man who approached with a body bag. "Wait until Investigator August is finished."

  Ken, who'd worked with Harris during his last year as the fire investigator, turned to Terra with compassion in his dark eyes. "Take your time."

  She nodded, fighting down another swell of emotion. Her mind still couldn't accept what her eyes had seen. For a moment, she made herself stare at the body. There was nothing of the shy grin, the trimmed beard shot with gray, the kind brown eyes. All traces of the man she knew—loved—were gone. Except for the boots. Bit by bit, she let in the pain until she felt she could control it. When she began to tremble, she bit her lip and looked away.

  Someone, probably Jerry and the guys from Station Four, had set up her portable floodlights while she was gone. Putting herself on autopilot as best she could, Terra decided to record the body first, get it over with. She lifted her camera with shaking hands and snapped pictures from several angles. After each photo, she dictated a brief memo into her microcassette recorder. Tears blurred her vision, but she had a job to do. Harris, of all people, wouldn't have cut her any slack.

  She moved to the right side of the bed. The hallway, guest bathroom and living room only had smoke damage, but fire damage was severe in this room. Especially on the wall beside the bed where destruction was the heaviest.

  This could very well be the low point—the place where the fire started—for this room. There could be other origins. She would double-check and verify every room before making notes to that effect. Her initial guess was the bedroom as the point-of-origin, but she would make no conclusions until she finished her investigation.

  "Where did you come from?" she murmured to the fire, staring at the charred wood that moved in an upward-spreading vee from the bedside table. "Here? Or another room?"

  She forced herself to look a second time at Harris's body. She wanted to scream, to run, but she didn't. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears and her breathing went shallow, but after a minute, she was able to detach a bit. That's when she noticed his hands and feet were tied. She froze as the implication sunk in. He wouldn't have been able to escape.

  She jerked her gaze away. Rage swept over her until she shook with it. She stared blankly at the blackened wall and counted to ten as she struggled to level out the tide of emotion battering her. Do your job, she mentally reminded herself. Do your job.

  She should take measurements of the body's position, compare them later to the ones taken by the lab tech who'd already put away his tape measure. And as quickly as possible, she needed to determine what, if any, accelerant had been used before any remaining indication vanished due to the areas ventilated by the firefighters.

  She'd always been able to scent kerosene or gasoline at a scene; she smelled neither here. She could call Vicki at the State Fire Marshal's office and request the use of their German shepherd. Pyro was trained to sniff out accelerants, but Terra didn't want to wait for the dog to arrive. Besides, her portable "sniffer," an instrument that detected combustible gases, would confirm the presence and identity of the accelerant. After that, she would take samples if necessary.

  Urging herself to get started, Terra turned. For the first time, she noticed her tackle box at the foot of the bed and realized she must've dropped it upon first seeing Harris.

  Jerry French picked it up and handed it to her. "You okay?"

  "Yes, thanks. I just needed a little time."

  He nodded, his smoke-reddened hazel eyes sympathetic. "The guys from Four and One are waiting to begin overhaul. That way, you can move them away from where you think the fire started."

  "Great. That will save a lot of investigation time."

  "The walk-around's finished. The structure appears sound enough for you to begin."

  "Your guys were first on the scene, right?"

  Jerry nodded. "We had some trouble putting out the blaze. It took a small spray pattern to finally do the trick."

  Terra noted that in her tape recorder. If the typical wide or "fog pattern" spray was inefficient in putting out the fire, that was a clue to the type of accelerant used. "Thanks, Jerry. I'll come out in just a minute to talk to your crew, walk through overhaul with them. Right now, I need to check for accelerants before they evaporate."

  "Gotcha."

  Still off balance and slightly disoriented, she set her tackle box down on the soggy, debris-covered carpet.

  Soot streaked Jerry's weathered, leather face. Concern darkened his eyes. "You sure you're okay?"

  She nodded, giving him a small smile. "I can do this."

  "I'll see you outside." He squeezed her shoulder and motioned to the two firefighters she'd barely noticed earlier. One woman, one man, both pale and wide-eyed. Probies. Had she ever been that green?

  The cop who'd kept her from planting her face in the floor watched her coolly from a few feet away. Uneasy with the knowing steadiness in his eyes, her gaze slid away. She opened her tackle box and took out the small, boxlike "sniffer." The wooden footboard for the queen-size bed was still intact, but the headboard was a crumbling screen of ash. Charred mattress. Closed, scorched closet door.

  Rubbing her temple where a headache had started, Terra walked to the far side of the bed. Bedroom fires were typically caused by three things: frayed lamp circuits, electric blankets or smokers. Harris had never smoked so she dismissed the possibility that he could've started the fire that way. Though fires due to frayed lamp circuits and electric blankets were rare, Terra checked anyway. There was no electric blanket on this bed. At the bedside table, she noticed a blackened brass lamp and knelt to check the electrical cord. No frayed lamp circuit here.

  Intent on checking the same things on the opposite side, Terra edged around the foot of the bed. An identical bedside table held another brass lamp, now soot-black. This lamp's electrical cord wasn't frayed either. The fire hadn't been caused by faulty electric wiring. Glass fragments sprinkled the sodden carpet. The shattered base of a bulb still screwed into the lamp testified that at least some of the shards belonged to an exploding lightbulb.

  "You the fire investigator?"

  She remembered the rough velvet voice. Standing up, she had to tilt her head a bit to look him in the eye, something she didn't have to do with very many men. "Yes."

  "Detective Jack Spencer. I'll be the primary on this case."

  His gaze scoured her face. What was he looking for? She wasn't going to faint. In the harsh flood of the portable fluorescent lights, Terra noted fine lines fanning out from Detective Spencer's eyes. Very blue eyes. Hard blue eyes.

&
nbsp; He stuck out his hand.

  She shook it and released it quickly. "Terra August."

  "I apologize for my comment earlier. I didn't know he was a friend of yours."

  She tamped down the slash of pain. Presley was still small enough that all police, including the detectives, worked solo rather than with a partner. Except in fire death cases like this. Procedure between Presley's police and fire departments stated that when P.F.D. found a dead body in a fire, they worked to contain the blaze, then stopped and called Homicide. "I guess we'll be working together."

  "Yes. Looks like murder."

  Struggling to keep a rein on the emotions swirling inside her, she pressed her lips together and nodded. "The bound hands and feet of the victim also indicate the fire as a probable arson. But why?"

  "That's what I intend to find out," Spencer said. "Do you have any ideas?"

  "No. I'll concentrate first on confirming or eliminating arson. Then we'll have a solid starting place." She'd have to work with the detective until one of them proved the death was an accident, suicide or murder. If Harris's death was an accident, Terra would turn over her part of the investigation to the insurance company. Otherwise, she and Jack Spencer were in this together. She could interview and interrogate, but she couldn't arrest or serve warrants. Spencer could.

  He glanced around the sooty, soggy room. "Can't you already tell if it's arson?"

  "I approach all fires as if they are, but I need proof."

  "Well, something's fishy. Why else would he have been tied?"

  She curled her shaking hands into fists around the instrument she held. Her voice cracked as she asked, "Was he dead before the fire?"

  "I don't know." Sympathy and an unidentifiable emotion flashed through his blue eyes before he turned toward the M.E. "Mason?"

  "You know it's too soon for me to have anything for you yet, Jack."

  Numb and still reeling, a part of her noted the cop's clean soap-and-water scent she caught beneath lingering smoke. Someone had tied up Harris, but why? So he couldn't escape the fire? Or for another reason?

  This was too much. She couldn't process it all right now. She needed to test for accelerants and the firefighters from Stations Four and One were waiting. If she wanted to unravel this puzzle, she had to start somewhere. She turned to scan her instrument across the most burned part of the wall above the nightstand.

  Jack Spencer snagged her elbow; she looked sharply at him.

  He released her, but his gaze lasered into her. "Since the victim was a friend of yours, I'll need to interview you before I leave here."

  The victim had a name. Terra bit off the sharp words, resisting the urge to rub the place where he'd touched her. The cop was doing what she should be doing—putting his emotions aside so he could do his job.

  His features were just as exacting as his eyes. The stubborn chin, rough-hewn cheekbones and shadow of whiskers did nothing to soften a jaw that looked as if it could take a few blows.

  "I'll also be conducting an investigation," she said.

  "I'll notify the family, talk to the firefighter who found the body." He scribbled in the small notebook he held.

  "That should give you time to do some things you need to do, then you and I can talk."

  "Harris had only an ex-wife." Thinking about Cecily Vaughn unsettled Terra's stomach again. "His parents passed on some years ago."

  "Thanks. That confirms what I learned from his neighbor." Jack Spencer tucked his notebook into the inside pocket of his lightweight tweed blazer. "Anything else you can tell me? Had he made anyone mad recently?"

  She frowned. "He's retired."

  Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug.

  She shook her head. "I had dinner with him tonight. He was fine."

  Spencer's gaze sharpened. "We can talk more about that when I see you again."

  "All right." She flipped the switch on her "sniffer" and turned toward the charred wall.

  "Should you be working this case? He was your friend, after all."

  Having her doubts voiced only served to tighten her jaw. "I am working it."

  "Look, I apologize for what I said when I first walked in, but seeing him obviously affected you. I don't want anything to jeopardize this case."

  "Neither do I. And nothing will. What happened earlier was shock. I'm not used to seeing my friends burned to a crisp," she said sharply.

  "I know you're the only fire investigator we have, but maybe someone else could help you out, give you some space."

  "What I need to do is my job, and I will. Maybe you could do yours."

  His lips flattened. "I'll be by to talk to you once I finish my preliminary interviews."

  "You know where to find me."

  She wondered if his blue eyes were that hard all the time, then she pushed the thoughts away and focused her attention on piecing together what had happened to her mentor.

  Chapter 2

  He wished he hadn't touched her, although he couldn't have let her fall flat on her face. That was where Terra August had been headed when he'd first seen her. Jack could still feel the taut curve of her waist, smell the hint of sweet woman beneath the acrid burn of smoke.

  Late the afternoon following the fire, he scrubbed a hand over his face. The setting sun glared through the windshield of his pickup as he drove back to the fire scene. He'd stopped in town to interview a possible witness in a car-jacking, one of his several active cases, but his thoughts were mainly on his newest case. A mix of appreciation and admiration still flared when he thought back to his earlier meeting with Presley's fire investigator. Professional admiration was where he should draw the line, so he did. She'd put her personal feelings aside and done her job. Despite the raw pain in her eyes, she'd been careful and attentive at the scene. Now he needed to know how much, if any, progress she'd made.

  Jack bit off a curse.

  Terra August had been on the fringes of his mind like a shadow, not keeping him from his job, but a distraction he'd been unable to dismiss. Was it the vulnerability in her face when he'd first seen her at the fire scene? The agony in those jade-green eyes when he'd stuck his foot in his mouth about her friend? He rubbed at his eyes, scratchy from lack of sleep.

  The reason she lingered in his mind had to be because she was still on his suspect list. Until he'd interviewed and cleared her, she would be. Still, his gut told him she was innocent. Which didn't explain why he'd thought so much about her.

  Why Terra August? What was different about her? Since Lori's death three and a half years ago, Jack hadn't noticed anything except work. Certainly not women. Not like this.

  Some of his time today had been spent asking questions about Terra. She'd spent nine years fighting fires on the front line with Station Four. The last four had been spent as a fire investigator. Orphaned at age fifteen by the death of her parents in a car wreck, she'd moved in with her grandfather, a firefighter who'd died of smoke inhalation in a fire about ten years ago.

  She was also divorced from Keith Garcia. Garcia was a sharp young defense attorney with a prestigious law firm making a name for himself in the state. Jack found himself wondering what had gone wrong between the two of them.

  He turned into the Hunter's Ridge subdivision. As he reached the yard squared off with fluttering yellow police tape, he noted a lone police cruiser. It appeared the fire investigator had finished here.

  He stopped and rolled down his window.

  Pope, the officer at the scene, stepped up to Jack's truck. "Hey, Jack."

  "Hey. The fire investigator still inside?"

  "No, sir." The hefty, twenty-something officer checked his clipboard. "She left about noon. Said she'd probably be back later, though."

  "Thanks." Jack waved and turned around in the neighbor's driveway, then drove out of the neighborhood. He wasn't wild about going to see her, but there was no way around it. They were as good as partners on this case. Even if Jack had argued about it, he would've been shut down.

  Fire death
s were worked by both homicide and the fire investigator. He'd probably have to explain to a few people they interviewed that partnering up on this investigation was not only legal, but necessary. In cases like this, a fire investigator's knowledge was invaluable in asking all the right questions. Jack had already been told by the captain that the victim was the mayor's uncle. Mayor Griffin had called. He expected everyone to work in whatever capacity was needed. And probably twice as fast.

  The more information Jack had, the quicker this case would be solved. Right now, Terra August had information. Regardless of the way she'd intruded on his thoughts all night and day, this was a job. His job. The one thing he could always count on.

  Cool air streamed in from his open window, clearing out the cobweb of thoughts he'd been unable to escape all day. He was curious about her; that was all. Of course he'd known Presley's fire investigator was a woman, but if he'd heard anything about her, he sure didn't remember it.

  Her picture could've been plastered on every billboard in town for the past three years running and he wouldn't have even noticed. His job commanded all his focus. In the first six months after his wife's death, his world had narrowed to minutes—making coffee, putting gas in his car, mowing the grass. Eventually, he functioned day by day, lead by lead, case by case.

  Dating was a distant memory, just like sex. He knew what that said about him, but he didn't care. His attitude drove his sister crazy, but Jack had found a place where his head—and his heart—weren't stuck in the past.

  He needed to get back on track. Once he interviewed Terra and got caught up on her investigation, he'd be able to go about his business, alone again.

  He might admire the way she'd sucked it up at the crime scene, but that didn't mean he liked this new awareness sizzling in his blood. Still, he'd worked with dozens of women over the years, a few of them very beautiful. There was no reason he couldn't do it this time.

  Jack pulled up in front of Presley's original fire station, which now housed the fire investigator's office. The redbrick firehouse, antiqued from years and wind, had held one fire engine and one rescue truck. A weather-scrubbed metal sign hung over the door identifying the old building as the Fire Investigator's Office. Newer, crisp black lettering repeated the same on the glass front door.