“I didn’t join the army until I was twenty-eight,” he began. “My skill wasn’t with a gun much as it was with a wrench. But I was sent out on patrol more than once. Did HVAC work before, so naturally I eventually became an army mechanic. They shipped me all over the world fixing stuff.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Yeah. Good work. Steady pay. Saw the world. I was in my midthirties when I got the call to go to Afghanistan—you know, right after nine-eleven, when we were turning up the heat on the country. Not that it actually needed any more heat.”
He attempted a laugh, but this time quickly gave up. No matter what, there was simply nothing amusing about the place.
“That’s where you met Dr. Nick Fury? In Afghanistan?”
“Yeah,” Roach said. “Only his name wasn’t Dr. Nick Fury. It was Dr. Nick Garrity. ‘Fury’ was just a nickname one of the grunts gave him because of his first name, and it sort of stuck. He was like a water bug over there—all over the place, teaching Marines some basic combat medicine techniques that saved lives in the arena, volunteering at the local clinic, working more shifts at the hospital than assigned. The Energizer Bunny. Didn’t have a patch on his eye, like the comic book Fury, but man, he sure was tough like him. Can you pass me the ketchup, please?”
Jillian slid the bottle across. Roach reached for it with his left hand. It was then Jillian noticed a long, jagged scar running from the tip of his index finger down past the base of his thumb and disappearing into his sleeve.
“What happened there?” Jillian asked.
“Well now, that there is my permanent reminder of Dr. Nick Fury,” he said, speaking between bites. “Crushed my hand in a tool press. Fury was on duty. Spent hours repairing it. A lot of hours. People told me he saved my hand. I was flown to the hospital at Landstuhl in Germany for a revision of his work. They told me there was no revision needed, and sent me back. Didn’t even change the antibiotics he put me on. It still aches a little when I do a double shift or stormy weather comes in, but I sort of welcome the reminder of how lucky I was to have that man on duty when I got hurt. Now you see why I wanted to meet you face-to-face.”
“I do. So where is he? And why do you think my sister would be interested in him?”
Roach shook his head.
“No idea. I don’t stay in touch with the old crew much. You see, something bad, real bad, happened on FOB Savannah where we were stationed.”
Jillian saw the pain in Roach’s eyes intensify. He set his fork down. Instinctively, she reached across and set her hand on his.
“Can you talk about it?”
“One of the locals turned out to be a terrorist—a suicide bomber. The guy’s cover was running a health clinic for the people just outside the wire. Fury was always helping him out with supplies, volunteering his off-hours to treat Afghan patients and such. Some thank-you he got.”
“What happened? Did the terrorist kill Fury?”
“Well in a way, maybe.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“This bastard drives his truck onto the base. Checkpoint has no problem letting him in. He’s a regular. But once inside, he plows his rig right through the front doors of the hospital. Blows himself and the truck to kingdom come. Garrity was there, right on the running board of the truck from what we heard, trying to break the window and get at the guy. He survived, by some miracle. I heard that one of the guys he worked with saved him somehow. The hospital was leveled. Most of the others didn’t make it, including his fiancée.”
“Oh, my God.”
Jillian wasn’t certain she could continue the conversation. She sipped some water and stared at the wall behind Roach, suddenly spent. Images of Belle at her vibrant best flashed through her thoughts. She wondered what Nick Garrity’s fiancée looked like.
“You okay?” Roach asked.
“No.”
“Oh, I understand.”
“I think you do. Any idea where Garrity is now?”
“Like I said, don’t keep in touch with the old crew. But I wanted to give you this. Thought it might help you to track him down. It’s been in my bureau drawer since he sent it to me.”
Roach fished into his pocket, withdrew a folded newspaper clipping, and passed it across. It was an article from The Washington Post about the Helping Hands Mobile Medical Unit and its director, Dr. Nick Garrity. There was a byline, but no date.
“Nick mailed this article to me a few years back,” Roach said. “He was trying to raise money to keep this RV on the streets. It’s like a roving clinic, helping down-and-out folks get decent medical care. That’s Nick.”
“I’ve heard about this program—even thought about volunteering at one point.”
“I sent him what I could. A hundred if I recall right. I would have sent more if times weren’t so hard.”
“I’m sure he appreciated any amount you could manage. Is the RV still in operation? Do you think Garrity is still in Washington?”
“It’s possible. Like I said, haven’t been in touch with him since.”
“I wonder what the connection between Garrity and Belle could be. She left D.C. right after she graduated. I can see her volunteering on something like Helping Hands, but she wasn’t licensed yet when she left for—”
Jillian stopped mid-sentence when her cell phone began ringing.
“Excuse me,” she said, retrieving her flip phone from her purse. Her brow furrowed when she didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
The reception was weak and between the bad connection and the din of the diner it was hard for her to hear.
“This is Scott Emberg.”
“Who?”
“Emberg. Scott Emberg,” he said louder. “I’m the president of our Oak Grove Condominium Association.”
“Oh, jeez. Scott, yeah. Is everything all right?”
“Not exactly. There . . . um . . . was a fire last night. A big fire.”
“Oh, God!” she exclaimed. “Is everybody okay? Was anybody hurt?”
“Everybody is fine, thank goodness. Two units suffered minor damages, but I’m afraid yours was where the blaze started. Much of it was destroyed.”
“Destroyed?”
“Yes, especially the first floor. The fire inspectors are going over it now. I’m really sorry, Jillian. I would have called you sooner, but the cell phone number we have wasn’t the right one. I had to wait until I could get it from the management company. I didn’t see the second floor, but there’s nothing left on the lower level. Nothing at all.”
CHAPTER 11
Jillian’s heart sank as she stared in disbelief at the devastation that for six years had been her condominium—the first place other than her parents’ that she had ever owned. The front door to her unit had been hacked away and the entryway marked off with yellow plastic ribbon.
She leaned against the scorched brick to keep herself from collapsing. If it weren’t so tragic, condo association president Scott Emberg’s assessment of the damage would have been laughable. The walls weren’t blackened, as he had described. Most of them, on the first floor at least, were simply gone. Only the support struts remained, though those were transformed into something akin to the logs burned nearly to charcoal and ash in a fireplace.
Mountains of dark soot, littered with unrecognizable forms, created an alien landscape across the living room. Jillian’s throat tightened as she gazed at the large pile of debris in the center—Belle’s things, packed in carefully labeled cardboard cartons, and now just so much soot.
“I’m sorry, baby.” Her words were a muffled whimper. “I’m so sorry.”
Jillian’s nostrils filled with the acrid stench of burnt plastic and vinyl. Her lungs felt raw. Bile percolated into her throat. For five minutes, she knelt on the ash and sobbed. Finally she rose and took several cautious steps inside.
The stack of Nick Fury comic books had been incinerated. It had been stupid not to leave them someplace safer. Jillian glanced about and laughed
ruefully at the irony of that thought. There was nowhere safer—at least not in her world. The comics had seemed unusual for Belle to have, but not that significant. What else had been lost that might have shed light on Belle’s killer, she wondered. She felt no compulsion to sift through the charred remnants to prove what she knew in her heart—there was nothing left.
At the doorway to the combination sunroom and study—the only significant addition she had made to the place—Jillian spotted the V-shaped burn pattern just above the gnarled metal baseboard heater. According to Emberg, the fire inspector had pegged that spot as the source of the blaze. A subsequent call by her to the Arlington fire department supported that conclusion. According to the chief, it had taken investigators only a few hours to rule the conflagration accidental. The clothes inside a plastic bag left up against the electric baseboard heater had ignited, setting a nearby stack of similar bags ablaze, as well as a wastebasket and its contents. The telling signs, the chief explained, were the uniform V-shaped burn pattern and lack of any trace evidence of an accelerant.
Despite there having been a lot of green plastic storage bags around from the move, Jillian was almost certain she had not left any of them near the baseboard, and had turned off the heat before leaving for the airport. Or had she? She hadn’t been thinking clearly since Belle’s death, and in the rush to make the flight to Charlotte, who knew what details she might have overlooked? The weather had been unseasonably cool lately, and the study, beautiful as it had been, seemed to accentuate extremes in temperature. If only it had been warmer, perhaps this would not have happened.
Wondering if the damage to the upstairs had been as total as that around her, Jillian checked the ceiling. The panels had melted away, exposing blackened wiring and support beams. Miraculously, however, the exposed floorboards, though scorched and streaked black with soot, seemed intact in most spots. Perhaps the upstairs wasn’t as badly damaged as Emberg had indicated.
Jillian was musing about the safety of what remained of the stairs when she heard footsteps descending from the second floor.
“Hello?” she called out.
“Hi there,” a cheerful male voice replied from above. “I thought I heard someone come in.”
The stairwell leading to the top floor curved to the right, making it impossible for Jillian to get a clear look at the man until he was almost to the bottom step. He wore soot-smeared tan coveralls with yellow and silver reflective tape wrapped around the arms and ankles, a bright yellow hard hat, and heavy, well-worn construction boots. He removed his helmet as he neared, revealing a mane of thick silver hair.
“I didn’t realize anybody was going to be here,” she said.
“Neither did I,” the man responded. “Sorry about that. I hope I didn’t startle you too much.”
He navigated his way over a debris pile and pulled off his work gloves to extend his hand to her. “Name’s Regis, Paul Regis. I’m a fire investigator with Atrium Insurance.”
She took his hand, which felt smooth and cared for. His grip was firm.
“Jillian Coates,” she said. “I live . . . lived here.”
Regis quickly glanced about.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Coates. I really am. This is a terrible thing to have happen.”
Jillian liked Regis for saying that.
“Worse than you could ever imagine,” she replied. “But Scott Emberg, the president of the condo association, made it sound like the damage here had already been inspected.”
“Oh, gosh, I apologize,” Regis said, his hazel eyes earnest. “I’m a very trusting person, so that’s probably the reason I’m always forgetting to show this. I should have it hanging in plain sight, but I never liked things around my neck.”
He reached into the breast pocket of his coveralls. Pulling out an ID badge hanging from a metal beaded lanyard, he presented it to Jillian, who glanced at it. The photo didn’t nearly do Paul Regis justice.
“Atrium isn’t my insurance company,” she said.
“I’ve been hired to perform an independent investigation of the premises,” Regis explained. “You might not be an Atrium customer, but your condominium association is.”
“Why did the condo association contract you to investigate? I’ve been told the cause was already established.”
“Oh, yes, the burn pattern above the heater in your office. It appears that they are right on the money. Arson investigators usually are. We’re quick but careful. Atrium has several of us experienced inspectors on the payroll, mostly guarding against home or business owners who hire a pro to defraud their friendly neighborhood insurance company. Every once in a while, we find something the local department’s inspectors have missed that points to arson. In that case, even if it’s someplace modest—no offense—we’ve earned our keep.”
“I see,” Jillian said, feeling a great emptiness, and suddenly not anxious for Paul Regis to leave. “I didn’t realize insurance companies had their own fire investigators.”
“They all do. They’ll double-check anything that’s threatening to cost them money. That’s why so many of the biggest buildings in so many cities have insurance companies’ names on them.”
Regis smiled, but Jillian abandoned a brief attempt to respond in kind. She had no relatives in the city, but half a dozen of her friends would be happy to take her in. Probably more. Most of them had already extended kindness to her by planning the funeral, bringing food, and staying over with her. It made her sad to think of having to impose on them again. It was hard to believe that before the horrible call from the Charlotte police, she was happy and fulfilled almost every minute of every day.
Regis seemed to have maturity and a genuine air of compassion. Maybe they could go and sit for a cup of coffee before she decided whom to call.
“You look a little pale,” he said. “Do you need to sit down?”
“No, I’m okay. Actually, there’s a bench on the lawn out front. If you have time, maybe we could sit down there for a bit.”
Regis took her by the elbow and guided her out through what had once been the portal to her home. Twilight had nearly given way to a cool, breezy night. Jillian decided she would find a hotel and deal with everything else in the morning.
“I’m really sorry about your place,” Regis said again.
“Thanks. It’s just stuff, I know, but it was my stuff—mine and my sister’s.”
“I wasn’t told that someone else lived here.”
“It’s just me. My sister died three weeks ago.”
“Oh, that’s terrible.”
“She lived in North Carolina. I was storing all of her things before I decided what to do with them. Now they’re gone.”
“In my line of work,” Regis said, “the first lesson you learn, and learn quick, at that, is things are replaceable, but people aren’t.”
“I’m grateful that nobody was hurt, or worse. It’s just that—” Jillian’s eyes began to well. She took a minute to compose herself. “These things were all I had to remember her by. Our parents passed away a few years ago in a car accident.”
“It’s a strange coincidence,” Regis said, “but I lost my sister too.”
“I’m so sorry, Paul.”
“I’m not telling you this to make you feel bad for me or anything,” Regis continued. “Just wanted to let you know that I understand how hard this must be for you. My sister’s death has haunted me my whole life. In fact, she’s the reason I’m a fire investigator.”
“Was she killed in a fire?”
“Exactly,” Regis said, staring off at the condos across the walkway. “I was away at college when it happened. She was only sixteen, living at home. It was arson. Jealous boyfriend threw a gasoline bomb into her bedroom window while she slept. She didn’t have a chance. Ever since that I’ve been fighting fires or investigating them—first for various fire departments, and for ten years now as an independent contractor.”
“That’s a horrible story. Just horrible.”
“At
least I can say Susannah didn’t die in vain. I’ve helped police catch a bunch of arsonists. I’m very good at what I do. Lot of times I find evidence of arson that town or state investigators miss.”
Jillian could see the man’s eyes beginning to mist.
“That’s good for you, Paul. And I’m sure what you do makes every day that much easier.”
“It does.”
“Somebody murdered my sister too. Forced her to write a note and then take an overdose of sleeping pills. And I’m not going to rest until I catch whoever did it. I don’t want Belle’s death to be in vain either.”
“I’ll pray that you succeed.”
“Thank you.”
Impulsively, Jillian turned and gave Regis a grateful hug. He returned the embrace, but broke it off when she did. His shoulders felt tight and powerful, and in spite of all she was going through, or possibly because of it, Jillian felt a slight spark.
“Well,” he said, “I’m actually all done with my walk-through.”
His voice rose as if he were about to say something further.
Jillian did not want him to leave and barely kept herself from saying so.
“I appreciate you taking the time to explain things to me,” she said instead.
“You know, I’m really glad to have been here when you came.”
Their eyes met, and for several moments, Jillian held his gaze.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve made me feel much better.”
“Look, it’s getting dark out. I wouldn’t hang around here much longer if I were you.”
“Okay. I’ll come back tomorrow and check the upstairs.”
“Just be careful. The floor looks okay, but there may be weak spots. I’d help you, but I actually have to drive up to Philadelphia for an inspection.”
“I . . . I’m really pleased to have met you,” Jillian said. “You are very empathetic.”
“I left my cards at home per usual, Jillian, but I’d be happy to give you my number if you’d like.”
His eyes really are quite remarkable.
“I would like that,” she said, writing her cell phone number on the bottom of the notepaper he had handed her and passing that half back to him. “Expect to hear from me.” She gave fleeting thought to kissing him then and there, but finally managed to pull her gaze away. “Thank you, Paul. Thank you for everything.”
Michael Palmer Page 7
