Repeatedly ran a handkerchief over his face to wipe away sweat.
Taggert stood and watched him for a few moments before looking over the grounds around him. All the telltale features of the coordinated circus the night before still lingered.
Wide tire trenches cut through the mud. Grass matted flat by a crowd pushing forward. A few strings of dirty police tape stretched wide, forming arbitrary barriers.
Shaking his head at the concentrated craziness of it all, Taggert lifted the coffee back to his lips. Swallowed down a third of the cup in a long gulp. Let his eyes drift shut as he stood and waited.
In total, it took only a few minutes.
“Morning.”
The voice preceded the sound of footsteps by several seconds. Snapped Taggert’s eyes open. Pulled his attention back towards the remains of the house.
“Morning,” Taggert replied. Pushed himself up from the car. Took three steps forward and extended his hand.
Meeting him just past the front of the car was Butte arson investigator Waylon Sharp. Reciprocated the handshake, grip wet with sweat. Released it and turned to the side, standing perpendicular to Taggert so they could both survey the house.
“What a mess,” Sharp opened. Pushed out a sigh. Shook his head.
Both men having logged the better part of two decades in Butte, it was far from the first time their paths had crossed. Unlike most cities there wasn’t much competition between their respective forces, both too small to bother with such matters.
A few years younger than Taggert, Sharp had already resigned himself to a head shaved bald. A goatee encasing his mouth. A few lines around his eyes and jaw line.
The strain of the last couple hours was also plain on his features. Red rimmed eyes to match Taggert’s. Streaks of sweat rolling down his cheeks. A few errant strands of soot on his bare head.
“That bad?” Taggert asked.
The question brought a snort from Sharp, his entire upper body rocking a few inches. “Worse. You been out here before?”
“Couple times,” Taggert replied. Didn’t bother going into the details of his previous visits.
“So then you know this place was damned enormous.”
They weren’t the words Taggert would have chosen to describe it, but he couldn’t argue with them either. “Yup.”
“And you see how little of it is left?”
Already Taggert knew where this was going. Had been thinking the same thing since arriving the night before.
From what he could remember the house had two wings spread from a central hub. Only a single story tall to accommodate the old man’s wheelchair, it was designed to sprawl in either direction.
Looking at it now, the central hub was completely gone. Large portions of either wing as well.
Only the two far ends were left even semi-intact. Two misshapen chunks over eighty yards apart. Both with large fireplaces serving as capstones for the home.
In the distance was a cluster of barns, their red paint stained with soot.
“Arson?”
“No doubt about it,” Sharp confirmed. “Place went up too fast, burned down too far for it not to be.”
Twisting his lower mandible to the side, Taggert pulled the end of his moustache into the corner of his mouth. Chewed on it. “Couldn’t have been a faulty gas line or something?”
Again he knew the answer already, but had to ask the question just the same.
“No,” Sharp said. Shook his head. “It would have taken the whole place from end to end. Besides, there’s residue everywhere, but it isn’t consistent with a gas line.”
In eighteen years, only twice had Taggert had to investigate fires. The prospect of doing so now didn’t especially enthuse him. “Any idea what it was?”
“Not yet,” Sharp said. “I’ll have to come back tomorrow when everything has cooled down and take some samples.”
The information surprised Taggert a bit, his eyebrows rising. His first supposition upon seeing Sharp out here this morning was that was what he was doing.
“I heard about it over the line this morning,” Sharp offered as an explanation. Didn’t bother glancing over. “Thought I’d come take a look and secure the place in case I needed to come back.
“You’d be surprised how many pyro’s like to come look around if I don’t.”
The previous surprise faded from Taggert. Making sure the place was secure was the same reason he had ventured out so early in the morning.
Nothing drew the lookey-loo’s like a good fire.
Lifting the coffee cup again, he took another drink. “No signs of life inside, right?”
All indicators the night before had been that nobody was home. There were no known numbers for Koenig, all early attempts to contact him coming up blank.
By all accounts the place was nothing more than a summer home. A spot the old man came to when he wanted to fall off the grid for a while.
Butte in January was certainly not a summer destination.
Maybe even too far off the grid for someone like Koenig.
“Not that I saw,” Sharp replied, “but like I said, I won’t know anything until tomorrow.”
Taggert nodded at the response. There were still dozens of questions that would need to be answered in due course. All would have to wait until the next day.
Trying to do anything before Sharp had a chance to look around would be a fool’s errand. An exercise in tedium and nothing more.
“Sure is a shame,” Taggert said. Swirled the dregs of his coffee in the bottom of his cup. Tossed them out on the ground at his feet.
“Yeah,” Sharp said. Added a snort for emphasis. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy either, right?”
At that the corner of Taggert’s mouth turned up just slightly as he turned to watch Sharp trudge on back towards his truck.
Said nothing.
Chapter Eight
Sunlight.
Not overbearing and powerful like June.
Just enough to splash across the bed and pull Dale Garvey from his slumber.
Raising his hands to his face, he let out a groan. Massaged the puffy skin around his eyes. Brushed away the bits of sleep crusted in the corners.
Smelled the faint traces of gas and hand soap on his fingers.
Rolling onto his shoulder, he tossed a hand out across the bed. Expected it to touch warm skin. Instead found only a bare sheet, already cool to the touch.
“Megs?”
Cracking his eyes open a little further, he raised himself onto an elbow. Ran his free hand back through his hair. Looked around the room.
“Megs?”
There was no response throughout the house. No sound at all save a light wind pushing against the windows, shaking the tree branches outside.
“Christ,” he muttered, jerking back the covers. Ignored the goose pimples that covered his bare skin as he stood. Pulled on a pair of sweatpants from the floor.
Felt his ire spike again.
This was supposed to be a moment of triumph. Not another exercise in pacification.
The floorboards creaked underfoot as he moved out into the hallway. Checked for light coming from the bathroom. Found none. Passed by the kitchen and into the living room.
Seated on the bench seat underscoring the trio of windows overlooking the yard was Megan. She sat with her knees bent upward and her chin resting on them, a woven afghan wrapped around her entire form.
She made no effort to glance back at him as he approached. Gave no movement at all.
“Hey,” Dale said. Padded across the silent living room. Turned and perched his backside on the edge of the bench. “Whatcha doing in here?”
Still, she gave no response.
Dale had met Megan Rayner a year and a half before. Just removed from Rocky Mountain College in Billings, she had joined the organization as a receptionist. Was so full of vigor she quickly ascended to a staff position.
Had moved in with him less than six months later.
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“Hey,” Dale repeated. Raised a hand and rested it on her knee. Ran the back of a finger along her cheek. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Megan finally answered. Raised her voice to no more than a whisper. Continued to stare out the window.
Turning at the waist, Dale looked over his shoulder at whatever she was watching so intently. Saw the same smattering of trees that was always out there. Watched as their bare branches swung in the wind. Noticed the bottoms of the icicle Christmas lights hanging down from the top of the windows, more than a month past their expiration.
“Pretty morning,” he managed. Knew it was anything but. Overhead the sun was little more than a pale white disc, offset against a backdrop of grey.
“Yeah,” Megan whispered, the top of her head moving while her chin remained on her knees.
Shifting back to her, Dale honed in on her face. Saw the puffiness around her eyes. The irritation around her nostrils.
Wasn’t sure if they were from crying or from the fire the night before.
“Hey,” he whispered, inched himself a little closer. “What we did last night was a good thing.”
A small shudder passed through Megan. The front of the blanket pinched in a little tighter. “Yeah, I know.”
“Do you?” Dale asked. Lowered his head so he could look up at her. “Cause you seem kind of sad.”
For the first time her gaze met his, her face void of expression. She said nothing.
“And you shouldn’t be,” Dale said. “What that home meant, what it represented, was a scourge on society. We scored a major victory last night.”
The corners of Dale’s mouth lifted upward in a small smile as he stared at her. Dropped his head a little lower. Twisted himself an inch to either side, letting the smile grow.
After his third such gyration, the move seemed to work, just as he knew it would.
Just as it always did.
A faint smile pulled at Megan’s mouth as she looked at him. The skin around her eyes tightened a bit.
“Yeah?” she whispered.
“What, are you kidding me?” he asked, mock surprise in his voice. “If people knew who was responsible for it, they would be congratulating us.”
The smile grew a bit larger on her face, though she remained silent.
Sensing his opening, Dale raised his hand to the top of her head. Ran his fingers back through her hair.
“In fact, I guarantee you they’re cheering us now, even if they aren’t allowed to do so publicly.”
The final words seemed to be what she needed to hear. The icy façade fell away, her smile for the first time appearing genuine.
“Good,” she whispered, just barely audible.
“Good,” he echoed before rising and walking away.
Not once did he look back.
Chapter Nine
“What the hell are you still doing here?”
Drake knew the question wasn’t meant to be as hostile as it sounded. Far from it. The smiling face of Greg Mooney framed in the doorway only confirmed it.
“Yeah, you’re done,” Wyatt Teague added, stepping in to fill the remaining free space in the doorway behind him. “You should be downtown somewhere trolling for ladies.”
A smile crossed Drake’s face, though he remained silent.
“I can see it now,” Mooney said, picking right up. “Saunter into Blue’s, slide up to the bar.”
“Why hello,” Teague continued. “Did you know my name is Drake Bell, former swinging dick of Griz football?”
“Current big time lawyer?” Mooney finished.
Upon impersonating him they had both shifted into James Bond style accents. Arched an eyebrow as if trying to appear debonair.
“Ha!” Drake said, almost spitting the word out at them. “How long have you two been practicing that?”
Mooney took a few steps into the room. Looked back at his counterpart filing in behind him.
“Since, what, first year?” he asked.
“If not even a little before that,” Teague confirmed.
“And how’d that work out for you?” Drake asked.
The two again shared a glance, Mooney shrugging his shoulders. “Meh.”
“Not as well as it should have,” Teague added. “You need to up your rep around town.”
The smile remained in place as Drake looked them over. Neither of the pair stood taller than five-seven. Mooney’s bright red hair was never combed and only mildly distracted from an expanding paunch. Teague countered with hair that was thinning by the day and a set of knock knees.
Something told Drake his reputation around town wasn’t the weak link, though he said nothing.
“So to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Drake asked. Dropped his pencil down on the desk. Laced his fingers behind his head.
“Word on the street is this is it for you,” Teague said. Circled around one of the black leather chairs seated opposite Drake. Dropped himself down into it.
A moment later Mooney did the same, the three taking up the only seating options in the office. A battered secondhand desk split the room down the middle and law volumes lined the walls.
Otherwise there was precious little room for anything else in the cramped space.
“Lucky bastard,” Mooney added.
The trio had been working together since the new school year began in the fall. As third year law students, working for a legal clinic was a requirement before graduation.
Together the three had chosen the Missoula Legal Services clinic, an endeavor that allowed them to provide free aid to people in the community that otherwise couldn’t afford it.
At the time, none of the three had considered the feel-good aspects of working for the indigent. They had only jumped at the opportunity because it allowed them to work together and required the least amount of faculty oversight.
They were able to practice law under the comforting umbrella of the state university and its impregnable malpractice insurance. Didn’t yet have to worry about passing the bar exam to do so.
The fact that there was also some moral upside had been a bonus they later stumbled upon.
“Kept telling you guys to pick up a few summer classes,” Drake said. Kept his hands laced behind his head. Raised his eyebrows a half inch.
“Not my fault I’m done here and you two are still paying to come to work every day.”
Across from him both parties grumbled under their breath. Loud enough to be heard. Too soft to be ascertained.
Had the situation been reversed, there was no doubt he would have felt much the same.
“Anyway,” Drake said, pushing the conversation back on course. “Got a few final bits of paperwork to bang out, and then I’m out.”
“To do?” Teague asked.
“Study for the next three weeks,” Drake said. “Take the bar, then we’ll see what happens.”
Already he was more than a month into preparation for the exam, though the next few weeks would be nothing but cramming.
It was a prospect he was not especially looking forward to.
“Eesh,” Mooney said, his face twisted up.
“Sounds miserable,” Teague added.
“Right, on both counts,” Drake agreed.
“Agreed,” Mooney said, nodding for emphasis. “Which is why we came in here to offer to buy you dinner this evening.”
Without moving Drake allowed his face to register surprise, the smile returning to his features.
“Really?”
In the three years he had known the pair, not once had they ever willingly paid for anything. The number of times they had ever turned down something could also be counted on the same fist.
“Just to be clear,” Teague said, extending a hand towards him. “The invitation stands for any place where the average entrée is less than ten dollars.”
“And doesn’t include tax, tip, or drinks,” Mooney added.
Another laugh erupted from Drake, his entire face creased with a smile.
“Gentlemen, while I am deeply touched by such a heartfelt gesture, I am afraid I must decline.”
A look passed over both their faces that traveled somewhere between disappointment and relief.
“Another offer?” Mooney asked.
“Because remember,” Teague said, “after you pass the bar and have income, we’ll be expecting you to pick up the tabs for a while.”
Once more Drake shook his head in amusement. Picking up the tab was something he’d been doing for years anyway.
“Actually, I’m meeting Emily this evening.”
At the mention of Emily both men’s jaws dropped open.
Neither said anything.
Chapter Ten
Vanilla.
Taggert could smell it rising with the steam rolling up off of his coffee cup. Raised his gaze to Foye across from him, an eyebrow arched.
“What?” Foye asked, his features completely void of any sarcasm. “It’s a vanilla latte, I thought you might like it.”
The look lingered on Taggert’s face another moment before turning his attention back to the screen before him. Not once in his life had he taken his coffee any way but straight black, a fact every other person in the precinct knew well.
Damn near ever person in Butte, if pressed.
Apparently it was a maxim that had somehow managed to slip by his new partner.
“I spoke to Sharp this morning,” Taggert said. Left the coffee sitting on the table beside him. Despite having gone home for a few hours of sleep, he still desperately needed the jolt of liquid caffeine.
Refused to even consider the drink before him.
“He says it was definitely arson.”
On the opposite side of the desk, Foye’s eyes and mouth formed into three congruent circles. He remained silent as he sat in the chair, his shoulders hunched forward, both hands cradling his own drink.
“It will be tomorrow before he gets out there and gives the place a thorough examination, though,” Taggert added.
Foye nodded at the information. “But he’s still certain?”
“Yeah,” Taggert said, cutting the younger man off. “The destruction was too absolute for there not to be a tremendous amount of accelerant. Residue wasn’t consistent with a gas line fire.”
The Glue Guy: The Zoo Crew Series Book 4 Page 3
