The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  Her voice shook a little. “Set a fire so you can play the hero and suppress it, or just to get back at someone.”

  “That’s not you. That’s not anyone I know.”

  “But it happens, Gina.” She covered her eyes, winced as she set her cheek throbbing once more. “If this were my case, I’d take a good, hard look at the angry ex-girlfriend who knows just how to set a vehicular fire.”

  “Okay. And once you took that good, hard look, you’d eliminate her. Not only because she’d never hurt anyone, and never use fire to strike back even at the most deserving asshole. But you’d have to eliminate her when she spent the night in her own apartment, eating ice cream with her best friend.”

  “I’d have to ask myself if that best friend would cover for her. Fortunately, she also has a veteran firefighter who knows his wife answered an SOS and went to stay with her friend. That adds to my side. And the fact that Luke lied about this.” She tapped a finger gently to her cheek. “That smears it on his side. Nobody looks at this and thinks it’s accidental. I documented it, and thank God I called you and you didn’t listen to me and came over.”

  “Steve insisted as much as me. He’d have come himself, but I didn’t think you wanted a guy around.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have.” The roiling in her stomach eased as she thought it through, studied the facts as she would any case. “My record’s clean, Gina, and it’s going to stay that way.”

  She started to reach for her makeup, to disguise the bruise. Then thought, Hell with it.

  “I’ve got to go down, tell my parents. They’re going to hear about this on the news. I’d rather they hear it all from me first.”

  “I’ll go down with you.”

  “You’ve got to get home, get yourself ready for work.”

  “I’ll call in sick.”

  “You will not.” She stepped over, kissed Gina’s cheek. “Thanks, pal.”

  “I never liked his sorry ass. And I know how that sounds now.” Gina lifted her chin, and her eyes continued to spark with anger. “But I didn’t, despite the fact that he was great to look at. Every time he opened his mouth it was all about me, me, me. Plus he was patronizing.”

  “What can I say? When you’re right, you’re right. I liked him because he was great to look at, good in bed, and he was needy. Let me be girly.” She shrugged. “Shallow—just like him.”

  “You’re not shallow. What, he do a mind fuck on you?”

  “Maybe. I’ll get over it.” She blew out a breath, studied herself in the mirror. The shiner was coming on strong. “Now I’ve got to go deal with my parents. And won’t that be fun?”

  Bianca beat eggs in a bowl with the focused violence of a middleweight champ doing the rope-a-dope on a contender. “Why isn’t he in jail?” she demanded. “No, no, first why isn’t he in the hospital, then in jail? And you!” A string of egg flew as she swung the fork to point at Reena. “You didn’t come to tell your father so he could put this miserable bastard in the hospital before you arrested him?”

  “Mama. I took care of it.”

  “You took care of it.” Bianca went back to beating eggs that were already down for the count. “You took care of it. Well, let me tell you something, Catarina, there are some things, no matter how old you are, your father takes care of.”

  “Dad would hardly have gone tearing after Luke and pounding him into dust. He—”

  “You’re wrong.” Gib spoke quietly. He stood with his back to the room, staring out the window. “You’re wrong about that.”

  “Dad.” She couldn’t imagine her even-tempered father hunting down Luke, getting into a fistfight. Then she remembered the way he’d faced down Mr. Pastorelli years before.

  “Okay.” Reena put her hands to her temples, pushed back her hair. “Okay. But, family honor aside, I wouldn’t want to see Dad arrested for assault.”

  “You don’t want to see this bastard arrested for assault either,” Bianca snapped. “You’re very softhearted for a cop.”

  “I wasn’t being softhearted. Mama, please.”

  “Bianca.” Again Gib’s quiet voice silenced the room. But this time he turned, studied his daughter. “What were you being?”

  “Practical, I thought. Private, I hoped. The fact is, I was stunned. I’ve been going out with Luke for months, and I missed all the signs. I can see them now, hindsight. But when he hit me, I was so surprised. If it makes you guys feel any better, I can promise I hurt him more than he hurt me. He’ll be limping for days.”

  “Some consolation.” Bianca poured the eggs into a cast-iron pan. “But now he’s making trouble for you.”

  “Well, someone did torch his car.”

  “I’d like to make them a cake.”

  “Mama,” Reena scolded on a half laugh. “This is serious. Someone could have been hurt. I’m not worried, too much, about the investigation. As luck would have it, I have Gina to back me up that I was home all night. And there’s nothing to tie me to something like this except a fight with Luke. I’ll feel better when they find out who did it, but I’m not worried. I’m upset,” she admitted. “And I’m upset that I had to upset both of you like this.”

  “We’re your parents,” Bianca pointed out. “You’re supposed to upset us.”

  “Did he hit you before last night?”

  She started to say no to Gib’s question, then settled for the complicated truth. “Once, but I thought it was an accident,” she said quickly when Bianca cursed. “Honest to God, I thought it was an accident. He was gesturing, I stepped forward, and his hand slapped across my cheek. He acted so shocked and appalled. Hindsight,” she repeated, rising to take her father’s hand because it had balled into a fist. “Believe me. Look at me, and believe me, I’d never stand for anyone abusing me. You raised me to be strong and smart. You did a good job.

  “He’s out of my life.” She moved in, wrapped her arms around Gib. “He’s done, he’s over. And it taught me an important lesson. I’ll never try to be something I’m not, even on the little things, to placate someone else. Plus, I know I can stand up and take care of myself.”

  Gib rubbed her back, brushed a light kiss on her bruised cheek. “Took him down, did you?”

  “Two shots.” She stepped back, demonstrated. “Pow, pow, and he was on the floor, curled up like a steamed shrimp. I don’t want you to worry about this, about me.”

  “We decide what to worry about.” Bianca set the pile of eggs on the table. “Eat.”

  She ate, and she went in to work. The blue line formed. Every cop in her unit stepped up—with a brisk nod, a pithy comment, a lame joke. Their support followed her into the captain’s office.

  “Guy’s sticking that you hit him first. Pushed on the ex-girlfriend angle. He got a little sweaty there, claimed she’s wacked, and how she assaulted him prior to their breakup.”

  “Can I pick ’em or can I pick ’em?”

  “We’re going to talk to her. We got a few names out of him—people he claims might have a grudge seeing as he’s so successful and handsome. Few clients, few coworkers. His former assistant. Takes the heat off you, Hale. Added to which you’ve got a solid alibi, and cooperated with a search that turned up nothing to tie you. Unless he presses formal charges, which he’s rethinking at this point, you’re cleared for full duty.”

  “Thanks. Sincerely.”

  “Got a call from John Minger. He got wind of this.”

  “Yeah.” She thought of her parents. “I think I know where the wind blew in from. I’m sorry if that complicates matters.”

  “I don’t see how it does.” But he sat back and she knew he was measuring her. “John’s a good man, he’s a solid investigator. He wants to poke around on his own time. I’ve got no problem with that. Do you?”

  “None. Can you give me any more details?”

  “Younger and Trippley are working it. They want to share, it’s up to them.”

  “Thanks.”

  She stepped out, thought about the best way to a
pproach the men assigned. Before she could decide, Trippley shot a finger toward her desk.

  “File on your desk,” he said, then went back to his phone.

  She crossed to it, flipped open the file. Inside were photos of Luke’s car, exterior and interior shots, the preliminary reports and statements. She glanced back at Trippley. “Appreciate it.”

  He shrugged a shoulder, cupped a hand over the phone. “Guy’s an asshole. You like assholes, you ought to go out with Younger.”

  With barely a pause from typing on his keyboard, Younger shot his partner the finger, and sent Reena a sunny smile.

  It was hard to stay away from the scene, to restrain herself from taking a direct look at the collected evidence. But there was no point in muddying the waters. Instead, she treated the case like an exercise, studied the file, the updates the investigators passed her way.

  It was straightforward, almost simplistically so, in her opinion. Someone had done a quick and nasty job—and had probably done others before targeting Luke.

  She mulled it over, sipping a glass of Chianti as she reread the file and ignored the noise of Sirico’s.

  She’d taken a table facing the door so she spotted John as soon as he came in. She sent a wave, patted the tabletop, then rose to get him a Peroni herself.

  “Thanks for coming by,” she said when she came back to the table.

  “Never a hardship. Split a pizza?”

  “Sure.” She called out the order to Fran. It wasn’t food she wanted but conversation. “I know you’ve been looking into this mess on your off time. Can you tell me what you think?”

  He picked up his beer, sipped at it. “You tell me first.” He nodded toward the file.

  “Down and dirty job. Somebody who knows vehicles. Pops the lock, disengages the alarm. If it went off, nobody’s coming forward to say they heard it. But nobody pays much attention to a car alarm—especially if it stops within a couple minutes. Gas as accelerant, poured over interior, on the hood, inside the hood. Used the flares in the trunk as an ignition device there.”

  She paused, gathered her thoughts while John remained silent. “That would’ve been enough to do a decent job. The synthetics in the interior are susceptible to flame ignition. Thermoplastics melt as they burn and ignite other surfaces, as they likely did here. Fast fire. The gas was insurance. He didn’t need it. He had ventilation, and could’ve accomplished a pretty damn destructive fire with enough crumpled newspaper lit under the seat or dash.”

  “Thorough or sloppy?”

  She shook her head. “You almost want to say both. He took the stereo out—most arsonists can’t resist taking valuables they can sell or use, but it doesn’t feel like a random vehicular stripping.”

  “Because?”

  “Too violent, too thorough. Plus, you’ve got high-end tires, and he didn’t take them. And he knew what he was doing, John. We’ve got soot and pyrolysis product on what’s left of the window glass, which indicate ventilation. Without it, most vehicular fires fizzle out. Cars are fairly airtight when the doors and windows are shut. He wanted a fast fire, and added the accelerant to the already rich fuel load of the vehicle. He probably had flashover in under two minutes.”

  “Working theory?”

  “Vengeance fire. The guy wanted that car toasted. He puts a soaked rag trailer in the gas tank. What it’s looking like is he floated a plastic cup with a firecracker in it. Simple, efficient. And again thorough. Multiple points of origin—under the driver’s seat, in the trunk. Couple of what the lab’s identified as potato chip bags, probably used as trailers in the interior. They’re a good one. Give off plenty of heat, burn away to nearly unrecognizable carbonaceous ash, and the oils give you a nice, prolonged fire—enough to engage the upholstery, so if something goes wrong with the device in the tank, the vehicle’s still toast. Torch used basic household items to do the job, and knew what he was doing.”

  “High-end car, all the trimmings. But you don’t figure somebody wanted a pricey car stereo and a little fire fun?”

  “No, I figure it was personal, and the stereo was just a little cake. It was a straight job, not just a little extra fun. The arson was the point.”

  With a nod, John sat back, picked up his beer. “Not much left for me to tell you then. Got your prints, the owner’s. Valet’s at the restaurant where you ate prior to the incident. The mechanic’s from the owner’s garage.” He eyed her as he sipped his beer. “How’s the face?”

  A couple of days—and a lot of ice—had dulled the ache. But she knew her face sported several unattractive colors as it healed. “Looks worse than it is.”

  He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Tell me this. Did you call anybody but Gina after he slugged you?”

  “No. I gave assent to having my phone records checked.”

  “Did she call anyone? Tell anybody?”

  “No. Well, Steve. But nobody’s looking at him, John. The guys who caught the case talked to all three of us. We’re keeping this up front all the way. I called Gina because I was pissed off, and because I wanted some sympathy. She came over because she was pissed off, and wanted to give some sympathy.”

  She glanced over to make sure none of her family or any neighbors were within earshot. “The fact is, John, getting popped by a guy you’re sleeping with isn’t something a woman likes to spread around. I’d hoped to keep this under the radar, more or less. I don’t know anybody who’d do something like this on my behalf.”

  “You weren’t seeing anybody besides this character?”

  “No. John, I know the timing points to it being connected to me, or at least to the dustup I had with Luke, but I’ve thought about it, I’ve gone over and over it. I can’t see it’s anything but coincidence. You look at the statements.” She tapped the file. “Luke wasn’t Mr. Popularity among his coworkers, his former relationships. Still, none of them look any better for it than I do, at this point. What it looks like is somebody hired a torch. Hell, I’d say the son of a bitch hired one himself to slap back at me, but the timing’s too tight for that to fly.”

  “Pretty tight,” John agreed. “But it’s an angle—the hiring a torch to slap at you. Maybe you ought to think of somebody you might’ve ticked off lately.”

  “Cops are always ticking somebody off,” she muttered.

  “Ain’t that the truth?” He eased back, smiled when Fran brought their pizza to the table. “How’s it going, sweetie?”

  “It’s going good.” But her hand moved over to rub at Reena’s shoulder. “Now, make my baby sister put that work away and eat something.”

  “See what I can do. Put it away,” John advised when Fran walked off. “You’ll handle any heat that comes your way on this. Unofficially, nobody’s looking at you. You’ve got a solid record because you earned it, and your alibi holds. Set it aside, let the system work.”

  “Yeah. You know, John, I don’t know if I chose my career or it chose me. Fire seems to follow me around. Sirico’s, the first boy I really cared about, Hugh. Now this.”

  He slid a slice of pizza onto his plate. “Fate’s a mean bastard.”

  13

  BALTIMORE, 2005

  For better or worse, it was done. Reena’s heart was pounding, her throat bone-dry, and at the base of her belly was a little tickle that could have been panic or excitement.

  She’d bought herself a house.

  She stood on the white marble steps, the keys in her clammy hand. Settlement was over, the papers were signed. She had a mortgage.

  And a bank loan, she thought, that stretched out so long she’d be ready for retirement when it was paid off.

  Did the math, didn’t you? she reminded herself. You can make this work. It was time she owned property. Oh God, she was a property owner.

  And hadn’t she fallen in love with this house? It was so like home. What that said about her, she wasn’t entirely sure, but it had been love at first sight. Everything about it had called to her.

  The location, the familiari
ty, even the slightly tired interior that just begged her to liven it up, her way. It even had a backyard—maybe it was narrow enough to spit from line to line, but it was an actual yard with actual grass. It even had a tree.

  Which meant she’d have to mow grass and rake leaves, which meant buying a lawn mower. And a rake. But for a woman who’d lived in apartments for the last ten years, it was heady stuff.

  So, here she was, moving into a three-story row, three short blocks from the house where her parents still lived.

  Still in the neighborhood, she thought. And as distant as the moon.

  But it was good. It was all good. Hadn’t the uncles, along with her father, inspected the place top to bottom? There’d been no stopping them. Needed a little fixing up, sure. And more furniture than she could currently claim.

  But that would all come.

  All she had to do was put the key in the lock and walk through the door, and she’d be standing in her own house.

  Instead, she turned around, sat on the steps and waited to get her breath back.

  She’d taken a big bite of her savings, plus the generous lump of dough her grandparents had given her—and the rest of the grands.

  Now look what I’ve done. Gone into debt. And didn’t a house keep siphoning away money? Insurance, taxes, repairs, upkeep. She’d managed to avoid all that up till now. Those pesky details had gone from being her parents’ problem to her landlords’ problem.

  Never hers.

  Managed to avoid all that, she thought, and most every other kind of commitment. She had the job and her family, friends she’d kept from childhood.

  But she was the only unmarried Hale. The only child of Gibson and Bianca Hale yet to go forth and multiply. Not enough time, that’s what she told her family if they teased or pressed the matter. Haven’t found the right man.

  True, all true. But how many times had she retreated from—or just sidestepped—a potential relationship in the last few years?

  Dating was fine, sex was good, but don’t ask me to form an attachment. Xander said she thought like a man. Maybe it was true.