by Nora Roberts
Easy pickings for him, she thought as she pushed through smoke. Plenty of time to plan and set this fire in this place. But what she was seeing was so amateurish, so simple. She might have taken it for kids or an ordinary fire setter.
He wasn’t. She was sure he wasn’t despite the use of basics like gas and waxed paper.
She’d find more.
Fire had gnawed its way down the steps, teased along by the use of gas and the trailers. It might’ve burned like a torch, but for the phone call sending her here.
So he hadn’t cared about destroying the building.
The second floor took a hit. Both the temperature and the density of smoke increased, and she had no doubt she’d find another point of origin. She could see the silhouettes of men moving through the fog of smoke like heroic ghosts.
There were remnants of trailers here. She picked up the charred remains of a book of matches, fumbled it into a bag, marked the spot to document.
“Doing okay, champ?”
She gave the thumbs-up to Steve. “Burn pattern on the east wall? Second point of origin, I think.” His voice and hers sounded tinny and strained. “Fire sucked into the ceiling here.” She gestured up. “Flashed back down there. He was already long gone.”
They moved together, documenting evidence, recording, climbing up into the still living heart of the fire.
It licked the walls, and men beat it back. It danced overhead along the charred ceiling with the guttural roar that always sent a finger of ice up her spine.
It was gorgeous, horribly gorgeous. Seductive with its light and heat, its powerful dance. She had to block out the innate fear, and her own intrinsic fascination, concentrating instead on fuel and method, on the fingerprints of style.
Gas, a stronger stench of it here, under the sharp smell of smoke, the dull odor of wet. The men who fought the leaping spirals of flame had faces blackened from the smoke, eyes blank with concentration. Water spat out of hoses and streamed in the broken windows from outside.
Another portion of the roof collapsed with a kind of shuddering glee, venting the fire, feeding it so that it spurted up in a sudden storm.
She jumped forward to assist with a hose, and thought of lion trainers slapping at a violent cat with a whip and a chair.
The effort sang in her muscles, shook down to her toes.
She saw where part of the wall had been hacked away to studs, and through the blur of water and smoke noted the char, the pattern.
He’d done that, she thought. Initial point of origin.
And knew, as her arms trembled and the fire slowly died, this hadn’t been his first.
The relief was wild, a kind of stupefying release, when he saw her come out. Despite the gear and her height, Bo recognized her the instant she stepped through the dense smoke.
However casual O’Donnell’d been, whatever he’d said before, Bo heard his release of breath when Reena waded out through the smoke and wet and debris.
Her face was black with soot. As she shrugged off her tanks, ash rained off her protective gear.
“There’s our girl,” O’Donnell said lightly. “Why don’t you wait here, pal. I’ll send her over in a minute.”
She took off her helmet—and there was a short spiral of dark gold as she bent from the waist, braced her hands on her knees and spat on the ground.
She stayed there, lifting only her head to acknowledge O’Donnell. Then she straightened, brushed off a paramedic. Unhooking her jacket, she made her way toward Bo.
“I have to stay, then I’m going to need to go in. I’m going to have somebody take you back home.”
“You’re okay?”
“Yeah. It could’ve been a lot worse in there. He could’ve made it a lot worse. No loss of life, building empty, school out for the summer. This was just for show.”
“He left you that matchbox from your family’s place. So the show was for you.”
“I can’t argue with that.” She glanced over where a couple of soaked, soot-covered firefighters were lighting cigarettes. “You notice anybody who seemed off?”
“Not really. I have to admit after you went in, I didn’t pay much attention. Praying takes most of my focus.”
She smiled a little, then lifted her brows when he wiped at the soot on her cheek with his thumb. “I’m not looking my best.”
“I can’t begin to tell you how you look. You scared the hell out of me. We’ll save the buts for when you’ve got more time.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I figure we’ve got a lot to say to each other, and I’d rather do it without the audience.”
She looked over her shoulder. They were doing a surround and drown, and the worst was over. “I’ll get you a ride. Look, I’m sorry how this turned out.”
“Me, too.”
She walked away, arranged for his ride home. And she thought that the fire had done more than hull out a building. If she wasn’t misreading the way Bo had stepped back from her, the fire had also turned a developing relationship into ash.
She went to her car for her field kit, pulled it and a bottle of water she kept there out as Steve wandered to her. “So, is that the guy Gina said you’re seeing?”
“That’s the guy I’ve been seeing. I think he’s just decided the whole cop, arson, fires-in-the-middle-of-the-night routine is more complicated than he likes.”
“His loss, hon.”
“Maybe, or maybe he just had himself a lucky escape. I am hell on men, Steve.”
She slammed her trunk. Her car was coated with ash. And she stank, no question about it. She leaned on her car, opened the bottle to take a long drink of water to clear her throat.
She passed the bottle to Steve, stayed as she was while O’Donnell came to join them.
“They’ll clear us to go back in, just a few minutes. What you got?”
Reena took a small tape recorder out of her kit so she’d only have to say it once. “Phone call from unidentified subject, my home residence, at twenty-three forty-five,” she began, and moved through the events, her observations, the already collected evidence point by point.
She switched off the recorder, put it back in her kit. “My opinion?” she continued. “He made it look half-assed. Made it look simple. But he took the time to open the wall upstairs, set the fire in such a way that it would progress behind the walls as well as into the room. We had a broken window up there when I arrived. Maybe he did it, maybe it was already broken, but that ventilation moved the fire along. He used basic stuff. Gas, trailers of paper and matchbooks. But they’re basic because in the right circumstance, they can work extremely well. It doesn’t look like a pro, but it smells like one.”
“Somebody we’ve met before?”
“I don’t know, O’Donnell.” Tired, she pushed at her hair. “I’ve been through old cases. So have you. Nothing jumps out. Maybe it’s some wack job I met along the line, brushed off, and this is his way of courting me. This is the neighborhood school. My neighborhood school.”
She unlocked the car, took out the bagged matchbox to show him. “From Sirico’s, to tell me he knows me, and he can get close. Left where I’d find it. Not inside, where if things got out of hand it could be destroyed. Outside, where the odds were better I’d find it, outside his point of entry, or what he made look like his point of entry. It’s personal.”
She locked the bag back in the car. “And, okay, it’s fucking spooky. It’s got me wound up.”
“We work the scene, we work the case. And next time he calls,” O’Donnell added, “and you think about going to check out something without calling me first? Don’t.”
She hunched her shoulders. “He ratted me out.” She blew out a breath. “And he was right. You’re right. I figured it was just some creep pushing my buttons—which I can handle. Have handled. But this is more.” She studied the building, hazed through smoke. “He’s more. So no, you don’t have to worry about me hotdogging.”
“Good. Let’s get to work.”
20
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It was after six in the morning when Reena left the scene. She split off from O’Donnell, hooking up with Steve to head to the fire station. O’Donnell would log in the evidence, write the initial report. She’d talk to any of the fire department team who’d been on the fire and who were awake.
She could get a shower there—finally. She always kept a change in her trunk. Besides, odds were she’d get a good meal at the firehouse, and nights like the one she’d put in stoked her appetite.
“So this guy Goodnight, what’s the story?” At Reena’s bland stare, Steve shrugged. “Gina’s going to grill me about it. She gets pissy when I don’t have details.”
“She’s going to grill me anyway. Just tell her I said to come straight to the source.”
“Appreciate it.”
“She handles what you do. I mean, it’s never been an issue between the two of you.”
“She worries sometimes, sure. But no, it’s not a deal. When we lost Biggs last year, that was rough. As rough on her as me. We’ve talked about it.” He pulled on his ear. “About how that kind of risk is part of the job. You have to buy the package, you know? Doesn’t always work, but Gina, she’s tough. You know that. We’ve got the kids, another coming. She’s got to be tough.”
“She loves you. Love’s tough.” Reena pulled up at the station. “When you call her this morning, ask if she’ll call my parents. Just let them know I’m on this case and everything’s fine. Can you spare the details, Steve? Just for now?”
“No problem.”
A couple of men were washing down the pumper. Steve loitered to talk. Reena settled for a wave as she carried her fresh clothes inside.
She washed smoke out of her hair until her arms ached, then just closed her eyes and let the water beat on her head, her neck, her back.
Her eyes felt gritty, exhausted, but that would pass. The taste of it would linger, she knew, no matter how much water she drank. The flavor of fire lingered, and even when it passed, it was something she never forgot.
She took her time, soothing her skin—herself—by rubbing in scented cream. She slathered on moisturizer. She’d walk into a burning building, but damn if she’d sacrifice her skin. Or her vanity, she thought as she carefully applied makeup.
When she was dressed, she slung her bag over her shoulder and headed to the kitchen to bum a meal.
Something, it seemed, was always cooking here. Big pots of chili or stew, a huge hunk of meat loaf, a vat of scrambled eggs. The long counters, the stove, would be scrubbed clean after every meal, but the air would always smell of coffee and hot food.
She’d trained out of this station, and volunteered here often in her free time. She’d slept in the bunks, cooked at the stove, played cards at the table or zoned out to the TV in the lounge.
No one was surprised when she walked in. She got sleepy nods, cheerful greetings. And a big plate of bacon and eggs.
She sat next to Gribley, a twelve-year man who sported a neat goatee and burn scars along his clavicle. War wounds.
“Word is the torch from last night gave you a heads-up.”
“Word’s right.” She scooped up eggs, washed them down with the Coke she’d taken from the refrigerator. “Looks like he’s got an issue with me. The structure was fully engaged when I got there. Maybe ten minutes after he called.”
“Poor response time,” Gribley commented.
“He didn’t tell me he’d lit something up or I’d’ve been faster. I will be, next time.”
Across the table one of the other men lifted his head. “You looking for a next time? You’re thinking serial this soon out?”
“I’m prepared for it. You’re going to need to be prepared for it, too. He made this one easy. A little testing move. Like when you stretch your arm up so you can coyly wrap it around a woman’s shoulder. Looking for my reaction, I think. Second floor, eastmost wall first engaged?”
“Yeah.” Gribley nodded. “That section was in full flashover when we got up. Part of the wall hacked out, vent holes in the ceiling.”
“First floor had the same deal,” Reena continued. “He took some time. We found four matchbooks, one of them didn’t go off.”
“Had trailers along the second floor, heading down to the first.” The man across from her, Sands, picked up his coffee mug. “Hadn’t fully caught when we hit them. Slop job, you ask me.”
“Yeah.” But was that carelessness, or craftiness?
It was almost childish.” Reena sat, kicked back in her chair. O’Donnell mirrored her pose. “Gas and paper and matches. The kind of things a kid might play with. If you discount the deliberate venting, it’s kid stuff, or amateur hour. Matchbooks that didn’t have time to catch—so we’d find them. So did he think we wouldn’t see the venting, or did he want us to see it?”
“If you’re trying to psych him, I say he wanted you to see it. The rest of us are background. You’re the spotlight.”
“Thanks for putting my mind at rest.” She sat up, hissed. “Who? Why? Where did our paths cross? Or have they only crossed in his head?”
“We go through old cases, again. And start talking to people involved. Maybe it’s somebody we put away. Maybe it’s somebody we didn’t. Maybe it’s somebody you had a thing with and doesn’t like that you broke it off.”
She shook her head at this. “I haven’t had a serious thing. I haven’t let a thing get serious since . . .” She trailed off, then rubbed the back of her neck when O’Donnell’s eyes stayed steady on hers. “You keep up with current events, O’Donnell. You know I’ve played it loose since that business with Luke.”
“Long time to play it loose.”
“Maybe, but that’s how I like to play it. And any ideas this might be Luke, forget it. He’d never crawl around some grimy building. He’d get his designer suit dirty.”
“Maybe he wore his play clothes. He still in New York?”
“As far as I know. Okay.” She lifted her hands. “I’ll check. I hate that I have to check.”
“You ever think just how bad that guy messed you up?”
“Hell, he gave me a couple of bruises. I’ve had worse playing touch football.”
“I’m not talking about your face, Hale. Messed up your head. Shame you gave him the satisfaction. Gonna get some coffee.” He rose, walked off to give her time to think about it.
Instead, she swore under her breath and turned to her computer to get current data on Luke Chambers.
Her voice was stiff when O’Donnell came back with a mug. “Luke Chambers has a New York address, and is employed by the same brokerage house which took him to Wall Street. He was married in December of 2000 to a Janine Grady. No children. He was widowed when his wife was killed on nine-eleven. She worked on the sixty-fourth floor of Tower One.”
“Tough break. Something like that can twist a man. Wouldn’t’ve happened to him if you’d gone along with his plan back in the day.”
“Jesus, you’re like a dog with a bone. Fine. I’ll reach out to the local cops, ask them to verify he was in New York last night.”
O’Donnell stepped to her desk, then put the can of Diet Pepsi he’d stuck in his pocket in front of her. “Situation was reversed, you’d push me to do the same. If I wouldn’t, you’d do it for me.”
“I’m tired. I’m edgy. The fact that you’re right only makes me want to punch you.”
With a satisfied smile, O’Donnell sat back at his desk.
It was a relief to finally get home—and all Reena wanted now was a major nap.
She went inside, hung her purse over the newel post. Then, when her mother’s disapproving frown flashed into her mind, took it off and put it in the closet.
“There, happy now?”
She ignored the flash of the answering machine, went straight into the kitchen.
She tossed her mail on the table, set the file copy she’d brought home beside it. Nap first, she told herself, but gave in and punched the message retrieval on her answering machine.
As
soon as the recording announced message one had been received at two-ten A.M., her heart began to pound.
“Did you like your surprise? I bet you did since you’re still out there. All that fire. Gold and red and hot blue. I bet it made you wet. Bet you wanted to climb inside and let the boy next door fuck you while it burned. I’ll do better than that. Just wait. Just wait.”
Her breathing was too loud, and too fast. She paused the playback, closed her eyes until she could bring it under control.
He had watched. He’d known Bo was with her. Known she’d gone to the window.
He’d been close enough to watch her, but she’d missed him. Had he been one of the people coming out of neighboring buildings? One of the drivers of a passing car? One of the faces in the crowd?
Watching her. Watching her watch the flames.
She shuddered. He wanted to spook her, and she couldn’t stop that. But she could control what she did about it.
She ran through the rest of the messages.
The second came through at seven-thirty.
“Still not home?” He laughed, a kind of indrawn breath. “Busy, busy, busy.”
“Bold, aren’t you, you bastard,” she said aloud. “That’s always a mistake.”
The third recorded at seven forty-five.
“Reena.”
She jolted, then blew out a breath at the sound of Bo’s voice. Yes, indeed, she admitted, she was thoroughly spooked.
“Your car’s not back, so I guess you’re still working. I’ve got a bid to work up today, and a supply run. Sounds pretty tame after the adventures of last night. Anyway, if you’re home later, give me a call.”
The next came in an hour later—Gina wanting to get together so she could get the full scoop on the new guy.
“Pretty sure you’re too late on that.” Reena made a whooshing sound and snapped her fingers. “Here, then gone.”
Then she frowned when her sister Bella’s tearful voice blasted through the machine. “Why aren’t you ever around when I need you?”
As that was the sum and total of the message, Reena reached for the phone. Then stopped herself. Sometimes she had to think like a cop first, then like a sister.
