by Radclyffe
Chapter Eleven
When Reese returned, Carter was waiting in her office. Reese closed the frosted glass door, hung her hat on the spindly wooden rack next to it, and walked around behind her desk.
“Sorry to bother you in the middle of the day,” Carter said, dressed in jeans and a loose gray sweatshirt with her weapon on her hip. She was supposed to be off duty but something was clearly up.
“What’s going on?” Reese waved a hand for Carter to sit, but Carter just shook her head and paced a step, then caught herself. She looked about ready to ignite.
“Someone’s been in our house.”
“Run it for me.” Reese settled into her chair, folded her hands in her lap, and listened as Carter resumed pacing and told her about a missing shirt. “That’s it. Just the shirt?”
“As near as we can tell. Look, I know it’s not much—”
“Carter, if you say someone took it, then someone took it. The question is, why?”
“I’ve got a lot more questions than that.” Carter couldn’t stay still. She was angry and agitated and confused, and worried. She didn’t know what was going on, and if she didn’t understand it, she couldn’t do anything to prevent a problem. “Somebody’s messing around with Rica. The car last night. The shirt. Someone is targeting her. God damn it. God damn it.”
“Someone was in my house too.”
“I know. And that doesn’t make any sense. Messing with cops? That’s just plain stupid.”
“We don’t know the events are related. Could be a thrill seeker. Could be kids acting on a dare.”
Carter snorted. “You don’t believe that.”
“I’m not discounting it, but I’m not looking for an easy answer either. Not when so much is at stake.” Reese told Carter about William Everly, his history with Bri, and the fact that he might also factor into the mix.
“I can see where Everly might go after Bri or Bri’s girl, or you or your family. But Rica and I weren’t here then. He doesn’t know us.”
“Doesn’t Caroline Clark spend time with Rica? At the gallery?”
“Sure. Caroline’s a local artist and Rica knows her. She thinks Caroline is really talented and they’ve gotten to be friends. I think Caroline even helps out sometimes—” Carter grimaced. “Well, hell. We already know the guy is a stalker. If he’s been watching Caroline, then he probably knows Rica. You think he’d go after Caroline’s friends before her—if it is him?”
“Maybe. If Everly spent the last few years thinking about payback, maybe he doesn’t want it to be over so soon. Maybe he wants to circle around his real target for a while. A guy like that is going to need some way to blow off steam while he waits. So he’ll play with secondary targets first. If he hurts someone his primary target cares for—a friend or a lover—then he’ll also be removing a potential competitor.”
“I don’t mind telling you, I don’t like this one bit,” Carter said. “I don’t even want Rica to go to work, but I don’t want her home alone either. As if I could get her to stay home.”
“No one is going to get close to our families.” Reese stood. “How about you and I go pay this guy’s family a visit.”
“You think we’ll get lucky?” Carter wished it could be so easy, but her experience said otherwise.
“If he’s not there, we’ll sit on the place until he shows,” Reese said flatly. “They always come home. Sooner or later, they always come home.”
*
Allie kept silent as Ash evaluated the first two claims, watching her climb over piles of rubble to take photographs of the damaged buildings, measure sections of missing roofs, and sort through the detritus of the hurricane. The third building on their list was a fire-ravaged classic Cape Cod structure with its Wedgwood blue shutters hanging askew, most of the rear portion collapsed, and a yellow warning sign from the fire marshal on the door. A blackened oval plaque next to the front porch denoted it as one of the historic structures that had been floated over from Long Point on rafts. Allie’s curiosity finally overcame her still-smoldering anger and she asked, “What are you looking for exactly?”
Ash stopped halfway up the walkway to the entry, surprised that Allie had actually said something that wasn’t a biting criticism. The sun had long ago burned off the early morning fog, and she was sweating in the bright afternoon sun. Her shirt clung to the center of her back and chest, and she imagined she could smell the alcohol steaming out of her system. Maybe it wasn’t her imagination. She swiped an arm across her forehead. Being with Allie for the last two hours had been a study in masochistic gratification. She hadn’t been this close to Allie, for this long, in almost a year, and she took every opportunity to steal glances at her when Allie wasn’t looking. Allie was beautiful in anything she wore, but her full breasts and curvaceous backside looked great in a tailored uniform. Ash got more excited just looking at her than she had with most of the women she’d actually been in bed with. She felt as if she were awakening after a long hibernation, living and breathing again, all of her senses vibrating. She couldn’t stop herself, didn’t want to stop herself, from indulging in the illicit pleasure. But the exhilaration came at the price of knowing someone else would be the recipient of Allie’s smile, someone else would be holding her, someone else would be running her hands over that body. Probably in a few hours. The pictures playing in her head of Allie and the blonde together were methodically cutting her to pieces.
“What time is it?” Ash asked.
“What?” Allie checked her watch. “Almost three. Why?”
“No reason.” Ash wanted a drink at three o’clock in the afternoon. She didn’t want it because she craved the alcohol. She wanted it because she craved the sweet oblivion. Being around Allie reminded her of exactly what she’d been running from. Maybe it was time to stop running and let the pain kill or cure her. She shivered and fought down a swell of nausea. “What did you ask me just now?”
Allie studied her, trying not to care that Ash looked like she was on the verge of collapsing. Rivulets of sweat streaked her temples and her crimson hair clung to the back of her neck in wet strands. Even though Ash looked like a refugee from a rehab center, the way her shirt clung to the muscular curves of her chest and the etched surface of her abdomen gave Allie a charge. Jesus, talk about being a hopeless case.
“What are you looking for in these places?” Allie repeated.
“Oh,” Ash said, happy to divert her attention from Allie. When she worked, her pain and self-loathing were bearable. Sometimes, she even forgot about the emptiness of her life for a few hours. “I usually investigate commercial claims because the incidence of fraud is highest in those. After a huge natural disaster like this hurricane, there are far too many claims for the regular adjusters to assess. So the investigators, like me, get pulled in to do a lot of the routine cases.” She shrugged. “It’s most cost-effective to have me focus on resort areas like this, where every building has a commercial function. More chance of fraudulent claims or criminal mischief.”
“So tell me about the red flags.” Allie enjoyed puzzles. That was one of the things that drew her to law enforcement. She liked crime solving, and this was an opportunity to learn from an expert. Ash wasn’t a cop, but she was an experienced investigator. Experienced enough that Reese had worked hand in hand with her the year before.
“Okay,” Ash said, cutting across the small front yard, its once immaculate lawn littered with downed limbs and debris, to the side of the building where most of the fire damage had occurred. “A fire claim is always suspicious because it’s one of the best ways to totally destroy a building. Plus the claims are usually high. Fires are also common during natural disasters because of the disruption of gas lines, the abundance of flammable material, you know what I mean…”
Ash stopped to photograph the exterior of the building. A huge hole had been punched in the side of the building and when Allie peered inside, she could see that the second floor had partially collapsed. Blue sky showed through hu
ge gaps in the roof above that. Mounds of fallen beams—partially burned and piled like pick-up sticks—were covered with ceiling plaster and filled the lower floor to knee height.
“Major mess in there,” Allie said.
“From what I understand, this part of town was largely cut off and even if it hadn’t been, there were so many fires, it’s doubtful all of them could have been contained,” Ash said.
Allie nodded. “A fire on one of the piers threatened to destroy the biggest boat building in town. Most of the volunteers were there. They couldn’t get to a lot of the individual structure fires until well after the buildings were fully involved.”
“Nobody’s fault, but it happens a lot in situations like this.” Ash climbed through a fire-scorched opening and straddled a pile of charred flooring material while she photographed the interior. When she heard Allie clambering toward her, she said, “This structure hasn’t been cleared yet. You should wait outside.”
“You’re in here,” Allie pointed out testily.
“I know where to step.” Ash pivoted and forgot about the job. Allie was backlit by sunlight, her hair a dark halo around her pale, achingly beautiful face. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I think we’ve established it’s a little late for that.”
“I’ve apologized and you’ve moved on, so—”
“You’re right. That was bitchy.” Allie ignored the impulse to shout that she hadn’t moved on. That she wanted to, but she couldn’t. Ash didn’t need to know that. And now that she had found Flynn, the perfect person to help her finally manage a clean break, she wasn’t about to tell Ash. Flynn. Thinking about Flynn helped. She took a breath and struggled for the only neutral ground they had. “So tell me how you decide if this fire is arson or not.”
“Okay.” Ash appreciated Allie’s attempt to smooth things over. They were going to spend a lot time together the next few weeks. It would be good not to keep drawing blood. “For someone to deliberately torch a building, they need three things—some kind of fuel, a heat source, and oxygen to sustain the blaze. We call that the fire triangle. So when we evaluate a fire site, first we look for the typical accidental sources of a blaze—faulty wiring, malfunctioning space heaters, a source of open flames like a fireplace or a kitchen stove—but we’re also looking for signs that any of the three points of the fire triangle were intentionally manipulated.”
“Like someone pouring gasoline on the floor or punching holes in the ceiling and walls to augment air flow. Right?”
“Exactly.” Ash checked her file. “This place had a first-floor rear coffee shop. So we want to look there first as the most likely site for an accidental blaze to start.”
Allie stepped in Ash’s footprints as Ash carefully picked her way through the debris toward the back of the building. Almost two weeks after the fire, the atmosphere was still thick with the acrid odor of charred wood and synthetics. Their footsteps stirred up fresh soot that rose in clouds around them. Allie coughed, her eyes tearing.
“You okay?” Ash asked.
“Yeah. Sensitive nose.”
“If you weren’t so stubborn, you could wait outside. I’ll call you if I find anything.”
“Just shut up, Walker, and keep talking. If I have to traipse around in this shit, I want to get something out of it.”
Ash laughed, having forgotten how tough Allie was beneath her seductive siren exterior. Her own laughter sounded foreign to her. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made her laugh. “Okay. Lesson one. Most arsonists, especially amateurs, believe that the fire itself will destroy all evidence of the crime.”
“Almost never true, right?”
“Only with the very best. Usually some trace of an accelerant or the heat source is left behind. Or they use multiple points of ignition—a dead giveaway.” Ash stopped in the middle of what had once been the small coffee shop and began to take more pictures. Three of the four walls had collapsed, and sunlight cut sharp swaths through the murky air. “Our problem is that the firefighters themselves are often the best observers of a fire’s suspicious origins. They arrive before signs of the arson are destroyed in the fire. The color of the smoke often indicates what type of accelerant was used. The pattern of closed doors and open windows may indicate intentional venting to speed up the burn. Firefighters are trained to look for suspicious signs, but we don’t have the benefit of firsthand accounts with most of these cases. So we’re going to have to try to reconstruct and hope that any arsonists we might be dealing with are not pros.”
“Or hope that the storm put the fires out while there was still some evidence left,” Allie said. She watched Ash work in silence for a while, appreciating her focus and efficiency, before asking, “Can I take notes for you or anything?”
“That would be great.” Ash handed Allie a folder with a pen clipped to it. “I’ll just talk us through this scene, and you can check off the boxes and make notes. It’s all pretty self-explanatory.”
“Okay.”
Slowly, they worked their way through the structure. Occasionally Allie would ask a question and Ash would elaborate on some point of the investigation. Allie hadn’t had this much fun doing fieldwork since she’d been at the academy. She’d always loved treasure hunts and playing Clue. She liked the idea of pitting her mind against that of a perp—that was one of the fun things about being a cop. She didn’t notice the time pass until Ash started using her flashlight because it had gotten so dark inside.
“We’re going to have to quit,” Ash said, starting back the way they had come. “It’s not safe with the visibility so bad. Stay close to me on the way out.”
“So what do you think about this place?” Allie asked, dogging Ash’s steps.
Ash slowed, pointing to one wall that was still standing. The window in its center was still intact. “What do you see over there?”
Allie squinted through the gloom and trained her Maglite on the wall, which was covered with floral-patterned wallpaper above beaded dark wood wainscoting. The wallpaper was streaked with black and curling in places. “It looks like the interior wall started burning, but the fire went out for some reason. Not enough air flow, maybe,” she mused, surveying the intact ceiling above.
“What do you see up there?”
Frowning, Allie studied the beaten tin ceiling. The halogen beam from her Mag reflected off a shiny surface, and she focused on a two-inch stainless steel fixture. “A sprinkler.”
“Uh-huh. Except where are the water marks on the wall? Where is the water damage on the wall and floor?”
“So it didn’t work.” Allie shrugged. “Lots of sprinkler systems don’t work very well. Maybe it wasn’t hot enough in here to set it off?”
“Maybe. Or maybe the water was turned off at the source. We’ll have to find out.”
We’ll have to find out.
Allie didn’t want to leave. She wanted to keep searching the site. She was hot and sticky and downright filthy, but she was also charged. Teaming with Ash the last couple of hours had been easy. More than easy. Fun and exciting. This was the kind of work she loved. This was one of the things that had attracted her to Ash Walker, besides how downright scorching hot she was. They shared a mutual respect for their jobs. Ash was an intense, savvy investigator. She was also one of the best. Allie had loved discussing cases with her, and Ash had always been a good sounding board for her. They had connected on a really important level.
Just as Allie decided this assignment might not be so bad, she caught Ash in her flashlight beam as Ash plucked her sweat-soaked shirt away from her chest. She was braless and the hard points of her nipples stood out beneath the thin white cotton. Allie couldn’t look away from Ash’s breasts, picturing Ash braced above her, one hard, lean thigh pumping between her legs, Ash’s bullet-hard nipples just above her lips. A wave of heat coursed through her, and she ground her teeth together. Damn it. She didn’t want the unwelcome memories to spoil what had almost been a pleasant interlude. When she
finally dragged her gaze up, she found Ash staring at her, her eyes glittering dangerously in the half-light.
“You’re right, it’s getting dark. Let’s get out of here.” Pivoting abruptly, Allie jumped over a gap in the floor she hadn’t noticed before. When she landed, beams shifted beneath her feet. Her balance wavering, she saw Ash flailing as a mound of debris seemed to pitch upward and then just disappear. She lunged for Ash, grabbing for her shirt. “Ash. Ash!”
Her hand closed on empty air.
Chapter Twelve
Reese pulled into the driveway of a tidy, pale pink one-story bungalow bordering the north side of the Winslow Street Cemetery. A well-kept ten-year-old Toyota hatchback was parked in the gravel drive in front of an open, single-car detached garage. A dusty black Ford pickup, along with stacks of aluminum lawn furniture and a push mower, took up most of the space inside the garage. The buildings appeared to have weathered the hurricane fairly well. A broken window box lying on the grass in front of the low front porch was the only sign of casualties.
Reese preceded Carter across the lawn to the porch and rapped on the pitted metal storm door. The inner door was open and she could hear the drone of a television. After a minute, she knocked again, louder, and saw a shadow pass across the shaft of blue light from the television, and then a woman appeared at the door. In her sixties, she had straight gray hair cut in a short, layered, no-frills style and wore shapeless black slacks with a fuzzy sweater a shade darker than the pink of the house.
When she saw Reese her lips thinned, but she opened the door a sliver and said pleasantly, “Hello, Sheriff. Hot enough for you?”
Her gaze flickered past Reese to Carter, sharp and appraising.
