by Stacy Finz
Darla entered the bathroom, holding a couple of Bun Boy bags and shaking them in the air. “Lunch.” She turned her attention to Dana. “Ooh, so cute.”
“Doesn’t that dress fit her perfectly?”
Darla put the bags down on the sink counter and started playing with Dana’s hair. “You have such a gorgeous neck. Wear your hair up when you wear the dress. Very sexy.”
“Should we continue the fashion show after lunch?” Harlee asked. “I’m starved.”
Dana changed into her jeans and T-shirt and the three of them ate in Harlee’s gourmet kitchen.
“This is a really beautiful house,” Dana said, glancing around at the custom cabinetry and stainless-steel appliances. She had clients who would kill for a home situated on a private mountainside like this. “Colin does amazing work.”
Harlee beamed. The love she had for her husband was so obvious. “What’s going on with your rebuild?”
“Colin is working on changes to my plans. As soon as that’s done, we go to the city for permits.”
“I wish Wyatt and I could rebuild, or at least remodel,” Darla said. “His house is fugly. Cottage cheese ceilings, rust stains in the tub, and funky carpet in the living room. He actually thinks it’s nice.”
“I told you I’d come over and help you rip the carpet out while Wyatt’s working,” Harlee said.
“I can’t decide what to replace it with.”
“As far as for resale, definitely go with hardwood.” As soon as the words came out of Dana’s mouth she felt bad. What if the hair stylist and Wyatt didn’t like hardwood?
“That’s what I’m leaning toward. It’s just so expensive.”
“I told you Colin would help with it,” Harlee said.
“Colin has enough to do. We’ll get around to it eventually. In the meantime, I’ve got gossip.”
“Do tell.” Harlee bit into her fried chicken sandwich and washed it down with a vanilla shake.
Somehow, Darla had known to get Dana a cheeseburger with no tomatoes and sauce on the side, with a large order of curly fries. She must’ve asked someone at the Bun Boy. Ah, the beauty of small-town living. Folks even knew your food preferences.
“Ray Rosser is talking plea bargain,” she said, and Dana nearly choked on her Coke.
“He’s not planning to take the case to trial?” Harlee seemed just as surprised.
The old man wasn’t one to quit without a good fight. Perhaps the stakes were too high. First-degree murder carried a penalty of twenty-five years to life in prison. Even if he managed to whittle that sentence down in exchange for a guilty plea, Ray Rosser would never see daylight from outside a prison yard.
“Not according to my dad, who heard about the plea deal from Earl Miller at Farm Supply,” Darla said.
Dana’s brain ran a million miles a minute, trying to analyze what this could mean for her client. Gia hadn’t gotten back to Ray on the additional thirty thousand dollars. A plea bargain, though, would save Ray money on what was sure to be a lengthy trial.
“How does Earl know about it?” Harlee asked. “If it’s true, I’d like to get the story in the Trib as soon as possible.”
Harlee got up and returned a few minutes later with a laptop. At the table, she flipped up the lid and began typing. Dana watched as she searched for results on Ray Rosser.
“I don’t see anything about a plea deal in the Quincy paper,” she said and continued typing. “There’s nothing about it anywhere as far as I can tell.”
“It doesn’t mean it’s not true. I bet we’re the first to know.” Darla downed the rest of her shake.
“How can you find out for sure?” Dana asked Harlee.
“I can call Del Webber, Ray’s attorney, or George Williamson, the prosecutor. They probably won’t tell me anything, though. Not unless it’s a done deal.”
It was on the tip of Dana’s tongue to tell her to call the lawyers anyway when her own phone rang. Gia.
* * *
Aidan was supposed to have Thursday off, but he got called out on a suspicious structure fire. A goat barn on a farm outside of Nugget. By the time he arrived, firefighters had knocked down most of the blaze before it could spread to any of the other outbuildings, giving him plenty of time to search the perimeter and the scene itself. And he didn’t like what he saw. Luckily, someone had evacuated the goats before they’d become barbecue. But the critters had gotten loose from the pen they’d been corralled in and were roaming wild, getting into Cal Fire’s equipment.
“Can someone get these out of here?” Aidan called.
The police chief, Rhys Shepard, who’d apparently been called out too, laughed and started shooing away the animals nibbling on hoses and turn-out gear. Shepard gave a commanding one-handed whistle and two dogs came running down a path. They rounded up the stragglers, got them back inside the pen, and stood guard.
Aidan watched in awe. “They just know how to do that?”
“Yep,” Rhys said. “It’s in their blood.”
“The owner have kids?”
Rhys gazed out over the herd of goats and nudged his head at a few of the babies as they ran through the corral, taking occasional sideways leaps into the air.
“Not those kinds of kids.” Aidan’s lips curved up. He had to admit they were damned cute. “The two-legged ones.”
“Sean and his little brother, Seth. Whaddya got?”
“Firework mortars.”
Captain Johnson joined them, took his fire helmet off, and mopped his forehead with the back of his hand. “You show Rhys what you found?”
A firefighter Aidan didn’t know approached. The first thing Aidan noticed was that he still had his mask and hood on—a little overkill, considering the fire was out. Johnson rolled his eyes.
“Go kick rocks, Duke.” When Duke walked away, Johnson muttered something about him being a whacker. A whacker was a guy who spent his day on Twitter and Facebook, telling the world about all the fires he’d fought when, in fact, he hadn’t done dick.
“McBride show you the shed?” Johnson asked Rhys.
“I was just about to.” Aidan motioned for Rhys and Johnson to follow him to a ramshackle outbuilding filled with electrical equipment, mortar tubes, and a collection of pyrotechnic chemicals he’d discovered earlier. “I found the remnants of a few of these”—he held up the cardboard tubes—“in the barn and suspect someone was celebrating the Fourth of July on the fifth.”
“You think Sean or Seth?”
“And maybe a few friends.” Aidan guided Rhys and his captain back to the burned-out barn and showed them a youth’s denim jacket that had been badly singed in the fire. But it hadn’t been damaged enough to obscure the ranch logo over the breast.
Rhys muttered something under his breath, then said, “So this was a group effort?”
“For all I know, the jacket was just sitting here when the fire started. The owner is an electrician, right?”
“Yep. The goats are his and his wife’s side business. I know for a fact that he was doing electrical up at Lucky’s ranch when the 9-1-1 call came in. Mrs. Rigsby was at the Nugget Market, where she works part-time. Nope, this has the mark of kids with too much time on their hands. And that jacket you found belongs to a neighbor boy . . . my godson.” Rhys didn’t look too happy about that revelation. “Let me round them up for you.” He got on his phone and wandered away.
“Looks like you’ve got this covered,” the captain said. “Good job. I’m going back to the house. See you later.”
Aidan watched Johnson walk back to the engine with Duke, who still hadn’t bothered to remove his gear, trailing him like one of those baby goats.
Twenty minutes later, Aidan and Rhys sat in the Rigsbys’ kitchen, staring down two teenagers who only wanted to look at the floor. The doorbell rang and Mr. Rigsby got up to get it, while Mrs. Rigsby made a pot of coffee. The two had come rushing home when they’d heard news of the fire.
Two more teens and one pissed-off father joined their r
anks.
Aidan introduced himself. “Justin and Cody McCreedy, right?”
“Yes, sir,” the boys said in unison.
“I’m their father, Clay. We’ve met a few times, unofficially.”
“Good to meet you.” Aidan glanced over at the boys, who, like their comrades in crime, found the checkerboard linoleum enormously fascinating. Clay was the cowboy who’d given Dana a hard time, already a strike against him.
The boys, on the other hand, he felt sorry for. He still remembered the time he and his brothers had snuck out of the house one summer night and taken a joyride in his father’s Ford Torino GT. None of them had had a license, and he, being the oldest, had driven, taking a wrong turn and getting them lost in the process. Hastily trying to find his way back, he’d run a red light, got T-boned by a minivan, and was arrested. Aidan had never seen his father angrier. To this day, he, Arron, and Shane swore that smoke had poured out of Marty’s ears—just like in the cartoons—when he’d come to bail their sorry asses out of police custody. It had been the arresting officer who had diffused the situation.
“Although what you boys did showed terrible judgment . . . someone could have been seriously hurt, or worse, killed . . . I’m just thankful that all we have here are a few banged-up cars.” For the next part of the speech he’d looked straight at Aidan’s dad. “I don’t have to tell you, Marty, how this could’ve turned out. Thank God everyone is walking away from this okay.”
The truth was, the Torino GT was never the same after the accident. Still, when they left the station, Marty gathered all three of his boys in a giant hug.
“You guys ever do anything like this again and I’ll kill you.”
Aidan would never forget the sheen in his eyes.
He turned to the four teens, each one ready to piss his pants, and said, “Let’s cut straight to the chase. You were messing around with fireworks, the barn caught on fire, you got scared and ran off.”
“We got the goats out first,” Justin said. “And I called 9-1-1.”
Aidan looked at Rhys, who nodded. “That was good, Justin. Not good that you were playing with the fireworks. They’re illegal in Nugget. If that fire had gotten out of hand it could’ve burned the entire town down and then some. Not to mention that you four could’ve been hurt . . . or worse.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Clay’s mouth pinch tight.
“We didn’t mean it to happen,” Sean said.
Aidan took a deep breath and nodded. “This time you boys were lucky. But there can’t be a next time.”
“We know,” Justin said. “It’ll never happen again.” He seemed so solemn that Aidan suppressed a smile.
“You can bet your ass it won’t.” John Rigsby stood up from the table and glowered at all four boys. He turned his attention to his own. “The two of you are gonna pay, that’s for damn sure. All that money you were saving for dirt bikes will now go to rebuilding the barn.”
The man had every right to be angry, but something about his attitude didn’t sit right with Aidan. It was almost as if John was putting on a show to demonstrate what a hard-ass he was in front Aidan and Rhys.
Aidan turned to the police chief. “I think we’re done here. Rhys?”
“Yup.” The chief nodded.
No one seemed more stunned than the kids themselves.
“You’re not going to arrest us?” Cody asked.
“Nah,” Aidan said. “But I am going to confiscate the fireworks. You guys know how lucky you were that this didn’t turn out to be a full-fledged catastrophe . . . that no one wound up in the burn unit? I want you all to think about that.” He made sure he included the parents in that last statement. What was Rigsby thinking, keeping all those fireworks in his shed where anyone could get to them?
“My boys would like to volunteer to come down to the fire station and wash latrines,” Clay McCreedy said and eyed both his kids as if daring them to contradict his offer. “It’s the least they can do after putting Cal Fire to so much trouble and expense when you folks have your hands full.”
“What about my barn?” Rigsby asked and glared at Clay. Aidan got the distinct impression there was no love lost between the two men.
“I’m sure you’ve got insurance, John, but my boys will do their part.”
Rhys stood up. “I think we’re good here. Deputy Fire Marshal McBride and I need to know if there are any other fireworks, pyrotechnic chemicals, or mortar tubes besides what we found in the shed near the barn.”
“Uh, that’s my private property,” John said, folding his arms over his chest. Aidan viewed the gesture for what it was: a sign of aggression.
“Not anymore.” The chief moved toward the door. “Do we need to tear this place apart?”
“Not without a warrant,” John spat, and got in Rhys’s face.
Aidan moved between the two, not because the chief couldn’t handle himself but because he wanted to neutralize the situation in front of the kids. “We just got done saying we’re not charging anyone with a crime here. We don’t need a warrant because these are exigent circumstances. I found enough illegal pyrotechnics to burn down half of Plumas County. We’re taking them, and if you don’t want us adding more chaos to what has already been a trying day”—he made a point of looking at the boys—“I’d step up here.”
He was practically bumping chests with the guy, who looked like he spent a lot of time bench-pressing. Of course the onesie Rigsby tried to pass off as a shirt probably gave the illusion that he was more pumped than he really was.
“I know you were some hotshot arson investigator in Chicago, but here you’re just a firefighter, not even a captain,” John said. “So don’t threaten me.”
There was some truth to what Rigsby said. In California, Aidan was starting almost from scratch. He would have to work his way up to make captain, and most arson investigators here held that rank. Still, the state fire marshal’s office wasn’t about to overlook Aidan’s expertise and experience, especially when the department was strapped for resources in rural locales like Nugget. He’d been designated a peace officer, despite the lack of rank, and was expected to investigate suspicious fires in the wilds of the Sierra Nevada.
“This isn’t a threat,” Aidan said and turned to Rhys. “Let’s call in a team to go over this farm with a fine-tooth comb.”
“I’m on it.” Rhys grabbed his radio, but John, who’d been receiving death glares from his wife, stopped him.
“Fine.” He puffed out an impatient breath, like he was doing them a favor. “I have more in the basement.” It was always the ones who came on strong that folded the fastest.
Aidan would rather think John Rigsby was trying to teach his kids right from wrong. More than likely, though, he knew he and the chief were well within their rights to rip the place apart.
Rigsby led them downstairs to a semifinished room with a pool table, opened a huge storage closet, and pulled out shitloads of the stuff. Rockets, missiles, aerial repeaters, firecrackers, and Roman candles.
“What were you planning to do with all this?” Rhys asked.
“Sell it. I was working for a guy, rewiring his house, and he had all this stuff from a stand he used to operate every year around the Fourth of July in Nevada. He gave me a good deal.”
Not such a good deal because it was all getting removed—and never returned. “You can’t bring fireworks into the state without the California State Fire Marshal seal on it.” Aidan turned over the packages to demonstrate there was no such seal. Another reason to confiscate it.
The three of them made several trips carrying up boxes.
“This is it?” Rhys asked.
John nodded. “Just this and what’s in the shed.”
Clay and his sons had left, but he figured McCreedy had been serious about sending the kids over to the firehouse for cleaning duty. In Aidan’s opinion, that was the right way to bring up children. And knowing Captain Johnson, he’d have them washing the engines. The boys would probabl
y get a kick out of it too. Aidan, Arron, Shane, and Sloane used to wash engines at his dad’s station before Marty had become a battalion chief. Hanging out with their father and the other firefighters had been one of the highlights of being a kid. Water fights. Watching the Bears. Eating spaghetti dinners. The guys at the station were the McBride kids’ extended family.
He and Rhys returned to the shed and loaded up the rest of the pyrotechnics in their two vehicles. Rhys agreed to store the cache at the police department until they figured out what to do with it.
“Nice job in there,” Rhys said. “Don’t take what John said personally. Even back in high school he was a dickhead . . . always thought the world owed him . . . always resented anyone he perceived as having more than he did. His wife’s good people, though. Believe it or not, she’s softened his edges. He never would’ve given in to us if she hadn’t been standing there. The kid, Sean, is a holy terror. I was kind of hoping John would’ve volunteered Sean and Seth for work at the firehouse like Clay did . . . keep that kid out of my hair for a while. Clay’s boys are good kids, though, even if I am biased.”
“Hey, fireworks are pretty seductive to boys that age, hell to men my age.” Aidan laughed. “They at least got the goats out and called 9-1-1. And Rigsby probably has insurance on the barn.”
“Yeah,” Rhys said and flashed a sardonic grin. “But let’s hope it’s a bitch of a deductible.” With that, he drove away, leaving Aidan thinking that he and his sister’s boss were going to get along just fine.
Aidan followed him to the highway and headed back to the fire station, needing to write up a report on the incident. Then he’d take the rest of his day off and see what Dana was up to. Maybe they’d go to dinner in Reno. She’d grown up there, so she was bound to know where the good restaurants were.
When he got home later, he found her at the kitchen table, eating one of his Otter Pops.
“Hope you don’t mind that I stole one?” she said.
“Have as many as you’d like.” Jeez, watching her eat the pop . . . yeah, not gonna go there. “What’s going on?” He eyed the maxi dress she had on. Not her usual style, but he liked it. A lot.
