by Stacy Finz
Connie came back with a mug that said, “Homicide: Our day starts when yours ends.”
“I thought I told you to get rid of that cup.” Rhys had come out of his office and was walking toward them. “Seriously, it makes us look insensitive.”
Connie shrugged. “It’s a perfectly good mug. Besides, it’s the truth, so man up, Chief.”
Rhys shook his head. “I work with a bunch of goddamn lunatics. Come on back to my office.”
Aidan followed him into a glass room. There were blinds to make the office private from the rest of the station, but Rhys didn’t bother to close them, just cleared a bunch of crap off a chair and motioned for him to take a seat.
“We have enough to arrest Rigsby but probably not enough for the DA to charge him.” Rhys took the chair behind his desk. “We could sit on him, do some surveillance, and strike when we catch him in the act. Or we could bring him in and see if he’ll cop to it.”
Aidan didn’t like any of those options. Like Rhys said, arresting him was a waste of time if they couldn’t pin anything on him in court. It was too dangerous to hope they’d catch him before he did real damage. And the idea that he’d simply give a full confession just by them asking pretty please was a pipe dream. Yet they couldn’t do nothing.
“Which way are you leaning?” Aidan asked.
“Haul him in, scare the shit out of him with the shirt, and hope he spills.”
“I didn’t get a good feeling off Rigsby. I’ve met plenty of dudes like him, pumped-up gym rats who are resentful of the world. But my gut tells me he’s not good for this.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because no one is stupid enough to leave his shirt in a Dumpster at the scene. Not even lugheads who like to play with matches.”
“You’d be surprised,” Rhys said. “But I hear you. What do you think we should do?”
“First, I think we should check the security tapes at the Gas and Go. See if we spot Rigsby filling a gas can with fuel, because it was used as an accelerant in two out of our three fires.”
“What if we don’t?”
“Then we question Rigsby and see where it gets us.”
Rhys stood up and grabbed a set of keys on a hook behind his head. “Let’s go.”
Aidan followed him to his police SUV, and five minutes later they parked on the street in front of the Gas and Go, walking into the convenience store. The shop, which reminded Aidan of a small 7-Eleven, was empty. One of the mechanics saw them through a window from the garage and came over.
“Hey, Skeeter. Griffin around?” Rhys asked.
“He’s upstairs. I’ll get him.”
Aidan peeked inside the garage, curious what they were doing with a vintage Ford pickup. It was mint green and, if he had to guess, built in the 1950s. Not ordinarily a car buff, he was impressed. The Ford seemed to be in perfect condition and held a little slice of history.
The guy—Skeeter—came back in. “He’ll be right down.”
“What are you doing with the Ford?” Aidan pointed through the window.
“Checking the brakes. The owner is taking it to a car show this weekend.” He cued up a picture on his phone and showed it to Aidan. “That’s what it used to look like until we restored it.”
Aidan let out a murmur of appreciation. The photo showed a rusted, dented piece of junk. “Nice job. Must be worth a fortune now.”
“Nah, but it’s good-looking. The former owner primarily used it on his ranch to haul hay but kept it outside, where the elements took their toll. The new owner, a collector, only uses it for car shows, parades, that sort of thing, and keeps it in a garage.”
“Beautiful job.” Aidan turned when he heard Griff come into the store.
He nodded his head in greeting. “You come to view the security footage?”
“Yeah,” Rhys said. “How far back can we go?”
“Friday. But the pictures will be grainy. Come on up to my office.”
They went outside and climbed a staircase to a second-story apartment someone had converted into work space, leaving a small kitchen and a bathroom with a tub intact. Griffin had a television where they could look at the surveillance recordings. Pulling up a couple of chairs, he rewound the footage to midnight on Friday.
“This is the best angle I have of Main Street,” he said.
“Actually, could we focus on the gas pumps?” Aidan asked.
Griff shot him a questioning look and changed the frame. “What’s so interesting about the pumps?”
“Our arsonist used gasoline in two of the fires,” Rhys said. “We’re looking to see if anyone filled a gas can. But we’d like you to keep that information under your hat for the sake of the investigation.”
“No problem, but a lot of people use gas cans, especially this time of year . . . for their boats, ATVs, Jet Skis, you name it.”
“We’re aware of that,” Rhys said.
“Then why . . . ah, you’re looking for someone in particular?”
“I didn’t say that,” Rhys said in a Texas drawl that Aidan noticed came and went with his mood. According to Sloane, the police chief had worked for Houston PD for more than a decade before coming back to head up his hometown department.
“Whatever.” Griffin chuckled. “This’ll take some time; you want something to drink?”
“I’ll take a Coke if you’ve got one,” Rhys said, and Aidan asked for one too.
Griffin handed Aidan the remote control and wandered into the kitchen to grab the drinks. They made small talk while Aidan fast-forwarded the recording until he caught a human in the frame. If he or she was just filling a car tank, Aidan moved on.
“Stop it for a second,” Rhys said. “Isn’t that Cal Addison?” It was a fuzzy picture of a man pumping gas into a red, five-gallon gas can.
“Don’t know him,” Aidan replied.
Griff came over and hunkered over Rhys’s shoulder, scrutinizing the frame. “Yep, that’s him.”
Rhys laughed. “What? Did the bear T-shirt give it away?” He explained to Aidan that Addison and his wife owned the Beary Quaint, a motor lodge up the road. Aidan had driven past it a few times. A fire waiting to happen with all those chainsaw bears in the yard.
“He’s got a fishing boat,” Griffin said. “Takes it out on Lake Davis.”
Rhys nudged his head at the screen, indicating that Aidan should continue fast-forwarding. They went through the footage over the next couple of hours. Aidan thought it was a little like watching paint dry, except for the occasional play-by-play on the various residents shown in the pictures.
“You hear he’s getting a divorce?” or “You see that new Ram he just bought? That had to set him back at least fifty thousand bucks.”
But by the time they finished, they still had nada. No signs that Rigsby had gotten his accelerant at the Gas and Go. So far, the only thing they had on the guy was the stinkin’ shirt. They went back to Rhys’s vehicle so they could talk without Griffin overhearing them.
“Should we yank him in?” Rhys asked.
“What other option do we have?”
Rhys checked his watch. “Hopefully, he’ll be home by now. Let’s ride over there, feel him out a little.”
They took city streets to the highway, made the short trek outside of town, and turned up the Rigsbys’ driveway. It looked like John had already started work on the fire-damaged barn. Aidan spotted a pile of debris that had been cleared away from the site and a fresh load of lumber. He gazed across the property, searching for the goats, and found them penned in a corral not far from the barn.
Rhys pulled up to the driveway and Mrs. Rigsby came through the door.
“Hello, Chief. Can I help you?” She tilted her head at the passenger’s side window, catching a glimpse of Aidan.
Rhys got out of the vehicle. “Your husband home?”
“He’s inside taking a nap. What’s this about?”
Aidan stepped out and tipped his head in greeting to Mrs. Rigsby.
“We found something of his at one of the fires we’ve had in town,” Rhys said. “We’d like to talk to him about it.”
Looking from Rhys to Aidan, Mrs. Rigsby went a little pale. “I’ll get him. Come in.” She held the screen door open and led them into the living room. “Make yourself comfortable.”
There was an upright piano in the corner and Aidan wondered who played. Though lived in, the room was cheery enough, with lots of family pictures, a lamp made out of horseshoes, and a colorful afghan thrown over the couch. He scanned the room, hoping to find clues. Often, arsonists got a cheap thrill from saving newspaper clippings or photographs of their fires. But nothing stood out to Aidan. Just a typical working-class home.
Rigsby came into the room a short while later in shorts and a T-shirt. Aidan couldn’t tell whether he’d been sleeping or not, but he wasn’t friendly. Hostile would be a better word for it.
“What can I do for you fellows?” He didn’t sit, just stood there, glaring.
“Why don’t you sit down, John? Or if you’d prefer, we could go down to the station,” Rhys said.
“Letty says it’s about those fires you’ve been having in town. What does that have to do with me?”
“We were hoping you’d tell us.” Rhys was smooth, Aidan noted, no bumbling, hicksville cop.
“There’s nothing for me to tell you. I don’t know a damn thing about them, except for what I read in the Nugget Tribune,” Rigsby said, choosing the recliner across from Aidan and Rhys.
“They weren’t accidents.” Aidan stretched his legs.
“That’s what the Trib said. You think because of the fireworks I was somehow involved?” He smirked like he thought they were idiots.
“Nope,” Rhys said and leaned back, resting his arm on the back of the couch. “It’s because we found your shirt, covered in the same traces of accelerant used to start the fire, at one of the scenes. And one of your lighters at another.”
Rigsby wasn’t smirking anymore. If Aidan wasn’t mistaken, the electrician blanched. “How do you know they’re mine?”
“Both say ‘Rigsby Electrical’ on them.”
Rigsby jumped out of his chair. “Those lighters I pass out like business cards . . . that could’ve been anyone. I didn’t have anything to do with those fires and this conversation is over. I’m calling a lawyer!”
It was what Aidan had expected all along. People knew their rights. Rigsby would be a fool to cooperate without consulting with an attorney first.
“Now, I’d like you to leave.” To emphasize that, Rigsby walked to the front door and held it open.
They could’ve arrested and held him on what they had. But to make it stick, they’d need more than a shirt and a common lighter to hold him. The best they could hope for was that they’d unnerved him enough that in his panic to cover his tracks he’d mess up. Because Aidan would definitely be watching.
“That didn’t go so well,” Rhys said as they climbed into his police SUV and drove down the Rigsbys’ driveway.
“It didn’t go as badly as you think. Pull over.”
Rhys nosed into a turnout on the side of the road. “What’s up?”
“On our way out I noticed something on the front porch . . . something that could be significant. But we’d need a warrant.”
Rhys smiled. “I can make that happen.”
Chapter 20
“Hello? Hello? Anyone there?” For the fourth time in an hour, Dana hung up the house phone in frustration.
Ordinarily, she would’ve written the strange, silent calls up to a malfunctioning phone line or someone on the other end having bad cell reception. But there was no caller ID, which seemed odd. Even with those annoying robocalls, a telephone number always flashed on the landline. With these, no number whatsoever.
She wouldn’t have been bothered by the calls if someone hadn’t tried to burn her office down. Arson tended to make a person edgy, and Dana was definitely jittery.
Now, she was on high alert and wished Aidan was home. He’d called on her cell to say that something in the case had come up and he wouldn’t be home until late. She tried to pass the time by organizing the silverware drawer. Somehow the salad forks had gotten mixed in with the regular ones and it was driving her batty.
She took all the utensils out, gave the basket a good scrubbing, and put everything back where it should go. Although exhausted from moving furniture around and packing up files so the hardwood guys could lay down her and Carol’s new flooring, she found the mindless work of sorting quite soothing. Dana decided that while she was at it she may as well reorganize the pantry too.
The house line rang again and she nearly jumped out of her skin. This time when she checked the phone’s display there was a number. A local number, but she didn’t recognize it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dana. This is Sloane. Is my brother there? I’ve been trying to call him on his cell, but he’s not answering.”
“He’s not here,” she said and told Sloane that Aidan was working late on the fire cases, that he might have a lead.
“Do you know what it is? Brady and I were in San Francisco all day.”
“I don’t. He’s careful about what he shares. You didn’t by any chance try to call here a couple of times earlier, did you?”
“No. Why?”
“I keep getting strange calls where the person on the other end is silent. They must’ve disabled their caller ID because I don’t get that either.”
Sloane was quiet for a second, then let a long sigh. “It may be Aidan’s ex-girlfriend. She’s been looking for him. That’s actually why I was calling. I’m sorry if she scared you.”
“Sue? Why wouldn’t she just ask for him?” Unless Aidan told her not to. Dana didn’t like the implications of that.
“I don’t know. It’s not characteristic of her, but she has been trying to reach him. Wyatt’s on duty; I’ll have him do a drive by.”
“That’s not necessary,” Dana said. “Really, I’m sure it’s just someone with a bad cell connection.” But she went around the house locking the doors and windows just in case.
“Write down my number,” Sloane instructed, and Dana jotted it down on a pad in the junk drawer. “Call me if anything else weird happens. But I’m sure you’re right about the hang-ups.”
After disconnecting with Sloane, Dana called her parents’ house. She hadn’t talked to them since she and Aidan had slept in the pool house and needed to check in. Betty answered on the fifth ring. As usual, she didn’t have much to say and rushed to get off the phone. Dana often considered what would’ve happened if she’d been the one to die. Would her parents have buried themselves in the same kind of grief they had for Paul and by doing so ignored their only son? She didn’t think so.
From the time of his birth, he’d been their prince and Dana an afterthought. As a child, it had never troubled her. Despite the extra attention they’d given Paul, there’d been enough left over that she’d felt loved and cherished. The Calloways had always been a patriarchal family. Dana supposed that kind of upbringing had conditioned her to accept her status as second class to her brother without bitterness. But now that she was all her parents had left in the world, she didn’t understand their indifference. She also couldn’t change it.
The pantry began to take shape. Dana lined up the cereal boxes in a neat row on one shelf. Spaghetti sauces, cooking oils, and canned goods she stored on another. Because Aidan did most of the cooking, he’d screw her order up in no time, but she didn’t care. She’d just organize it again.
In the laundry room she found new rolls of shelf paper and used it to reline some of the cupboards where the old paper had become sticky from syrup or molasses, Dana couldn’t tell. By the time she finished and glanced at the clock, more than an hour had passed. Save for the streetlights it was dark outside, the moon barely visible. It was also stuffy. She wanted to open the back door to let a breeze in, but given the fire and phone calls, a flimsy screen didn’t seem like m
uch of a barrier between her and the outdoors. So she went in the living room, turned on the cooler, and surfed through the channels on the television.
About ten o’clock Aidan came through the door.
“Hey,” Dana said. “How did it go?”
“Good.” He beamed and threw himself on the couch next to her. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you about it, but we may be on to something.”
“Not even a hint?”
He deliberated, then said, “We seized a piece of evidence that may help us close the case.”
“What’s the evidence?”
“Can’t say.”
She scooted closer to him. Despite having worked nine hours, he smelled like that aftershave he always wore. It reminded Dana of leather, sandalwood, and musk. Very masculine. She wanted to snuggle up next to him but worried that he’d want space and time to unwind after a long day. He surprised her, though, by pulling her close and tucking her head under his chin.
“What did you do tonight?”
She started to tell him, then stopped. “I don’t want to forget: Sloane called. She said Sue was looking for you.”
He let out a groan. “Yeah, I know.”
She tugged away. “What’s that about?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll take care of it. Let’s not talk about her now.”
The phone rang.
“You get it,” Dana said. “I’ve been getting strange phone calls all evening.”
“What kind of strange calls?’
“I’ll tell you after you get the phone.”
He got up and went in the kitchen with Dana on his tail. “Hello?” Aidan answered.
There was a long pause while Aidan stared at the clock on the stove. “The battery on my cell is dead. Can we talk about this tomorrow? It’s late and I just got home.... She’s fine and I’ll deal with the other thing tomorrow.”
When he got off the phone, Dana asked, “Who was that?”
“Sloane. Now tell me about these strange phone calls.” He opened the pantry. “Where’s the Calloway candy? Damn, you rearranged the shelves.”
She shrugged. “It makes more sense this way.”
