If they were trying to frustrate her, they were doing a good job of it. Though it was incredibly rude to keep her just sitting here for so long. She was a victim here. It was her house that had caught on fire, her friends and tenants who had been in danger. She thanked God that none of them had been injured. Except maybe Tim. Again her mind raced to the horrible ‘what ifs.’ Compared to what could’ve happened, her injuries were minor, too. But what if she hadn’t been able to break out that window? Would she have collapsed from smoke inhalation? Had the fire even reached her attic room? Would she have burned to death? So many questions but—
The door opened. The frumpy-looking middle-aged man in his mid forties and his younger female partner walked into the room. They both looked tired. So was she, and her patience was beginning to fray.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the man said.
His words belied his tone. She didn’t respond.
“Miss Devers, I’m not sure if you recall, but my name is Rebecca Petit. This is my partner, Marty Hodges. We need to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”
She did mind, but said nothing.
“Did you set fire to the place?”
The question came from Detective Hodges. It took a moment for his words to sink in, but when they did, Meg turned to him in shock. “Burn the place—no!” she replied, genuinely shocked. “I just got it up and running, for crying out loud! Why in the hell would I set fire to the place?”
“Oldest ploy in the world,” Hodges shrugged. “Insurance.”
Rendered momentarily speechless, Meg closed her eyes, counted to five, and then in as calm a tone as she could muster, she replied. “No, Detective, I did not set fire to the place. For insurance or anything else.” Neither of them said anything, both looking at her. Doubting her statement. “Is it arson? Did that arson investigator . . . Mr. Cohen find something?” She instantly recalled Liam Cohen’s face, disconcerted by the sudden tingling in her nipples. Self-consciously, she crossed her arms over her chest.
“It’s our turn to ask the questions right now, Ms. Devers,” Hodges replied, leaning back in his chair. It creaked ominously. “Those people you have living in your house. Who are they? Are they all homeless? All unemployed?”
She glanced at him, then his partner, who stared at her without expression. She turned back to Hodges. “At the moment.” She noted the expression that passed over Hodges’ face, that grimace of disgust. “Their personal situations are different, but everyone needs a hand once in a while.”
“Or a hand out,” Hodges muttered.
She turned to the woman. “How bad was the house damaged?”
She shrugged. “It looks salvageable, if that’s what you mean. Not sure about details. You’ll have to talk to the fire department or the arson investigator about that.”
“So there are signs of arson.” It wasn’t a question but a statement.
“Miss Devers, you may not be aware of it, or maybe you are . . . according to what we’ve been able to access regarding bank accounts, insurance policies, and government funding, it’ looks like there’s some discrepancies in your bookkeeping.”
“What? My bookkeeping? What you talking about?” She had no idea what they were implying. And how have they had a chance to look over the finances of the shelter already? God, she was stupid. They were the GBI. Like the FBI, if they had any suspicions of wrongdoing, they could look at anyone’s criminal history, finances, work history, whatever. “You’ve managed to look at all that in the time I’ve been in here waiting?”
“Discrepancies in your financial records,” the woman repeated. She opened the folder she had brought with her into the interrogation room. Pulled out a sheet of paper, turned it around, and gently pushed it toward Meg. “See that highlighted line there? It’s showing a deposit of fifty thousand dollars deposited into your account day before yesterday.”
Meg frowned as she leaned forward to take a closer look at the paper. She recognized the logo of her bank, her name, and account number. They had made a copy of her bank statement? She looked at the highlighted line. Followed it across and saw that indeed, it showed a deposit of fifty thousand dollars. She almost laughed but caught herself just in time as she looked up. They both stared at her.
“Care to explain that?”
Her heart thumped erratically in her chest. Nervous, she swept her fingers through her hair. “There’s some kind of a mistake. I don’t have fifty thousand dollars. Never have, not in my personal bank account.” She gestured toward the paper. “That’s got to be a mistake. The last time I checked my account, I had less than two hundred dollars in it.”
Hodges made no effort to disguise his disbelief. He jabbed thick finger at the paper. “Let me guess, you’re telling me that you have no idea where that money came from, is that it?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” she said. She swallowed as fear bubbled up inside her. First the fire and now this? “How was it deposited?” It seemed to her that it would be easy enough to figure out how that kind of money ended up in her personal checking account.
“Wire transfer.”
She glanced at Detective Petit. “From where? From whom?”
“And therein lies the mystery,” Hodges said. “Traces back to the Cayman Islands.”
“The Cayman Islands! I don’t know anyone in the Cayman Islands,” she stammered. Wait. Wasn’t that one of the places where rich people tried to hide their money? Or criminals hiding profits from—she glanced between both of them. “You have to believe me! I don’t have that kind of money. I never have!”
“Do you do the bookkeeping for the shelter?” Detective Petit asked softly.
Meg wasn’t prone to suspicion, but she was completely out of her depth. What was this? Good cop, bad cop? She answered the question. “Not usually. One of my tenants—”
“Do you charge rent?” Hodges interrupted.
Meg was losing patience. “No I don’t charge rent. It’s a shelter!”
“Then they’re not exactly tenants, are they?” He glanced at his partner. “What would you call them? Losers? Bums? Leeches?”
Meg felt her face flush with heat. She snapped at him. “They’re people like you and me who have ended up on hard times. No my residents aren’t losers, and they’re not bums, either. They’re people, who through no fault of their own, have found themselves in a precarious situation. I give them a place to stay while they’re getting back on their feet, going to school, learning new skills—”
“Spare me,” Hodges said, lifting a hand. “Who does your books?”
“Monica Chambers.”
“And this Chambers woman, does she live in your shelter?” Petit asked.
Meg nodded. “She came to the shelter about eight months ago.” She turned to Hodges. “Freshly divorced and with no financial resources. Before she got married she was a bookkeeper for an insurance adjuster. While she was married she wasn’t allowed to work. No one wants to hire her, but she’s good with numbers. I asked if she would take over the books for a few months, and she’s done a fine job of it, too.”
Hodges glanced pointedly at the copy of the bank statement on the table. “I can tell.”
“She doesn’t have access to my personal bank accounts,” Meg shot back. “I have a business account used solely for the shelter. That’s the one she takes care of.”
“So you’re the one that handles your own finances,” Hodges said.
“Yes,” she replied. “But I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about that deposit. While I would love to have that kind of money, believe me, I don’t.”
“And you’re telling me you knew nothing about it?”
She could tell Hodges didn’t believe her. “Look, I’m not the best bookkeeper in the world. I pay myself a small stipend from the grant money I got to open the shelter, but that’s all. Go ahead. Check it, you’ll see.” Her heart sank. Her righteous indignation bounced off Hodges and came right back at her. They had looked at
her bank statements. There was simply no way she could explain that deposit. Her foot started jiggling again.
“There’s another thing,” Hodges said. He glanced at his partner, who retrieved several pieces of paper stapled together from the folder. Like before, she turned the papers around and showed them to her. She looked at the logo: Southern Georgia Insurance Company. Meg glanced at the papers, then up at the Detective Petit, an eyebrow lifted in question.
The woman pointed to a name written on a line in the middle of the first paragraph. “Care to read with that says?”
Meg focused on the paragraph, saw the name printed on the line. Promise House. The name of her house. Her shelter. She blinked. Petit’s finely manicured finger pointed to an amount field on a line at the end of the paragraph. Meg’s eyes followed. Two million dollars? Petit’s finger again moved down the page to the signature at the bottom. Meg frowned when she saw her name scrawled there, but something wasn’t right. She glanced up, eyes wide, shaking her head. “That’s not my signature.”
Hodges made a face. “That’s what they all say.”
Nausea bubbled up inside her. The fire. A mysterious deposit in her bank account. An insurance policy on her shelter? “I already took out an insurance policy for the shelter,” she explained. “And this isn’t it. The one I took out is only for five hundred thousand dollars. To rebuild. This isn’t the company I used, nor the amount that I insured the place for.” Neither one of them said a word. “I can prove it! I have the paperwork in my office!”
“So you took out another one,” Hodges shrugged.
“No!” she denied. “I already have my hands full paying the premiums for the other policy, the one I took out. Plus homeowners and renters’ liability insurance on the house itself! I couldn’t afford the premiums for a two-million dollar insurance policy!”
Hodges pursed his lips. “The premiums have been paid for the past five months.”
Meg sagged into her chair, stunned. “By whom?” This was crazy. Her heart beat fast now, her palms grew clammy and she felt the veins in her neck throbbing with anxiety. Her mouth was so dry she felt like she was going to choke. Who was doing this? Despite her best efforts, tears filled her eyes. They suspected her. Of arson, insurance fraud, God knew what else. And the body in the basement? Would they accuse her of killing whoever that was? She swallowed against the queasiness roiling inside her. Her head throbbed.
“I . . . I can’t explain any of this,” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t start the fire. I’m not trying to scam anyone.” She shook her head and looked at Petit, then at Hodges. “I was almost trapped up there in my attic room,” she protested. “I could’ve died . . .”
“We have questions about your . . . tenants,” Detective Petit said, ignoring her last comment. “But maybe we should continue this conversation tomorrow.” She looked at her partner, who offered up a grudging nod. “Miss Devers, there is a way that we can get to the bottom of all this.”
“How?” Meg was surprised at the sound of her own voice, defeated, disbelieving.
“A lie detector test.”
She looked at the woman, then her obnoxious partner. “You want me to take a lie detector test? Fine. I’ll take a lie detector test.”
“You’ll return to the station later today then?” Hodges asked.
“Yes, I’ll do anything to clear this up.” She meant it. Her nerves were frayed. She felt exhausted, mentally and physically. The past few hours had been grueling and she was beaten down and confused.
“We’ll have specific questions about some of your tenants, especially Aliyah Halabi.”
That jolted Meg. “Aliyah? Why?”
“She’s Iraqi, isn’t she?”
Meg frowned. “Obviously, you already know that. And if you know that, I’m sure you’ve already checked into her background.”
Hodges offered a small smile. “But we want your opinion.”
Meg heaved a tremulous groan. “What do you want from me? It’s my house that caught on fire! I didn’t do it. I didn’t put that money in my account, and I didn’t take out that two-million-dollar insurance policy on the shelter!”
“Then who did?”
“I have no idea! But I would suggest that it’s your job to find out! Can I go now? I’d like to go home. Look after my tenants.”
Hodges shrugged. “You can do that, but we’ll expect to see you back here at midday. Understood?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “If you’re even five minutes late, I’ll put out a warrant for your arrest.”
6
Meg
A police officer gave Meg a ride back to her house. Her mind spun in circles. Could Hodges put out a warrant for her arrest if she didn’t show up for the polygraph? She doubted it but she was no lawyer. Did she need a lawyer? No. Not yet. She’d watched enough crime shows to know how the police felt about a person lawyering up before basic information could be gathered. She’d never forget the case of Jon Benet Ramsey. The parents of the missing child had lawyered up almost immediately. The result? The majority of those involved in the case assumed they were guilty in the death of their child.
No, she wouldn’t go there. While she didn’t much appreciate their approach, she knew that Hodges and Petit were just doing their job. It wasn’t their job to hold her hand either, to murmur comforting words, to be nice to her. It was their job to find out who had killed the man in her basement. Who had tried to burn her house, her shelter, down to the ground? Had they been trying to kill her, or someone else in the old Victorian?
Only a few hours had passed, but it felt like days. She was completely drained. Lost. Meg tried to decide what her first steps should be, what to do next, but she couldn’t think. Couldn’t plan. Her people needed to be cared for. The damage to her house assessed. The police were looking for answers. She had none to give.
Surprisingly, all was quiet and still on her street. The kids had gone to school, those who worked were long gone, and anybody else had given up being nosy and had gone back home. Nothing more to look at. The property and around the sidewalk were still taped off with yellow crime scene tape, but Meg had a feeling that was more to keep the kids and the curious away than anything else. Toward the back side of the house, opposite the driveway, another section of crime scene tape secured the steps that led down to the basement. She shuddered at the reminder. The police cruiser pulled up in front of her house and parked behind the black SUV that she recognized from earlier. Liam Cohen’s vehicle.
Shit. She needed to get inside, to look and see how bad the damage was. Where was everybody? She asked the patrol officer as she opened the door.
“More than likely the Red Cross found places for them,” the officer replied. “They might even be down at their center on Lake Street. You’ll have to give them a call.”
Meg resisted the urge to snap at him, to tell him that she couldn’t call anybody. Her cell phone was up in her room, up in the attic. Her planned landline had not been installed. That had been on schedule for next week. Looked like she’d have to reschedule that—again. Quietly, she thanked the officer for the ride and then stood awkwardly on the sidewalk, still wearing her pajama bottoms and T-shirt. She’d left the blanket on the table of the interview room after Detectives Hodges and Petit had finally finished grilling her. The thought of having to return filled her with an odd sense of dread.
Crossing her arms awkwardly over her chest, she glared at the house. No, not at the house, at the thought that someone had tried to set it on fire. That someone had killed a man down in her basement. The bank statements, the insurance policies . . . what the hell was going on? The fact that Liam was still in there was bad enough, him snooping around. His order still rang in her ears, telling her that she wouldn’t be allowed inside until he was finished with this investigation. God, things had suddenly spiraled out of her control. Just when she felt like she was finally moving forward.
She remained on the sidewalk for several moments, just staring at the building. Fina
lly, with a grunt of annoyance, she headed up the driveway toward the front door. The closer she got to the house, the more she smelled the remnants of fire, smoke, and the odor of wet drywall and wood. Oh, God, how much was all this going to cost to fix? She slowed her steps. What would she find when she stepped inside? Total devastation?
Meg stepped off the asphalt driveway onto the cement walkway that led to the front door. Up two wide bricked steps and onto the narrow wood porch. Nothing looked damaged here. Her hopes rose. The front door was shut but not locked. She hesitated only slightly before reaching for it. This was her house, damn it! She would go in if she wanted to. Besides, there was no crime scene tape or seal on the front door. She turned the knob, and taking a deep breath, opened the door.
The moment she stepped over the threshold, tears filled her eyes, warm and wet. She impatiently brushed them away. No. She would not succumb to her emotions. Her heart sank at the thought of her beloved Victorian being torn down. But, glancing quickly about the living room to the left and the smaller room to the right, formerly a dining room but now mainly a sitting area, she breathed another sigh of relief. It stank to high heaven, but she still saw no signs of fire damage. It smelled damp. How much plaster was water damaged?
She ventured further into the house and past the bottom step of the stairway leading up to the second floor. She’d look at the kitchen and dining room first before she attempted to go upstairs. The entire floor seemed empty and she didn’t hear anything. Where was Liam? Maybe he was down in the basement. That thought propelled her mind again to the body in the closet. Her stomach roiled. Was it Tim or somebody else? And if it was somebody else, who? She asked herself the questions over and over, round and round. Where was Tim? Had someone deliberately tried to set fire to her home, her shelter? Why?
Fighting the Flames (Southern Heat Book 2) Page 4
