Then his gaze fell on the blonde.
She stood apart from the rest, staring straight ahead while the light wind teased her honey blond hair out of its fancy twist. Expensive shoes, Ry noted, of supple midnight leather, as out of place in this part of town as her velvet coat and her fancy face.
A hell of a face, he thought idly, lifting the cigarette to his lips again. A pale oval that belonged on a cameo. Eyes… He couldn't make out their color, but they were dark. No excitement there, he mused. No horror, no shock. Anger, maybe. Just a touch of it. She was either a woman of little emotion, or one who knew how to control it.
A hothouse rose, he decided. And just what was she doing so far out of her milieu at nearly four o'clock in the morning?
"Hey, Inspector." Grimy and wet, Lieutenant Holden trudged over to bum a cigarette. "Chalk up another one for the Fighting Twenty-second."
Ry knew Holden, and was already holding the pack out. "Looks like you killed another one."
"This was a bitch." Cupping his hands against the wind, Holden lit up. "Fully involved by the time we got here. Call came in from the night watchman at 1:40. Second and third floors took most of it, but the equipment on one's pretty well gone, too. You'll probably find your point of origin on the second."
"Yeah?" Though the fire was winding down, Ry knew Holden wasn't just shooting the breeze.
"Found some streamers going up the steps at the east end. Probably started the fire with them, but not all the material went up. Ladies' lingerie."
"Hmmm?"
"Ladies' lingerie," Holden said with a grin. "That's what they were warehousing. Lots of nighties and undies. You've got a nice stream of underwear and matchbooks that didn't go up." He slapped Ry on the shoulder. "Have fun. Hey, probie!" he shouted to one of the probationary fire fighters. "You going to hold that hose or play with it? Got to watch 'em every minute, Ry."
"Don't I know it…"
Out of the corner of his eye, Ry watched his hothouse flower pick her way toward a fire engine. He and Holden separated.
"Isn't there anything you can tell me?" Natalie asked an exhausted fire fighter. "How did it start?"
"Lady, I just put them out." He sat on a running board, no longer interested in the smoldering wreck of the warehouse. "You want answers?" He jerked his thumb in Ry's direction. "Ask the inspector."
"Civilians don't belong at fire scenes," Ry said from behind her. When she turned to look at him, he saw that her eyes were green, a deep jade green.
"It's my fire scene." Her voice was cool, like the wind that eased her hair, with a faint drawl that made him think of cowboys and schoolmarms. "My warehouse," she continued. "My problem."
"Is that so?" Ry took another survey. She was cold. He knew from experience that there was no place colder than a fire scene in winter. But her spine was straight, and that delicate chin lifted. "And that would make you?"
"Natalie Fletcher. I own the building, and everything in it. And I'd like some answers." She cocked one elegantly arched brow. "And that would make you—?"
"Piasecki. Arson investigator."
"Arson?" Shock had her gaping before she snapped back into control. "You think this was arson."
"It's my job to find out." He glanced down, nearly sneered. "You're going to ruin those shoes, Miz Fletcher."
"My shoes are the least of my—" She broke off when he took her arm and started to steer her away. "What are you doing?"
"You're in the way. That would be your car, wouldn't it?" He nodded toward a shiny new Mercedes convertible.
"Yes, but—"
"Get in it."
"I will not get in it." She tried to shake him off and discovered she would have needed a crowbar. "Will you let go of me?"
She smelled a hell of a lot better than smoke and sodden debris. Ry took a deep gulp of her, then tried for diplomacy. It was something, he was proud to admit, that had never been his strong suit.
"Look, you're cold. What's the point in standing out in the wind?"
She stiffened, against both him and the wind. "The point is, that's my building. What's left of it."
"Fine." They'd do it her way, since it suited him. But he placed her between the car and his body to shelter her from the worst of the cold. "It's kind of late at night to be checking your inventory, isn't it?"
"It is." She stuck her hands in her pockets, trying fruitlessly to warm them. "I drove out after the night watchman called me."
"And that would have been…"
"I don't know. Around two."
"Around two," he repeated, and let his gaze skim over her again. There was a snazzy dinner suit under the velvet, he noted. The material looked soft, expensive, and it was the same color as her eyes. "Pretty fancy outfit for a fire."
"I had a late meeting and didn't think to change into more appropriate clothes before I came." Idiot, she thought, and looked back grimly at what was left of her property. "Is there a point to this?"
"Your meeting ran until two?''
"No, it broke up about midnight."
"How come you're still dressed?"
"What?"
"How come you're still dressed?" He took out another cigarette, lit it. "Late date?"
"No, I went by my office to do some paperwork. I'd barely gotten home when Jim Banks, the night watchman, called me."
"Then you were alone from midnight until two?"
"Yes, I—" Her eyes cut back to his, narrowed. "Do you think
I'm responsible for this? Is that what you're getting at here—? What the hell was your name?"
"Piasecki," he said, and smiled. "Ryan Piasecki. And I don't think anything yet, Miz Fletcher. I'm just separating the details."
Her eyes were no longer cool, controlled. They had flared to flash point. "Then I'll give you some more. The building and its contents are fully insured. I'm with United Security."
"What kind of business are you in?"
"I'm Fletcher Industries, Inspector Piasecki. You may have heard of it."
He had, most certainly. Real estate, mining, shipping. The conglomerate owned considerable property, including several holdings in Urbana. But there were reasons that big companies, as well as small ones, resorted to arson. "You run Fletcher Industries?"
"I oversee several of its interests. Including this one." Most particularly this one, she thought. This one was her baby. "We're opening several specialty boutiques countrywide in the spring, in addition to a catalog service. A large portion of my inventory was in that building."
"What sort of inventory?"
Now she smiled. "Lingerie, inspector. Bras, panties, negligees. Silks, satins, lace. You might be familiar with the concept."
"Enough to appreciate it." She was shivering now, obviously struggling to keep her teeth from chattering. He imagined her feet would be blocks of ice in those thin, pricey shoes. "Look, you're freezing out here. Get in the car. Go home. We'll be in touch."
"I want to know what happened to my building. What's left of my stock."
"Your building burned down, Miz Fletcher. And it's unlikely there's anything left of your stock that would raise a man's blood pressure." He opened the car door. "I've got a job to do. And I'd advise you to call your insurance agent."
"You've got a real knack for soothing the victims, don't you, Piasecki?"
"No, can't say that I do." He took a notebook and pencil stub from his shirt pocket. "Give me your address and phone number. Home and office."
Natalie took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, before she gave him the information he wanted. "You know," she added. "I've always had a soft spot for public servants. My brother's a cop in Denver."
"That so?"
"Yes, that's so." She slid into the car. "You've managed, in one short meeting, to change my mind." She slammed the door, sorry she didn't do it quickly enough to catch his fingers. With one last glance at the ruined building, she drove away.
Ry watched her taillights disappear and added another note to his book. Great
legs. Not that he'd forget, he mused as he turned away. But a good inspector wrote everything down.
Natalie forced herself to sleep for two hours, then rose and took a stinging-cold shower. Wrapped in her robe, she called her assistant and arranged to have her morning appointments canceled or shifted. With her first cup of coffee, she phoned her parents in Colorado. She was on cup number two by the time she had given them all the details she knew, soothed their concern and listened to their advice.
With cup number three, she contacted her insurance agent and arranged to meet him at the site. After downing aspirin with the remains of that cup, she dressed for what promised to be a very long day.
She was nearly out of the door when the phone stopped her.
"You have a machine," she reminded herself, even as she darted back to answer it. "Hello?"
"Nat, it's Deborah. I just heard."
"Oh." Rubbing the back of her neck, Natalie sat on the arm of a chair. Deborah O'Roarke Guthrie was a double pleasure, both friend and family. "I guess it's hit the news already."
There was a slight hesitation. "I'm sorry, Natalie, really sorry.
How bad is it?"
"I'm not sure. Last night it looked about as bad as it gets. But I'm going out now, meeting my insurance agent. Who knows, we may salvage something."
"Would you like me to come with you? I can reschedule my morning."
Natalie smiled. Deborah would do just that. As if she didn't have enough on her plate with her husband, her baby, her job as assistant district attorney.
"No, but thanks for asking. I'll let you know something when I know something."
"Come to dinner tonight. You can relax, soak up some sympathy."
"I'd like that."
"If there's anything else I can do, just tell me."
"Actually, you could call Denver. Keep your sister and my brother from riding east to the rescue."
"I'll do that."
"Oh, one more thing." Natalie rose, checked the contents of her briefcase as she spoke. "What do you know about an Inspector Piasecki? Ryan Piasecki?"
"Piasecki?" There was a slight pause as Deborah flipped through her mental files. Natalie could all but see the process. "Arson squad. He's the best in the city."
"He would be," Natalie muttered.
"Is arson suspected?" Deborah said carefully.
"I don't know. I just know he was there, he was rude, and he wouldn't tell me anything."
"It takes time to determine the cause of a fire, Natalie. I can put some pressure on, if you want me to."
It was tempting, just for the imagined pleasure of seeing Piasecki scramble. "No thanks. Not yet, anyway. I'll see you later."
"Seven o'clock," Deborah insisted.
"I'll be there. Thanks." Natalie hung up and grabbed her coat. With luck, she'd beat the insurance agent to the site by a good thirty minutes.
Luck was with her—in that area, anyway. When Natalie pulled up behind the fire-department barricade, she discovered she was going to need a great deal more than luck to win this battle.
It looked worse, incredibly worse, than it had the night before.
It was a small building, only three floors. The cinder-block outer walls had held, and now stood blackened and streaked with soot, still dripping with water from the hoses. The ground was littered with charred and sodden wood, broken glass, twisted metal. The air stank of smoke.
Miserable, she ducked under the yellow tape for a closer look.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
She jolted, then shaded her eyes from the sun to see more clearly. She should have known, Natalie thought, when she saw Ry making his way toward her through the wreckage.
"Didn't you see the sign?" he demanded.
"Of course I saw it. This is my property, Inspector. The insurance adjuster is meeting me here shortly. I believe I'm within my rights in inspecting the damage."
He gave her one disgusted look. "Don't you have any other kind of shoes?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Stay here." Muttering to himself, he stalked to his car, came back with a pair of oversize fireman's boots. "Put these on."
"But—"
He took her arm, throwing her off balance. "Put those ridiculous shoes into the boots. Otherwise you're going to hurt yourself."
"Fine." She stepped into them, feeling absurd.
The tops of the boots covered her legs almost to the knee. The navy suit and matching wool coat she wore were runway-model smart. A trio of gold chains draped around her neck added flash.
"Nice look," he commented. "Now, let's get something straight. I need to preserve this scene, and that means you don't touch anything." He said it even though his authority to keep her out was debatable, and he'd already found a great deal of what he'd been looking for.
"I have no intention of—"
"That's what they all say."
She drew herself up. "Tell me, Inspector, do you work alone because you prefer it, or because no one can stand to be around you for longer than five minutes?"
"Both." He smiled then. The change of expression was dazzling, charming—and suspicious. She wasn't sure, but she thought the faintest of dimples winked beside his mouth. "What are you doing clunking around a fire scene in a five-hundred-dollar suit?"
"I…" Wary of the smile, she tugged her coat closed. "I have meetings all afternoon. I won't have time to change."
"Executives." He kept his hand on her arm as he turned. "Come on, then. Be careful where you go—the site's not totally safe, but you can take a look at what she left you. I've still got work to do."
He led her in through the mangled doorway. The ceiling was a yawning pit between floors. What had fallen, or had been knocked through, lay in filthy layers of sodden ash and alligatored wood. She shivered once at the sight of the twisted mass of burned mannequins that lay sprawled and broken.
"They didn't suffer," Ry assured her, and her eyes flashed back to his.
"I'm sure you can view this as a joke, but—"
"Fire's never a joke. Watch your step."
She saw where he'd been working, near the base of a broken inner wall. There was a small wire screen in a wooden frame, a shovel that looked like a child's toy, a few mason jars, a crowbar, a yardstick. While she watched, Ry pried off a scored section of baseboard.
"What are you doing?"
"My job."
She set her teeth. "Are we on the same side here?"
He glanced up. "Maybe." With a putty knife, he began to scrape at residue. He sniffed, he grunted and, when he was satisfied, placed it in a jar. "Do you know what oxidation is, Ms. Fletcher?''
She frowned, shifted. "More or less."
"The chemical union of a substance with oxygen. It can be slow, like paint drying, or fast. Heat and light. A fire's fast. And some things help it move faster." He continued to scrape, then looked up again, held out the knife. "Take a whiff."
Dubious, she stepped forward and sniffed.
"What do you smell?"
"Smoke, wet… I don't know."
He placed the residue in the jar. "Gasoline," he said, watching her face. "See, a liquid seeks its level, goes into cracks in the floor, into dead-air comers, flows under baseboard. If it gets caught under there, it doesn't burn. You see the place I cleared out here?"
She moistened her lips, studied the floor he had shoveled or swept clear of debris. There was a black stain, like a shadow burned into the wood. "Yes?"
"The charred-blob pattern. It's like a map. I keep at this, layer by layer, and I'll be able to tell what happened, before, during."
"You're telling me someone poured gas in here and lit a match?"
He said nothing, only scooted forward a bit to pick up a scrap of burned cloth. "Silk," he said with a rub of his fingertips. "Too bad." He placed the scrap in what looked like a flour tin. "Sometimes a torch will lay out streamers, give the fire more of an appetite. They don't always burn." He picked up an almost perfectly preserved
cup from a lacy bra. Amused, his eyes met Natalie's over it. "Funny what resists, isn't it?"
She was cold again, but not from the wind. It was from within, and it was rage. "If this fire was deliberately set, I want to know."
Interested in the change in her eyes, he sat back on his haunches. His black fireman's coat was unhooked, revealing jeans, worn white at the knees, and a flannel shut. He hadn't left the scene since his arrival.
"You'll get my report." He rose then. "Draw me a picture. What did this place look like twenty-four hours ago?"
She closed her eyes for a moment, but it didn't help. She could still smell the destruction.
"It was three stories, about two thousand square feet. Iron balconies and interior steps. Seamstresses worked on the third floor. All of our merchandise is handmade."
"Classy."
"Yes, that's the idea. We have another plant in this district where most of the sewing is done. The twelve machines upstairs were just for finish work. There was a small coffee room to the left, rest rooms… On the second, the floor was made of linoleum, rather than wood. We stored the stock there. I kept a small office up there, as well, though I do most of my work uptown. The area down here was for inspecting, packaging and shipping. We were to begin fulfilling our spring orders in three weeks."
She turned, not quite sure where she intended to go, and stumbled over debris. Ry's quick grab saved her from a nasty spill.
"Hold on," he murmured.
Shaken, she leaned back against him for a moment. There was strength there, if not sympathy. At the moment, she preferred it that way. "We employed over seventy people in this plant alone. People who are out of work until I can sort this out." She whirled back. He gripped her arms to keep her steady. "And it was deliberate."
Control, he thought. Well, she didn't have it now. She was as volatile as a lit match. "I haven't finished my investigation."
"It was deliberate," she repeated. "And you're thinking I could have done it. That I came in here in the middle of the night with a can of gasoline."
Her face was close to his. Funny, he thought, he hadn't noticed how tall she was in those fancy ankle-breaking shoes. "It's a little hard to picture."
Books by Nora Roberts Page 406
