by G. K. Parks
“Martin,” I began, but he shook his head.
“No, it’s okay. Tell me about your case. I want to hear about it.”
“You’re right. I can’t let things go. I can’t let you go.” My eyes teased him. “And I sure as hell can’t let you go to Vegas unsupervised, so it’s case closed.”
“Bullshit. The only thing that gets you this excited, besides me, is when you’re working on something. So what is it?”
“Are you sure?” Normally, topics like this were off limits because I didn’t want to freak him out, but I knew he’d be more freaked out not knowing. So I told him everything. “In the event someone from Fast Lanes calls, pretend you don’t know me. The salesman probably thinks we’re swingers.”
“Like I’d ever trade you out for the night or share you with someone else.” Martin lifted my hands to his lips and kissed my knuckles before releasing me. “Just do me one favor.”
“Anything.”
He smirked, and I wondered what ridiculous thing he was about to ask. “The next time you go shopping for a third, you bring me with you.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“You say that now, but who knows what you’ll decide next week when I’m stuck in conferences all day and you’re lonely and bored.”
I gave him a playful shove. “I doubt I’d get that lonely.”
“Who am I kidding? You’ll probably spend the week rereading the police reports. We both know you have no idea what to do when a case closes itself in two days. Have you ever worked an investigation that resolved this quickly?”
“A few with Mark when I was still at the OIO, but they were usually minor.”
“Isn’t this?”
While I pondered that question, Martin went back to work. Even though tomorrow was Saturday, he had to go into the office for half a day to finalize everything before the convention. And despite my insistence he gets some sleep, he wouldn’t budge. The tension radiated off of him, and I knew not all of it was related to projection numbers. Even though we’d been together for a long time, he hated my job, and he hated how depressed and restless I got when I wasn’t working. There was no simple solution, but he’d grown to accept my work, risks and all. However, his recent string of nightmares probably indicated some degree of shell shock and meant his subconscious wasn’t nearly as enlightened and onboard as the rest of his psyche.
So while Martin worked on his presentation, I dug into the reports on Sizzle and continued researching arson. An hour later, I pulled the cake out of the fridge and grabbed a fork. Martin joined me at the counter, deciding he also needed a break and wanted to see what could be so good to warrant the little sighs and moans escaping my lips. The cake might not have made up for canceling our plans, but it came damn close.
“You should go to bed,” he said, wiping some strawberry filling from the corner of my mouth. “I’ll be in soon.”
“I’ll wait up with you. The more of this I finish reviewing, the less I’ll have to contemplate.” I watched him lick the strawberry off his thumb. “This won’t ruin our beach trip. You have my word. No work once we leave for the beach, agreed?”
“Deal.” He pushed the last bite of cake closer to me, and once I scooped it up, he tossed the container and went back to the coffee table to finish working.
When the sugar crash hit, I rubbed the grit from my eyes. I noticed Martin had stretched out on the sofa. I had no idea how he could keep going. He’d been running on fumes for weeks.
Shifting gears, I searched news sites for information and speculation on the fire at Sizzle, but my focus was shot. Somewhere along the line, I ended up reading about other local fires, looking for hints and tips to determine if arson was the cause.
Martin let out a growl, like a wounded animal. It resonated deep in my gut, my instincts screaming danger. I grabbed my gun before I even had time to think about what I was doing.
My beloved was under attack. He thrashed against the sofa cushions, knocking a throw pillow off the couch before settling down. I swallowed, placing the nine millimeter back on the counter while I watched him. Fortunately, the nightmare ended without waking him, and he rolled onto his side. And to think, he spent years giving me shit about sleeping on couches.
Deciding to let him sleep, I went back to my research. Hours later, a buzzing caught my attention. It was morning.
I set the coffeemaker to brew, expecting to see Martin frantically collecting the scattered paperwork. Instead, he remained asleep on the couch. The buzzing stopped, and I checked my own phone to make sure it wasn’t the cause of the interruption. Perhaps, now would be a good time to get some sleep. I hit the cancel button on the coffeepot when Martin’s alarm chimed.
He jumped up, startled. Rolling to the left, he barely caught himself in time before falling off the couch. Confused, his gaze whipped back and forth. “Alex?”
“Morning,” I said from my spot at the counter.
He turned off the alarm on his phone and sunk back onto the cushion. “You’re up early.”
“Try again.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve been up all night. Why didn’t you go to bed?”
I shrugged.
His eyelids drooped, and he fought to hold them open. “Come here.” He held out his arms and pulled me down against his chest. He was warm from sleep, and I nestled into the space between him and the backrest, my head on his shoulder and my left arm wrapped around him.
It didn’t even take me five minutes to fall asleep, but the buzzing from his phone instantly woke me. “Turn that off.”
He wrapped his arms around me, and we drifted back to sleep. I don’t know how much longer we slept on the couch. But his phone rang and then mine. While he spoke to Luc Guillot, Martin Technologies’ VP, he handed me my phone.
It was Chef Easton. “Someone tried to break in again last night.”
Twenty-three
“I don’t understand.” Easton toyed with a wayward strand of blue that kept falling in front of his eyes. “I know what I heard.”
“You don’t live in the quietest of neighborhoods.” Renner rewound the footage and played it again. “We checked the video twice. No one was here. You’re safe, Mr. Lango.”
Easton slid the bar across the bottom of the screen, moving the footage forward to the alleged time he heard footsteps on his front porch, but no one was there. He glanced up at the Cross Security detail. A four-man team guarded the house. One was stationed inside the food truck, another in the house, and the other two covered the back and front. Combined with the automated security system, an intruder would have been spotted.
“I’ll check for footprints,” I said.
“I already did that,” Renner said.
“It won’t hurt to look again.”
“Thanks.” Easton continued to watch the footage. “Wait, look.” He pointed to a shadow crossing in front of his house. “What’s that?”
Renner checked the timestamp, switched to another camera view, and pointed to the racoon scampering across Easton’s front lawn. “You’re right. A masked bandit was here last night.”
Easton scowled, and I glared at Renner. “Come on,” I tugged on his elbow, “help me check the perimeter.”
We shut the door behind us, and Renner rolled his eyes. “He’s paranoid, Parker. I don’t blame him. He has every reason to be, but no one was here. Between the guards and the cameras, it’s just not possible.”
“I know, but in case Harry Houdini or the Invisible Man stopped by, we should check for tracks.”
“It’s a waste of time.”
“Most things are.”
Since it rained last night, the ground might have been soft enough to hold a few footprints, or an intruder might have left mud on the walkways. But aside from a few pawprints, courtesy of our furry bandit, there was nothing to find. I crouched down at the end of the driveway, checking the road and sidewalk for tracks, but there weren’t any.
“You could always
go talk to your friends at the end of the block,” Renner said.
“Shut up, Bennett.” Truthfully, I didn’t expect to find anything, but I had to make sure. Easton couldn’t afford for us to be wrong. Mistakes got people hurt or killed.
Renner held up his palms and took a step back. “Fine. Do what you want. But tell me something.” He waited for me to stand up and face him before speaking again. “Why do you look like you’re in worse shape than our client? This isn’t a complicated case, Parker. Jake arrested the culprits last night. Are you working on something else? Or is there something going on I should know about? You can trust me. What can I do?”
“Nothing. I just don’t want to drop the ball on this. Your focus has been split since the second you handed me this case. And since I’m leaving Monday, I want to make sure it’s tied up in a nice neat bow. I don’t like leaving a mess behind.”
“Okay.” But he didn’t believe me. “Since our client listens to you better than he listens to me, why don’t you go over the details of a TRO and the protections Cross Security can provide? I hear money’s no longer an issue. Though, I never expected Easton’s ex-wife to shell out the cash. Why do you think she’d do that?”
“A part of her loves him. And the part that hates him doesn’t want him to hurt unless she’s the one hurting him.”
Renner snickered. “Are we sure she didn’t set the fire?”
“No, but you heard Voletek. The fire was an accident.”
For the first time today, Renner considered the possibility he was wrong. “I have an errand to run. I’ll meet you back at the office. We’ll go over the reports again, just to make sure we aren’t missing a connection or key piece of evidence.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“I have a vengeful ex-wife too.”
* * *
“I found it,” Lt. Payne said. He held out an evidence bag containing the smoke detector and a sheet of pink paper. “It was tested. Works perfectly.”
I pressed the test button, wincing at the deafening chirp. The once white device was now covered in a layer of soot that left streaks inside the plastic bag. I read the label, making sure the case number and date corresponded to the paperwork. “Where was it?”
“The truck company still had it. When someone from my office picked up the files, they must have forgotten to grab it.” He dropped into the chair across from where I sat. “It looks like your client was hit by a string of bad luck.”
“What about the crumbled wall? Yesterday, you found that odd.”
“I still do,” Payne said. “After you left, I checked building permits. Easton Lango renovated the restaurant. The exterior wall was replaced and rebuilt. Preliminary tests show the materials the new contractors used didn’t match the rest of the building materials. They weren’t nearly as sturdy or heat resistant.”
“Sabotage?”
“Probably just another example of a construction company cutting costs. You won’t believe how many structure fires we see because of subpar materials and workmanship.”
“Maybe we could push for negligence or public endangerment.” I scribbled it down in case Easton wanted to pursue civil damages.
“I don’t know. It will depend on whether the project met the minimum safety regulations. Dil Haskell’s conducting the testing. He’ll be able to tell you more.”
I pondered the obvious discrepancy. “Easton said he finished taking inventory and was in his office placing orders when the fire broke out. He smelled smoke, and the door handle was already hot. He never heard the fire alarm. Are you sure it sounded?”
“I’ll be frank with you. There’s no way to say for certain. The device is operational. The batteries were tested. You can read the report yourself. Are you sure your client is remembering things correctly? Maybe he was wearing noise canceling headphones, or he fell asleep. Or he just didn’t hear it. Fires are loud. Most people don’t realize it, but they are.” Payne picked up the fire department’s report. “EMS checked him when they arrived, and so did the police. He wasn’t high or drunk, but he could have hit his head or the adrenaline dump dulled his senses. It happens. People shut down when they’re afraid. I’ve seen victims go temporarily deaf or blind from shock.”
I chewed on the inside of my lip. Easton Lango wasn’t the calmest or most rational man in the world. I’d seen the full extent of his fight or flight, when he hid inside the food truck the first time we met and when he launched a premature attack after the break-in. I scanned the rest of the report. Sizzle had fire extinguishers in the kitchen and inside Easton’s office. He would have attempted to smother the fire. “Sizzle was his baby. He would have done anything to save it.” Trying to save his restaurant might explain the burn on his hand, but he had no reason to lie about it. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Unless the police or Dil uncover something else, it looks like bad luck. Everything we looked at yesterday appears suspicious, but when taken with what we know, it can be explained.” He jerked his chin at my stack of research. “You said Easton just finished taking inventory, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did he put everything back, or is it possible he left some containers on the counter? We know the frayed wire ignited, which triggered the fire.”
“You think Easton’s carelessness caused his restaurant to burn down?”
“I think it was an accident, but I can’t deny there was a human element involved. The fire wouldn’t have spread the way it did or as quickly unless someone left out the right materials to cause the perfect storm.” The corner of his mouth screwed up. “That’s why it looks like arson. That might be the reason Easton insists someone set the fire. Deep down he knows it’s his fault, but he wants to blame someone else. He needs to blame someone else.”
I pushed away from the table. “You’re probably right.” At least about the blaming part.
“I’ve seen it far too often. An old lady leaves the stove on or puts a towel close to the oven to dry off, and the next thing you know, the apartment’s on fire. She loses her cats or,” he let out a frustrated, somber sigh, “a child or grandchild. Those are the worst. Once she finds out the cause, she always blames herself. It’s heartbreaking that one stupid mistake can destroy everything.”
“You’re sure that’s what happened here?”
“Like I said, I don’t know. But I’ve worked enough of these scenes to believe that’s the most feasible explanation.”
“No spontaneous combustion or act of god?”
“Maybe that’s what started the fire.”
“So how can you tell when the old lady just made a mistake or when she intentionally wanted to off herself or her deadbeat son?” I asked. “As far as I can tell, intention is the only thing that separates arson from an unlucky mishap.”
Payne snorted, slightly disconcerted by the question. “Who hurt you, Ms. Parker?”
“I do this for a living, and before that, I worked in law enforcement.”
“Local cop?”
“OIO agent.”
“OIO?”
“Office of International Operations.”
“Which deals with what? Terrorism, bombings, stuff like that?”
“Among other things.”
“Well, this isn’t like that. Most people make mistakes. Haven’t you ever left the burner on after you took a pot off the stove? Or accidentally put something metal in the microwave?”
That’s why Martin was in charge of the kitchen. “Sure.”
“You weren’t trying to burn down your apartment or kill yourself, right?”
“Depends on the day,” I joked.
He frowned, not finding my comment amusing. Admittedly, it was morbid, especially for someone who didn’t know me or understand my twisted sense of humor. “The point is you’re not an arsonist or pyromaniac, as far as I know, just like the majority of people. Plus, I’ve never encountered an arsonist who called us to put out the fire while he remained at the scene
. So either your boy is one brazen psychopath, or he’s just another guy who made a mistake.”
“Unless someone else was there.”
“Or that.” Payne stood. “It’s up to the police to figure that out. I only deal with fires.”
“Lucky you.”
Payne cocked his head to the side, reading the printout at the top of my stack. “Are you gunning for my job, Ms. Parker?” He picked up the sheet and held it up. “Why are you researching other area fires? Is there something I should know?”
“I couldn’t sleep last night.”
“So this is light reading?”
“I’m trying to figure out what signals I should look for to determine if the case is arson.” I shrugged. “Sorry, but I have a terrible time taking people at their word. I have to reach my own conclusions, but I lack the proper knowledge base.”
“Which is why you should defer to the experts.” He glanced around my posh office. “That’s why Cross Security always defers to the experts.”
“I’m new in case you couldn’t tell.”
“Oh, I can tell.” He pulled the chair around the desk and sat beside me. “Since I’m not on duty, I’ll give you a crash course. Will you be more apt to listen to what I have to say when it doesn’t have to do specifically with your case?” The playful tone in his voice clued me in that he was teasing, but in case I missed it, he threw in a wink for good measure.
For the next forty minutes, Lt. Payne leafed through the articles I printed and explained why a warehouse fire was arson while a fire in the changing room of a department store wasn’t. It was a fine line. The only thing that signified arson was the mens rea or intent. Otherwise a fire was a fire, regardless of the cause or source. It all came down to a person’s intent.
“How do you know what a person’s thinking? You said you only investigate the scene.”
“How do you prove a crime occurred?”
