To Love a Cop

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Ethan would never be as careless as Matt was—but Jake had managed to get his hands on Ethan’s gun, too. Because it was there, and Jake knew it.

  He’s in counseling. And...look how happy he is.

  How happy I am.

  If she chickened out, she’d be letting fear cheat her and Jake. At a moment like this, seeing them reeling in the kite as they came toward her, faces lit with matching grins, she couldn’t imagine being dumb enough to do that.

  “I want to get my feet wet,” she declared when they were close enough.

  Ethan lifted a hand to shade his eyes as he looked out at the ocean. “Did you see the surfers? If we were here for another day...”

  “Yeah!” Jake agreed.

  Laura rolled her eyes and laughed. “Wet suit or not...brrr.” She mimicked a shiver.

  Ethan slung a casual arm across her shoulders, leaving Jake to pick up the kite that had finally settled onto the sand. “We’ll get you on a surfboard sooner or later,” he murmured, his mouth close enough to her ear to make her shiver for real. With Jake’s back momentarily to them, he nuzzled her neck. “Damn. Don’t suppose he’d like an overnight with his cousins?”

  Laura grimaced. “They’re away for the weekend. Besides...you know it’ll be late by the time we get home.”

  “Huh.” He straightened when Jake turned toward her, but kept his voice soft, just for her. “Lunch Monday?”

  The heat in his eyes told her food wasn’t what he had in mind. A different kind of heat pooled low in her belly. “Yes,” she said hastily, and hoped Jake would think her cheeks were flushed from the wind.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ETHAN GOT OUT of his Yukon, slammed the door and stood for a moment taking in the chaotic scene. Strobe-like flashes from fire trucks and police cars lit the dark night and streams of water arced toward the burning house. Firefighters, suited up and unidentifiable from any distance, dragged hoses and called instructions and cautions. Shocked neighbors wearing pajamas and hastily donned coats huddled together in small groups to stare. A flash bulb momentarily shocked his retina. Press...? He couldn’t tell, but then saw the flash go off again. No, someone was photographing the audience, not the action.

  Inevitably, he locked on the swastika, bigger than ever, on a still intact side of the wood-framed house.

  He let out a vicious string of curses.

  A familiar voice said, “I was afraid you didn’t know some of those words. Clean-living guy that you are.”

  Ethan shared a few more words he knew with Detective Sam Clayton. Then both men sobered.

  “You just get here?” Ethan asked.

  “Beat you by ten minutes.” Knowing where Ethan was going with this, he added, “Whole family got out. Dad ran back in for the cat, which scratched the shit out of him and took off like a rocket.”

  Brave man.

  After exchanging a few more words with Sam, Ethan set out to find the home owners, who had been squeezed into the backseat of a squad car. Mom held a girl who was maybe seven or eight, Dad, a boy a couple of years younger. All four were staring at their house, utterly riveted, their expressions shell-shocked.

  He opened the door on the sidewalk side and squatted to be eye level with them. He regretted exposing them to a more powerful dose of the pungent scent of wet, charred wood, but knew the closed car door wouldn’t have protected them from it entirely anyway. And he needed to get answers while events were fresh in their minds.

  “I’m Detective Ethan Winter,” he told them, displaying his badge and keeping his voice gentle. “You’re the Friedlichs?”

  Almost to the end of the Fs, he couldn’t help thinking. Skimming the phone book, he’d noticed a Fromel who lived not much over half a mile away, and he guessed there might be a few others. He remembered a kid from high school named Joel Funk. Damn, Ethan hoped Joel and his family, if he had one, didn’t live in the area.

  There were a lot of disturbing aspects to this case, and among them was the fact that, so far as he had yet determined, the first attack had been on the Eckstein home. Why not the Adelmans, the Bernsteins, the Cornfelds—maybe that didn’t sound distinctively Jewish enough, so, okay, the Cherniks? No Davidson, not Dorfman, no Dushkin. Why start in the Es?

  And who was the next slated victim? The Garfunkels? Or would the anti-Semitic slimeball jump to some letter he liked better than G?

  And, damn it, why go in alphabetical order? Just because he was running his finger down names in the phone book?

  Now Ethan questioned the Friedlichs, Michael and Sarah, and learned that Michael was always an exceptionally heavy sleeper and that tonight Sarah had taken some cold medication that had really knocked her out, too. It was little Rachel who had roused her whole family.

  Ethan smiled at her and said, “Lucky somebody was alert,” and saw her dimple with a smile before she hid her face against her mom’s shoulder.

  “I’d already taken the medicine when Michael said, ‘What if that vandal comes after us next?’” Sarah said, her voice hollow. “But it seemed so unlikely.” Her dark eyes looked past Ethan’s shoulder to the ruin of her house.

  He glanced over his shoulder, glad to see the fire had been knocked down, although the damage this time was extensive. This fire, he was especially enraged to have noted, appeared to have been set right below the bedroom wing.

  Alphabetical order. Escalation.

  He ground his teeth, intercepted a couple of alarmed stares and managed to hide his fury.

  “What woke you up?” he asked the girl, who whispered, “I heard a crackling sound and I could see orange out the window.”

  Her brother had been asleep when she woke him. She was the closest thing to a witness, and she hadn’t seen anything but fire.

  A paramedic had already checked them out and determined that none of them had suffered smoke inhalation or burns. He offered to find them a ride to a nearby hotel, and they accepted. Whether anybody would sleep was another question, but he could tell the parents wanted their children away from there. Her instinct a common one, on the way out Mom had managed to grab her purse with her cell phone in it, the number of which she gave him.

  When he thanked them and stood, his place was taken by a fire chief he knew. He was giving them his phone number so they could talk in the morning when Ethan walked away.

  Clayton had already organized several of the uniformed officers present to question neighbors. Turned out it had been one of the firefighters from the first company who had immediately started snapping pictures of the spectators. Along with several local television trucks, Lieutenant Pomeroy arrived, dressed in heavy-soled boots to go in, but the minute he saw Ethan he shook his head.

  “You know it’s going to be a while before I can get close.”

  Ethan nodded. “You responsible for someone taking pictures?”

  Pomeroy grunted agreement. “You know how often arsonists hang around.”

  Ethan did—but his gut feeling was that the fire wasn’t the point for this perpetrator. He’d started with common vandalism, gone for shock value—the mannequin—then seemingly sought around for something even flashier. More destructive.

  Fires were easy to set; they were newsworthy, they spread panic. This guy wanted attention, that was obvious, but did he get a rush from watching flames leap into the night? Ethan couldn’t even say why he was so sure that wasn’t the case.

  He said, “I need to know if this one got out of hand because it had more time to spread or whether there was more accelerant or multiple points of origin.”

  Pomeroy gave him a sharp look. “You think our guy wanted this one to be bigger.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “He’s getting more grandiose as he goes.”

  “Just because he’s having fun? Or—” and this was what Ethan feared “—because he’s working himself up to something?”

  “Nice thought.” One Ethan had expressed to him before. Pomeroy sighed. “I can tell you that the first company to get here thinks th
e fire was set on the exterior of the structure, like the previous ones. Doors were intact and locked. A few windows had blown, but likely because of the heat.”

  Both men turned when Sam Clayton strode up, but from his head shake they knew he had no good news.

  “Closest we’ve got to a witness is an old lady who lives a block thataway—” he nodded up the street “—and saw a car gunning by. Trouble is she hadn’t put on her glasses yet.”

  They all grimaced.

  “No idea how many people were in the car. Or make or model.” He spread his hands. “It was really booking, though, she says.”

  “That’s it?” Ethan growled in frustration.

  “As usual, it was the sirens that woke most people. A few of the closest neighbors heard the fire or smelled smoke. Three called 911. But they’re sure they didn’t see anyone outside until the firefighters arrived.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Ethan left not that much later. Investigating the fire scene itself was Lieutenant Pomeroy’s job, not his. Tomorrow morning, he’d want to expand the questioning of neighbors—not all of them had rushed outside to watch the fire, especially folks with younger kids. And, as with the past fire, the kids could be useful witnesses.

  He had more questions for the Friedlichs, too, once they’d calmed down and had time to think. He was growing more attached to the theory that all of this was nothing but stage dressing for the main event. And, if that was the case—what if the Friedlichs were the main event? No question they could have died tonight. This fire had rapidly grown out of control. If the girl hadn’t woken up when she did, they’d have been in trouble.

  But he didn’t really believe this family was the target. How many people would know David and apparently his son were heavy sleepers? According to them, Sarah usually awakened at the slightest sound. If not for the cold medication, she’d have hustled them all out, called 911 and the fire would have been knocked back without doing anywhere near the damage it had.

  But he was going to be very surprised if there weren’t at least two and maybe three points of origin, a significant escalation from even the last fire. So he needed to find out whether there was anyone who really hated one of the Friedlichs.

  And if tonight hadn’t been the main event...he had a bad feeling it was coming soon, and people would die.

  * * *

  “HOW DO YOU know Ethan will even show up?” Jake complained. “He didn’t come last night, like he said he would. But he has to eat, even if he’s working, right?”

  Laura lifted the pan lid to stir the goulash. “Not necessarily. Or if he does, he may grab something at a drive-through he can eat quick. It’s his job, Jake. He doesn’t always work nine to five.”

  She’d have minded his cancellation last night more if she hadn’t seen him Monday. Seen. What a lovely euphemism for having fabulous sex that had left her smiling for the rest of the day. Not that she hadn’t been disappointed, too, when he’d called to cancel yesterday, even though she’d expected it after watching the morning news.

  News footage had showed first the flames leaping into the night sky, then the charred shell of a home that remained come morning. When the camera had panned from the crudely spray-painted swastika to a stunned-looking family that included two elementary-age kids being helped into a patrol car, Laura had felt both sick and angry. She’d known Ethan was there somewhere, although this time the reporter had cornered a fire investigator instead.

  Of course Ethan wasn’t free by five thirty to hang out with her and Jake.

  “I guess not,” her son mumbled. “Did Dad do that, too?”

  “Yep.” She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and went to kiss his cheek. “It’s the nature of the beast.”

  So was carrying a gun, she thought more bleakly, bemused because she knew which one of those flaws—if she could call it that—bothered most women more.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” she said. “This seems like the time.”

  He froze.

  “Ethan and I are...” Oh, Lord—she should have prepared a speech. “Well, dating. We’ve had lunch several times and...I didn’t want to say anything to you in case nothing came of it, but...” Oh, spit it out. “It sounds silly when you’re our ages, but I guess you could call him my boyfriend.”

  He stared. “Ethan likes you?”

  “You don’t have to make it sound so unlikely.”

  He shrugged awkwardly. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just—”

  “Never expected your mother to date again?” she said lightly.

  Her son scrunched up his face. “I mean, does he kiss you and stuff?”

  Definitely and stuff. Laura grinned at him. “Yep. Someday you’ll understand.”

  He didn’t say anything for long enough that she began to worry. She started setting the table even though she usually had him do it, keeping an eye on him the whole while, waiting for...what? Hurt feelings?

  Finally he burst out, “Are you guys going to get married?”

  After setting down a cork-backed tile in the middle of the table, she straightened and made sure to meet his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s a little soon to say. I really like him, but...I guess I still have some qualms about the gun thing. You know how I feel about that.”

  He nodded.

  “And I haven’t dated at all since your dad died, so this is a big step for me.” She hesitated. “Would you mind?”

  After a minute he shook his head, but he wasn’t looking at her, either. And then he asked, “So...what if you break up?”

  Of course that was what really worried him. She couldn’t blame him.

  “We’ve talked about that. Ethan says he’ll be there for you no matter what. Honestly, that was another one of my qualms. Ethan’s good for you. I don’t want to mess that up. But he swears he won’t let it, and...” She hesitated.

  “He means what he says,” her son said with certainty.

  She smiled at him. “That’s what I think, too.”

  “I hear him!” Jake said suddenly, and took off like a shot for the front door.

  As she heard him wrench it open, Laura turned on the burner to heat water for noodles, and realized she felt light as air. Her own words echoed in her head. He means what he says.

  She truly believed that.

  The fact that she did shouldn’t have been a surprise, but still somehow was. She had become so guarded, trust wasn’t a natural response for her.

  Her phone rang, making her jump.

  Dinnertime, she thought in exasperation. Probably a sales call.

  But she recognized the phone number that showed on the screen, even though she had deleted the names of the people who went with it from her contacts list.

  Bruno and Palma Vennetti.

  Which was calling? But she knew. Papa Vennetti did nothing without Mama’s permission. He barely spoke.

  Ignore it.

  But sharp anger had her picking up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Laura?” Mama’s voice was unusually hesitant. “This is—”

  “I know who it is.”

  This pause gave her a savage sense of satisfaction.

  “Emiliana said you wouldn’t talk to her.”

  “I did talk to her. Long enough to make it clear that I have no interest in hearing from anyone in the family again.”

  The front door opened and closed again. Jake’s excited voice played counterpoint to Ethan’s bass rumble. Laura headed for the sliding door to the deck. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have with Jake in earshot.

  “If you were a churchgoer the way you pretended to be,” Mama Vennetti chided her, “you would understand forgiveness.”

  “Oh, that’s funny.” Laura slipped outside, only distantly aware of the drizzle, and slid the door closed behind her. When she looked back, Ethan raised an eyebrow. She pointed to the phone and he nodded. “Gee, how long did it take you to forgive a five-year-old boy? Or am I jumping to conclusions? M
aybe you haven’t.”

  “I have called to tell you how deeply I regret my own behavior,” Mama said as if she hadn’t heard a word Laura said. “We made the mistake of letting Matteo think we didn’t love him—”

  Laura interrupted with a snort. “You mean, you abandoned him. Your own son. And your grandson, too.”

  “Marco was also our grandson.”

  “Yes.” She turned her back on the house and gazed at the backyard without seeing anything but the past. Acid ate at her stomach. “Do you know how much we loved Marco? He spent more time at our house than at yours. He was...he was—” Her voice broke. “His death left us all bereft. It scarred us all. That does not excuse what you did to Matt and Jake. Jake lives with the belief that he is responsible for his father’s death, too. But you and I both know that isn’t true, don’t we? If you had said, ‘Matteo, this was an awful thing, but we love you,’ he’d still be alive. I hope you ask God’s forgiveness. He may be better at it than either of us is.” Breathing hard, she ended the call, and then stayed where she was, shaking.

  Oh, God, she thought. Did I ever say anything like that? I didn’t leave him, but...

  The door slid open behind her. Not Jake. Please not Jake. She couldn’t make herself turn.

  The long arms that closed around her were Ethan’s. He pulled her back against him and rested his cheek against her head.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “I think I’m a hateful person,” she whispered, and turned to wrap her arms around his torso and press her face against his broad chest. He must have felt her tremors, because his hands moved soothingly up and down her back.

  Resting against him, drawing strength from him, she finally grew calm enough to say, “That was Matt’s mother.”

  “Mama.” After a minute, he said, “The family rolled out the big gun, then,” and she gave a choked laugh.

  “Yes. Although the family had nothing to do with it. Mama makes the decisions.”

  “She’s the general.”

  “The Pentagon’s loss,” she mumbled into his shirt, then lifted her head. “What did you do with Jake?”

  He smiled slightly. “Persuaded him to dive for cover.”