Explosive Forces

by D. D. Ayres

  The woman blinked. “That was you? The woman who called in the blaze? You’re a witness then.”

  “I guess so.” No one had said anything about her being a witness. Not yet, anyway. More involvement was the last thing she needed.

  “What happened?”

  The agent’s suddenly avid expression warned Carly to be careful. She’d already tangled with the supposed victim this morning. She’d been relieved to find her name wasn’t attached to the scant news reporting of the blaze the night before. But raising the suspicious hackles of her claims adjustor by telling her side of the story didn’t seem like a good idea. “I don’t think I’m allowed to talk about it until the authorities say.”

  The agent frowned. “In any case, I’ll have to check with the fire chief. To make certain—well, to cross the t’s and dot the i’s.”

  Carly moved to pick up the soggy remains of an organic cruelty-free chicken-feather headband. She’d hoped that confronting Noah Glover would make her feel better. It hadn’t. Her shop was in even worse condition than she remembered from the night before. But by the time she’d locked up with the fire extinguished, she was past feeling much of anything but relief that she was alive. Now every sense was being bombarded with the full impact of what she’d lost.

  She held up the headband by its leather thong. “What do you need me to do? I have no idea where to begin.”

  “Collect and make a detailed list of your damaged merchandise, along with their individual value. Photos and receipts will greatly help us. Since you’re a brand-new business, you shouldn’t have trouble categorizing what was in the store.”

  “Then what? Most of my inventory is ruined beyond repair.”

  “You may be surprised.” The agent offered her a gentle smile of reassurance. “We have a list of remediation companies that do a remarkable cleanup after fires. Of course, you can choose your own, providing the company meets our standards. I’m really sorry for your loss.” She glanced around. “I’ll be one of your first customers when you reopen. So many lovely things.”

  Carly wasn’t at all certain that she would be a reopening. “Most of the items I have—had for sale were handmade crafts. Not replaceable by simple reorder from a warehouse. I’ll reimburse my suppliers for their loss from the insurance. But replacing things could take months.”

  “You might be able to save this.” The agent fingered the dripping feather headband Carly held. “Chicken feathers, right? My sister had a bohemian-themed wedding last August and the bridesmaids wore head wreaths decorated with chicken feathers. One of the gals accidently dropped hers in the outdoor fountain at Sundance Square while participating in the official wedding party photo shoot. My sister rinsed it thoroughly then popped it in a pillowcase and tossed it in the dryer. She’d read about the technique online. Turned out great. The bridesmaid got to wear it for the ceremony.”

  Carly inspected the headband anew. “I had no idea.”

  “Check with your vendors. They will know their products better than anyone else. And how, if possible, to salvage them.”

  “I will.” Just as soon as she got up the courage to tell them what had happened to their dreams and her hopes. Lots more calls lay ahead of her today.

  The agent paused, staring at Carly longer than she had at any time earlier. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not professional, but I can’t help staring at you because you look so familiar. I know we’d never met. But you have such a distinctive look. So polished yet edgy. Should I know who you are?”

  Carly never knew how to answer that particular question. Should a person recognize her? As if it was her responsibility to make an identification for the questioner. “I did some fashion work years ago.”

  “Magazine?”

  “And other things.”

  For instance, Vogue. W. A stint as a Victoria Secret’s model. But not going there. She knew the woman would go home and Google her. And then she’d know.

  The insurance agent smiled. “Let me see what else I can find out for you. In my business I meet all kinds of restoration specialists. Of course, insurance might not pay for all of it.”

  “Not my biggest problem at the moment.”

  “That must be nice not to have money issues.” Again, the agent sent her a probing speculative glance Carly rebuffed with a shrug.

  “So, thanks for the information about cleanup services. With tomorrow being Sunday, I suppose I’ll have to wait until Monday to get someone out.”

  “No. Professional water-damage restoration experts are available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

  “But what about my things? I need to make certain things don’t get trampled before I let people in.” She glanced around vaguely, her eyes unable to focus on anything in particular because of the sheer number of possibilities. “There’re pieces of jewelry scattered everywhere, for instance.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. You should probably hire a security person until you’ve had a chance to retrieve those items. But don’t wait past tomorrow morning to call the remedial people in. You might be held responsible for creating a sidewalk hazard.”

  Carly glanced out the front window, half obscured by the plywood boards the fire department had put up to discourage looters. Beyond those windows, water still drained from under her door into the street.

  After the agent was gone, she waded through the shop, picking up a necklace here, a bracelet there. She laid them out on a dry area she found under a tarp. Within half an hour she had collected one of a pair of amethyst earrings, several silver bracelets, leather purses that had been protected by the tarps, and a half a dozen necklaces. But working alone and moving carefully made it a very slow process. After an hour it was clear that it would take more than her solitary efforts to salvage the dozens of items hidden beneath the dirty slush. She needed help. But who?

  Not her aunt Fredda. With her asthma, she shouldn’t be in this environment. Jarius would help, but it seemed to need a woman’s delicate touch.

  That’s when it hit her that she hadn’t renewed a single friendship in the three months since she’d been home. She’d come with a dream and put all her energies into bringing it to fruition. The fact that she had no friends suited her. Less distractions. Less need to make explanations. Less … everything.

  Disheartened and growing worried, she scraped a chunk of ceiling off a table and hitched a hip on it to rest. Closing her eyes, she let herself imagine back twenty-four hours to the bright bazaar quality this space had been. Swirls of color and textures and shapes and scents filled her memory. She loved the scent of pear, clean and spare and bright and ripe. Her stomach crimped at the thought. Pear. She hadn’t eaten yet.

  She glanced at her phone. 11:03. She’d work until lunchtime.

  The knock on the front door surprised her. Prepared to tell another curious person that, no, they weren’t open. And, yes, there had been a fire. Duh!

  Through the glass in the door she could see a young man in a white jumpsuit and reversed blue baseball cap waving at her. She went to the door but didn’t open it.

  He didn’t seem at all worried about that, yelling through the door, “Hi there, ma’am. I’m with CowTown Fire and Water Disaster. We’ve been hired to clean up next door. Mind if I talk with you?” He pulled a card from his pocket and pressed it to the glass.

  Carly’s gaze went from wording on the business card, past his shoulder, to the van parked next door where the words COWTOWN DISASTER: FIRE, WATER, AND HAZARDOUS MATERIAL RESTORATION stenciled on the side.

  She unlocked the door.

  The man came in. “How are you, ma’am? Are you the owner?”

  Carly nodded.

  He did, too, and held out his hand. “I’m Cody. I’m sorry about what you’re going through here.” He glanced around. “Looks like you had a really nice place.”

  “Had being the operative word.” She glanced at the left pocket of his jumpsuit where the name Cody was embroidered.

  He nodded sympatheticall
y. “I know. I know how it looks. You can’t imagine things could ever be the same. But I’m here to tell you you’ll be surprised by how fast you can bounce back. That’s where we come in. CowTown Fire and Water can be the first step in getting your shop back in order. After you’ve had your insurance people in, of course.”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  “Good. As long as we’re doing that job—he glanced at the shop next door—I thought I’d check to see if you’d hired anybody.”

  “Not yet.”

  He grinned, a kind of nervous energy driving his speech. “Now I don’t want to be pushy, but it might be simpler for you to hire us, too. Seeing as we’re already on-site.”

  Carly fingered the card. “I need to think about it, okay?”

  “Absolutely. We’ll be here a while. Mind if I look around, since the damage next door is connected to what’s happened in here?”

  Carly nodded. “Please step carefully. There are pieces of jewelry in the water.”

  “Will do.” Even so, his thick rubber boots made waves as he waded a few feet in. Carly watched him closely, alert for any hint of a crunch. But he moved slowly, shuffling along so as not to step hard on anything.

  He wasn’t as young as she first thought. He had the loose-limbed body of a teenager. His suit didn’t fit him anywhere except in the shoulders, which were broad. But she decided he was older, more than thirty, maybe even thirty-five. Plain-featured, he had skin permanently roughened by a bad case of acne.

  When his visual inspection was done, he turned back to her. “I can see you are busy, so I won’t take up more of your time.” He came back toward her. “Whoever you get in here, do it soon. You don’t want to wait. Terrible things happen in standing water. Mold begins and then you got to worry about more damage than having holes drilled in the wall boards to drain them.”

  “Do you own the company?”

  “No, ma’am. That’d be the Dodd family. Been doing this for a while and let me just say you’re lucky. What if the fire had started during the day and you’d been here and all?”

  Carly shivered involuntarily. “I was here.”

  His eyes bucked. “You were? Gosh, that’s terrible. You must have been scared to death, what with a fire breaking.” He came toward her, eagerness making him smile too hard. “Did you call the fire department?”

  He was asking too many questions, like the claims adjuster. “I’m not supposed to talk about it, the police said.”

  “I see. Yes, I can see that. Guess there’ll be a lawsuit. Happens often enough when there’s a fire. You might even bring a case, since the fire wasn’t your fault, starting next door and all.”

  Carly looked away. “I need to finish so let me show you out, Mr.—”

  “Cody. Just Cody, ma’am. You have a good day now.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Noah turned into the parking lot behind the Fort Worth Fire Investigation building located at Texas and Macon at a little after ten a.m. It was the home to the Fort Worth Arson/Bomb Unit. The two-story buff-and-cream brick Art Deco–styled structure sat next to its architectural building mate, Fire Station #2, the oldest station house in the city. The elaborate multibayed fire house with red-tile roof still boosted a brass firepole. That pole was the viewing delight of every visiting school class, and the curse of rookie firefighters required to polish it regularly to keep it gleaming.

  Usually the sight of the building representing firefighting tradition gave him an uptick in pride. Today the place might have been razed and rebuilt with Legos for all the attention he gave it.

  He’d had to borrow his father’s truck because he had no idea where his own was. And he needed to find Harley. The woman who’d come to his hospital room all but admitted she had his dog. He didn’t know who she was, or how to find her. But before he went in search of Harley, he needed to see the lay of the land at work.

  Usually, he came in the back way, using his pass. But with his ID in his truck, at least that’s where he’d left it, he needed to get buzzed in at the front door like a guest.

  The older building was utilitarian-white inside, the broad hallway bisected by a large desk where all visitors were stopped. Crissie, the administrative assistant who controlled access through the front, gasped softly when she saw him. “You’re okay?”

  “Just peachy, Crissie.” Noah moved past her without breaking stride. Had she received a text of his so-called suicide message, too? If not, she’d certainly been told about it. Everyone in the unit knew, according to Durvan. He just wasn’t up to dealing with questions now. Probably not ever. The suicide text was a sham. No explanation necessary. Once he found the person who tried to do him in, he’d simply let the truth speak for him. Until then, he’d be silent as Buddha.

  That’s what he’d counseled his father when he called home from the hospital. His dad, a retired fireman, didn’t need the advice.

  After an earlier call from Sandra, his father had refused all calls from anyone and made the decision to keep Andy home from preschool today. “No need to explain anything to me. We know you didn’t do whatever they’re saying. Like I told your mother, you being okay is enough for us. Andy doesn’t need to even know that was an issue.”

  Noah never stopped being surprised by the content of gossip on the playground. Andy had come home asking about everything from Miley Cyrus’s latest video to whose parents were divorcing. Kids heard everything. That lesson had prompted him to suggest to his dad that now might be a good time to head south to Padre Island for a few days, where his parents had a beachside timeshare. They seldom went in March, during college spring break season. But his father only said, “Already packing, son. Figured you’d do better with us safely tucked out of the way.”

  Noah had been the focus of media attention before, usually after solving an arson crime. This time, it was going to get ugly. Andy didn’t need to be confronted by things his dad was just beginning to wrestle with. But Andy’s old man needed information. Lots of it. Which is why he was here, at work.

  Now that his head was clearing of the alcohol and drugs, the analytical parts of his brain were kicking in. The only reasonable way to treat what had happened was to push it to arm’s length, approach it as though the crime was about someone else.

  Someone had set a man up to die without the victim being able to defend himself. At the same time, by making it appear a suicide, the perpetrator may have wanted to disgrace his victim. Having the victim die in a self-started conflagration would virtually guarantee the destruction of his career reputation. Arson investigator dies in fire set by his own hand. Catchy headline.

  A ripple of bad feeling washed through him. He’d been chosen, special. The perpetrator hated him in ways he could not yet understand. He’d even hated him enough to include Harley in his scheme.

  It took a beat for the heat of his anger to subside. An innocent animal. He was dealing with a depraved soul.

  Yet, he learned while still a patrolman with the police force, that there was always some kind of logic in the minds of even the craziest perpetrators. Crazy logic, maybe, but reasons for what they’d done. He’d sent arsonists to prison, some for a long time. One to death row. That was the place he would start digging for suspects. Men who had a reason to hate him.

  Not wanting to talk to anyone until he had gotten to his computer and gathered some facts, Noah merely nodded to the two other arson investigators on duty as he passed their doorway. To his annoyance, one of them, Mike Wayne, got up from his desk and followed him to his office.

  Mike was a year older than Noah, but they’d come into arson investigation together. Mike had always been a firefighter. Built solid with arms and thighs like tree trunks, he was usually the most fit in a room of very fit peers. Noah had the edge of his years as a police officer. Mike had the advantage of fighting more fires. They’d traded their knowledge on the job to learn their new jobs ASAP. Mike was more than a colleague. They were like brothers, loyal but competitive.

  Mi
ke paused in Noah’s doorway and leaned a shoulder against the jamb. “Heard some crazy shit went down last night.”

  Noah reached down out of habit to pat Harley, usually under his desk when he worked. Annoyed to find his dog missing, he turned to his computer screen. “Thanks for the news flash.”

  “Don’t be more of a hard-ass than usual. I’m just asking. You okay?”

  Noah glanced up. “Durvan came by first thing. Guess he’s taking the case. Thought you’d all be filled in by now.”

  Mike snorted. “Whatever Durvan knows he reported only to the captain. All I know is what the fire department grapevine says. You were involved with a suspected arson fire and had to be taken to the hospital.”

  Noah frowned as he scanned his computer screen. “Thought the news would be full of the details by now. What happened to media coverage?”

  “You got lucky. Thirty minutes before the call came in about your fire, an eighteen-wheeler struck the guardrail at the top of curve of the I-30 East exit ramp onto I-35W North. Shut down all arms of the Mixmaster. Seemed like every news crew in the Metroplex with a van or copter tried to capture it. Backed up traffic headed in all directions for hours.”

  “Lucky me.”

  Mike waited a beat. “Captain wants to see you. Said to let him know when you came in.”

  “You can tell him I’m here.”

  Durvan appeared behind Mike. “Didn’t expect you today, Glover.”

  Noah glared. “A little smoke can’t keep me off the job.”

  Durvan tapped Mike on the shoulder so he could get past him. He looked almost angry as he came to stand before Noah’s desk. “You should know the captain just gave me the job of getting a warrant to pull your cell phone records.”

  Noah finally looked up. “Why?”

  Durvan’s gaze bored into him. “Something to do with your phone being used to remotely start an electronic device last night.”

  “Do tell.” Noah didn’t let the news rattle him.

  “Yeah, I do. You used a WeMo.” The company made customizable products that allowed a person to control plugged-in electronics from anywhere using one’s computer or phone.