Читать книгу Smoke And Ashes - Danica Winters - Страница 9

Chapter Two

The windows of the sage-green house were intact, and a basket full of half-dead pink flowers waved lazily in the breeze as Kevin parked his truck. Aside from the flurry of motion and yellow caution tape, it would have been hard to tell this had been the location of an active fire.

Something about the place reminded him of Heather. Maybe it was the way it seemed so perfect, so put together on the outside, but if he looked a little deeper he saw whispers of turmoil within. Yet, with the house, he could open its doors and uncover its secrets, whereas with Heather there were too many things standing in the way—he could never truly know her.

A fire crew milled around the yard as they mopped up the scene, and the battalion chief, Stephen Hiller, was writing something in his notepad. Kevin killed his engine and the BC turned and gave him an acknowledging tip of the head. Hiller’s face was pinched and his eyes tired, as though he was just waiting for him to arrive so his crew could hand off the chain of custody.

On the porch of the neighboring white row house a little boy, his thumb in his mouth, sat in a turquoise patio chair. The boy smiled and waved at him, his chubby arm wiggling.

Something about how the boy’s eyes lit up reminded Kevin of Colter when he’d been younger. Colter used to love waiting on the porch for him to come home. The second he’d arrived, his son would rush down the steps in a hurry to welcome him.

How things had changed.

For the millionth time, he wished he could turn back the clock, but life was fickle and moments fleeting. If he’d only known then what he knew now, he would have run to Colter and scooped him up in his arms and carried him inside to where baby Lindsay had been. He would have spent every spare moment he had with his wife and his perfect little family. Yet, most nights, he had just pat him on the head as he brushed past him on his way toward the fridge and a cold beer.

Allison had hated his routine, the way he was so wrapped up in his job when he’d come home from work. She had never understood how badly he’d needed a moment to wind down, to relax after a crazy day fighting fires. Then again, he had never really understood what it must have been like for her, waiting for someone to come home, only to have him arrive in body but not in mind.

There was no going back.

The little boy’s mother opened the door and hustled the boy inside. After a moment the curtain in their living room shifted slightly as if the woman was watching.

Hiller walked up to the truck and tapped on the window. “Glad to see you could make it, Jensen.”

“Sorry I’m late. I had to find someone to watch Lindsay.” His thoughts moved back to Heather, the way her hair had haloed her face and her jeans had hugged her perfect hips when she’d answered the door.

Hiller nodded, but it was easy to see from the puckered look on his face that he didn’t really understand—or care.

“We’ve been waiting an hour.”

“I’m here now.”

“Next time be quicker about it. Some of us have work to do.”

“What, do you have a girlfriend waiting?” Kevin joked, but Hiller’s face remained motionless. Kevin coughed, trying to dispel some of the tension. “Anyways... Ya wanna fill me in?”

“The crew arrived on scene at 5:03 a.m. I arrived a few minutes after. Fire started on the second floor. They managed to get the homeowner—one Elke Goldstein—out of the house in a matter of minutes.”

“Anyone else in the house at the time of the fire?”

Hiller scanned his notes. “She was the only one. I asked her a few questions, but Ms. Goldstein wasn’t especially forthcoming with information. She seemed relatively unharmed, but was adamant she had to leave.”

“Do you know anything about her? Does she work? Is the house underwater?” There were no for-sale signs in the yard and the grass was well-kept, but it was amazing how good a house could look even when the owner was only a piece of paper away from losing it.

“As far as I know, everything was on the up-and-up, but she didn’t really want to talk to me.”

“Making friends again?”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you’re popular.”

“Why don’t you stop worrying about me and start worrying more about your investigation?”

Kevin chuckled. “You know where Ms. Goldstein went?”

“She said she had to go to work. Someplace called Ruby’s.”

Kevin grabbed his clipboard. “What else can you tell me about the fire?”

“Fire was small. Confined to the second floor. Extinguished quickly. There was a suspicious mark in the upstairs hallway.”

“Was anyone seen running from the scene? Anything suspicious?”

“One of her neighbors...” He pointed to the white house where the boy had been sucking his thumb. “They reported seeing a man leave the house a few minutes before the smoke started.”

“Ms. Goldstein didn’t tell you about him?”

Hiller shook his head. “Not a word.” He handed Kevin a copy of the fire report. “Here’re my notes. I’ve been more than thorough.”

“Great.” He clipped the report in his clipboard.

Hiller turned around to face his crew. “Let’s go, guys. Now this is someone else’s problem.”

“Wait. Leave me a couple of guys. I need them stationed outside the door until I’m done.”

“How long you want to keep the scene intact?”

Chief Larson’s words echoed in his mind—Things are tight, Jensen. We need to cut costs. If he didn’t watch it, he would be getting the ax. But he had to get back to Heather’s to pick up Lindsay, and he had promised Colter he would swing by his baseball practice. Heather would help him, if he needed—she always did—but something in her beautiful, hazel eyes told him that today was one of those days that she needed him. He couldn’t let down her or his kids.

“I’m going to need at least a day or two.”

“Jensen, time costs money—money the city won’t give us. What little we have would be better spent on something other than chasing down a ghost. You know the chance of finding whoever is behind this is slim to none. Don’t waste my time and the taxpayer’s money. Let the insurance company write her a check.”

“I’m trying to save the taxpayer’s money by stopping this from happening again.”

“You haven’t even been in the house yet, Jensen. Who the hell knows? Maybe it was just some kid playing around. Why do you always have to assume the worst?”

“Hoping for the best is a rookie mistake.”

Hiller slammed his fist against the truck. “This is coming out of your budget.”

“No problem,” he lied.

The fire inspector’s budget was closer than a hair on a gnat’s ass every month. If he found adequate evidence of arson, maybe he could convince the chief to cover the cost of keeping the chain of custody going for the next thirty-six hours, but probably nothing more.

“You need to step into line with the rest of the department, Jensen,” Hiller threatened. “It’s been long enough since Allison died. You’re starting to cost us money because of your inability to do your job.”

He cringed. Why did Hiller have to remind him? The weeks and months after Allison’s death, he’d get into the flames and all he’d been able to think about was his wife, sitting in her hospital bed as the chemo burned through her veins.

Three years ago, after Allison’s death, the department had taken him out of the fire and put him in an office chair, but even as fire inspector things weren’t going as they should be. He’d been taking too long on investigations, but he rationalized it by telling himself that he was holding his responsibilities to a higher standard than his predecessor—a senior firefighter who had been happy playing by the unwritten rules while he sat back and waited to collect his pension.

“I’ve got this, Hiller.”

“Time is money, Jensen.”

“Do I need to remind you of our motto: protecting lives and saving property? Lives come first, Hiller. Money isn’t even in the equation.”

Hiller glowered at him but said nothing.

“Just give me the men I need.”

Hiller looked out at his crew. “The rookies can stay behind.” He pointed at two twentysomethings that had just been hired. “You guys monitor the house!”

They nodded and walked to the front of the yard.

Hiller turned back to him. “Get this handled. I need my guys. Our work actually makes a difference.” Then he stormed off.

Kevin ignored the retreating cavalry as he looked down at Hiller’s notes. At least he had a description of the man—dark haired, around six feet tall and an average build.

His handset sat in the window, and he stared at it for a moment before deciding to leave it there. He wasn’t a real firefighter; nothing he did was an emergency. As Hiller was more than happy to point out, his job rarely made a difference. He was little more than a glorified desk jockey, filling out paperwork and teaching kids about smoke detectors.

He stepped out of the truck and slipped into his bunker gear and boots, making sure to grab his investigation kit and helmet before he made his way toward the house.

There was less than an hour before Colter’s practice was over. He had to make a pass through the scene and take some notes, but then he could get across town to the high school to catch the tail end. If he hurried, Colter wouldn’t notice he’d been missing. Maybe he would even get a chance to talk to Heather and thank her for her help.

Perhaps he could convince her to come to the barbecue. She always looked beautiful at those things—her naturally tan skin finally exposed after a winter hidden away. Last year, she’d worn her dark hair down. It had looked so soft, so touchable, just like her lips.

Those lips. He’d love to make those lips his.

He laughed at himself. Those lips, just like the rest of her, could never be his.

The only thing he could ever be to her was a friend, and that was only if he hurried.

He made his way around the back of the house, taking pictures every few feet. The door to the garage was unlocked and, as he opened it, the smell of burnt chemicals swirled around him. Thick black residue coated everything, including the woman’s car, but nothing was burned.

On the wooden steps that led to the house, there was a pair of discarded women’s flip-flops and beside them was an oily black shoe print. The print had a star pattern at its center and rectangular squares around the sole’s edges. He snapped a picture. It was probably a leftover of someone walking through the oil slick in the garage while they’d made their way inside. He took a swab of the substance and tagged it as evidence to be sent to the crime lab.

The whole downstairs dripped with water and his footsteps sounded like suction cups as he made his way through the kitchen. The small rectangular room was typical of a low-income home, linoleum on the floor, cheap oak cupboards and an apartment-sized refrigerator.

In the living room, there was black, sticky ash on the walls where the smoke had billowed through the house. A thick layer of oily soot covered every surface making it impossible for him to be able to lift fingerprints.

He followed the smoke pattern up the stairs, and the acrid smell grew stronger. In the center of the hallway, between two bedrooms and in front of the burned-out bathroom, was a black circular pattern.

Another V-shaped pattern started at the floor, and at its center was an electrical outlet. He looked up. The light had melted and it pointed like a finger to the blackened circle.

There was no doubt about it, he’d found his ignition point.

He crouched and wafted the air toward him as he took in a long breath of the oily, dirty smoke. It had a faint chemical smell.

Around the edges of the charred circle was a ring of white powder. He took another picture. Opening his bag, he pulled out an evidence can and scooped some of the white residue into it.

This fire was no accident.

An event like this, one started with chemical oxidizers, wasn’t the work of a novice. This was someone who knew the chemicals required to start a fire. Plus they likely knew most chemical reactions took several minutes to ignite—giving them enough time to flee the scene.

If he had to bet, this was a person who would do it again.

According to the notes, Elke had been in her bedroom at the time of the fire. If the perp had wanted to kill her, they would have built a fire that she couldn’t escape, yet they had kept it small, manageable.

He turned to his clipboard and wrote: Suspect may not have meant to kill victim.

He glanced down at his watch. Fifteen minutes before the end of practice. He was never going to make it to the baseball field in time to see Colter.

He put away his clipboard, labeled the evidence and dropped it into his kit.

The burden his job put on him was fine, but bit by bit and day by day, he could see Colter pulling away. It was even evident in the way his son walked, no longer the fumbling steps of a boy, but the saunter of a young man. Every time Kevin had a call lately, he had watched as Colter used this newfound gait to walk as far away as possible. After today and his broken promise, it would only get worse.