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.
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