Charles.
She drew a line through Charles. Carter.
Daisy, Drummond.
Eleanor, Ethan.
Fiona, Franklin.
Georgia…
DREW PARKED the state-issued, red Dodge Dynasty in the lot behind the firehouse, then took the rear entrance into Trinity Station. He headed up the back stairs to the second floor, avoided the bunkroom and walked straight to the deserted locker room. The guys who weren’t out on calls would either be playing a few rounds of pinochle, watching the tube or catching some Z’s before the next alarm sounded. Since he’d promised Emily he’d come back for her in a couple of hours, he didn’t have time to guzzle coffee and shoot the breeze the way he usually did at the end of his shift. All he wanted was to change out of his uniform and take Emily back to her grandmother’s house.
What came next, he couldn’t say. He agreed with the doctor’s opinion that Emily shouldn’t be left alone tonight. She’d suffered a shock to her system, physically and definitely emotionally based on her stunned reaction to the announcement of her pregnancy. When he’d asked her if there was anyone he could call for her, she’d recovered enough from her surprise to give him a hard stare and emphatically state there was no one in her life to call.
He wasn’t exactly certain what that meant, but one thing he did know, Emily Dugan was not his responsibility. Unfortunately that didn’t prevent him from feeling otherwise. Not only had she fainted on him, but he’d gone and promised her grandmother he’d look after her. And a Perry’s word was like oak—solid and unbreakable.
Before returning to the station, he’d gone back to the school to further inspect the damage. While he’d suspected an accelerant had been used, he’d been unprepared to find cooking oil coating the trash bin, which meant he had to consider Velma Norris as a suspect, at least temporarily. He didn’t want to think the sweet old woman could be his firebug, but neither could he discount the evidence. The blaze hadn’t been an accident. No one had simply disposed of old cooking oil. Someone had literally taken the time to coat the interior of the Dumpster. In his book, that spelled arson. Firebugs weren’t limited to a specific gender, age group or even social or economic status. In Drew’s experience, there were usually four motivating factors for an arsonist. Vandalism was a typical one, and these fires were usually started by teens. Trash bins, like the one today, were often the most common starting point, and if it hadn’t been for the two previous fires and the evidence he’d found at the cooking school, he might have discounted this latest incident to vandalism.
The motive to profit from an insurance claim, especially during hard economic times, as a way to escape a failing business or a big mortgage was likely, and something he had no choice but to consider. The place was definitely run-down, and from his two prior visits, he hadn’t seen all that many students hanging around.
Revenge was often an arsonist’s main objective, and usually an enraged, jilted lover or disgruntled employee was responsible for the burn. Actually, Drew considered revenge fire starters the most dangerous because of their emotional instability. They were also the easiest to catch, primarily because they were more concerned with the act of revenge than with hiding their crime. He’d considered this option briefly, but since there’d been no witnesses, he had his doubts this was the motive. Nor did he believe he was dealing with a garden-variety pyromaniac or even a firebug wanting to cover up another crime. Which brought him back to the answer he dreaded the most…fire for profit.
He tugged his shirt out of his trousers before he sat on the varnished wood bench to remove his work shoes. Reaching forward, he lifted the latch on his locker and opened the door. A basket tumbled out, followed by the plaintive cry of “Mama” from a child’s doll. It sounded more like a braying lamb than a baby as it rolled over the concrete floor to his feet.
He leapt up and nearly toppled over the bench as a series of bubble-gum cigars in blue and pink fell from the top of the locker, raining over his head and shoulders. “What the…”
Snickers and the shuffling of feet echoed in the locker room. “All right, who’s the comedian?” Drew called as he stooped to pick up the doll.
“Mama,” the doll whined, followed by louder chuckles.
He turned to put the doll back in the basket, but set it on the bench instead, since the white wicker carrier that had held the little baby doll with blond ringlets was stuffed full of disposable diapers.
“Mama,” the doll cried again.
Drew let out a sigh as his eye caught the shelf in his locker. Upon closer inspection, he realized the guys had replaced his shampoo with a no-more-tears formula of baby shampoo. Instead of his black comb was an infant’s brush and comb in pink, with tiny blue flowers no less. His bar of soap had disappeared, too, but his co-workers had included a bottle of baby soap, along with economy-size bottles of pink baby lotion and talcum powder.
“You can come out now,” he said. He suspected Cale was responsible for the joke since he’d been with him when Emily’s doctor had mistakenly assumed Drew was “the responsible party.” A big joke at that, since marriage and family were absolutely not part of his lifelong agenda. He might have one of the lower-risk jobs in the fire department, but he still faced a good amount of danger investigating fires each time he entered a burned-out structure. Since he had no intention of hanging up his gear, he’d decided a long time ago there was no way he’d put a child or a wife through one ounce of the pain he’d suffered at the loss of his parents.
“Drew, buddy,” Tom “Scorch” McDonough said as he rounded the corner. A wide grin split the paramedic’s freckled face. “You should have told us.”
Cale slapped Drew on the back. “He’s been keeping this one quiet.”
Drew shrugged off his brother’s hand. “Hey, I hardly know her.”
“Wow.” Fitz, another third-generation firefighter, laughed. “That’s fast work. Even for you.”
Cale crossed his arms and leaned against the row of lockers, careful to avoid the bubble-gum cigars littering the floor. “Yeah, but you’re interested. I saw the look, Drew.”
He frowned. “What look?” Since when had he become so transparent that Cale could tell what he was thinking?
“The one you get when your interest is piqued by someone of the opposite sex,” Brady, Cale’s paramedic partner, added.
Scorch nodded knowingly. “That starving-dog look.”
“More like a lovesick-puppy look,” Ben Perry said.
Drew shot them all a scathing glance, then tugged his T-shirt over his head and tossed it in the bottom of the locker. “I’m doing an old woman a favor. End of story.”
A slight smile curved Ben’s mouth, something that didn’t happen often enough. “Sounds like the beginning of one to me.”
Drew shucked out of his trouser and briefs, then picked up a clean towel to wrap around his waist. “Shows how much you don’t know. Now if you comedians will excuse me, I need to shower and get back to the hospital.” He turned his back on the practical jokers, shrugged and grabbed the bottle of baby shampoo from the shelf. Shampoo was shampoo, after all.
“See what I mean?” Cale said.
“He can’t stand to be away from her,” Brady added.
Scorch laughed. “Looks like his Casanova days are numbered.”
Drew stopped in front of the last locker at the end of the row and turned to face them. He could give and take with the best of them, and had even been the engineer behind more than a practical joke or two. But they’d just gone too far in his mind. No way in hell were his bachelor days in danger of disappearing. He enjoyed women, a lot, and preferred the freedom of sampling all they had to offer too much to be tied down to only one woman.
“You guys should talk,” he told them. “Cale’s engaged, Brady’s wife is pregnant