Blue Smoke (11 page)

It was Steve who brought Reena the news. He came into the precinct, stopped by the desk where she was typing up an incident report. His eyes burned out of a bone-white face.

“Hey, what's up?” She glanced over, stopped typing. “Oh, don't tell me you've got to pull a double and can't go down. I was about to go off shift, head home and pack.”

“I . . . Can I have a minute? Private?”

“Sure.” She pushed away from the desk as she took a good look at him. Nerves fluttered in her belly. “Something's wrong. Gina—”

“No. No, not Gina.”

“Well, what . . . Hugh? Did he have an accident? How bad?”

“No, no accident. It's bad. It's really bad.”

She gripped his arm now, pulled him out in the corridor. “What? Say it quick.”

“He's dead. Jesus, Reena. He's dead. I just got a call from his mother.”

“His mother? But—”

“He was killed. He was murdered—shot.”

“Murdered?” Her hand went limp on his arm.

“She was pretty incoherent at first.” Steve's mouth thinned, razored as he stared hard over her head. “But I got what I could out of her.
Somebody shot him. He was on his way down, just a couple hours from the island, and somebody must have gotten him to stop his car, or ran him off the road, or he had a flat. I'm not sure. She wasn't sure.”

He sucked in a breath. “But they shot him, Reena. Jesus, they shot him, then set the car on fire to try to cover it. They took his wallet, his watch. I don't know what else.”

There was sickness backing up in her throat, but she swallowed it down. “Have they identified him, positively identified him?”

“He had, ah, stuff in the car, stuff that didn't burn, with his name on it. The registration in the glove box. His parents called me from down there. It's him, Reena. Hugh's dead.”

“I'm going to see what I can find out. I'm going to call the locals and see what I can find out.”

“They shot him in the face.” Steve's voice broke. “His mother told me. They shot him in the fucking face. For a goddamn watch and what was in his wallet.”

“Sit down.” She nudged him down on a bench, sat beside him, held his hand.

Whatever she found out, she thought, a man—a good man—one she'd kissed good-bye less than twenty-four hours before, was dead.

And once again fire haunted her life.

A series of events so closely related to one another that each one initiates the next.

 

Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?

Proverbs 6:27

Fire sprang out of an untenanted building in South Baltimore on a bitter night in January. Inside, firefighters worked in a holocaust of raging heat and boiling smoke. Outside, they battled temperatures in the single digits, and a frosty wind that blew water into ice and licked flames into torrents.

It was Reena's first day as a member of the city arson unit's task force.

She knew part of the reason she'd bagged the assignment and was working under Captain Brant was because John had pushed a few buttons on her behalf. But it wasn't all the reason. She'd worked like a dog to earn it, studying, training, putting in countless unpaid hours—and had never taken her eye off the goal.

John's influence aside, she'd earned her shiny new shield.

When she could manage it, she continued to give time to the neighborhood's fire department, in the volunteer capacity. She'd eaten her share of smoke.

But it was the cause and effect that continued to drive her. Who or what started the fire? Who was changed by it, grieved by it or benefited from it?

When she and her partner arrived at the scene at dawn, the building was a pit of blackened brick and rubble made fanciful by waterfalls of ice.

She was teamed with Mick O'Donnell, and he had fifteen years on her. He was, Reena knew, old school, but he had what she thought of as a nose.

He smelled out incendiary fires.

He wore a parka and steel-toed boots, with a hard hat over a wool cap. She'd chosen similar garb, and when they arrived on scene at first light, they stood beside the car, one on each side, studying the building.

“Too bad they let buildings like this go to shit.” O'Donnell unwrapped two sticks of gum, rolled both into his mouth. “Yuppies aren't coming in to beautify 'round this part of Baltimore yet.”

He pronounced it Balmer.

“Circa 1950. Asbestos, plasterboard, ceiling tiles, cheap veneer paneling. Add in the trash heaped around by indigents and junkies, there's a lot of fuel.”

She got her field kit out of the trunk, stuffed a digital camera, spare gloves, an extra flashlight in her pockets. She glanced over, noted the black-and-white and the morgue wagon.

“Looks like they haven't transported the body yet.”

O'Donnell chewed contemplatively. “You got trouble looking at a crispy critter?”

“No.” She'd seen them before. “I'm hoping they haven't moved it yet. I'd like to get my own pictures.”

“Starting a scrapbook, Hale?”

She only smiled as they walked to the building. The cops on duty gave them a nod as they ducked under the crime-scene tape.

The fire and its suppression had turned the first level into a wasteland of charred and soaked wood, scorched ceiling tiles, twisted metal and shattered glass. Her preliminary information included the fact that the old building had been a haven for junkies. She knew they'd find needles under the overburden, and drew on her leather gloves for penetration protection.

“You want me to start a grid down here?”

“I'll do that.” O'Donnell scanned the scene, took out a notebook to do some sketches. “You're younger than me. You make the climb.”

She looked at the ladder standing in place of the stairs that had collapsed. Getting a firmer grip on her kit, she picked her way across, then started up.

Plasterboard, she thought again, studying burn patterns, stopping to take digital shots of the walls, then a bird's-eye view of the first level for the file.

The pattern showed her the fire had traveled up, as it liked best, and washed over the ceiling. Plenty of fuel to feed it, she thought, and enough oxygen to keep it breathing.

A good portion of the second floor had collapsed, and was now part of the overburden O'Donnell would grid. The fire had run along the ceiling here, too, she noted, eating its way through tile, plywood, plasterboard, fueled by it, and the debris left by unofficial tenants.

She saw what was left of an old, overstuffed chair, a metal table. The smooth level of ceiling had allowed the fire to race along, sending the smoke and gases to spread uniformly, in every direction.

And it had taken out the yet to be identified man whose remains were now on the floor, curled, it seemed, inside what had been a closet. A man crouched by him. As it appeared the man had a good yard of leg, it was a long way to crouch.

He was wearing gloves, work boots, a wool cap with ear flaps and a red-checked scarf wrapped multiple times around his neck and chin.

“Hale. Arson unit.” Her breath smoked out as she eased onto the edge of the floor.

“Peterson, ME.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Flash fried.” He gave a ghost of a smile, at least his eyes did. He was early forties, by her gauge, tall and black and appeared to be lean as a snake under the layers of winter gear. “Looks like the idiot son of a bitch thought he could get away from the fire by crawling in the closet. Smoke probably got him first, then he cooked. Tell you more when I get him in.”

She moved forward cautiously, testing the floor as she went.

The probable suffocation from smoke would have been a mercy, she knew. The body was burned through, lying with its fists raised as fire
victims' usually were. The heat contracted the muscles, left them looking as though their last act was to try to box away the flames.

She held up her camera, got his go-ahead nod and took several more shots.

“How come he was the only one in here?” she wondered out loud. “Temps were down to single digits last night. Street people use places like this for shelter, and it had a rep as one for junkies. Preliminary reports said there were blankets, a couple of old chairs, even a little cookstove on the third floor.”

Peterson said nothing when she crouched by the body.

“No visible trauma?”

“Not so far. Could find something when I get him in. You're thinking somebody started the fire to cover up a homicide?”

“Wouldn't be the first. But you gotta rule out accident first. Why's he the only one here?” she repeated. “How long before you get an ID—ballpark?”

“Might get some prints. Dental. Few days.”

Like O'Donnell, she dug out a notepad, began to make some quick sketches to go with her photos. “What do you figure? Male, about what, five-ten, -eleven? Nobody's been able to reach the owner. Wouldn't it be interesting?”

She began to set up her grid, sectioning off the room in much the same way archaeologists section a dig. She would layer, and she would sift, document and bag.

On the far wall the burn pattern said accelerant to her, just as it had to the fire department's investigator. She took samples, storing them in containers, labeling.

The lightbulb over her head was partially melted. She took another picture, another of the ceiling, and the track of the burn.

And she followed it out, moving over the soaked debris, through the ash. Four units, she thought, putting the pre-fire picture into her head. Untenanted, disrepair, under code.

She ran her gloved fingers over charred wood, down a wall, selected more samples. Then closed her eyes and sniffed at them.

“O'Donnell! Got what looks like multiple points of origin up here. Evidence of accelerant. Plenty of cracks and gaps in this old flooring for it to pool.”

She got down on all fours, eased her head over a ragged hole where the floor had crashed down to the level below. O'Donnell had his grid and was working sections.

“I want to check on the owner again, have somebody in the house get us some background.”

“Your call.”

“You want to take a look at the pattern up here?”

“You just want me to haul my old ass up that ladder.”

She grinned down at him. “Want to hear my initial working theory?”

“Evidence, Hale. Evidence first, then theory.” He paused a moment. “Tell me anyway.”

“He started the fire at the wrong end. Should've done it at the far side, farthest from the steps, working his way toward them, and his escape route. But he was stupid, and started lighting it nearest the steps, working back. Maybe he was drunk, or on something, or just a dumbass, but he trapped himself. Ends up cooking in the closet.”

“You find a container, something that held the accelerant?”

“No. Maybe it's under some of these layers. Or maybe it's down there.” She pointed. “He drops it here, in his panic, fire chasing after him. Fire hits container of accelerant. Boom, and you got your hole in the floor, and you've got your first level going up, and the debris from up here raining down.”

“You're so smart you come on down and work those grids then.”

“On that.” But first she crawled back from the hole and dug out her cell phone.

It was tedious, filthy work. She loved it. She knew why O'Donnell was letting her take the point, and was grateful. He wanted to see if she could deal with the muck and the stink, the monotony and the physical demand.

And he wanted to see if she could think.

When she found the ten-gallon can under a mountain of debris and a sea of ash, she felt the click.

“O'Donnell.”

He turned from his sieving, pursed his lips. “Score one for the new kid.”

“Got punctures on the bottom. He trailed it through, lit it up, trailed, lit. Pattern upstairs indicates trailers. Dead guy can't be a bystander or a victim. Fire doesn't map that way. Whoever torched it had to get trapped. Riot bars on the windows first and second floors, so nobody got out that way. I'm betting the body ID's as the owner.”

“Why not a pyro, a junkie, somebody with a hard-on for the owner?”

“Firefighters who responded reported the doors were all locked. Dead bolts. They had to break them in. The riot bars upstairs? Who puts bars on second-floor windows? And they're new. They look pretty new. Owner does that. Owner locks the place up tight to keep the riffraff out. Owner's got the keys.”

“Finish up, write it up. You might do, Hale.”

“Oh yeah, I'll do. I've been waiting for this since I was eleven.”

T
hat night, still revved up, Reena sat across from Fran at Sirico's and shoveled in angel hair marinara.

“So, we can't locate the owner of the building, who's got three separate loans on the place and a boatload of insurance. People we talked to said he's been complaining about how the homeless and the junkies ruined his investment. How he couldn't unload the property. Figure the ME's going to ID our CC as the owner, or the owner's in the wind, gone under after the torch job went wrong. Still got a lot of work to do on-site, but it's piecing together. Textbook.”

“Listen to you.” Fran laughed, sipped mineral water. “My little sister, the investigator. Wait until Mama and Dad hear you solved your first case.”

“Closed—and not yet. Still have some reconstructing to do, some interviews to conduct, some background to check. But I was hoping they'd call while I was in here.”

“Reena, it's after one in the morning in Florence.”

“Right.” Reena shook her head. “Right.”

“They called this afternoon. They're having the best time. Dad talked Mom into renting one of those little scooters. Can't you see them, zipping around Florence like a couple of kids?”

“I can.” Reena grabbed her wine, lifted the glass in toast, drank. “They wouldn't be able to do this without you.”

“Not true.”

“Absolutely true. You're the one carrying on. The one taking over so much of the responsibility and work here so they can have a little time to travel. Bella, well, she hasn't picked up so much as a glass in here unless it was to drink out of it on the rare occasions she comes by. I'm not much better.”

“You waited tables last Sunday, and pitched in for more than an hour on Tuesday after working a full day.”

“I live right upstairs, so it's no big.” Still, she smiled, a bit wickedly. “I notice you didn't mention Bella.”

“Bella is what Bella is. And she does have three kids to deal with.”

“And a nanny, a housekeeper, a gardener—oh, I forgot, a
groundskeeper.
” Reena waved at Fran's frown. “Okay, don't put the look on me. I'll ease off. I'm not really mad at her. I guess I feel a little guilty that you take the lion's share. And Xander's right behind you, even with the load he carries in med school.”

“Forget the guilt. We're all doing what's most important to us.” She glanced over and smiled at the man tossing dough at the work counter.

He had big hands, and a sweet face just this side of homely. His bright red hair fell over his forehead like little licks of flame. And when he looked at his wife, as he did now, his eyes lit with fun.

“Well, who knew you'd fall for an Irishman who likes to cook Italian.” Amused, Reena ate more pasta. “You know, you and Jack still have that glow, even though you're working on what, three years now.”

“Two last fall. But it might be a little something extra causing the glow.” Fran reached out, gripped both of Reena's hands. “I can't wait. I was
going to wait until you'd eaten, and Jack and I could tell you together, but I can't stand it another minute.”

“Oh my God, you're pregnant!”

“Four weeks.” Her cheeks went rosy. “It's early, I should shut up, keep it to myself. But I can't, and—”

She broke off as Reena leaped up, caught her around the neck. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! Wait!” She rushed away, around the worktable and jumped onto Jack's back. “Daddy!”

His face turned the same color as his hair as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Champagne for the house! On me.”

“We were going to keep it to the family for now.” Jack grinned foolishly when she bounced down.

Reena looked over, at the applause, at the people who hurried over to congratulate Fran. “Too late. I'll get the wine.”