Blue Smoke (22 page)

“My cell phone?”

“Yes, ma'am. Do you have your cell phone?”

“Of course.” She opened a bag the size of Rhode Island, plucked a little Nokia out of the meticulously ordered interior. “It's off. I don't turn it on during class, but I keep it with me. Is there a problem with it? I don't understand.”

“Could you tell me who else has access to this phone?”

“No one. It's mine.”

“Do you live alone, Ms. Parsons?” O'Donnell asked.

“Since my husband died two years ago.”

“Do you remember the last time you used it?”

“I used it yesterday. Called my daughter when I left school. I was going over there for dinner, wanted to see if she wanted me to pick up anything. What's this about?”

The second number took them to a gym where the owner was leading an aerobics class. When she broke, she got the phone out of the bag
in her employee's locker. She was a bubbly twenty-two, and stated she'd come home alone the night before after a girls' night out. She lived alone.

Neither phone displayed a call to Reena's number in memory.

“Cloned 'em,” O'Donnell said when they were back outside.

“Yeah, and that's just weird. Who do I know who's going to take the time and trouble to clone cell phones so he can wake me up in the middle of the night?”

“Better to ask who knows you. We can go through some old case files, see if anything shakes.”

“Surprise for me,” she murmured. “Big and bright. Sexual overtones.”

“Old boyfriend? New boyfriend?”

“I don't know.” She pulled open the car door. “But he's got my attention.”

S
he set it aside, but she was ill at ease all day. Who would clone two phones just to mess with her head? Wasn't that hard to clone, if you had the equipment and the know-how. And the know-how was easy to come by.

But it took deliberation and planning. And purpose.

She'd know it was for her. Know what was for her? Reena leaned back in her desk chair, shut her eyes. The big, bright surprise.

A personal surprise or a professional one?

She spent most of the afternoon in court, waiting, then testifying on a revenge fire that had resulted in one death. She scored the baseball tickets from a friend in the DA's office. And walked back to the station house with an itch between her shoulder blades.

If he knew her name, was he watching her? She felt watched. She felt exposed and vulnerable walking the familiar street.

If he called again—when he called again—she'd keep him on the phone. She'd already set up a recorder. She'd keep him on and she'd work him. She'd draw something out of him that would ring that bell.

Then they'd see who got a surprise.

Drawing out her phone, she called Bo's cell. He'd passed into the level of serious relationship. His numbers were now programmed.

“Hey, Blondie.”

She strolled, and sang. “Take me out to the ball game. Take me out with the crowd.”

“I'll buy the peanuts and Cracker Jacks,” he said. “What time can you head out?”

“If nothing comes up—and let's both knock on a lot of wood—six-thirty.”

“I'll be ready. What are you doing now?”

“I'm walking down the street. Great day out here. I just finished testifying in court, and believe I did my part in putting some murdering jerk away for twenty-five.”

“Gee, all I'm doing is hanging trim. Not as exciting.”

“You ever testify in court?”

“I was acquitted.”

She laughed. “It's tedious. I'm going to be ready for those Cracker Jacks.”

“I'll provide the surprise inside. Reena?” he said when she didn't respond.

“Yeah, right here. Sorry.” She rolled the tension out of her shoulders. “See you later, okay?”

She flipped the phone closed, then paused outside the station house, did a deliberate scan of street traffic, pedestrians.

When the phone rang in her hand, she jolted, swore. Then breathed a sigh of relief when she read the display. “Hi, Mama. No, I haven't asked him about Sunday yet. I will.”

She turned, walked into the station with her mother's voice in her ear.

P
arking at Camden Yards was mayhem. Watching cars jockey along always made her feel smug that she lived close enough to walk to the ballpark.

She loved the crowds, the noise, the jams of cars and the carnival anticipation of the people heading toward that big, beautiful stadium nearly as much as she loved the game.

She wore her most comfortable jeans, a plain white T-shirt tucked into the waistband, and a black fielder's cap with the bright Oriole bird.

She watched kids riding in strollers, or bouncing along beside their parents. She'd done the same, she remembered. Though it had been the old Memorial Stadium during her childhood.

She could already smell the hot dogs and beer.

After they passed through the turnstile, Bo slung his arm around her shoulders. He was dressed much like she was, but his shirt was faded blue.

“Tell me your views on Boog's barbecue.”

“As sharp as his fielding back in the day.”

“Excellent. Want to hit that first?”

“Are you kidding? We're going to load up. I eat like a horse at games.”

They jostled through the crowds, juggled food between them. She fought not to look over her shoulder, not to wonder and worry about every face in the crowd. Easy to blend here, she thought. Easy to tail someone in a baseball stadium. Price of a nosebleed ticket would get you in.

Because thinking she may be watched made her feel watched, she did what she could to bury the sensation. She wasn't going to let some nuisance spoil the evening.

And when they started up the ramp to their gate, Reena took a breath, held it a moment. “I always like this. The way the field comes into view, all that green, the brown of the baselines, the white of the bags, the stands rising up. And the sounds, the smells.”

“You're bringing a tear to my eye, Reena.”

She smiled, stopped another moment at the top, to take it in. The noise, so many voices—conversations, vendors hawking, music playing—washed over her. And the idea of trouble, nasty phone calls, hours in court, the stinging Visa bill she'd gotten in that day's mail, all slid away like fog in sunlight.

“The answer to all the questions in the universe can be found in baseball,” she said.

“God's truth.”

They found their seats and balanced food on their laps. “First game I remember,” she began and took a hefty bite of her barbecue sandwich. “I think I was six. I don't remember the game—I mean the stats.” She swallowed, studying the field. “What I remember is the sensory spike. The movement of the game, you know? The sounds so specific to it. It was the start of my love affair.”

“I didn't make it down to a major league game till I was in high school. Talk about sensory spike. My whole conception was from TV. TV makes it smaller, and less spiritual.”

“Well, that'll give you something to talk about with my father. They want you to come to dinner on Sunday. If you're free.”

“Really?” Surprised pleasure ran across his face. “Is this like an initiation? Will there be a quiz?”

“Might be.” She turned her head. “You up for that?”

“I've always tested well.”

They ate, watching the stands fill and the light soften in the spring evening. They cheered when the Orioles took the field, rose for the anthem.

They each nursed a beer through the first three innings.

He liked the fact that she shouted, she cheered, she booed and swore. No ladylike applause from Reena. She pulled her hair, punched his shoulder, held a short conversation with the guy on the other side of her on the possible sexual proclivities of the third-base ump when he called their base runner out.

They agreed he was a myopic asshole.

She ate a Dove bar in the seventh—he didn't know where she put that one—and nearly creamed him with it when she leaped up at the crack of the bat to follow the path of a long ball.

“Now,
that's
what I'm talking about!” she shouted, did a celebratory boogie and dropped back down. “Want some of this?”

“Nearly had some.”

She turned, grinned at him. “I love baseball.”

“Oh yeah.”

They lost, by one painful run, and she pinned it on the bad call by the third-base umpire.

He didn't think he'd win her heart by confessing he'd never enjoyed a loss more, or a game more. He would cheerfully consign his beloved Birds to a losing season if he could watch her rev at every game.

Outside the gate, she pushed him back against a tree, clamped her lips on his. “Know what else I like about baseball?” she whispered.

“I'm sincerely hoping you'll tell me.”

“Makes me hot.” She nuzzled his ear, breathed into it. “Why don't I take you to my place.”

She took his hand, headed back to the sidewalk. They walked together through the crowds, taking the shortest route home.

He was so worked up by the time she unlocked her front door, he slammed it shut behind them by spinning her around, shoving her against it.

She dropped her shoulder bag, dragged his shirt over his head. Hooked her teeth in his shoulder.

“Right here. Right here.” She was already pulling open the button of his jeans.

He couldn't think. He couldn't stop. The sound of her hips slapping against the wood of the door as he pounded into her was viciously arousing.

It was violent and fast and amazing, and when they'd emptied each other out, they slid to the floor like rags.

“Jesus. Jesus Christ.” He stared at her ceiling, breathing like a steam engine. “What happens when they win?”

She laughed so hard she had to grab her own ribs. Somehow she managed to roll over on him. “Damn it, Bo. Damn it. You might just be perfect.”

She pulled her jeans back up when her phone rang. Her head was still buzzing when she picked up the receiver.

“Surprise.”

She cursed herself for being sloppy, not checking the ID, not switching on the recorder. She did both, quickly. “Hi. I've been waiting for you to call back.” She held up a hand, signaling Bo to remain silent.

“Brendan Avenue. You'll see it.”

“Is that where you are? Is that where you live?” She checked the time. Early for him. Not quite midnight.

“You'll see it. Better hurry.”

“Shit!” She swore softly when he hung up. “I've got to go.”

“Who was that?”

“I don't know.” She hurried to the front closet, got her weapon from the top shelf. “Jerk's been calling me—cryptic, sexual messages,” she continued as she clipped on her holster. “Cloned cell phone, most likely.”

“Whoa, wait. Where are you going?”

“He said he had something for me on Brendan Avenue. I'm going to check it out.”

“I'll go with you.”

“No, you won't.” She grabbed a jacket to cover the gun. And Bo stepped calmly in front of the door.

“You're not walking out of here to go alone to check out some weird guy. You don't want me along, fine. Call your partner.”

“I'm not waking O'Donnell up over something like this.”

“Okay.” His tone was absolutely pleasant, and implacable. “Want me to drive?”

“Bo, I want you to get out of my way. I don't have time for this.”

“Call O'Donnell, call a—what is it?—radio car, or I go with you. Otherwise, make yourself comfortable because you're not going anywhere.”

Temper pricked at her throat, put her teeth on edge. “This is my job. Just because I've slept with you—”

“Don't go there.” And the edge to his voice, the sudden coldness of his eyes, had her reevaluating him. “I get your job, Catarina. But it doesn't include going off alone because some creep's messing with you. So what's it going to be?”

She opened her jacket. “See this?”

He glanced at the gun. “Hard to miss. What's it going to be?” he repeated.

“Damn it. Bo, step aside. I don't want to have to hurt you.”

“Same goes. And maybe you could put me down. I'm hoping we don't find out either way. But if you can, I'll brush off my sorry, humiliated ass and get in my truck and follow you. Either way, you're not going alone. If this is an ego thing with you, you might want to deal with it later. You're wasting time.”

She rarely swore in Italian. It was reserved for her most intensely pissed moments. She let out a string of inventive oaths as he stood, placidly now, studying her.

“I'll drive,” she snapped and stewed when he opened the door. “You don't get it. None of you ever do.”

“None of you being the male of the species,” he surmised as she swept by him.

“I call my
male
partner over what's most likely a trivial matter, it's because I'm a girl.”

“I don't think so.” He got in the passenger seat, waited for her to storm around the car. “I mean, you're a girl—no question—but seems to me it's just basic common sense not to go haring off alone.”

“I know how to take care of myself.”

“Bet you do. But you're not showing me that by taking unnecessary chances.”

She shot him one deadly look before she squealed away from the curb. “I don't like being told what to do.”

“Who does? So how many times has this guy called you? What does he say?”

She tapped her fingers on the wheel, struggled with her temper. “Third call. He's got a surprise for me. First time I took it for a random obscene. Second, he used my name, so I checked it out. The numbers he's called from are cells, and it looks like they're clones.”

“If he knows your name, it's personal.”

“Potentially.”

“My ass.” And there was nothing placid about him now. “You know it's personal, which is one of the reasons you're pissed off.”

“You got in my way.”

“Yeah.”

She waited a beat. “In my family, we yell when we're fighting.”

“I prefer the digging in, just-try-to-move-me strategy.” He turned to give her a long, cool stare. “Look who won.”

“This time,” she shot back.

When she approached Brendan Avenue, she slowed, eyes tracking.
You'll know it when you see it.
She recalled his voice.

And her heart gave one hard skip when she did.

“Shit, shit.” She grabbed her phone, hit 911. “This is Detective Catarina Hale, badge number 45391. I'm reporting a fire in progress, 2800 Brendan Avenue. Shrine of the Little Flower Elementary School. On visual, the fire is fully engaged. Notify the fire and police departments. Possible arson.”

She whipped to the curb. “Stay in the car,” she ordered Bo, then grabbed a flashlight. She jumped out, speed dialing O'Donnell. “We got one burning,” she said without preamble, and called out the address and she dashed to the building. “He called to tell me about it. I'm on scene. I told you to stay in the car,” she snapped at Bo.

“Obviously my answer was no. Are there people in there?”

“No one should be, but that doesn't mean it's empty.” She shoved her phone in her pocket, drew her weapon as she moved toward the wide, ground-level doors.

His message was spray painted over them in gleaming, bloody red.

SURPRISE!

“Son of a bitch. Keep behind me, Bo. I mean it. Don't think with your dick. Remember who's got the gun.” She reached for the door, pulled, then shoved. “Locked.”

She debated. She could leave him here, exposed, or take him with her while she circled the building. “Stay close,” she commanded. And heard
the first sirens as she rounded the building. She found the broken window. Through it, she saw the fire was streaming through a classroom, eating desks, crawling up walls and out into the hallway.

“You're not going in there.”

She shook her head. No, not without gear. But she could see, the point of origin was right there, and trailers were set—crumpled waxed paper maybe—to lead out into the hall, across to other classrooms. She could smell gasoline, and see rivers of it still gleaming on the floor.

Was he watching?

She stepped back to scan and study the neighboring buildings, and something crunched under her foot. She shone her light down, then crouched.

Her fingers itched, but she didn't touch what she saw was a box of wooden matches. And her heart thudded into her throat when she shone her light and saw the familiar Sirico's logo. “Do me a favor. In the trunk of my car there's a kit, evidence bags inside. I need one.”

“You're not going in,” he repeated.

“No. I'm not going in.”

She stayed where she was, considering the matches, then raising her eyes to scan the area. Okay, he knew her, wanted to be sure she understood that.

Did he have the need to be close, to watch the burn?

People were starting to come out now, and cars were stopping. Excited voices swept through the air, and the distant scream of sirens pierced it.

When Bo brought her a bag, she scooped the matchbox into it and sealed it.

“We wait.” She hurried back to the front, hooked her badge on her waistband and began to order the gathering crowd to stay back.

“What can I do?” Bo asked her.

“Keep out of the way,” she began, and locked the evidence bag in her car. “I'm going to need to fill in the unit chief when he gets here. You've got a good eye. Pay attention to the gawkers. If you see anybody who seems too interested I want to know about it. He'll be an adult male.
He'll be alone. He'll be watching me as much as the fire. Can you do that?”

“Yeah.”

He'd never seen a response before, not outside of movies. Everything moved so fast, with so much color and sound and movement. Like some sort of strange sporting event, Bo thought as the trucks rolled up and firefighters leaped into action.

It made him think of the game they'd seen that evening. That same kind of intense and focused teamwork. But instead of bats and balls there were hoses and axes, oxygen tanks and masks.

These were the people who ran toward fire while the rest of the world ran from it. With helmets gleaming in the flashing lights, they walked into the smoke and the heat.

While he watched, firefighters in turnout gear broke down the door and walked inside while teammates soaked the building with great arcs of water from the hoses.

Responding police moved quickly to set up barricades, to keep the gathering crowd behind them. As Reena had asked, he studied faces, tried to find the type she was looking for. He saw flames reflected in wide, stunned eyes, the ripple of red and gold shimmering on skin, and imagined he looked very much the same. There were couples and loners, families with children in their arms, in nightclothes, in bare feet. More fully dressed who poured out of cars that stopped up and down the block.

Admittance free, he thought and glanced back at the building. And it was a hell of a show.

Fire shot out through the roof, quickening towers of it, flaming gold in the dense roll of smoke. The smell of it stung his eyes, and ash began to dance in the air. White water, geysers of it, spewed out, slashing the building with such force he wondered the structure could stand against it.

He heard the sound of breaking glass and looked up to see the jagged shower of it as a window exploded. Someone in the crowd screamed.

Even where he stood he could feel the press of heat. How did they stand it? he wondered. The force of it, the blinding storm and stench of the smoke.

Ladders rose, the men on them like flags, the hoses hefty streamers that gushed more water.

A man cut through the crowd. Bo stepped forward, ready to act—he wasn't sure how—then saw the flash of a badge, the nods of acknowledgment from cops, from firefighters. Big guy, Bo noticed, broad shoulders, wide belly, grim Irish face. He moved straight to Reena.

O'Donnell, Bo decided, and relaxed fractionally.

He might have stayed that way, but he saw the man helping Reena into gear. He pushed through the crowd, was already shoving at the barricade when uniformed cops held him back.

“Reena. Goddamn it!”

She glanced in his direction as she hefted on tanks. He could see the irritation ripple over her face, but she spoke to her partner. He stepped away, moved over to the barricade. “He's with us,” he said briefly. “Goodnight? I'm O'Donnell.”

“Yeah, fine. What the hell's she doing? What the hell are you doing?” he demanded of Reena, his eyes narrowed now against the fog of smoke.

“Going in. I'm trained for this.” She adjusted her helmet.

“Pretty good smoke eater for a cop,” one of the firefighters commented, and she smiled at him.

“Sweet talker. I'll explain later. I've got to move.”

Before Bo could make another protest, O'Donnell slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Knows what she's doing,” he said, lifting his chin toward Reena as she headed toward the building with two others. “She's qualified for this.”

“So are the dozen or so of these guys already in there. What's the point?”

“Arson's the point.” Smoke rolled over them in a wave, had O'Donnell coughing. He kept his hand on Bo's shoulder, drew him back to clearer air. “Putting out a fire can screw the evidence all to hell. She goes in now, she'll be able to see more before the damage is done. Somebody set this one for her. She's not one to walk away from that. She's worked with these guys before. Believe me, they wouldn't let her in unless they knew she could handle herself.”

“Being a cop's not enough for her?” Bo muttered, and O'Donnell showed his teeth in a grin.

“Being a cop's plenty, but she's a fire cop. And she walks the line between. Knows more about the son of a bitch than anyone I've ever worked with. The fire,” he explained at Bo's puzzled look. “That girl knows fire. Now, tell me what you know.”

“I don't know dick. We went to a ball game, went back to her place. She got a call.”

Bo kept his eyes on the building now—the hell with scouring the crowd—and while his heart drummed in his throat, strained to see her coming back out. “She filled me in some. Some guy's called her three times, used her name. Cloned cell phones. This time he told her he had something for her here. Fire was already going when we arrived.”

“How'd you manage to come along?”

He flicked his eyes back toward O'Donnell. “She'd've had to shoot me otherwise, and I guess she didn't want to waste that much time.”

This time O'Donnell laughed, and the slap on Bo's shoulder was friendlier.

“She tell you he wrote
surprise
on the front door?”

“Yeah, she brought me up to date.” Casually, he took a pack of gum from his pocket, offered Bo a stick. “She'll be fine,” he assured him and folded two in his mouth. “Why don't you tell me how long you've been going to ball games with my partner?”