Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

She scowled at the book of saints, which she’d pored over all evening, and suddenly focused on the cover image of Saint Polycarp, his flesh engulfed by flames. Fire. It destroys everything. Bodies. Evidence.

She reached for her cell phone. As Gabriel and Daniel watched in bewilderment, she called Frost.

“Do you still have that list of fire-related deaths?” she asked him.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Email it to me. Including all the cases that were classified accidental.”

“We excluded the accidentals.”

“I’m including them again. Every fire death involving a lone adult victim.”

“Okay, I’m on it. Check your in-box.”

“Accidental fire deaths?” said Gabriel as she hung up.

“Fire destroys evidence. And not every victim who dies in a fire gets a tox screen. I’m wondering if some of those accidental deaths weren’t accidents at all.”

Her laptop chimed with Frost’s email.

She opened the attached file and a new list of cases appeared. Here were the two dozen victims who’d perished in accidental fires throughout New England in the last year. “Take a look,” she said, and turned the laptop to Daniel.

“A ruling of accidental fire death usually means there’s evidence of smoke inhalation at autopsy,” said Gabriel. “That doesn’t fit your perp’s pattern. Not if he suffocates them with a plastic bag.”

“If your victim’s unconscious, you can let fire do the job. You don’t need to suffocate him.”

“Still, it’s a different pattern, Jane.”

“I’m not ready to give up on this theory yet. Maybe suffocation is a new technique for him. Maybe he’s refining his—”

“Sarah Basterash, age twenty-six,” said Daniel. He looked up from the laptop. “She died in a house fire in Newport, Rhode Island.”

“Newport?” Jane peered over Daniel’s shoulder to read the file. “November tenth, single-family home burned to the ground. Victim was alone, found in her bedroom. No evidence of trauma.”

“Ketamine?” asked Gabriel.

She sighed in frustration. “A tox screen wasn’t done.”

“But look at her birth date,” said Daniel. “It’s May thirtieth. And she died in a fire.”

Jane frowned at him. “Which saint is celebrated on May thirtieth?”

“Joan of Arc.”

The last time Jane had visited Newport, it was the height of summer, and the narrow streets were packed with tourists. She remembered trudging in shorts and sandals in the scorching heat as melting strawberry ice cream dripped down her arm. She had been eight months’ pregnant with Regina, her ankles looked like swollen sausages, and she wanted nothing more than to take a nap. Still, the town had charmed her with its historic buildings and bustling waterfront, and no meal would ever top the rich lobster stew that she and Gabriel had devoured that night.

What a different town Newport was on this cold January day.

As Frost drove through the village, Jane peered out the car window at souvenir shops and restaurants that were now shuttered, at streets that winter had swept clear of all the tourists. One lone couple stood smoking cigarettes and shivering outside a pub.

“Did you ever go on a tour of the cottages when you were here?” said Frost.

“Yeah. I thought it was funny how they call them cottages. I could move my whole family into one of the closets.”

“After we toured the Breakers, Alice went on a rant. I thought it was a really cool mansion, but she said it was an outrage that so much money was controlled by just one family.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot Alice was a commie.”

“She’s not a commie. She just has a strong sense of social justice.”

Jane shot him a suspicious look. “You’re sure talking a lot about Alice these days. Are you two really back together again?”

“Maybe. And I don’t want to hear you say anything bad about her.”

“Why would I say anything bad about your lovely ex-wife?”

“Because you can’t help yourself.”

“Apparently you can’t help yourself either.”

“Hey, look.” He pointed to the pier. “There’s a nice fish restaurant down there. Wonder if it’s open? Maybe we could go there for lunch.”

“Let me guess. You and Alice ate there.”

“So what?”

“So I’m not in the mood to revisit all your happy memories with Alice. Let’s just grab a burger on the way back.” She eyed the GPS screen. “Turn left.”

They drove down Bellevue Avenue, past the lavish homes that had lit the fires of Alice’s socialist rage. In an earlier era, this was where tycoon families came to play during the summer, bringing their servants and carriages and ball gowns. And every autumn, those families returned to their equally lavish homes in the city, leaving these palaces empty and silent, awaiting next summer’s round of parties. Jane had no illusions about where she would have stood in that social hierarchy. She’d be scrubbing pots in the kitchen or washing corsets and undergarments. Certainly she would not be one of the fortunate young ladies swaying to music in a gilded ballroom. Jane knew her place in the universe, and she’d learned to be satisfied with it.

“This is the street,” she said. “Turn right.”

They left behind the mansions and drove down a street where the homes were not as large but were still far more expensive than anything a Boston cop could afford. Sarah Basterash’s husband worked for a major export firm, and Sarah would have enjoyed a comfortable life in this neighborhood where Lexuses and Volvos were parked in the driveways, where every front yard was impeccably landscaped. On this street of beautiful homes, it was a shock to suddenly come upon the blackened stone foundation.

Jane and Frost stepped out of the car and stared at the empty lot where the Basterash house had once stood. Though the charred remains had been hauled away, it was evident from the scorched bark on the trees that a fire had raged here, and when Jane inhaled, she imagined she could smell the stench of smoke and ash. The neighboring homes had not been touched, and they loomed on either side of the Basterash property like defiant survivors with perfect porches and manicured hedges. But the ruined foundation of their neighbor’s home proved that tragedy could strike anyone. Fire made no distinction between rich and poor; the flames devoured them all.

“I was in Beijing on a business trip when it happened,” said Kevin Basterash. “My company exports agricultural products, and I was negotiating a deal to ship milk powder to China.” His voice faded and he stared down at the beige carpet, which was so recently installed it still gave off the chemical smell of a new home. His apartment was spacious and sunlit, but everything about it struck Jane as temporary, from the bare walls to the empty bookshelves. Two months ago, Kevin Basterash had lost his house and his wife to the flames. Now this was what he called home, a characterless apartment complex five miles from the neighborhood where he and Sarah had once dreamed of children. In this soulless living room, not a single photograph was displayed.

The fire had taken everything.

“I got the news just before lunch, Beijing time,” he said. “Our neighbor here in Newport called to tell me my house was in flames and the fire trucks had arrived. They hadn’t found Sarah yet, and the neighbor was hoping she might be away and not in the house. But I already knew. I knew because Sarah didn’t call me that morning, as usual. She always called me at the same time, every day.” He looked at Jane and Frost. “They said it was an accident.”

Jane nodded. “According to the fire investigators, your wife left candles burning on the nightstand and then she fell asleep. They found a bottle of scotch by her bed, so they assumed—”