Rachel Lee - Playing with Fire

Converted to Eastern Time, she realized, that would be her equivalent of ten. “Or I can come by the station after I get some breakfast.”

“Okay, I’ll see you there.”

He strode to his car, leaving her with Hank Jackson, a man with a weathered face and eyes that crinkled when he smiled.

“So you were a firefighter, too?” she asked.

“A long time ago. Now I’m just a cowboy. Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

* * *

Elsewhere, an arsonist pondered the arrival of the insurance investigator. How much did she know? How much could she figure out? Was she like the state investigator?

That was worrisome. The delay in getting the state guy down here created time between the fire and the investigation, and time made evidence go away, killing it with sun, wind and rain. Longer was better.

If the woman was a threat, the arsonist needed to know. Certainly, the fires had to stop for now. Frustrating, but necessary. There was no way to explain that the fires were meant to be helpful. Watching the investigator became paramount. If she became a threat, she would have to be removed somehow.

But that Buell fire had been something else, far more than the arsonist had expected. So fast, so all-consuming, way beyond the plan. Watching it erupt had been a thing of pure beauty and pure terror. The arsonist had been afraid of it, even at a distance. Way beyond control, not supposed to happen that way. The kind of fire that would draw major attention from every direction. A mistake.

Looking through binoculars, the arsonist had made sure the family escaped, and only then could enjoy the show. Sheets of flame reaching heavenward, whirling in fiery tornadoes, the sparks creating fireworks as the house and barn had collapsed. The biggest fire, short of a wildfire, ever. Two buildings, barn and house. That hadn’t been intentional, but the show... Well, maybe that made it worth it.

A perfectly created work of art. And all of it for a good cause.

But that arson investigator could prove to be a huge headache. Something drastic might need to be done.

With memories of that gorgeous fire still dancing, the arsonist decided the investigator needed to be driven away. Somehow. With any luck, it wouldn’t take much.

But if she nosed around too much, killing her was a possibility.

Chapter 2

By morning, Charity felt she had begun to land. Yesterday had been long, with a red-eye flight out of Atlanta to Denver so she could catch the puddle jumper to Conard City in time for her meeting with the chief.

She was used to it, did it often enough, but by the time she could finally hold still, she was ready to crash. She hadn’t even considered getting dinner. A shower and a comfy bed met her needs.

It was dark when she awoke, still on Atlanta time. She turned on all the lamps and light poured through the house, revealing it to be pleasant, and dashed with color here and there as if someone had tried to brighten it. Better than most motel rooms any day, and Charity felt grateful to Wayne and Hank. She’d only be here a short while, but she’d at least be comfortable when she wasn’t working.

Today, however, looked like the day to start wearing her real work clothes: jeans, shirt, boots and jacket. No place for the fancy suits while wandering around the fire scene.

She found coffee of an indeterminate age and a coffeepot. She made some and tasted the staleness, the oils just on the brink of going bad. She guzzled half the pot anyway, then realized that morning was beginning to arrive. Already she felt halfway into her workday. Funny how much difference a two-hour clock change could make.

Now that she felt fully rested and awake from the caffeine, Wayne Camden popped into her thoughts. Attractive man. Very. Then she struck that off her mental list. No time, no desire. One-night stands weren’t her thing, and these days she was burned out on relationships. It amazed her how often men could become controlling, resenting her work hours, her frequent trips out of town. Her job was part of the package and she was up-front about it. Yet still, sooner or later, the guy would get unhappy. Danged if she could figure it out.

She rubbed the last of the sleep from her eyes and headed to the bathroom. To makeup or not to makeup, she thought humorously. The familiar face that stared back at her from the mirror showed few remaining signs of fatigue, so she went for a very light touch. Then she clipped her long auburn hair firmly out of the way and hunted up her ball cap and hard hat. She was ready, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

And she figured that she needed to get some things straight with Wayne today. He’d asked for her help in finding this guy, and she shouldn’t have left the possibility open. She was an insurance investigator, not a criminalist or a cop. She’d gone to the arson academy, but her job most often involved checking out the evidence provided by forensics, and then looking for motivations and links. Yes, she was good at what she did, but she needed to make her limitations clear.

He really did need a fire marshal from the state.

She found the diner Wayne had mentioned without any trouble. Shortly after seven, local time, it was pretty well packed, although most of the patrons appeared to be older men who might be retired. A grumpy woman whose name tag announced she was Maude took her order with all the grace of an angry rhino, but the coffee came fast, and the eggs were perfectly cooked. Charity noticed the grumpiness extended to everyone else and no one seemed to mind it, so it must be par. She could ignore it.

Through the window she caught sight of the sheriff’s office up the street on the corner across from the square she had seen for the first time this morning. Maybe she could find some assistance there. They were surely going to need it.

She ate quickly with her laptop open, scanning the fire reports that had brought her out here. No mistaking the all-caps word ARSON typed into the blank for the probable cause. The rest offered little enough information except that both house and barn had been destroyed, horses and calves in the barn had died, but no other injuries.

Really. No other injuries. From the way Wayne had described it, she was kind of amazed. Fast and hot, almost like a bomb. Achieving that was no simple task. Most arsonists fell down in that area. Partial damage, a fire that ran out of fuel too soon, an accelerant that wasn’t as good as they thought, not enough ignition points...

She closed the laptop, the limited facts fresh in her mind. As soon as she paid the bill, she hotfooted over to the sheriff’s office, only peripherally noting that men were playing chess and checkers at stone tables and benches scattered in the gardens of the square.

The wizened woman at the dispatch desk was smoking a cigarette right below a no-smoking sign. Charity almost laughed when she realized that none of the deputies in the room seemed disturbed by this fact. An ashtray of butts nearby seemed to indicate this wasn’t a onetime infraction.

The woman eyed her from rheumy eyes. “Need something?”

Charity offered her card and the woman took it. “I’m Charity Atkins, an arson investigator. I’m here about the Buell fire. I was wondering if I might get some information here.”

Thin eyebrows reached for an equally thin graying hairline. “You need the sheriff. Straight back that hall on the left. Can’t miss it.”

She found the door labeled Sheriff Gage Dalton and had just raised her hand to knock when the door flew open. The man who faced her appeared to be about fifty, one side of his face marred by a shiny burn scar.

“Whoa,” he said. “Sorry if I startled you.” He held out his hand. “Gage Dalton.”

“Charity Atkins, arson investigator.” She pulled out a card for him. “If you have a minute, I’d like to ask about the Buell fire.”