Debra Cowan - Melting Point

Admiration flared in her eyes. “You’ve picked up a lot, seeing as how you’ve only been able to work with the fire investigator on your days off.”

“After a year and a half,” Terra said, “those days add up. I’m lucky that he wanted the job badly enough to do it.”

“And come Monday, I’ll even get paid for it.” Collier rolled his shoulders against the tautness stretching across his muscles. Russell had a way of looking at him that made him feel as if she were peeling off thin layers of himself that he didn’t want peeled.

He turned away, training his flashlight on the wall of melted aluminum sheeting. He took out his screwdriver and folded back a piece of the warped metal, checking underneath for electrical wires. Even though they believed they’d found the cause of the fire, he would make sure there had been no electrical glitches.

He would like it a lot better if Kiley Russell would move to the other end of the building. Or better yet, leave.

He could feel her behind him and itched to watch her, see how she operated. But he had a job to do and he wasn’t about to screw it up. Especially for a woman.

Kiley had spent the two days since the murder conducting interviews. She, Terra and Collier had split up after the walk-through with the agreement to call each other if they got a lead. Otherwise they would meet at the fire investigator’s office on Monday morning to view the video of the fire scene.

Early Sunday evening, Collier left a message on Kiley’s cell phone while she was asking the owner of Rehn’s warehouse some follow-up questions. He had found something on the videotape of Lazano’s fire scene he thought she and Terra should see.

About an hour after he left the message, she pulled up in front of a quaint rock house and double-checked the address the department secretary had given her. Yes, this charming thirties-style cottage next to an historically registered house was his.

An unfamiliar black Corvette sat at the curb between McClain’s house and his neighbor’s. Terra’s red SUV wasn’t here, and Kiley considered waiting in the car until the other fire investigator arrived. She didn’t relish the idea of being alone with Collier, not now and not in two weeks when Terra went on maternity leave. But staying out here was silly. This was all about the case, and judging from his cool professionalism at the scene the other night, it would stay that way.

She flipped off the ignition, palmed the keys and stepped out of her car. The fat snowflakes that had begun falling while she spoke to the warehouse owner clung to her hair and cheeks as she walked to Collier’s front door.

Whatever McClain had found must be good. For a man whose normal speaking voice was a slow-hands drawl, his words had been crisp and urgent. She wondered if he ever got that hot and bothered over a woman.

Her interviews with the firefighters from Station Two had unearthed some interesting and impressive information about the man who had taken up more of Kiley’s thoughts than she liked. He was a third-generation firefighter and great at his job. He was someone you’d want to lead you into a blaze or watch your back. And until eighteen months ago, he had been engaged to Gwen Hadley, a wealthy, gorgeous blonde Kiley had seen in Oklahoma City’s society pages.

Thanks to Collier, she already knew why he’d broken off the engagement, but his brother firefighters had felt the need to tell her, as well. Her sister, whose job as secretary to the city attorney put her in a position to hear most scuttlebutt, added some bits that Collier and his friends hadn’t shared.

She didn’t blame him for keeping the details to himself. He hadn’t just walked in on his fiancée and his friend kissing. A half-naked Gwen had been wrapped around a half-naked Dan Lazano, and Collier had caught them in the act. The shock and cruelty of such a betrayal made Kiley’s chest hurt.

Standing on his small, protected porch, she stabbed at the doorbell. The night was clear and cold. She shivered under her lined uniform coat.

“Hello?”

A masculine voice sounded behind her, and she whirled. “McClain, you move quieter than anyone—”

She broke off as the man stepped into the wedge of pale-yellow light. He was tall and handsome and not Collier McClain.

A glance back at the large black numbers to the right of the door post confirmed that this was the address she’d been given. “I’m looking for Collier McClain.”

“Just my luck.” The man gave her a flirty smile, startling her with dimples in the exact place she’d seen on Collier. His dark brown hair was mussed, the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt rolled up. “I’m his brother, Walker.”

“Hello.” She pulled her badge from her coat pocket and showed it to him. “I’m Detective Russell with the Presley PD.”

Amusement glinted in his eyes. “Is this about work or do I need to get him a lawyer?”

She grinned. “It’s about work.”

“He’s inside. C’mon in.” He turned, jamming his hands into the front pockets of his well-worn jeans and hunching his broad shoulders against the cold.

She stepped off the porch and followed him down the sidewalk to the garage. He was as long-legged as his brother. “Do you live here, too?”

“No. I’m helping him put down the floor.”

Ah, that explained the grimy knees of his jeans, and probably the ’Vette. She followed Walker through the garage, struck by the spotless interior. There wasn’t a speck of dirt anywhere on the gray painted concrete floor. A shiny white and chrome pickup was the lone vehicle. A row of cabinets lined the wall in front of her, and tools hung in a precise line to the left of where she entered. “I didn’t know McClain had a brother,” she said.

“And a sister.” Walker opened a door in the garage and ushered her inside the house. “How long have you known him?”

The question was mild enough, but Kiley read curiosity in the man’s eyes. Now she could see they were the same dusky green as his brother’s. “Not long. We’re working some cases together.”

“So you’re not here to arrest him?” Laughter marked his words.

“I could probably be persuaded.”

He chuckled as she followed him through a cozy, charming kitchen done in clean white tile and navy stripes. On closer inspection she discovered that what she thought was wallpaper was actually paint. He must have a great decorator.

Modern appliances belied the decades-old charm of the stone house, and window blinds rode up to reveal a winter-brown landscaped backyard. They passed a small room housing the washer and dryer. An old redbone hound with more gray than red on its face lay in front of the dryer. As she walked past, it looked up sleepily, then closed its eyes again.

They walked through a small formal dining room, which her mom would’ve loved, and into a cozy living area where a fire burned in a stone fireplace. Taupe carpet provided a warm counterpoint to the navy-and-burgundy-plaid sofa and two navy leather recliners.

Walker McClain turned to her. “Can I get you something to drink? He’ll be right out.”

“No, thanks, I’m fine.” If Collier was in such an all-fired hurry to show her what he’d found, where was he? “This house is great.”

“He’s remodeling the whole thing. We put down a new floor in the entryway this afternoon. That’s why I couldn’t let you in the front door. Would you like to see it?”

“Sure.”

They walked back to the small dining room and crossed to the arched opening in the opposite wall. The entryway’s dark red brick was laid in a meticulous herringbone pattern. “Wow. He did this himself?”

Walker’s eyes twinkled. “Well, he helped me do it.”

“Hardly,” Collier said dryly behind them. “You don’t know herringbone from a chicken bone.”