Blue Smoke

by Nora Roberts

  She locked the bag back in the car. “And, okay, it’s fucking spooky. It’s got me wound up.”

  “We work the scene, we work the case. And next time he calls,” O’Donnell added, “and you think about going to check out something without calling me first? Don’t.”

  She hunched her shoulders. “He ratted me out.” She blew out a breath. “And he was right. You’re right. I figured it was just some creep pushing my buttons—which I can handle. Have handled. But this is more.” She studied the building, hazed through smoke. “He’s more. So no, you don’t have to worry about me hotdogging.”

  “Good. Let’s get to work.”

  20

  It was after six in the morning when Reena left the scene. She split off from O’Donnell, hooking up with Steve to head to the fire station. O’Donnell would log in the evidence, write the initial report. She’d talk to any of the fire department team who’d been on the fire and who were awake.

  She could get a shower there—finally. She always kept a change in her trunk. Besides, odds were she’d get a good meal at the firehouse, and nights like the one she’d put in stoked her appetite.

  “So this guy Goodnight, what’s the story?” At Reena’s bland stare, Steve shrugged. “Gina’s going to grill me about it. She gets pissy when I don’t have details.”

  “She’s going to grill me anyway. Just tell her I said to come straight to the source.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “She handles what you do. I mean, it’s never been an issue between the two of you.”

  “She worries sometimes, sure. But no, it’s not a deal. When we lost Biggs last year, that was rough. As rough on her as me. We’ve talked about it.” He pulled on his ear. “About how that kind of risk is part of the job. You have to buy the package, you know? Doesn’t always work, but Gina, she’s tough. You know that. We’ve got the kids, another coming. She’s got to be tough.”

  “She loves you. Love’s tough.” Reena pulled up at the station. “When you call her this morning, ask if she’ll call my parents. Just let them know I’m on this case and everything’s fine. Can you spare the details, Steve? Just for now?”

  “No problem.”

  A couple of men were washing down the pumper. Steve loitered to talk. Reena settled for a wave as she carried her fresh clothes inside.

  She washed smoke out of her hair until her arms ached, then just closed her eyes and let the water beat on her head, her neck, her back.

  Her eyes felt gritty, exhausted, but that would pass. The taste of it would linger, she knew, no matter how much water she drank. The flavor of fire lingered, and even when it passed, it was something she never forgot.

  She took her time, soothing her skin—herself—by rubbing in scented cream. She slathered on moisturizer. She’d walk into a burning building, but damn if she’d sacrifice her skin. Or her vanity, she thought as she carefully applied makeup.

  When she was dressed, she slung her bag over her shoulder and headed to the kitchen to bum a meal.

  Something, it seemed, was always cooking here. Big pots of chili or stew, a huge hunk of meat loaf, a vat of scrambled eggs. The long counters, the stove, would be scrubbed clean after every meal, but the air would always smell of coffee and hot food.

  She’d trained out of this station, and volunteered here often in her free time. She’d slept in the bunks, cooked at the stove, played cards at the table or zoned out to the TV in the lounge.

  No one was surprised when she walked in. She got sleepy nods, cheerful greetings. And a big plate of bacon and eggs.

  She sat next to Gribley, a twelve-year man who sported a neat goatee and burn scars along his clavicle. War wounds.

  “Word is the torch from last night gave you a heads-up.”

  “Word’s right.” She scooped up eggs, washed them down with the Coke she’d taken from the refrigerator. “Looks like he’s got an issue with me. The structure was fully engaged when I got there. Maybe ten minutes after he called.”

  “Poor response time,” Gribley commented.

  “He didn’t tell me he’d lit something up or I’d’ve been faster. I will be, next time.”

  Across the table one of the other men lifted his head. “You looking for a next time? You’re thinking serial this soon out?”

  “I’m prepared for it. You’re going to need to be prepared for it, too. He made this one easy. A little testing move. Like when you stretch your arm up so you can coyly wrap it around a woman’s shoulder. Looking for my reaction, I think. Second floor, eastmost wall first engaged?”

  “Yeah.” Gribley nodded. “That section was in full flashover when we got up. Part of the wall hacked out, vent holes in the ceiling.”

  “First floor had the same deal,” Reena continued. “He took some time. We found four matchbooks, one of them didn’t go off.”

  “Had trailers along the second floor, heading down to the first.” The man across from her, Sands, picked up his coffee mug. “Hadn’t fully caught when we hit them. Slop job, you ask me.”

  “Yeah.” But was that carelessness, or craftiness?

  It was almost childish.” Reena sat, kicked back in her chair. O’Donnell mirrored her pose. “Gas and paper and matches. The kind of things a kid might play with. If you discount the deliberate venting, it’s kid stuff, or amateur hour. Matchbooks that didn’t have time to catch—so we’d find them. So did he think we wouldn’t see the venting, or did he want us to see it?”

  “If you’re trying to psych him, I say he wanted you to see it. The rest of us are background. You’re the spotlight.”

  “Thanks for putting my mind at rest.” She sat up, hissed. “Who? Why? Where did our paths cross? Or have they only crossed in his head?”

  “We go through old cases, again. And start talking to people involved. Maybe it’s somebody we put away. Maybe it’s somebody we didn’t. Maybe it’s somebody you had a thing with and doesn’t like that you broke it off.”

  She shook her head at this. “I haven’t had a serious thing. I haven’t let a thing get serious since . . .” She trailed off, then rubbed the back of her neck when O’Donnell’s eyes stayed steady on hers. “You keep up with current events, O’Donnell. You know I’ve played it loose since that business with Luke.”

  “Long time to play it loose.”

  “Maybe, but that’s how I like to play it. And any ideas this might be Luke, forget it. He’d never crawl around some grimy building. He’d get his designer suit dirty.”

  “Maybe he wore his play clothes. He still in New York?”

  “As far as I know. Okay.” She lifted her hands. “I’ll check. I hate that I have to check.”

  “You ever think just how bad that guy messed you up?”

  “Hell, he gave me a couple of bruises. I’ve had worse playing touch football.”

  “I’m not talking about your face, Hale. Messed up your head. Shame you gave him the satisfaction. Gonna get some coffee.” He rose, walked off to give her time to think about it.

  Instead, she swore under her breath and turned to her computer to get current data on Luke Chambers.

  Her voice was stiff when O’Donnell came back with a mug. “Luke Chambers has a New York address, and is employed by the same brokerage house which took him to Wall Street. He was married in December of 2000 to a Janine Grady. No children. He was widowed when his wife was killed on nine-eleven. She worked on the sixty-fourth floor of Tower One.”

  “Tough break. Something like that can twist a man. Wouldn’t’ve happened to him if you’d gone along with his plan back in the day.”

  “Jesus, you’re like a dog with a bone. Fine. I’ll reach out to the local cops, ask them to verify he was in New York last night.”

  O’Donnell stepped to her desk, then put the can of Diet Pepsi he’d stuck in his pocket in front of her. “Situation was reversed, you’d push me to do the same. If I wouldn’t, you’d do it for me.”

  “I’m tired. I’m edgy. The fact that you’re right only m
akes me want to punch you.”

  With a satisfied smile, O’Donnell sat back at his desk.

  It was a relief to finally get home—and all Reena wanted now was a major nap.

  She went inside, hung her purse over the newel post. Then, when her mother’s disapproving frown flashed into her mind, took it off and put it in the closet.

  “There, happy now?”

  She ignored the flash of the answering machine, went straight into the kitchen.

  She tossed her mail on the table, set the file copy she’d brought home beside it. Nap first, she told herself, but gave in and punched the message retrieval on her answering machine.

  As soon as the recording announced message one had been received at two-ten A.M., her heart began to pound.

  “Did you like your surprise? I bet you did since you’re still out there. All that fire. Gold and red and hot blue. I bet it made you wet. Bet you wanted to climb inside and let the boy next door fuck you while it burned. I’ll do better than that. Just wait. Just wait.”

  Her breathing was too loud, and too fast. She paused the playback, closed her eyes until she could bring it under control.

  He had watched. He’d known Bo was with her. Known she’d gone to the window.

  He’d been close enough to watch her, but she’d missed him. Had he been one of the people coming out of neighboring buildings? One of the drivers of a passing car? One of the faces in the crowd?

  Watching her. Watching her watch the flames.

  She shuddered. He wanted to spook her, and she couldn’t stop that. But she could control what she did about it.

  She ran through the rest of the messages.

  The second came through at seven-thirty.

  “Still not home?” He laughed, a kind of indrawn breath. “Busy, busy, busy.”

  “Bold, aren’t you, you bastard,” she said aloud. “That’s always a mistake.”

  The third recorded at seven forty-five.

  “Reena.”

  She jolted, then blew out a breath at the sound of Bo’s voice. Yes, indeed, she admitted, she was thoroughly spooked.

  “Your car’s not back, so I guess you’re still working. I’ve got a bid to work up today, and a supply run. Sounds pretty tame after the adventures of last night. Anyway, if you’re home later, give me a call.”

  The next came in an hour later—Gina wanting to get together so she could get the full scoop on the new guy.

  “Pretty sure you’re too late on that.” Reena made a whooshing sound and snapped her fingers. “Here, then gone.”

  Then she frowned when her sister Bella’s tearful voice blasted through the machine. “Why aren’t you ever around when I need you?”

  As that was the sum and total of the message, Reena reached for the phone. Then stopped herself. Sometimes she had to think like a cop first, then like a sister.

  She deleted all the messages after the second call, took the tape out, sealed it in a bag before digging out a fresh tape.

  She called O’Donnell to bring him up to speed.

  “So he was there.”

  “Most likely. Or he was watching my house, saw me leave with Bo. He may have me staked out here, may have followed me over. I didn’t make a tail, and I’ve been looking for one.”

  “We’ll start another canvass in the morning,” he told her. “I’ll call in, have a car patrol your place tonight.”

  She started to object, caught herself. “Good idea. Somebody from the unit, okay? He spots a patrol car, it might push him back. Unmarked’s better.”

  “I’ll fix it. Get some rest.”

  She thought of the call from Bella. “Yeah.” And rubbed her tired eyes. “I’ll do that.”

  She looked at the phone. She had to call Bella back. Of course she did. The fact that the outburst could have been brought on by something as petty as a broken fingernail wasn’t the point. And that was unkind—and untrue—Reena admitted. Bella wasn’t quite that ridiculous. Close, but not quite.

  It might be something about the kids, though it was more likely she’d have half a dozen calls from relatives if that were the case. Her parents would have called on her cell if there was an emergency.

  And what did it say about her that she was dawdling this way over a simple return call to her sister?

  Reena picked up the phone, hit her sister’s number on memory.

  She wasn’t certain if she was relieved or irritated when the housekeeper informed her Bella was at the salon. Which could still mean there was a crisis, Reena thought as she hung up. Her sister shot to the salon the way other people rushed to the ER.

  She was about to head upstairs but detoured at the knock on her front door. She felt the tingle along her ribs as she wondered if it was Bo. Instead she opened the door to an exuberant and six-months-pregnant Gina.

  “Steve said you should be home. I just had to see how you were.” She threw her arms around Reena for a huge hug. “What a night, huh? You okay? You look tired. You should take a nap.”

  “Now there’s an idea,” Reena said as Gina strolled in.

  “Well, let’s sit down. My mother’s got the kids for a couple hours. God bless her with eternal youth and beauty.” She plopped, patted a hand on her rounded belly, then grinned around the room at walls the last owners had painted a kind of strange kiwi green.

  “Picked out your colors yet? You ought to get on that in this nice weather, so you can leave the windows open, cut back on the painty smell. Steve will give you a hand with the work.”

  “Appreciate it. I haven’t really settled on anything. I’m thinking something a little more classic than this.”

  “Anything would be. I can help you. I love picking out colors. It’s like toys. Am I cheering you up?”

  “Do I look like I need it?”

  “Steve tells me things, Reene. Don’t worry, I haven’t said anything to your family, to anyone. I won’t if you don’t want me to. I’ll just worry about you all by myself.”

  “You don’t have to worry.”

  “Of course not. Just because some fire maniac is obsessed with my best friend, enough to all but burn out our elementary school.”

  Reena sighed, then rose to go to the kitchen and pour them both tall glasses of San Pellegrino.

  “Got anything to go with that?” Gina asked from behind her. “Something containing large quantities of sugar?”

  Reena took out the remains of a coffee cake. “It’s a few days old,” she warned.

  “Yeah, that matters.” Laughing, Gina broke off a hunk. “I’d eat tree bark if it had sugar poured on it.” She sat at the old butcher block Reena was using as a kitchen table. “Okay, I’ve been busy, you’ve been busy. Now it’s time for me to get all the deets on this carpenter. My mother got from your mother that you knew him in college. I knew who you knew, and I don’t remember some hunky guy named Goodnight.”

  “Because we didn’t know him. Or I didn’t. He saw me when we were in college. When you and I were in college.”

  “My mother never gets it straight.” Gina broke off another piece. “Sit and spill.”

  She did, and the leading edge of fatigue dulled when Gina punctuated the recitation with gasps and Oh my Gods and dramatic slaps of her hand to her heart.

  “He saw you across the room, and he never forgot you. He carried you inside him all—”

  “Ick.”

  “Oh, shut up. This is so romantic. It’s Heathcliff and Catherine romantic.”

  “They were crazy.”

  “For God’s sake. Okay, it’s Sleepless in Seattle romantic. You know how I love that movie.”

  “Sure, except for the fact we don’t live on opposite coasts, I’m not engaged to someone else, and he’s not a widower with a kid, it’s just exactly the same.”

  Gina jabbed a finger. “You’re not going to spoil this for me. I’ve been married six years, I’m on my third kid. I don’t get that much sappy romance these days. So, how good-looking is he?”

  “Really. He’
s built. Some of it probably comes from the kind of work he does. All that manual labor.”

  “Now the grit. How’s the sex?”

  “Did I say I’ve had sex with him?”