Violet Darger (Book 6): Night On Fire

by Vargus, L. T.

  At least three different languages were being spoken in her direct vicinity: English, Spanish, and Korean.

  Someone coughed. Another person called out, “Callie! Callie, come back here.” Darger watched the woman turn and mutter to her husband. “Please go get Callie before she starts climbing on that thing.”

  A slight bulge in Darger’s jacket pocket kept causing her to shift her right elbow. A fresh set of FBI credentials to replace the ones she’d tossed over the bridge in Detroit. Had they always been this bulky, or had she grown that accustomed to not having them on her person? She’d only been on hiatus for a couple of months, but somehow it felt like years had passed. There'd been surprisingly few hoops to jump through to return to her duties with the BAU. Whoever Loshak knew higher up the chain, they must have been a Big Fucking Deal.

  Fifteen minutes passed. The mass of people in the baggage claim area grew slightly more agitated. A game of telephone started up and passed through the crowd, and Darger heard her flight number.

  “Were you all on Delta 1128?”

  Darger and several people clustered around her nodded their heads.

  “So I guess the thing they use to get the luggage from the plane to here — the train, or whatever — I guess it broke down, so they had to switch all the luggage over to another one. They’re almost finished, but it’ll be another fifteen minutes or so.”

  The throng groaned and sighed with annoyance at the holdup.

  Darger reached for her phone and glanced at the clock. From what she knew about L.A. traffic, they were probably already going to be late for the meeting. Shit.

  She opened her contacts and dialed, but there was no answer on the other end. She texted instead.

  Still at the Baggage Claim. Some sort of delay. Fifteen minutes, they said.

  She should have just rented a car like she usually did, then this could have been avoided. She’d still be late to the meeting, of course, but at least she wouldn’t have made someone else late, too.

  Instead of putting her phone away, she kept it out and used the dead time to flip through her case notes.

  Loshak had called only a few days after she’d gotten her shiny new badge and ID via FedEx.

  “Got something for you, if you’re ready to roll. There’s a mutual acquaintance of ours working out of the L.A. field office that specifically requested our expertise.”

  “Los Angeles? That’s where we’re headed?”

  “Tinseltown, indeed, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to join you. I’ve got a speaking engagement and then a conference that’ll run through the 10th. You know how I love to work the criminology con circuit, hang out in a crowded conference room that smells like boiled ham, so I can shake the hands of sweaty people from all over the country.”

  Darger had been looking forward to working with Loshak again, so it was a little disappointing to hear she’d be flying solo for the time being. She managed to stifle that feeling and put her game face on.

  “Tell me about the case.”

  “Serial arsonist,” Loshak said. “Guy torched a church last week in the middle of a wedding ceremony.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. Twenty-six dead. At least seven of them were kids.”

  Darger closed her eyes and sighed.

  “Nearly all the survivors had to be treated for severe burns. Some had damaged lungs. A real mess. Crazy thing is, the majority of the dead weren’t even burned. Untouched by the fire. They died due to smoke inhalation.”

  “You said serial arsonist. He’s done this before?”

  She heard papers shifting in the background, Loshak paging through the file.

  “There was a single casualty at a previous scene, an older woman, retired junior high principal, last name Galitis. Died when her house went up in flames at three in the morning. A few months before that, back in May, there was a small structure fire on some abandoned property. Anyway, they found evidence of the same incendiary device, for lack of a better term, at all three scenes — a two-liter bottle of gasoline of all things. Crude. Simple. Not much of a device at all, I guess, but…”

  She swiped past photographs of the crime scenes on her phone now. Charred bodies. Destroyed buildings. Evidence markers. Crime scene tape.

  Darger was jotting a reminder to look into the dead retiree’s background when she noticed a distinct shift in the crowd noise. It was like someone had suddenly turned up the volume on the steady murmur.

  At first she assumed the baggage from her flight had finally started circulating, but she hadn’t heard the obnoxious buzzer sound that usually announced that the carousel was about to start up.

  Something was definitely going on, though. She heard shouts echoing across the large chamber of concrete and tile. She wondered if a fight had broken out. It wouldn’t surprise her. People were typically fairly on edge while traveling. With the added delay of their flight and then the snafu with the baggage, she could imagine someone with a short fuse snapping.

  She skirted around a family decked out in matching Hawaiian shirts, trying to see what all the commotion was about.

  There was a young woman breezing through the baggage claim area. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and she wore dark sunglasses despite being indoors. She clutched a phone in a hand with long pink stiletto nails.

  She was flanked by two men and another woman, who appeared to be with her. But another group swarmed around her like flies and seemed to be trying to get her attention.

  “Cici!” one man yelled, then threw himself onto his knees so he could snap a photo of her with a camera sporting a giant telephoto lens.

  That was when Darger realized they all had cameras, all of the people buzzing around the woman. A few of them were just using I-phones, but one of them had a full-size TV camera propped on his shoulder.

  A celebrity being followed by the paparazzi, Darger thought. How very L.A.

  The name “Cici” didn’t ring any bells for Darger, and the woman hadn’t looked familiar. A pop star from one of those singing shows, maybe. Darger could never keep track of that kind of thing.

  She went back to her notes, thinking over what she and Loshak had discussed when he’d given her the case.

  “I can’t say I’ll be sad to miss out on this one,” he’d said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Arson is always ugly. It’s one of the worst ways to go, and it makes for some of the grisliest cases to work. From my point of view, anyhow. And dealing with the arsonists themselves — the psychology of it — can get a little bleak. I don’t know. They don’t inspire a lot of faith in humanity, I guess you could say.”

  “Any thoughts about this case in particular?”

  “I didn’t dig too deeply in the file, but… a wedding? Seems awfully personal.”

  "You think the killer knew the bride or groom? That they were targeting someone specifically?"

  "Could be. Could be the bride, the groom, someone in the wedding party. A family member. Or just one of the guests. Or it could be that this particular wedding was chosen at random. But I think the fact that it was a wedding says something, regardless. This person is very angry."

  “Well, let’s take a step back. The three motives for setting fires are money, revenge, and fun. I’m assuming we can rule money out,” Darger said. “Unless the same person happens to own both properties. Or stands to benefit from all the life insurance policies, if there were any. Though I also assume that’s the first place the police looked.”

  “Bingo. So far they’ve found zero connection between the victims or the targeted properties. That doesn’t rule it out completely. There could always be some bizarre tangled web that leads to someone profiting off the various fires, but I’d say it’s a doubtful prospect.”

  “So that leaves revenge and fun,” Darger said. “And if you haven’t been able to tie together the victims or properties…”

  “Then it rules out revenge as motive, at least tacitly.”


  “So he’s setting them for fun.”

  She used the male pronoun theoretically, even though nearly all convicted arsonists were male.

  Just because most of them are, she thought to herself, doesn’t mean they all are.

  It was a mistake she’d made once and had vowed to never make again.

  “That’s what my gut says.”

  “Great,” she said, her tone dry.

  “Yeah.”

  She knew Loshak was thinking the same thing she was. That the “for fun” type of arsonist was the hardest to catch, because they often chose their targets at random and behaved rather erratically in general. Impulsive types, largely.

  She tacked on a few notes to the end of her profile — things she wanted to be sure to hit hard during her presentation — and then a sound like a basketball shot clock sounded. The baggage carousel was finally moving, and she could see suitcases and duffel bags already sliding down the chute at the far end.

  For once, luck seemed to be on her side. Her suitcase was one of the first onto the conveyor belt. She recognized it at a distance because of the twist of bright orange yarn tied to the handle. A trick her mother had taught her long ago.

  She edged her way around to one corner of the giant oval-shaped machine, trying to head off her bag. She extended her arm, grabbing for the handle of her suitcase. It was just within her grasp, but someone elbowed in front of her and beat her to it.

  “Let me get that for you.”

  It was a masculine voice, and Darger was instantly annoyed. She knew that was irrational. He was surely just trying to be gentlemanly. But if she needed help, she’d ask for it. She didn’t need someone barging into her personal space, as if she were some kind of damsel in distress, incapable of lifting a damn suitcase.

  The man’s fingers snatched the suitcase upward, hoisting it easily from the conveyor belt and setting it on the floor beside him and just slightly out of her reach.

  He smiled down at her benevolently, and now she was really ready to give it to him. She was already late, and now some dickhead wanted to play games with her luggage. Was he trying to be cute, holding her bag hostage like that?

  Darger opened her mouth to speak, and at the same time the man lifted a hand to remove his sunglasses. She stopped, recognizing him.

  The man was Casey Luck.

  “How was your flight?” he asked, still grinning.

  Her irritation fled instantly.

  “I didn’t recognize you. You’re… tan. And you’ve got stubble.”

  “Plus, I shaved off the mustache.”

  “Aww,” Darger said, pretending to mourn the loss.

  “Yeah right. I know you hated it.”

  “I told you it was nothing personal. I hate all mustaches equally.”

  “Yes, I remember it well. Very even-handed of you. Fair and balanced and all that. Let’s go.”

  They threaded their way through the throngs of humanity to the parking area outside, where Luck’s Lexus was parked in a restricted area. Darger feigned a heart attack, grabbing her chest.

  “Parked in a No Parking zone? Agent Luck, what’s gotten into you? You lose the ‘stache, grow a little stubble, and suddenly you’re Mr. Rulebreaker?”

  Luck chuckled and as they climbed into the car.

  There were other things that were different about him, too. He looked a little thinner, and instead of a suit and tie, he was wearing a sports jacket and khakis.

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you not wearing a tie.”

  He gave her a wry look.

  “Violet, you’ve seen me wearing nothing.”

  Snorting, Darger said, “Fair enough. You’re just looking awfully casual, is all. Relaxed, even. It’s very… un-Luck.”

  He made a face like that had hurt his feelings.

  “I can be relaxed,” he insisted. “Besides, everything’s a little more casual out here.”

  Darger raised an eyebrow. “Even the FBI?”

  “Even the FBI.”

  Chapter 2

  The chorus of “Hang On Sloopy” by The McCoys filtered out of the speakers as soon as Luck turned the key in the ignition. He steered them into traffic and soon they left the airport behind them, heading for downtown.

  Something about the radio playing oldies felt fitting with all the palm trees and mid-century architecture passing by outside Darger’s window. Part of her always thought of that era of history when she thought of L.A.

  Her eyes wandered over to the man driving the car. Despite their seemingly friendly greeting, she sensed some unease with Luck. It was his posture, she thought. He was holding his chin just a touch too high. And his back was a little too straight and upright. What did they call that? Ramrod straight. Like even the “new casual model” of Casey Luck couldn’t quite relax around her.

  She supposed she felt a little of the same uncertainty. Partly because of their history. She doubted things would ever be truly informal between them after a failed romance.

  With what happened in Detroit, though, when they’d last seen one another, it was hard to know where things lay between them, even as associates in a professional sense. They’d spoken, of course. Once to go over some of the more pertinent details of the current case and again to double-check her flight arrangements so he could pick her up at the airport. So at least she’d had advance warning that they’d be working together again.

  She still felt some resentment that he hadn’t spoken up for her after that last case, if she was honest with herself. That maybe he hadn’t even believed her that his boss had been working with the mob. And maybe he had some remaining bitterness of his own. Things had gotten messy in Detroit. And Darger wasn’t sure how much of that might have led to his current position being in a field office halfway across the country.

  There was something else nagging at her, too. After her falling out with Prescott, when Darger had decided that the private sector wasn’t working out, it had been a natural decision to go back to the Bureau.

  But now that she was here, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made the right choice.

  She let the back of her skull fall against the seat, cradled by the headrest.

  Why couldn’t she just be sure of things for once? Why was she always doubting her own choices? Maybe that was life. Maybe it only ever seemed like other people knew exactly what they were doing. What they were meant for. Where and who they were supposed to be.

  She studied Luck from the corner of her eye. To most people, it would seem like he’d hit the jackpot with this assignment. She remembered one guy in her training group at the Academy. His dream placement had been in Honolulu. He’d been sent to Kansas City instead. She could still see the stunned look on his face when he opened his letter and the way he kept muttering, “Wow… Missouri? Wow.”

  “So, how’s paradise?” Darger finally asked.

  “Paradise?”

  She swept her hand around, gesturing at the scenic landscape outside.

  “Come on, you live in La-La Land. How’s it been treating you?”

  “I mean the weather is fantastic. Almost unbelievable.”

  “Are you suggesting you don’t miss the seemingly endless winter of the Midwest? The gray, sunless days?”

  He shook his head, smirking. “Not even a little.”

  Darger wondered how Luck’s daughter was adjusting to their new home.

  “What about Jill?”

  “Oh, she loves it out here. We’ve been to Disneyland five times already. Can’t really beat that.”

  “Yeah, probably not.”

  They lapsed into silence for a few moments, but something about his original answer about living in Los Angeles was bugging her.

  “So the weather is fantastic, but…”

  His eyebrows peeked up above the rims of his sunglasses.

  “Huh?”

  “It just sounded like you were going to add that there was something not so fantastic.”

  “Well, I felt a little
guilty at first. We’d just gotten settled in Michigan, and then we had to start all over again.”

  Darger held her tongue on that. It was part of being in the FBI, the Bureau made that very clear during agent training at the Academy. Agents were told they should be prepared to pick up and move assignments every three to five years.

  It wasn’t helpful to point this out, though, so she kept her lips sealed.

  “Claudia and Ray followed us out here. Jill’s grandparents. And at first I thought it was a blessing but…”

  Darger waited for him to continue. He shrugged and let out a sigh.

  “I don’t know. I got kinda used to it being just me and Jill in Michigan. They’d come up for holidays and Jill’s birthday and stuff… and I shouldn’t complain. They’ve been great. They’re saving me a fortune not having to find daycare, and they love Jill to pieces, but…”

  He trailed off again, and this time Darger urged him on.

  “But, but, but. What?”

  “They’re just always around, you know? On the weekends, when maybe I’d like to take Jill to the beach, spend some time with her after working all week, I feel obligated to ask them to come along. Or they invite themselves. And I can’t really say no. They do so much for us. And it seems like a small thing to offer.”

  “Boundaries, my friend,” Darger said, shaking her head. “Look, they spend all week with Jill, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then you’re absolutely entitled to some time hanging out with just her, apart from them. She’s your daughter.”

  “But they do—”

  “So much. I heard you. But they’re not doing you a favor, watching Jill. You realize that, right? They’re doing it because it’s what they want. It’s a reward for them. They didn’t move out here for the nanny job. They moved out here to be close to their granddaughter. And they are. Stop feeling guilty.”

  Luck frowned, and she worried she’d offended him. Maybe she’d overstepped the bounds of their current relationship, offering unsolicited advice like that. It really wasn’t her place.