Tender Is The Night (Callaways Book 10)

by Barbara Freethy

  "No, we're both single," Kate said. "Someday. When I'm ready."

  "I thought I was ready for motherhood, but it was much harder than I ever expected it to be. I was thankful when my daughter hit eighteen. It felt like a huge achievement. Little did I realize that eighteen was not the end of her needs. Anyway, let me get my bag, and we'll go."

  As Eileen moved around the desk to grab her purse, Kate looked at Devin. "Should we meet back here?"

  "Why don't you text me when you've seen the house, and I'll let you know if I've connected with Gerilyn yet? Then we'll figure out our next move." He paused. "If you can get Eileen to tell you any more about Gerilyn, that would be helpful."

  "She seems pretty chatty; I'll see what I can do." She handed him the car keys.

  "Make yourself at home, Mr. Scott," Eileen said, rejoining them. "And let the receptionist know if you need anything."

  "I will. Thanks."

  Kate followed Eileen out the door. "I really love your offices. It makes me want to redecorate my apartment."

  "It's important to live in a place that makes you feel good," Eileen said. "The right décor can change your entire mood every time you walk through your door."

  She wondered if that were true. She had a feeling that having a man at home when she walked through the door might do the trick, too.

  "Agent Callaway?"

  "I'm sorry," she said, realizing Eileen had asked her a question. "What did you say?"

  The older woman gave her a thoughtful look. "I asked you how long you'd been with the FBI?"

  "Oh, a little over a year."

  "Is it dangerous?"

  "Not usually," she said, as they took the elevator downstairs and entered the parking garage. "Most of the time it's a lot of talk. But last night got exciting. Someone set fire to Devin's apartment building while we were inside."

  Eileen's lips parted in surprise. "Are you serious? Why? Who would do that?"

  "It was a warning that we were getting too close."

  Eileen stared back at her. "You think it was Brad. That's why you came to the office today."

  "We'd like to know where he was last night."

  "If he wasn't with Gerilyn, I don't think she'll tell you. She has become very protective of him since he got sober."

  "Would she tell you?" Kate asked. "If we weren't around?"

  "I don't know."

  "Would you ask her?"

  Eileen slowly nodded. "When we get back. But maybe she'll be forthcoming with Mr. Scott."

  Kate hoped so, but somehow she didn't think it would be that easy.

  * * *

  Devin paced around Eileen's office, wondering if he'd made the right decision to wait for Gerilyn Connors. He had wanted to check out all of the target properties today, and there was a good chance that Gerilyn was going to give him nothing but a runaround.

  His phone rang, and he was startled to see a San Diego area code. "Hello?"

  "This is Alan Jenkins," the man said.

  "Mr. Jenkins. Thank you for calling me back." He was honestly surprised at the return call. He'd about given up on the guy.

  "I was on vacation for a few days. Why are you blowing up my phone with messages and texts?"

  "I need to talk to you about Rick Baines."

  "Why? He's dead."

  "It's about how he died."

  "I thought he killed himself in a fire."

  "You were friends with him at St. Bernadette's weren't you?"

  "Yeah, we went to high school together. So what?"

  There was an angry, antagonistic edge to Alan's voice that was either defensive or offensive; Devin couldn't tell which. But he had a feeling being direct was the only way to go with Alan. "There was a fire at St. Bernadette's a few days ago."

  "And…what does that have to do with me? I live in San Diego."

  "It's our belief that Rick Baines was not the person who set the fire that killed him. We think it's possible he knew the arsonist. And since that person recently hit St. Bernadette's, it seems likely that that individual has a connection to Rick and the school."

  "That's a wild theory," Jenkins said.

  "So humor me. Tell me about your relationship with Rick."

  "We weren't close friends, but we knew each other from high school, and I went to the gym where he worked."

  "Did he talk about wanting to be a firefighter in recent years? Did he refer to any of the suspicious fires happening in the city? Did he seem to be paying attention to them?"

  "He always talked about wanting to be a firefighter. I told him to stop talking and get off his ass and try again. I knew he went after it several years ago and couldn't get in, but it was still his dream, so I encouraged him to fill out another application. He said he did, but the next thing I knew he was dead—and in a fire—I couldn’t believe it. I wondered if the guy was living a secret life, because I had no idea he could do something like that. I guess that's always what people say when they're interviewed after someone seemingly normal does something abnormal."

  "Was it that out of the ordinary?" he challenged, remembering Kate's conversation with Kristina the night before. "It's my understanding that Rick might have set a small fire when you were at St. Bernadette's."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Kristina Strem."

  "Kristina has a big imagination. There was a really small fire, and we all wondered who did it, but Rick never said he did. It could have been anyone."

  "Kristina also told us you went by the scene where Rick died."

  "You had a long conversation, didn't you? Yeah, I went by there. I had to see it for myself. Like I said, I thought it was weird that he would die in a fire when he had such a fascination with fire. I still think it's strange. Is that a crime?"

  "No. Did Rick keep in touch with anyone else from high school?"

  "Probably. I know he saw Kristina a few times. Julie came into the gym with her boyfriend once. Rick mentioned running into Lindsay one day. Oh, and he said Michael Bennett had come back from New York and was working for one of those ride-share companies. So, yeah, I guess he saw people from high school. But none of those people would set fires. I really don't know what to tell you."

  Devin sighed. He was getting nowhere fast. "I appreciate you calling me back."

  "No problem. I wish I knew something. Because if someone killed Rick, that's disturbing. Especially if it was someone he knew—someone I might still know."

  Was Alan now genuinely concerned? His tone had certainly changed since their call had first begun, but mostly when he realized he wasn't actually being accused of anything. "If you hear anything from any of your friends from St. Bernadette's regarding Rick or the fires, I would love a call," he said.

  "You got it. I'm sorry I took so long to get back to you."

  "Where did you go on vacation?"

  "Oh, um, I was in Hawaii."

  "Which island?"

  "Maui. Love Maui. Hate Oahu—too crowded."

  "I agree," he said, thinking Jenkins was now being a little too smooth. "Maui has some great hotels. Where did you stay?"

  Jenkins hesitated. "Sunset Villas. Do you want me to send you a receipt?" The antagonism was back in his voice.

  "No, that's fine."

  "You think I had something to do with these fires, don't you?" Jenkins challenged. "You are wasting your time if you're going down that path."

  "I'm just asking questions. That's all. Thanks again."

  "Yeah. Whatever." Jenkins ended the call on that abrupt note.

  As Devin set his phone down on Eileen's desk, he made a mental note to check into the Sunset Villas, find out if he could trace Jenkins to Maui, because his gut told him that Jenkins was lying about something. His behavior had been inconsistent, too. He'd gone from angry to helpful, to frightened, and then to anger again. Was he just being defensive because he thought he was being accused of something he didn't do, or because he was guilty?

  "Mr. Scott. What are you doing here?" a female asked.<
br />
  He turned around to see Gerilyn Connors enter Eileen's office. She looked tired and worried. He wondered if that was solely due to his presence or to her marital relationship.

  "I came to see you," he said.

  "I have nothing to say to you, and you need to back off, or I'm going to go to the police and ask for a restraining order against you."

  "Where was your husband last night, Mrs. Connors?"

  His abrupt question took her aback, and in that hesitation he knew that whatever was about to come out of her mouth was a lie.

  "He was with me," she said.

  The fearful light in her eyes and the pallor of her skin told a different story. "Are you sure about that?" He let his question sink in, then added, "I'm only the first person who is going to ask you that question. The police will probably be next, then the arson investigation unit, maybe some of your husband's former firefighting friends."

  "What happened?" she asked tightly.

  "Someone set fire to my apartment building. It was a warning, and the only person I can think of who was angry enough to give me a warning is your husband."

  "I'm sure there are other people who don't like you," she returned.

  "Where was he last night?"

  "I told you he was with me. And I'll tell anyone else who asks."

  "Why are you covering for him? You once got an order of protection against him."

  "He was drinking then; he isn't now. He's better. And I want him to stay better."

  "Lying for him isn't going to keep him sober or keep you safe. If he's involved in these fires, you could be in danger. You really need to think about who you're defending, what he's capable of doing."

  She stared back at him, and all of the defiance suddenly seemed to go out of her shoulders. "We had a fight yesterday. He left around six, and I haven't seen him since."

  He blew out a breath, relieved to have finally gotten past her defenses. "What was the fight about?"

  "The fires. I asked him what he thought about there being two more fires, and he asked me if I was accusing him. Things went from bad to worse."

  "You have doubts about him, too," he said, seeing the truth in her eyes.

  "I don't want to believe that he's been burning down buildings I worked on to punish me, but I can't deny that there's a pattern. I really thought it was over until this past week when they started up again. Now, I don't know what to think. Eileen is really worried, and I am, too. I don't want it to be Brad. I really don't."

  He could see the desperation in her eyes. "We need to find him. If he's not responsible, then we can clear him and move on. But disappearing and not being willing to talk will not help his cause."

  "I've already called him a couple of times. And I called his sponsor, too. He hasn't heard from him."

  Devin did not like the sound of that. "If you talk to him, you need to find out where he is, and you need to call me immediately."

  She slowly nodded. "All right. He's not a bad guy, you know. He just has a temper, and he was upset that anyone could suspect him of arson. He gave so much of his life to firefighting."

  "If he's not guilty, he doesn't have to feel bad."

  "It's easier to say that when you're not being accused of something."

  "It's not easier; it's just the truth."

  She gave him a long look. "I'll let you know if I find him."

  As Gerilyn left the room, he moved back to Eileen's desk to grab his phone. As he reached for it, his gaze caught on some family photographs on Eileen's desk. The girl standing next to Eileen in one of the pictures was very familiar.

  He walked around the desk and picked it up to take a closer look.

  He could hardly believe what he was seeing. The young woman with the straight brown hair and brown eyes was the same girl he'd seen in the St. Bernadette's yearbook. But that girl's last name had not been Raffin.

  With his pulse beating fast, he took the photo down the hall to Gerilyn's office. He walked in without knocking.

  "Gerilyn?"

  "What now?" she asked, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

  "Who's this with Eileen?" He held up the picture for her to see.

  "That's her daughter, Lindsay. Why?"

  "Is she a stepdaughter? Why doesn't she have Eileen's last name?"

  "She has her father's name—Blake. Eileen uses her maiden name."

  His heart was beating so hard and so loud, he could hardly hear himself think. He was standing on the precipice of something…" Did Lindsay go to St. Bernadette's Catholic High School?"

  "I think so. Why? What's wrong?"

  "Where can I find her?"

  "I'm not sure where she lives now—somewhere in the city. You can ask Eileen."

  Eileen. They hadn't thought Eileen was the target but rather Gerilyn. Had they been wrong?

  "What's Lindsay's relationship with her mother?" he asked.

  "The usual mother-daughter drama. They've had their troubles over the years. They haven't always been close. Eileen worked a lot when Lindsay was small. Lindsay seemed to resent that." Gerilyn paused. "Why are we talking about Lindsay?"

  "Because she went to school with Rick Baines at St. Bernadette's. Because a few days ago, there was a fire at that school."

  "Now you think Lindsay had something to do with the fires?" Gerilyn asked in astonishment.

  "Not something—everything. I think your husband just got off the hook, Gerilyn."

  "Where are you going?" she asked as he jogged toward the door.

  "To find Lindsay."

  As he headed out of the building to the car, he remembered that Lindsay had called her mom while she was in the office, and she'd been agitated about something.

  Maybe about the fire she'd set the night before?

  Was it possible that it was Eileen's daughter who was out for revenge? But why? Resentment for her mother working during her childhood? That didn't seem like a strong enough reason.

  When he got to the car, he texted Kate. Ask Eileen about her daughter. Find out where Lindsay lives. Get me the address if you can but try not to make her suspicious." He wasn't completely sure that if Lindsay was involved, she was acting alone.

  Perhaps Eileen was part of it, too. His gut tightened. Eileen had offered to take Kate to one of the target properties. Wasn't it a huge coincidence that one of the properties on the list he'd sent to Eileen the night before now wanted a remodel?

  Was Eileen just trying to get Kate into the house?

  Had she done the same thing with Sam?

  He felt sick at the thought.

  He started the car and peeled off down the street. He knew where they were going. He just had to get there before the unthinkable happened.

  Twenty-One

  "I'm so sorry," Eileen said, as she searched for a parking spot. "I promise this will just take a few minutes. My daughter gets really upset around the anniversary of her dad's death, which is this week. I just want to make sure she's all right."

  "Of course," Kate said. Eileen had gotten a call from her daughter again when they'd gotten into the car. Even from a distance away, Kate could hear how hysterical the girl was, so she'd agreed to stop for a minute so Eileen could make sure her daughter was all right.

  As they turned another corner, she frowned, realizing exactly where they were—only a few blocks from Ashbury Studios.

  "This is where you live?" she asked.

  "No, not anymore," Eileen replied. "It's where I used to live. After my husband died, we moved to Nob Hill. I had this flat remodeled, and it's been a rental for the past ten years. But a couple of weeks ago, my long-term tenant moved out, and my daughter asked if she could move in. I said yes, but now I think it was a bad idea. Even though the place has been completely redone, there are memories there."

  Eileen pulled in front of a two-story townhouse, partially blocking the driveway, and turned off the car. "Do you want to come in or…"

  "I'll come in," she said, her heart skipping a beat as she got out of th
e car and looked across the street at the bookstore where a large peace sign hung in the window.

  What the hell? This couldn't be a coincidence, could it?

  As they entered Eileen's building, she saw some texts from Devin, but she didn't have time to read them.

  She texted him the address and a quick message: Eileen's daughter lives here—across from the peace sign. Going to meet her now. Something weird going on. Come if you can.

  "There are two units," Eileen said, leading her up the stairs. "The first floor is rented to a single man. He's out of town a lot."

  When Eileen reached the door, Kate said, "Wait."

  Eileen gave her a questioning look. "Why?"

  "It smells like gas."

  Eileen's eyebrow shot up. "It does smell like gasoline. Oh, God, I hope someone hasn't gone after my daughter because they have a grudge against me." Her hand trembled as she tried to insert the key into the lock.

  "I don't think we should go in," Kate said, her gut telling her there was nothing good on the other side of the door.

  "My daughter is in there. I'm going in."

  Kate was torn, but as the door opened, she felt compelled to follow Eileen inside. The smell of gas was stronger now. There were rags and newspapers strewn around the floor, over the couch and along the far wall. Fuel—ready to burn.

  "Lindsay," Eileen called. "Where are you?"

  Lindsay? It was the first time Eileen had said her daughter's first name, and Kate's stomach churned. Lindsay was the name of the girl in the St. Bernadette's yearbook.

  As Eileen headed toward a dark hallway, the front door slammed shut.

  Kate whirled around to see a slender brunette in her mid-twenties, standing in front of the door that she'd now dead-bolted shut. In one hand was a long match. In the other was a box with more matches.

  Kate's heart leapt into her throat.

  "Lindsay," Eileen said, coming back into the living room. She saw her daughter with the match and froze. "My God, what are you doing?"

  Everything suddenly clicked into place for Kate.

  Lindsay was friends with Baines.