He couldn't say he was disappointed. Fancy digs for a fancy lady, he thought. Thick carpet, lots of glass, soft-colored, cushy chairs in the waiting area. Original paintings on the walls, live, thriving plants.
And her secretary, or assistant, or whatever title the pretty little thing at the lobby desk carried, worked with top-grade equipment.
The boss's office was no surprise, either. Ry's quick scan showed him more thick carpet, in slate blue, rosy walls decorated with the splashy modern art he'd never cared for. Antique furniture—probably the real thing.
Her desk was some old European piece, he supposed. They went in for all that gingerbread work and curves. Natalie sat behind it, in one of her tidy suits, a wide, tinted window at her back.
Three other people stood like soldiers ready to snap to attention at her command. He recognized the younger man as the one she'd embraced at the fire site. Tailored suit, shiny leather shoes, ruthlessly knotted tie. Pretty face, blow-dried hair, soft hands.
The second man was older, and looked to be on the edge of a smile. He wore a polka-dot bow tie and a mediocre toupee.
The woman made a fine foil for her boss. Boxy jacket—slightly wrinkled—flat-heeled shoes, messy hair that couldn't decide if it wanted to be red or brown. Closing in on forty, Ry judged, and not much interested in fighting it.
"Inspector," Natalie waited a full ten seconds before rising and holding out a hand.
"Ms. Fletcher." He gave her long, narrow fingers a perfunctory squeeze.
"Inspector Piasecki is investigating the warehouse fire." And in his usual uniform of jeans and a flannel shirt, she noted. Didn't the city issue official attire? "Inspector, these are three of my top-level executives—Donald Hawthorne, Melvin Glasky and Deirdre Marks." Ry nodded at the introductions, then turned his attention to Natalie again. "I'd have thought a smart woman like you would know better than to put her office on the forty-second floor."
"I beg your pardon?"
"It makes rescue hell—not only for you, but for the department. No way to get a ladder up here. That window's for looks, not for ventilation or escape. You've got forty-two floors to get down, in a stairway that's liable to be filled with smoke."
Natalie sat again, without asking him to join her. "This building is equipped with all necessary safety devices. Sprinklers, smoke detectors, extinguishers."
He only smiled. "So was your warehouse, Ms. Fletcher." Her headache was coming back, double-time. "Inspector, did you come here to update me on your investigation, or to criticize my work space?"
"I can do both."
"If you'll excuse us." Natalie glanced toward her three associates. Once the door had closed behind them, Natalie gestured to a chair. "Let's clear the air here. You don't like me, I don't like you. But we both have a common goal. Very often I have to work with people I don't care for on a personal level. It doesn't stop me from doing my job." She tilted her head, aimed what he considered a very cool, very regal stare at him. "Does it stop you?"
He crossed his scuffed hightops at the ankles. "Nope."
"Good. Now what do you have to tell me?"
"I've just filed my report. You no longer have a suspicious fire. You've got arson."
Despite the fact that she'd been expecting it, her stomach clutched once. "There's no question?" She shook her head before he could speak. "No, there wouldn't be. I've been told you're very thorough."
"Have you? You ought to try aspirin, before you rub a hole in your head."
Annoyed, Natalie dropped the hand she'd been using to massage her temple. "What's the next step?"
"I've got cause, method, point of origin. I want motive."
"Aren't there people who set fires simply because they enjoy it? Because they're compelled to?"
"Sure." He started to reach for a cigarette, then noticed there wasn't an ashtray in sight. "Maybe you've got a garden-variety spark. Or maybe you've got a hired torch. You were carrying a lot of insurance, Ms. Fletcher."
"That's right. I had a reason for it. I lost over a million and a half in merchandise and equipment alone."
"You were covered for a hell of a lot more."
"If you know anything at all about real estate, Inspector, you're aware that the building was quite valuable. If you're looking for insurance fraud, you're wasting your time."
"I've got time." He rose. "I'm going to need a statement, Ms. Fletcher. Official. Tomorrow, my office, two o'clock."
She rose, as well. "I can give you a statement here and now."
"My office, Ms. Fletcher." He took a card out of his pocket, set it on her desk. "Look at it this way. If you're in the clear, the sooner we get this done, the sooner you collect your insurance."
"Very well." She picked up the card and slipped it into the pocket of her suit. "The sooner the better. Is that all for the moment, Inspector?"
"Yeah." His eyes skimmed down to the cover of the catalog lying on the desk. An ivory-skinned model was curled over a velvet settee, showing off a backless red gown with a froth of tantalizing lace at the bodice.
"Nice." His gaze shot back to Natalie's. "A classy way to sell sex."
"Romance, Inspector. Some people still enjoy it."
"Do you?"
"I don't think that applies."
"I just wondered if you believe in what you're selling, or if you just go for the bucks." Just as he'd wondered if she wore her own products under those neatly tailored suits.
"Then I'll satisfy your curiosity. I always believe in what I'm selling. And I enjoy making money. I'm very good at it." She picked up the catalog and held it out to him. "Why don't you take this along? All our merchandise is unconditionally guaranteed. The toll-free number will be in full operation on Monday."
If she'd expected him to refuse or fumble, she was disappointed. Ry rolled the catalog into a tube and tucked it into his hip pocket.
"Thanks."
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an outside appointment." She stepped out from behind the desk. He'd been hoping for that. Whatever he thought about her, he enjoyed her legs. "Need a lift?" Surprised, she turned away from the small closet at the end of the room. "No. I have a car." It more than surprised her when he came up behind her to help her on with her coat. His hands lingered lightly, briefly, on her shoulders.
"You're stressed out, Ms. Fletcher."
"I'm busy, Inspector." She turned, off balance, and was annoyed when she had to jerk back or bump up against him.
"And jumpy," he added, with a quick, satisfied curve of his lips. He'd wondered if she was as elementally aware of him as he was of her. "A suspicious man might say those were signs of guilt. It so happens I'm a suspicious man. But you know what I think?"
"I'm fascinated by what you think."
Sarcasm apparently had no effect on him. He just continued to smile at her. "I think you're just made up that way. Tense and jumpy. You've got plenty of control, and you know just how to keep the fires banked. But now and again it slips. It's interesting when it does."
It was slipping now. She could feel it sliding greasily out of her hands. "Do you know what I think, Inspector?"
The dimple that should have been out of place on his strong face winked. "I'm fascinated by what you think, Ms. Fletcher."
"I think you're an arrogant, narrow-minded, irritating man who thinks entirely too much of himself."
"I'd say we're both right."
"And you're in my way."
"You're right about that, too." But he didn't move, wasn't quite ready to. "Damned if you don't have the fanciest face."
She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"An observation. You're one classy number." His fingers itched to touch, so he dipped them into his pockets. He'd thrown her off. That was obvious from the way she was staring at him, half horrified, half intrigued. Ry saw no reason not to take advantage of it. "A man's hard-pressed not to do a little fantasizing, once he's had a good look at you. I've had a couple of good looks now."
"I don't think…" Only sheer pride
prevented her stepping back. Or forward. "I don't think this is appropriate."
"If we ever get to know each other better, you'll find out that propriety isn't at the top of my list. Tell me, do you and Hawthorne have a personal thing going?"
His eyes, dark, intense, close, dazzled her for a moment. "Donald? Of course not." Appalled, she caught herself. "That's none of your business."
Her answer pleased him, on professional and personal levels. "Everything about you is my business."
She tossed up her chin, eyes smoldering. "So, this pitiful excuse for a flirtation is just a way to get me to incriminate myself?"
"I didn't think it was that pitiful. Obvious," he admitted, "but not pitiful. On a professional level, it worked."
"I could have lied."
"You have to think before you lie. And you weren't thinking." He liked the idea of being able to frazzle her, and pushed a little further. "It so happens that, on a strictly personal level, I like the way you look. But don't worry, it won't get in the way of the job."
"I don't like you, Inspector Piasecki."
"You said that already." For his own pleasure, he reached out, tugged her coat closed. "Button up. It's cold out there. My office," he added as he turned for the door. "Tomorrow, two o'clock."
He strolled out, thinking of her.
Natalie Fletcher, he mused, punching the elevator button for the lobby. High-class brains in a first-class package. Maybe she'd torched her own building for a quick profit. She wouldn't be the first or the last.
But his instincts told him no.
She didn't strike him as a woman who looked for shortcuts.
He stepped into the elevator car, which tossed his own image back to him in smoked glass.
Everything about her was top-of-the-line. And her background just didn't equal fraud. Fletcher Industries generated enough profit annually to buy a couple of small Third World countries. This new arm of it was Natalie's baby, and even if it folded in the first year, it wouldn't shake the corporate foundations.
Of course, there was emotional attachment to be considered. Those same instincts told him she had a great deal of emotional attachment to this new endeavor. That was enough for some to try to eke out a quick profit to save a shaky investment. But it didn't jibe. Not with her.
Someone else in the company, maybe. A competitor, hoping to sabotage her business before it got off the ground. Or a classic pyro, looking for a thrill.
Whatever it was, he'd find it.
And, he thought, he was going to enjoy rattling Natalie Fletcher's cage while he was going about it.
One classy lady, he mused. He imagined she'd look good—damn good—modeling her own merchandise.
The beeper hooked to his belt sounded as he stepped from the elevator. Another fire, he thought, and moved quickly to the nearest phone.
There was always another fire.
Chapter 3
Ry kept her cooling her heels for fifteen minutes. It was a standard ploy, one she'd often used herself to psych out an opponent. She was determined not to fall for it.
There wasn't even enough room in the damn closet he called an office to pace.
He worked in one of the oldest fire stations in the city, two floors above the engines and trucks, in a small glassed-in box that offered an uninspiring view of a cracked parking lot and sagging tenements.
In the adjoining room, Natalie could see a woman pecking listlessly at a typewriter that sat on a desk overflowing with files and forms. The walls throughout were a dingy yellow that might, decades ago, have been white. They were checkerboard with photos of fire scenes—some of which were grim enough to have had her turning away—bulletins, flyers, and a number of Polish jokes in dubious taste.
Obviously Ry had no problem shrugging off the clichéd humor about his heritage.
Metal shelves were piled with books, binders, pamphlets, and a couple of trophies, each topped with a statuette of a basketball player. And, she noted with a sniff, dust. His desk, slightly larger than a card table and badly scarred, was propped up under one shortened leg by a tattered paperback copy of The Red Pony.
The man didn't even have respect for Steinbeck.
When her curiosity got the better of her, Natalie rose from the folding chair, with its torn plastic seat, and poked around his desk.
No photographs, she noted. No personal mementos. Bent paper clips, broken pencils, a claw hammer, a ridiculous mess of disorganized paperwork. She pushed at some of that, then jumped back in horror when she revealed the decapitated head of a doll.
She might have laughed at herself, if it wasn't so hideous. The remnant of a child's toy, the frizzy blond hair nearly burned away, the once rosy face melted into mush on one side. One bright blue eye remained staring.
"Souvenirs," Ry said from the doorway. He'd been watching her for a couple of minutes. "From a class A fire up in the east sixties. The kid made it." He glanced down at the head on his desk. "She was in a little better shape than her doll."
Her shudder was quick and uncontrollable. "That's horrible."
"Yeah, it was. The kid's father started it with a can of kerosene in the living room. The wife wanted a divorce. When he was finished, she didn't need one."
He was so cold about it, she thought. Maybe he had to be. "You have a miserable job, Inspector."
"That's why I love it." He glanced around as the outer door opened. "Have a seat. I'll be right with you." Ry pulled the office door closed before he turned to the uniformed fire fighter who'd come in behind him.
Through the glass, Natalie could hear the mutter of voices. She didn't need to hear Ry raise his voice—as he soon did—to know that the young fireman was receiving a first-class dressing-down.
"Who told you to ventilate that wall, probie?"
"Sir, I thought—"
"Probies don't think. You're not smart enough to think. If you were, you'd know what fresh air does for a fire. You'd know what happens when you let it in and there's a damn puddle of fuel oil sloshing under your boots."
"Yes, sir. I know, sir. I didn't see it. The smoke—"
"You'd better learn to see through smoke. You'd better learn to see through everything. And when the fire goes into the frigging wall, you don't take it on yourself to give it a way out while you're standing in accelerant. You're lucky to be alive, probie, and so's the team who were unlucky enough to be with you."
"Yes, sir. I know, sir."
"You don't know diddly. That's the first thing you remember the next time you go in to eat smoke. Now get out of here."
Natalie crossed her legs when Ry came into the room. "You're a real diplomat. That kid couldn't have been more than twenty."
"Be nice if he lived to a ripe old age, wouldn't it?" With a flick of his wrist, Ry tugged down the blinds, closing them in.
"Your technique makes me regret I didn't bring a lawyer with me."
"Relax." He moved to his desk, pushed some files out of his way.
"I don't have the authority to arrest, just to investigate."
"Well, I'll sleep easy now." Deliberately she took a long look at her watch. "How long do you think this is going to take? I've already wasted twenty minutes."
"I got held up." He sat, opened the bag he'd brought in with him.
"Have you had lunch?"
"No.'' Her eyes narrowed as he took out a wrapped package that smelled tantalizingly of deli. "Are you telling me that you've kept me waiting in here while you picked up a sandwich?"
"It was on my way." He offered her half of a corned beef on rye. "I've got a couple of coffees, too." .
"I'll take the coffee. Keep the sandwich."
"Suit yourself." He handed her a small insulated cup. "Mind if we record this?"
"I'd prefer it."
Eating with one hand, he opened a desk drawer, took out a tape recorder. "You must have a closet full of those suits." This one was the color of crushed raspberries, and fastened at the left hip with gold buttons. "Do you ever wear anythin
g else?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Small talk, Ms. Fletcher."
"I'm not here for small talk," she snapped back. "And stop calling me Ms. Fletcher in that irritating way."
"No problem, Natalie. Just call me Ry." He switched on the recorder and began by reciting the time, date and location of the interview. Despite the tape, he took out a notebook and pencil. "This interview is being conducted by Inspector Ryan Piasecki with Natalie Fletcher, re the fire at the Fletcher Industries warehouse, 21 South Harbor Avenue, on February 12 of this year."
He took a sip of his coffee. "Ms. Fletcher, you are the owner of the aforesaid building, and its contents."
"The building and its contents are—were—the property of Fletcher Industries, of which I am an executive officer."
"How long has the building belonged to your company?"
"For eight years. It was previously used to warehouse inventory for Fletcher Shipping."
The heater beside him began to whine and gurgle. Ry kicked it carelessly. It went back to a subdued hum.
"And now?"
"Fletcher Shipping moved to a new location." She relaxed a little. It was going to be routine now. Business. "The warehouse was converted nearly two years ago to accommodate a new company. We used the building for manufacturing and warehousing merchandise for Lady's Choice. We make ladies' lingerie."
"And what were the hours of operation?"
"Normally eight to six, Monday through Friday. In the last six months, we expanded that to include Saturdays from eight to noon."
He continued to eat, asking standard questions about business practices, security, vandalism. Her answers were quick, cool and concise.
"You have a number of suppliers."
"Yes. We use American companies only. That's a firm policy."
"Ups the overhead."
"In the short term. I believe, in the long term, the company will generate profits to merit it."
"You've put a lot of personal time into this company. Incurred a lot of expenses, invested your own money."
"That's right."
"What happens if the business doesn't live up to your expectations?"
"It will." He leaned back now, enjoying what was left of his cooling coffee.
Books by Nora Roberts Page 408