"Partly," she admitted.
"Well, I'm hoping you don't find anything, and that it was truly just a tragic accident."
"So do I," she said heavily, although there was a tiny part of her that wondered if there had been an accident at all.
Sixteen
Dylan walked outside the firehouse to call Tori. It was after seven and they'd just finished dinner after a fairly uneventful day, which was fine with him, since he hadn't gotten a lot of sleep the night before. But he certainly had no regrets about that. In fact, he had no regrets about anything, which he probably should have. He suspected that time would illuminate a truckload of complications that he and Tori had created by taking their relationship to a very intimate level, but at the moment he just didn't care.
He was too caught up in her to feel anything but frustration that they weren't together. He'd never had a problem leaving a woman to go to work…until today.
And it wasn't just that he was concerned she was in danger; he simply missed her—her smile, her wit, her curiosity, her smile, her beautiful eyes… He sucked in a breath as his body tightened at the memories running through his mind. Then he lifted his phone and punched in her number.
"Hi," she said somewhat breathlessly.
"Where are you? Are you all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine. I just got in the apartment."
"Were you at work?"
"I was, but then I got a lead on a woman who used to work with my dad—Lindsay Vaxman. She's out of the news business and she didn't have much information to impart, but she did tell me that my father went after big hitters with no fear and had problems with Mayor Oscar Martinez."
"About what?"
"She didn't know. But Lindsay also gave me the name of my father's former editor, who lives on a boat somewhere in the Sausalito Harbor. I'm going to see if I can find him tomorrow. I was going to do it tonight, but it was getting dark, and I didn't know which boat was his."
"I'm glad you didn't go tonight. If you can wait until I get off tomorrow at five, I'll go with you."
"That should work. I'm going to concentrate on going through the rest of my dad's files tonight. Then I can put those out of my mind."
He was happy that she was staying put for the evening. "Did you have any problems today?"
"Nope. I didn’t see anyone watching me or following me, and I was careful."
"I'm glad to hear that."
"How was your day?"
"A couple of motor vehicle accidents, a car fire, a man stuck in an elevator—nothing too exciting."
"That's a good thing, right?"
"It is," he agreed.
Silence fell between them. There were a lot of things he wanted to say to her, and a lot of things he knew he shouldn't say to her.
"Are you still there?" she asked.
"I am. Sorry. I wish I could help you tonight."
"It's probably better that you're not here. If you come over, I might get distracted."
He smiled at that. "You've been distracting me all day. Distance doesn't seem to lessen that."
"Really? I've been on your mind?"
"You have."
"And in a good way, right?"
"Very good." He knew he should hang up, but he was having a hard time breaking the connection between them. And then the alarm went off.
"Sounds like a call," Tori said.
"Yes. I have to go."
"Be careful, Dylan."
"You, too." He ended the call and went back to work.
The fire was in a pawn shop, and when they arrived on the scene, there were a half dozen people out on the sidewalk.
"Anyone still inside?" he asked, as he jumped off the truck.
"No. I was the last one out," a tattooed guy of about fifty said to him. "I was just about to lock the front door when something exploded in the back room. Maybe the furnace or something. I came out the front and saw flames coming off the roof."
"All right, everyone move back," he told the other bystanders, as Burke barked out orders to the rest of the crew.
It took them thirty minutes to knock down the fire, and the intensity of it reminded him of the fire Tori had narrowly escaped from. He checked out the back room, curious as to how the fire had begun. While the store manager had suggested the heater was a problem, from the burn pattern it appeared that the fire had started near the opposite wall.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned as Gary Kruger came into the room.
"What have we got?" Kruger asked.
"Not sure. The manager heard an explosion. He thought it was the heater, but it doesn't appear that way to me."
"I'll take a look."
"Will you let me know if you see any similarities between this fire and the one at the hotel last week?"
"I'll let you know when the report is done," Kruger replied, a terse note in his voice. "That's standard procedure—even if your last name is Callaway."
He didn't respond to that taunt. He'd heard it before, but every time he heard it, it pissed him off. He'd never traded on his name for anything. But he didn't need to get in a pissing match with Kruger.
He made his way back outside. The manager was pacing in front of the store.
"Was it the heater?" he asked.
"The investigator will determine that."
The man ran a hand through his hair. "I can't believe this happened. Martin is going to be furious."
"Who's Martin?"
"My landlord."
"What's his last name?"
"Fleming. You going to call him? I really don't want to tell him about this. He's going to blame it on me, even though I swear I don't know what happened."
He put a hand on the man's shoulder, seeing the agitation in his eyes. "It's not your fault."
"Can you tell Martin that? He thinks I drink on the job, but I am sober, man."
"Trust me, he'll be notified and informed of the investigator's findings."
"All right."
"Take it easy." He walked back to the truck and joined the rest of his crew. After putting away their equipment, they returned to the station.
As they were making their way inside, Burke motioned him toward his office. "Talk to me for a minute," he said.
He followed his cousin inside. "What's going on?"
"You tell me. I saw Emma last night. She said she and Max are looking into the hotel fire and that you're spending a lot of time with Tori Hayden. Emma thinks Tori might be in some trouble, which means you might be in some trouble."
"I'm fine. Tori—I don't know. It's complicated."
Burke's steady blue gaze raked over his face. "All right. You don't have to explain, but tell me this—do you think the fire today was connected to the hotel fire?"
"I have no proof, but in my gut, I do believe that. I'd like to know what Kruger comes up with, but I doubt he's going to tell me. He made a point of telling me my last name wasn't going to get me any favors."
"I'll see what I can find out."
"I appreciate the help."
"Any time."
Burke leaned forward, his gaze thoughtful. "So…you and Tori Hayden? Something going on there?"
"There might be," he conceded.
"How's Scott going to feel about that?"
"I don't think he'll love it."
"Is she worth losing your best friend?"
"I hope it doesn't come to that, but…she might be."
* * *
Tori left work at five thirty on Tuesday to meet Dylan downstairs, and she couldn't believe how excited she felt at the prospect of seeing him again. It had only been a day and a half since she'd seen him, but it felt like much longer. When she reached the street, she saw the very sexy Dylan leaning against his blue Mustang, waiting for her.
For a split second, the image took her back to middle school, when she used to walk across to the high school at three so Dylan and Scott could give her a ride home from school. Every day, they'd been waiting by Dylan or Scott's car with a cr
owd of girls around them, and they had never, ever been happy to see her.
But today a smile split across Dylan's face when their eyes met, and all the little doubts she'd had about taking their relationship too far vanished in that instant.
"Hi," he said, a husky note in his voice. "Ready to go track down your father's former editor?"
She was more ready to go back to her apartment and tumble into bed with him.
Something must have flashed through her eyes, because Dylan's gaze dropped to her mouth, and she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he stepped back and opened the car door. "Later," he murmured.
She raised a brow, her heart beating way too fast at that one word. "Later what?"
He looked into her eyes. "Whatever you want, Tori."
"I thought it was a one-night stand, Dylan."
"Maybe we'll have to take it to two…" he drawled. "But first, we have work to do—don't we?"
"Yes," she said, drawing in a breath. "We do. I found an address for Hal Thatcher."
"Let's go."
She got into the car and said, "He lives on a houseboat in the Sausalito marina. He retired when the Journal bought the Herald, which happened four months after my father died," she added.
"Is that significant?" he asked, as he pulled into traffic.
"I don't know. It seems like the Herald was completely swallowed up. Only two reporters from the Herald went on to work at the Journal."
"That often happens in mergers."
"I suppose."
"Did you find anything else in the files?"
Guilt ran through her at his question. "I really wanted to read through everything, but last night I just couldn't keep my eyes open," she said. "I fell asleep at the kitchen table before nine and then dragged myself off to bed when I woke up an hour later. I brought some files in my bag to look at during lunch, but one of the writers was out sick, and I had to step in and do some interviews for her that had already been set up. I feel badly that I didn't get through all the files. I really wanted to."
He gave her a sympathetic smile. "Don't beat yourself up. You can finish them off later."
"How was your shift?" She thought he looked a little tired, too.
"Not bad. We went to a fire last night that had a similar explosive beginning as the one at the hotel."
"Where was it?" she asked, surprised by his words.
"A pawn shop, about three blocks away from the hotel."
"Was anyone hurt?"
"No. Luckily the manager was locking up the front door when there was an explosion in the back. He was outside when we arrived."
"Well, I'm glad no one else died," she said slowly, wondering if the fires were connected.
"Me, too. The same investigator—Gary Kruger—is working on the case. We'll see if he comes up with a link."
"It would be really interesting if there was a connection. And a little scary, too," she added. "Maybe there are more fires to come."
His profile hardened at her words but all he said was, "I hope not."
"I feel even more guilty now that I fell asleep on the job last night."
"I don't think your father's old files would have had any clue that would have prevented the pawn shop fire. If your dad was investigating something dangerous, he wouldn't have left critical information lying around. He was too smart for that."
"You're probably right. If he had anything, it was on his computer or in his head."
"We can still hope that his former editor knew what he was working on."
"That is what I'm hoping," she agreed.
As they crossed over the Golden Gate Bridge on their way to Sausalito, the waterfront city across the bay, she tried to get re-energized by the view. She'd told Dylan that she didn't quit, that when she ran into obstacles, she just backed up and tried another way, but she was feeling a little tired of running around in circles with no clear direction or solid leads.
But looking out at the water, the colorful sailboats enjoying the warm weather and the late afternoon breezes made her feel more optimistic. This wasn't the end. They had a lot left to do. She just had to keep her head down and stay focused and somehow she'd find the answers she needed.
As they came off the bridge, they headed down the hill into Sausalito. The city was beautiful and charming with a mix of upscale mansions clinging to steep hillsides, as well as modest apartments for the younger generation who commuted into San Francisco. And then there were the houseboats, where an eclectic community of artists, boaters, and people who just wanted to feel a little more away from it all lived.
They parked and headed toward the docks. The boats ranged from weathered and barely holding it together to fancy and modern. Some owners had put up flower boxes around their boats, making an almost traditional yard around their homes. Others had painted the sides of their boats with murals or vibrant colors. She'd read up a little on the community while trying to find Hal's address and knew that the owners were passionate lovers of what they called their floating homes.
Hal's home was modest, no colorful artwork, and no frills, but there were comfortable chairs on the deck, and it appeared to be well maintained. She went up the steps, calling out, "Hello? Anyone home?"
A moment later, a man came out of the front door. He was in his sixties or early seventies, with white hair, tan, weathered skin and some extra pounds around the middle, but his dark-brown eyes were sharp and questioning.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"I'm Tori Hayden," she said, watching to see if her name would ring a bell, and it clearly did.
He straightened, his eyes widening in surprise. "Ben's little girl?"
"Not so little anymore, but yes. And you're Hal Thatcher?"
"I am. Last time I saw you was at the funeral. How are you? How's your mom?"
"We're both well—my brother, too."
"Right. Your brother played baseball. I heard a lot about those games."
"I'm sure you did. This is Dylan Callaway."
"Nice to meet you," Hal said, shaking Dylan's hand. "What can I do for you, Tori?"
"I have some questions about my dad."
"All right. Why don't you come inside?" he said, leading them into the house.
She was actually surprised at how much the boat felt like a house. If there wasn't a gentle rocking motion under her feet, she could almost forget they were on the water. The sitting room was small, but there was a love seat and a comfortable arm chair, so they were all able to sit down.
"What do you want to know?" Hal asked.
She took a breath and then dove in. "Do you remember what my father was working on before he died?"
Hal gave her a long, thoughtful look, but he didn't give away much in his gaze. Finally, he said, "Yes. He was trying to find a serial arsonist."
Her gut clenched at his words, and as she glanced over at Dylan, she saw the same startled light in his eyes.
"A serial arsonist?" she echoed.
"San Francisco was going up in flames with suspicious fires all over the city. The fire department was stretched thin, trying to keep up with them. It was clear that there was a very enthusiastic fire starter at work. But your father didn't think it was just your normal run-of-the-mill thrill-seeking arsonist; he thought there was a bigger scheme."
"What kind of a scheme?" she asked.
"He didn't share all of his thoughts with me, but I know that he believed the fires were about money."
"Insurance money," Dylan muttered.
Hal nodded. "That—and more. Ben had a gut feeling that there was a powerful person or group behind the fires. He told me he had some good leads and that I should be prepared to get the lawyers on board, because he was going to be dropping some big names, and it wasn't going to be what I might think."
"That sounds mysterious," she said with a frown. "Did he tell you the names of the people he was investigating?"
"No," Hal said, giving a firm shake of his head. "Ben kept everything close to the vest. I
was surprised he told me that much. He never told a story until he felt it was ready to be shared with the world. He didn't want to go off half-cocked and then not be able to back up his ideas. He liked to have all his facts before he put them into an article. I appreciated that. It saved the paper from lawsuits. Unfortunately, Ben never finished the story, and I never even saw a draft."
"Did anyone pursue the story after he died?" she asked. "It seems like a big news event that someone would have wanted in on."
"I asked Lindsay to look into it. She'd worked with Ben and had some insight into how he thought and who he might have spoken to, but she never came up with anything concrete. She told me there was nothing on his desktop computer about the fires, and we knew his laptop computer was probably at the bottom of the sea. Not that I really thought there would be anything on the computers. Whatever notes he'd made he'd probably done by hand. Anyway, the fires died down in the next few weeks, so all the news organizations stopped covering them. Several months later, the Herald got bought up by the Journal, and the office was basically decimated. I decided to retire and write some books, do some sailing, and get out of the vicious and demanding news cycle. I was ready for a break." He paused. "Can I ask why you're so interested in what your father was working on? It's been a long time."
"I'm a reporter now for the Bay Area Examiner, and I'm thinking about writing a book about my dad's life," she said, sticking with the story that had worked with Lindsay. "But I realize that I don't know enough about his work. I have some of his old files at my house, but his computer was lost when he died."
"You should be able to get clippings of most everything he wrote."
"I'm more interested in his notes, how he got to where he was going."
Hal crossed his arms. "That's a good explanation, but it's not the whole story, is it? You're suddenly wondering if your dad's death wasn't an accident."
She was taken aback by his words. "Should I be wondering that?" she countered. "That's a bold statement to make."
"And yet you're not really surprised I made it. We had a break-in at the paper the day of your father's funeral. No one was in the office. We were all paying our respects. Nothing much was taken, but our IT guy told me that someone hacked into the system, into your father's files, as well as others."
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