by Julie Miller
Gideon studied the pictures. Whoever had written the note had copied each letter precisely, right down to the forty-five-degree angle stroke of the pen. “That same profile fits a high-tech arsonist.”
“So you’re hypothesizing that your man and Meghan’s stalker are one and the same?”
Gideon rubbed his fingers across his chin and jaw, wishing he had something more to go on. “You got any facts I can use to back up that theory?”
“I can trace the make of ink on the card, if you want, but I’m guessing it’s a felt marker you can get at any office supply store.”
“And the card itself can probably be found at a dozen floral shops in the area.”
“Try a hundred shops.” Mac’s gaze circled the lab. “There isn’t much to go on here, Gid. Maybe this is just some lonely guy and his fascination with Meghan will pass once the news stories about her die down.”
Gideon slipped on his K.C.F.D. cap and straightened the bill. “I hope you’re right.”
Mac fell into step beside him as he headed for the door. “That sixth sense of yours trying to tell you something?”
“That sixth sense has been unreliable since…” He had to switch the printouts to his crippled hand to get the door. “The accident.”
“Then trust the facts you do know. And trust your experience. You’ve studied fires and the people who set them for a lot of years.” Mac clasped a hand around Gideon’s shoulder and gave him an empathetic squeeze. “Do you think the person who sent that note could start a fire?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Meghan’s in danger?”
That question took longer to answer. Meghan had been scared enough—twice—to turn to him even though she insisted they didn’t belong together. “Yes.”
Mac slapped him on the back in a brotherly sort of hug. “Then do your job. And let one of us know if there’s anything else we can do to help.”
“MS. WRIGHT? Ms. Wright?”
The late-afternoon sun beat down on the top of Meghan’s head, draining her of energy and making it all too easy to ignore the insistent voice that drummed in her ears.
The only advantage to the one-hundred-degree weather she could see was that the hoses dried out more quickly and could be loaded onto the trucks sooner. Her shift was almost over and she was ready to crash after spending the better part of her day fighting this one-story blaze in the North Kansas City business district. The building looked like a total write-off—but no one had gotten hurt beyond some mild cases of heat exhaustion—and they’d prevented the fire from spreading to the adjacent structures on either side.
Though few fires were standard, at least this one lacked the dramatics of yesterday’s warehouse blaze. It had felt good—therapeutic, even—to simply go back to work and fight side by side with her unit. For those few hours she could concentrate on the job at hand and shut out thoughts of stalkers and an old lover who made her feel safe and unsure of herself all at the same time.
She had to stop turning to Gideon for comfort. But he made it too easy to be drawn to his immeasurable strength and intuitive heart. She had to be stronger. She had to somehow help his investigation in whatever way she could, and still maintain her emotional distance. Or both of them would wind up getting hurt all over again.
She’d almost told him everything this morning. The rational side of her was determined to come clean of all her humiliating secrets so Gideon might finally understand why she’d walked out. But that fragile, wounded part of her that had lacked courage two years ago still reveled in the idea of him being kind to her. Loving her. The idea that, in some modern miracle of a world, it wouldn’t be such a crime to still love him.
“Keep dreaming,” she chided herself and returned to her work. Eventually she’d wear her body out enough that her brain wouldn’t have the energy to think or fear or dream about anything. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and pushed her sunglasses up onto the bridge of her nose before picking up the next length of flat hose. Hoisting it first onto her hip, and then onto her shoulder, she grunted when it fell into place. She breathed deeply beneath its weight and turned toward the trucks parked in the street.
“Meghan? Meghan!”
This time she let the voice register. She lifted her gaze from the littered pavement and saw the woman in the figure-hugging turquoise suit waving at her from behind the yellow cordoning tape that blocked off the fire scene. Meghan’s breath puffed out on a weary sigh. “Oh, boy.”
Saundra Ames tucked a strand of her long, auburn hair behind one ear and smiled at having snagged Meghan’s attention. “May I ask you a few questions?”
Her cameraman stood to one side, his film already rolling, judging by the camera’s bright light. Great. He was getting a nice shot of her sweating for the nightly news. Since she wore dark glasses, maybe she could pretend she hadn’t noticed the reporter. But Saundra Ames was too sharp for that.
“It’ll take just a few minutes of your time. I promise,” she said.
John Murdock walked up beside Meghan, hauling his own load to the engine. He leaned down and whispered, “You want to do that again?”
“Not really.”
He towered up in full, big-brother mode. “I can make an excuse for you.”
Meghan managed half a grin for his sake. “Thanks, but you better not. I’ve already been spotted. If I answer a few questions, maybe she’ll go away and leave us alone.”
“Ms. Wright?”
Meghan fixed a smile on her face and waved to Saundra.
“Are you sure about this?” John took her hose in one of his protective-gloved hands and hooked it over his own empty shoulder. “I bet I could take her.”
Meghan laughed, grateful for the chance to lighten her mood. “Better save your strength. She looks like a regular barracuda.” She patted his arm to send him on his way. “Thanks, anyway.”
As John strode toward the engine with his double load, Meghan pulled off her sunglasses and tucked them into the neckline of her T-shirt. Then she primped her hair, trying to stuff as many of the loose ends back into her braid and off her face as she could.
She strolled down the empty sidewalk to the perimeter of the scene and shook hands with the reporter. Saundra’s long, manicured fingers were as perfectly buffed and shaped as the reporter herself. “Ms. Ames.”
“Saundra, please. And may I call you Meghan?”
Hadn’t she already? “Sure.”
Leaving the yellow tape between them for an “interesting camera shot,” Saundra smoothed her own hair into place and licked her lips to make them shine. Another minute passed as the cameraman centered them in the shot and Saundra introduced herself and the segment.
“It looks as if the city has adopted you as Kansas City’s Sweetheart. What do you think of the honor?”
Meghan fiddled with the glasses at her neck, trying to dispel the self-conscious tension she felt. Uncle Pete would be laughing hysterically at the idea of her being anyone’s sweetheart. She ignored the distant voice inside her head and smiled for the camera. “I think that’ll be a hard one to live down at the station house. I prefer to think of myself as just one of the guys.”
A small dent formed between Saundra’s eyes, as if the answer had displeased her. She pushed for a different response. “But you should be celebrating what sets you apart. You’re unique, a woman fighting on the front lines of a dangerous job. That’s not all that common, is it?”
“Maybe it’s a little unexpected,” Meghan agreed. “The job is demanding—for a man or a woman. But there are women who succeed in the profession. One of our stations has a lady captain, and there are several women with administrative duties who’ve come up through the ranks.”
“Is that your goal—to rise through the ranks?”
Back to the flagship-for-successful-women role. Meghan took a deep breath and tried to steer away from that topic. “I’m happy where I am right now. I love the challenge of fighting fires. I wish I wa
sn’t so busy, though. Two big fires in two days isn’t all that common.”
“Of course.” The microphone hovered closer to her face as Saundra shifted gears in her questioning. “What can you tell us about today’s fire? Preliminary results indicate that the fire at the old Meyer’s Textile warehouse was deliberately set. Is there any indication that this was an arson fire, as well?”
The human interest story took a sudden turn into the hard-hitting-news-story zone.
Feeling closed in, Meghan tilted her chin away from the mike. “The scene commander could give you a more accurate report. But it looks like this was burning for a while, down in the basement, before the people in the office next door smelled smoke and called it in.” She glanced over her shoulder at the blackened U-shaped space between the neighboring buildings where the office complex had once stood. “Apparently, the company was doing some repainting of the interior so, fortunately, no one was at work today.”
“But was it arson?” The microphone loomed larger. “Are we having a crime wave to go along with our heat wave?”
“Ms. Wright?” A tiny voice in the crowd turned Meghan’s attention from the camera. A dark-haired girl, maybe seven or eight years old, stepped forward, holding out a tiny notebook and pen. “Can I have your autograph? I’m going to be a firefighter, too, when I grow up.”
Meghan wasn’t sure what to do. The youngster seemed sincere, so earnest with her big brown eyes and gap-toothed smile. Meghan smiled at the girl, then looked up at Saundra. She couldn’t tell if the woman was pleased or put out with the interruption. “Is this okay?”
“Certainly.” Saundra smiled and pointed to the little girl, silently directing the cameraman to include her in the shot. While Meghan signed her name, Saundra sought out the child’s mother. “May I?”
With an approving nod, the interview shifted to the child. Though grateful for the reprieve, Meghan didn’t envy the kid suddenly being thrust into the spotlight. “What do you think of Meghan Wright?” Saundra asked, kneeling beside the girl.
“She’s cool.” The girl looked up at Meghan. “Tell the dog hi.”
Meghan smiled. “I will.”
“Will you sign our shirts?” A group of three preteen girls pushed forward, and suddenly there was a growing, overwhelming rush of attention.
Saundra Ames straightened to her fashion-model height and spoke to the camera. “As you can see, Meghan Wright is once again the hero of the day. One woman on the front line, risking her life day in and day out. As these mysterious fires continue to burn throughout Kansas City, we can take hope in knowing that we are not only protected, but inspired by the very best. Reporting for Channel Ten news, I’m Saundra Ames.”
“‘Continue to burn?”’ Meghan challenged the choice of words. “That’s a little dramatic, isn’t it? You’ll start a panic. We’ve controlled each fire.”
“Dennis, keep rolling the tape and get shots of the kids.” Saundra handed off the microphone and smoothed the hips of her silk suit. “Yes, but they’re increasing in frequency and damage estimates. If these were grass fires, I’d attribute them to the long, dry summer. But my instincts tell me there’s a story here. Four fires in three weeks? At least one of them proven to be arson?” She reached out to shake Meghan’s hand. “The fire investigation office was extremely closemouthed this morning, making me doubly suspicious. But I think you and I are becoming good friends. Call me if you find any answers.”
Gideon should be handling this conversation. “You really should—”
Saundra reached out to shake hands, dismissing her. “Thank you so much.” Then she spun toward her cameraman. “Dennis, I’m going to the van to call in my voice-over. Bring the tape when you’re done and we’ll start editing for the six o’clock edition.”
“Ms. Wright?” A man, no taller than Meghan herself, stepped up to the yellow tape. Two wispy strips of light brown hair at either side of his head kept him from being completely bald. The large round lenses of his glasses made him look like a bug. “I work next door. I wanted to thank you personally for keeping us safe.” He held out a pocket calendar and opened it to today’s date. “Would you?”
Apparently her fifteen minutes of fame made her popular with more than just dogs and children. But the gentleman was too shy to be threatening. Meghan took his pen and scribbled “Best wishes” and her name. “Thanks.”
“Meghan, sign mine.”
“Mine.”
“Tell the dog…”
Did every person in the city want her autograph? As the crowd surged forward, a swell of panic rose in her throat. “Wait, I—”
Almost as one, the crowd froze, obeying an unmistakable authority.
A sudden heat spanned the small of her back. A familiar hand. Protecting her.
Gideon.
“That’s enough, folks. Ms. Wright has more work to do.”
The panic eased out through the simple, supportive contact. Gideon’s strength and calm flowed into her via the same warm, intangible connection.
But his hand disappeared as she gratefully turned from the crowd and fell into step beside him as he led her back to the fire scene.
“Thanks for the rescue,” she offered with half a laugh.
His lips brushed against her temple as he bent his head and whispered for her ears alone. But despite the unintended caress of his mouth, his tone was less than tender. “We need to talk.”
Chapter Seven
“That’s your idea of keeping a low profile and hanging out with friends?” Gideon marched to the far side of what had once been one of the building’s rear offices. His boots sloshed in the standing water as his long legs carried him through the debris of charred furniture and melted plastic partitions. “Signing autographs and discussing my case with a reporter?”
Meghan planted her hands on her hips and tilted her chin in defiance. How dare he? “Do you think I enjoy being held up for public scrutiny?”
“I don’t think you enjoyed it, but it was a foolish risk to take.” Gideon peeled off his sunglasses and nailed her with a reprimanding look. “What were you thinking?”
“Saundra Ames asked me for an interview. I thought if I gave her what she wanted, she’d go away and leave me alone.” Meghan shrugged and waved her hands in front of her, as baffled by the press’s ongoing interest in her as by Gideon’s reaction to it. “She thinks there’s a story here.”
“There is a story here.” His blunt statement doused her defensive temper and replaced it with curiosity.
“What do you mean?”
He switched the glasses with a brown paper evidence bag he pulled from his pocket. With his right hand in a plastic glove, he opened the bag and reached inside. She noted the stiff, scarred fingers of his left hand holding the bag and remembered how strong and sure both hands had once been.
But before she could either treasure the memory of his confident touch or mourn the loss of his easy dexterity, he pulled out another detonator. He held the fried cube of components in the open palm of his hand. “Our friend left his calling card in the basement.”
“Oh, my God.” Meghan sank onto the remains of a charred metal desk before her knees buckled from the shock. “Is it just like the others?”
“Identical.” He dropped the detonator back into the bag and sealed it. “And anyone in that crowd outside, or any building on this block, is close enough to have started the fire and hung around to watch it burn.”
“And they could be home right now, waiting to watch it again on the evening news.” She dropped her gaze to the muck of water-soaked debris on the floor. “I suppose you found another Warrior symbol, too?”
He nodded. “On the basement floor. Probably drawn with paint thinner or any of a dozen chemicals on hand in the building for the remodel.”
An image of Ezio Moscatelli’s arrogant face taunted the corners of her mind. He seemed like the kind of creep who’d get off on watching someone else flounder or suffer. He’d enjoy seeing how much trouble he and his
compatriots could cause. Was Alex smart enough to keep his distance from Ezio? Or would he succumb to the dares and teasing? Could he be a part of this destruction?
“Oh, damn.” Her words fell on an anxious sigh.
“‘Oh, damn’ is right.” Gideon stalked across the room, closing the gap between them until he knelt in front of her and looked up into her face. But she could see in the whiskey-brown depths of his eyes that it was worry, not anger, driving this confrontation. “What were you thinking? You’re giving this guy all the publicity he could ever want. And you’re plastering your face out there, front and center, where he might think he’s getting to know you real well.”
Meghan shot to her feet, not bothering to correct his misassumption about her concern. Whether it was Alex or her own sorry hide she needed to protect, she’d bungled the job. “I didn’t tell Saundra anything about how the fires were started. I didn’t even confirm they were arson when she asked.” She curled her hands into fists and pumped the air in frustration. “I was trying to make it my last time on camera. So there wouldn’t be a next time. I just want this circus to be over.”
“So do I.”
“Then how do we—”
When she turned around, John Murdock stood only a few feet away, filling the skeletal rectangle that had once been the doorway to this office. “Are you okay, Meghan?”
She heard Gideon rise to his feet behind her, a silent leviathan who cast a big shadow over her shoulder and made the skin on her back and scalp tingle with the nearness of his heat. “This is a private conversation.”
John stood his ground. “Not if she doesn’t want it to be.”
Oh, Lord. This is not what she needed right now. Ever. Two grown men fighting to see who could best protect her. Especially when, deep down, she knew she needed to take care of herself.
She stepped to one side to distance herself from the pull of Gideon’s body and to allow a back-and-forth view of both men. Each man wore an expression that commanded the right to her loyalty. Neither man looked ready to back down from the unspoken challenge between them. Uncle Pete would have a field day with this standoff.