by D. D. Ayres
“See you drew the easy shift.”
Noah looked around to find fellow arson investigator Mike Wayne coming up behind them, half suited up in his firefighting gear. He also noted three female Motocross workers standing in the corridor giving Mike’s impressive torso lustful looks.
“You caught a flame?”
Mike nodded. “In the parking lot. Some idiot’s hot rod overheated.” He looked down at Harley, who had nudged him in greeting, and patted his head. “Hey there, Harley. Didn’t expect you two would be working today.”
Noah shrugged. “I can use the extra cash, same as the next guy.” He eyed Harley, who was obviously happy to see Mike. Harley had been taught not to be friendly to anyone when on the job, unless given the command by his handler. But they saw Mike at the office on a regular basis. Sometimes Mike even hid things for Harley to sniff out. “You hear anything I should know about?”
Mike slapped a fireproof glove against the palm of his hand. “You know we can’t talk about anything connected to the ongoing investigation. A friend wouldn’t ask.”
Noah met his gaze and the accusation in it. “A friend wouldn’t need to be asked.”
Mike grunted. “See you around.”
Noah gave Harley the command to “walk on.”
As they moved along the backstage corridor, available only to personnel wearing the appropriate badges hanging from a lanyard, Noah gave those he recognized a chin-up motion in greeting. Some responded enthusiastically. Others merely nodded in return. As an arson investigator, he walked a fine line in the first responder world. He was seen as a firefighter by police. Having the authority to wear a gun and arrest people, he was seen as a cop by firefighters. It was a dual existence he shared with exactly thirteen other arson investigators in Fort Worth. Not a large pool of colleagues. Even so, they were sorely missed today as he and Harley went about their job as security forces.
Noah gave Harley water from one the bottles he always carried. After the dog had drunk, he carefully checked Harley’s paws, especially between the toes and the pads to make certain he hadn’t picked up a small stone or sliver of glass or burr on their rounds. Satisfied his partner was okay, he fed him a few liver treats as Noah watched the crowd from the edge of the infield.
The beefed-up security used by the Motocross came from all over Fort Worth and the surrounding towns in several counties. Noah recognized several other K9 handlers, both law enforcement and private security. They paused to trade information about the day and to show off their K9s. Then it was back to work—this time, the parking lot.
After another hour of inspecting cars, Noah turned Harley back toward the restricted area to rest. Parking lot paving was harder on a dog’s footpads than grass.
“Well, well. If it ain’t the prof.”
Noah turned toward the voice. A man in a Village Creek Motocross T-shirt revealing full sleeves of tats was grinning as he came toward him. Beneath a gimme cap with a beer brand emblazoned on it, dirty blond hair curved away like wings above his ears.
Noah nodded in recognition of one of his former students. “J.W. You working today?”
“No. I’m here helping my cousin Don Lee. He’s got a seventy Mustang he’s been rebuilding.” J.W. reached down to pet Harley, but the K9 growled in warning.
J.W. hopped back, hands lifted in fake horror. “Say now. We’re friends. Or have things changed? What’s your boss been saying about me behind my back?”
“Harley’s on the job,” Noah said in defense of his dog. They were both feeling edgy since the fire. “He knows it’s not playtime.”
“Well, pardon the hell outta me.” J.W. looked back at Noah. “You want to come by the lot and see what Don Lee’s done? We’re over in the muscle car section.”
“Might do that. Got to rest and water Harley first.” Noah realized that J.W. wasn’t treating him any different than usual. And, more important, he was someone he’d seen Friday night.
“You were at Murtry’s party Friday night, right?”
J.W. shrugged. “More like happened to be at the place where it was going on. Some of your buddies don’t allow us volunteer guys the same respect.”
Noah shrugged. It was an on-going issue among some firefighters. “Professional versus amateur” was how many full-time employed men and women felt about volunteers. Others, who’d come from the volunteer world, felt differently. J.W. had the rare honor of being respected by most of Fort Worth’s firefighters.
“A fire’s a fire, J.W. We put it out the same.”
“Wet stuff on the red stuff.” J.W. laughed and grabbed his crotch as he imitated urinating. “You right there.”
A woman with a child in a stroller and holding the hand of another glared at him as she passed. “This is supposed to a child-friendly event.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” Noah shook his head. “That’s real classy, J.W.”
He snorted and then pulled up his tee’s short sleeve to reveal an angry-looking four-inch-long burn on his upper right shoulder. “Got that putting out a fence fire last night. You tell me we don’t fry the same.”
Noah nodded, debating whether or not J.W. would be on Durvan’s Don’t Ask potential witness list. What the hell. “You remember anything special about me Friday night?”
J.W. looked surprised. “Special? Uh, you’re sorta cute, and all. But you don’t have tits, so I wasn’t paying much attention.”
Noah laughed. “Screw you.”
“Why the question?”
“I sort of lost track of the events of the evening.”
J.W. grinned. “I can see how that can happen on a Friday night. But you were drinking Dr Pepper because you were working the next morning.”
Noah’s senses went on alert. “You remember me saying that?”
“I remember Jeb Nelson calling you a pussy over it.” J.W. reached up to scratch under his cap. “You two got a beef?”
“Jeb likes to jerk everyone’s chain.”
J.W. nodded. “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. I’m pretty sure I left before you did. Had a date.” He winked.
“Nice talking to you, J.W.” Noah gave a second’s thought before bringing up a sore subject. “If you need a recommendation on your job hunt, I’ll be happy to write one for you. I hear Waco’s fire department is looking for experienced guys.”
J.W.’s face flushed. “I got it covered. Any day now, things will turn my way.”
Noah went back to the infield just in time for the Show & Shine, K&N Filters All-American Sunday competition. The air vibrated with the throbbing full-throttle sounds of late-model American-made vehicles.
Harley barked twice, not enjoying the punishment to his ears.
Noah bent down and stroked him strongly until the K9 settled. He didn’t blame his partner. In fact, he wished he had earplugs.
Shortly after three o’clock, the events shut down. Unlike the rest of security, who were sweeping the infield to make certain every single item that had been carried into the stadium was being carried out, or properly binned, by participants and guests, the explosives teams were free to leave.
Harley was panting heavily by the time Noah had installed him in the back of his father’s truck. He gave him more water, but not enough to potentially cause stomach problems. “You must be exhausted, aren’t you, boy? I know I am. How about a steak dinner somewhere before we crash?”
Harley barked twice and licked Noah’s face, leaving it glistening with dog saliva. Harley’s vocabulary was limited, but he knew “steak.”
Chuckling, Noah wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Better shower and change first. Eau de Pooch isn’t popular with the ladies.”
He climbed behind the wheel and then inched his way in bumper-to-bumper out of the stadium parking lot and onto I-35W South.
The pricking at the base of his neck jerked him out of the stupor of barely moving traffic. He glanced over his shoulder.
Harley sprawled on the back seat, tongue lolling as he snored like a ripsaw
.
Noah glanced in his rearview mirror. The driver of the car behind him was a middle-aged woman who had her steering wheel in a death grip. She must be one of those drivers who wasn’t prepared for the mammoth near-permanent rush-hour crush that was the interstate under construction from the downtown Mixmaster north to the 114 cut-off.
The prickle persisted. As he reached up to rub the back of his neck he saw it. Or something. A flash of a headlight as a vehicle three or four back was veering across the stripe as if trying to keep tabs on him.
Could be a drunk driver not quite in control of his vehicle. Despite the strict tabs on alcohol, a few patrons had no doubt left in states of intoxication above the legal level.
“There it goes again.” Noah said the words to no one in particular. Harley certainly didn’t care. This time, the vehicle changed lanes.
Noah had a not-so-clear impression of a battered truck, more rust than paint, three cars behind him in the outside lane. But there was nowhere for either of them to go. The traffic had slowed to a stop.
A tail? Had Durvan sent someone to shadow his actions until he could be arrested?
The thought crawled all over him and stung like fire ants. The hell with that. He was usually the hunter, not the prey. Only one thing to do about it.
He bided his time, even turning on the radio to help him keep his cool as he plotted what to do. Sooner or later the traffic would thin enough for him to make a move.
It came as a major stream of traffic on his right began peeling off onto the exit ramp for 287 North. He changed lanes suddenly and then pressed the brake, causing the car behind him to slam on its brakes with an angry blast of the horn. He could imagine the middle finger being aimed his way as the driver swung left to fill his truck’s previous spot. He didn’t have time to admire it.
He jerked his wheel, sending his truck over the series of hard high bumps used to prevent drivers from exiting after they’d passed the official ramp. He was prepared for the jarring ride and kept the truck aimed at the exit. Harley, on the other hand, awoke with a start and began barking wildly as he tried to maintain his balance on the seat.
“Sorry, boy.”
Noah twisted his head left as he reached the pavement of the exit ramp.
The rusty truck, once three cars back and still a lane over, moved past before the driver realized that Noah was on the exit ramp.
He drove north a while before cutting over and driving city streets through Saginaw and then past Meacham Airport. He’d be harder to spot in town than on a major highway.
Only when he reached the stockyards did he stop checking his rearview mirror.
Maybe it was nothing. He could have been mistaken. His paranoia working overtime. But he couldn’t afford to be less careful. Not when he knew for a fact someone wanted him dead.
Strange how that worked. He’d never wanted more to be alive than at this moment.
He made a call to Andy, who talked in a breathless rush about the fish he’d caught with his grandfather. And how his grandmother was making those fish for dinner, though Andy had doubts about eating living things. The cycle of life had begun to register with his four-year-old. But then grandpa had explained how it was okay to eat what you caught, as part of the cycle. It was only a sin if you wasted the gift of food. And how they were going crabbing off the pier tomorrow so they could keep that life cycle going with other kinds of seafood.
Noah’s blood pressure had subsided by the time the call ended. It helped to know that out in the world there were people, like his son, who worried about doing the right thing by sea creatures. Kind hearts. He wanted his son to keep his as long as possible.
Without even trying, his thoughts turned to Carly.
Where was Carly? What had her day been like? He hoped like hell it had been better than his.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“This is so not a good idea.” Carly put her car in park and stared at the back door to Flawless. She didn’t need to look inside another single time. Nothing would change as long as the huge fans, which she could hear from the parking lot, were drying out the interior. A week, at most, she’d been told, before the mess could be cleared. A week.
She hoped God would forgive her for sitting through Reverend Morrison’s sermon while her mind played through scenarios of what her next steps should be. It had been a particularly long service, this being Palm Sunday followed by the congregation’s monthly Sunday Dinner.
A reasonable person would be working her business plan, trying to find a way to recoup from the devastation. Instead, she was fixated on the who and why of that devastation. She knew she wouldn’t be able to swallow a single mouthful of the food being served after service at the monthly Sunday Dinner served in the Fellowship Hall. Thankfully, Aunt Fredda had been too busy with problems of her own to notice her niece slipping out before grace was said.
Aunt Fredda’s explanation that, according to Jarius, a stray dog he’d taken in had eaten the pound cake she had baked for the dinner had been met with smirks and rolled eyes by her friends in the Ladies’ Auxiliary of St. James A. M. E Church.
A smile tugged at Carly’s mouth. Only she knew that Jarius’s punishment for stealing the cake was to mow his mother’s one-acre plus yard for the next month with an old-fashioned push mower!
Judge Wiley owned and kept ready a pair of push mowers, to be used by panhandlers who occasionally came to her door asking for a handout. She offered them work. Her rules were simple.
“I pay eight dollars an hour. And I know how long it takes to mow my yard because I’ve done it. Fifteen-minute breaks for every hour of work. I provide lunch. You don’t finish on time, you don’t get paid.”
Carly smiled. She admired her aunt, who knew who she was and exactly how she fit into both her working and community lives. Living in one place all one’s life offered that kind of stability. Something Carly had never wanted. She’d only known movement. Her parents both worked for the State Department, her father as a Foreign Service Cultural Affairs Officer. She’d lived in Washington, D.C., Haiti, Buenos Ares, and Italy, among other places. It was at one of those European postings that she’d been approached about modeling. If she’d stayed in Fort Worth, she doubted she would ever have gotten that chance.
But things changed. While her parents, now stationed in Tokyo, never tired of the adventure, their youngest daughter was ready to stop and take stock at home.
Flawless was to have been her rootstock for beginning a new life and finding a way to belong again in her hometown. But that dream, months in preparation, went up in smoke. At the moment, she didn’t know how, or if, she wanted to recover. That fact made her very sad, and very angry.
She thumped her fist lightly on the steering wheel, talking aloud to herself, as usual, to help her process her thoughts. Which, not surprisingly, resettled on the list in her pocket. She didn’t have to think hard to image what everyone in her life would say about it.
“Flawless was collateral damage in a crime. The reasons why had nothing to do with you, Carly Harrington-Reese. Let it go.”
Except that she couldn’t. The puzzle was like a scab she couldn’t stop picking. Or maybe she was just procrastinating over the final call she needed to make to one of her vendors. Indija had been her hardest sell on Flawless’s box store sample sale idea. Indija, a recent graduate of the Art Institute of Fort Worth, worked with reclaimed stones. Often using chunks of crystal and other stones, she wrapped pieces in copper wire to create rings and bracelets. These items weren’t for the timid or traditionalists. Her jewels demanded that the wearer be as bold and daring as her accessories. But Indija had an attitude problem. She was also stubborn, hard to work with, and deeply suspicious of everything and everyone.
Reluctantly, Carly touched the young woman’s number in her phone.
Indija heard her out in silence, no sound but the occasional sucking of her teeth until Carly finished. “So, I plan to open again as soon as I can. And I very much want to continue to rep
resent you.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t see that. I was never for this store idea. I do fine selling online. But you convinced me to give you a try. You sounded like you had a fire in your belly. I’m hungry, too. But now you’re telling me one little problem and you’re quitting.”
“I’m not a quitter, Indija. I’m being realistic. It will take time to clean up my store, redecorate and restock. It could be weeks or months before I’m ready to open.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what quitters always say. It could be this time or that. Vague promises, and shit. Why am I talking to you?”
Suddenly there was only that cold silence at the end of phone. Carly felt stung by one very angry wasp. She’d been hung up on.
“Great. Now I feel better.”
Only she didn’t. Indija’s words hurt. And that made her, more than ever, determined to get to the bottom of the fire.
It wasn’t about Noah. Even if she hadn’t been there and the fire broke out, she’d still be in the same position. Flawless ruined.
But then Noah, and Harley, wouldn’t be here.
That thought sent a rush of fear through her so strong, she grabbed the wheel with both hands until the shuddering stopped. She was there. She’d saved a life.
To hell with what Noah said. She needed to talk to him.
As she started her engine a GMC Sierra 1500 4WD Denali pulled into the parking lot. The words WISE DEVELOPERS: HISTORIC PRESERVATION were emblazoned on the side. It pulled up behind the burned-out store next to Flawless. Moments later a large fiftyish man in a Sunday suit climbed out. This was her landlord, Burt Wise.
She killed her engine. Now that she thought about it, she had a few questions for him, too. Having dealt with him before, she knew just how to get what she wanted.
She slid out from behind her wheel and struck a pose in the parking lot before addressing him. “How are you, Burt?”
The landlord turned in surprise to hear her voice and got an eyeful. His graying buzz cut practically bristled as he eyed her up and down, taking in every detail of her church attire. Her black sheath dress was simply cut, fabric covering her from a modest scoop neck to below the knee hemline. The pizzazz came from the exacting couture fitting that detailed every curve of her body from breasts to waist to hip to butt.