Five Alarm Christmas: A Firefighter Reverse Harem Romance

by Cassie Cole

  “You should take it straight to him,” Rogers said. “All the dots you’ve connected.”

  “You believe her?” Vazquez asked.

  “Not necessarily. But Amy makes some good points, and I don’t believe in coincidences. It’s enough to bring it to the higher-ups and let them decide what to do about it.”

  “Okay, let’s go,” I said. “The Inspector’s office is down in Station 8, right?”

  “He’s off for Christmas already,” Rogers said. “Gets back on the 26th. We can take it to him then. Hell, I’ll go with you, to make sure he takes you seriously.”

  *

  I was stir crazy for the rest of the day.

  I went for a run around my apartment’s neighborhood to burn off some energy, but I struggled because my mind was elsewhere. I couldn’t stop thinking about that night, following Vazquez into the smoky front door. Marching upstairs and knocking down the bedroom door. Carrying Cynthia’s unconscious body out while Vazquez cradled the baby in his massive hands.

  The more I thought about it, the more afraid I was. If Ezra had tried to kill his family once, what was stopping him from doing it again?

  What if they were in danger right now?

  Waiting until the 26th to speak with the Fire Inspector suddenly seemed too late. Anything could happen between now and then. And if something did happen I would never be able to live with myself.

  Finally I broke down and dialed Cynthia’s number. I had to do something, even if it meant risking tipping off the suspected arsonist himself.

  “Amy!” Cynthia answered the phone. “I’m glad you called. Your pie is a huge hit. Ezra’s mom brought an apple crumble and nobody is eating it!”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Is Ezra there? I had some questions for him, if he has a second.”

  “Oh, no. He left for work already.”

  Damnit.

  “Do you want his number?” Cynthia asked. “He’ll be in the car for the next half hour if you want to talk to him.”

  I paused. “Cynthia, where is his office?”

  “Downtown Miami,” she said with a sigh. “The commute is killing him. His office is in the Panorama Tower.”

  “I don’t need his number. Forget I said anything. Enjoy the pie!”

  I hung up.

  I didn’t want to call him because getting his reaction in person would allow me to tell if he was scared, just like he’d seemed when he saw me at his house. I glanced at the time. I was meeting Sparks and Angel downtown in an hour anyway. I had plenty of time to swing by Ezra Carter’s office first.

  Determined to get some answers tonight, I grabbed my coat and keys.

  *

  The Panorama Building was the largest tower in Miami. Its 85 stories were mostly filled with luxury condos, but it also had a dozen floors dedicated to commercial and retail space. Construction had finished only a year ago. I was surprised a telemarketing company could afford offices in the there, but then again I’d heard that the building was struggling to lease its space.

  It was tall like a rectangular tube of lipstick, with a wider base comprising the parking garage. I circled the parking garage until I found a level with lots of cars, then pulled into one of the spots close to the door.

  I turned off my car and waited.

  I didn’t really have a plan. It kind of depended on what I found when I got there. If Ezra’s supervisor was there I could talk to them and learn if he was working at the time of the other fires, which would help establish a timeline. Or I could talk to Ezra himself. Casual questions to make him nervous, and maybe even reveal something. Hell, he might confess right there. Arsonists weren’t hardened criminals; they committed their crime, ran away, and watched from a distance.

  If he confessed, we wouldn’t need to wait to talk to the Fire Inspector. I could call the cops right then and there.

  Through the building entrance I could see a wide elevator lobby with fluorescent lights and marble fixtures. I waited until I saw the elevator light turn on, then left my car and strode up to the entrance. A man came out of the elevator and exited the door just as I reached it.

  “Thanks,” I said as he held it open for me.

  There was a touch-screen map on the wall with a building directory. The website back at the station claimed Marketing Resources was on the 32nd floor, and the directory here confirmed as much. I went into the elevator and hit the button for that floor. It didn’t prompt me to touch a security badge to continue.

  The elevator hummed as we climbed into the sky.

  The lights were off on the 32nd floor, except for the dim exterior lights around the outer wall. I guessed even telemarketers took vacations. It was one giant room full of cubicles with aisles in between. A forest of monotonous grey. I would kill myself if I had to work in a place like this every day.

  But if Ezra was supposed to be working, where was he?

  I pulled out my phone and dialed the number to the Marketing Resources headquarters again. After going through the automated system I reached a human.

  “Yes, I was just speaking with a caller named Ezra Carter,” I said. “He was extremely helpful with my purchase, but we got disconnected. I was hoping you could reconnect me?”

  “Of course! One moment please,” the happy-sounding woman said. She grunted and said, “Ezra Carter?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not working right now. How long ago did you speak with him? I show him having clocked out at 8:00 this morning.”

  “Yeah, it was a while ago,” I lied. “Thanks anyways.”

  “Would you like to speak with one of our other representatives about—”

  I hung up before she could try to sell me a new car warranty.

  I felt foolish standing in an empty office with a black cocktail dress on, what I was wearing to the salsa club. This was a mistake. But at least nobody was embarrassed but me.

  Before I could leave, I heard a clattering noise deeper in the office.

  I walked down the aisle toward the noise. The cubicles were all identical: two flat-screen monitors, a black keyboard, and a black mouse on top of a red Marketing Resources mousepad. None of the cubicles had any personal items in them. Yeah, this place would suck to work in. No wonder Ezra was starting fires.

  That’s not funny, I thought. He’s tried to kill people.

  A light flickered around the corner ahead. It looked like a break room based on how the floor changed from carpet to tile, with the soft hum of an ice machine. Should I announce myself? Silence felt better as I approached.

  Before I rounded the corner there was motion to my left. A blur as a man raised something in the air and brought it down hard, and darkness came with it.

  34

  Sparks

  I sat at the restaurant and tapped my foot impatiently.

  I was nervous about salsa that night.

  There was no reason for me to be nervous. After a year of practice, I was a good dancer. Amy and I had already danced together, too. But last time was spontaneous, and this was pre-planned. A date. Which meant thinking about it ahead of time, over-analyzing and worrying.

  Salsa was better when you were relaxed.

  This isn’t who I am. I didn’t get nervous like this. I was cocky, sometimes to the point that it pissed other people off. I liked things that way because being abrasive pushed other people to climb out of their own shells and show me who they really were. That was more interesting than everyone wearing a layer of politeness. Obfuscating all social interaction with social norms and niceties.

  Fuck that shit. Get right down to business.

  I wasn’t just nervous about dancing. It didn’t even bother me that Angel was meeting us there—he was one of my best friends, after all. What really made me nervous was that Amy and I were getting dinner together beforehand. Alone at a table for two with a tall candle flickering between us. This place was nice; soft piano music somewhere across the room, dim lights, waiters and waitresses wearing st
arched white shirts and black aprons.

  This wasn’t casual. This was the full-court-press of dates. There was no avoiding that inviting Amy to a place like this made it obvious I wanted to impress her.

  I do want to impress her.

  What would we talk about? I may be cocky about my other skills, but I was bad at small talk. Another one of those social settings that were pointless. I guess we could talk about stuff we did growing up? Her experience at the Fire Academy, and how I played football in high school?

  Shit. I should make a list.

  I looked at my watch. Amy was late. I could call her, but I didn’t want her to think I was too eager.

  I still wasn’t sure how to feel about sharing her. I didn’t think I was jealous. But I wanted so much of her that sharing her was difficult.

  And fuck, did I want her.

  I hadn’t been able to think of anything else since that night last week. The hot, rough sex in my jeep wasn’t even the best part. Dancing with her, seeing another side of her, was incredible. The way she swayed her hips and tossed her head, making her hair float around her like a halo. She was an angel. A sexy, strong, firefighting angel.

  I had it bad. And it wasn’t like me. That scared me most of all. Made me feel vulnerable.

  Especially now that she was late.

  I nursed my beer and tried not to keep looking at the time. The waiter came over and asked if I was ready to order.

  “I said I’m waiting for someone.”

  He put an apologetic expression on his face. Totally fake. “Yes, sir. But it has been 35 minutes, and we typically do not allow tables to be held for parties who are not fully present…”

  I ignored him and called Amy. It went straight to voicemail. Huh. That was odd.

  “Just give me some more time,” I growled at the waiter, then called Christian next. He’d had lunch with her, so maybe they were still together.

  Okay. I felt a little jealous about that thought. Sharing was fine, but it was my turn with her, damnit!

  “Hey,” Christian said.

  “Have you seen Amy since lunch?” I asked.

  “I didn’t see her then,” he said. “She canceled on me. Said she had some work stuff.”

  “Work stuff?”

  “Right? That’s what I said.”

  “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard. She must really want to avoid you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. All joking aside, whatever she was doing sounded important. Wait, has she not shown up for salsa?”

  “And she’s not answering her phone, either,” I said. “I’m starting to get worried.”

  “I’m worried too, now. Let me call Angel. I’ll call you back.”

  I tossed down some cash on the table and shouldered my way out of the bar. When I saw the waiter by the front door I said, “You can have your fucking table.”

  Christian called me back before I even reached my jeep. “Angel hasn’t talked to her.”

  “Fuck. Let’s head back to the station and see if she’s there.”

  “Angel just got there—he was grabbing something for your salsa date. She’s not there.”

  “Fuck,” I repeated as I started the car. “Work related. Maybe at her old station?”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  I tried calling Amy two more times on the way. It went to voicemail both times. I left a message the second time and tried to keep the worry out of my voice. I didn’t think I succeeded.

  Christian and Angel were already there when I pulled up to Amy’s old station. “Looking sharp,” Christian said when he saw my salsa clothes.

  “Really? Our unit mate is missing and you’re cracking jokes?”

  “Who’s joking?” he asked. “You do look sharp. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  We went inside and asked around until someone told us where her old unit was. They were gathered in a bunk room, playing poker on a small fold-out table.

  It had the feeling of meeting an ex boyfriend. These guys had known Amy far longer than we had. Had she been intimate with them too? She’d said no, but I felt a flare of jealousy in my chest.

  She was ours now, not theirs.

  After quick introductions, Christian asked, “Have you seen Amy?”

  Vazquez, the biggest one, rose and crossed his arms. “Would have asked the same of you. You’re her new unit.”

  “Let’s cut through the bullshit,” Angel said. “Amy said she had some work stuff. She canceled plans because of it. And now she’s not answering her phone.”

  “Work stuff…” Vazquez said. He looked at the other two guys.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Don’t fucking hold back on us…”

  Angel put a hand on my chest. I realized my hands were balled into fists.

  “She was here,” Rogers said calmly. “She had a theory about a potential arson. A guy whose house burned down two weeks ago. She wanted to take it to the Fire Inspector.”

  “I thought it was kind of crazy,” Vazquez admitted. “She’s no rookie to go hunting arson suspicions around. But she wanted to chase down some leads.”

  “House burned down…” I said. “Was their last name Carter?”

  “That’s right,” Rogers said.

  “She was baking a pie for them this morning. That was before she canceled lunch with you.”

  “She must have discovered something new!” Christian said.

  “Wait a second,” Dominguez said. “You don’t actually believe that, do you? That there’s some serial arsonist starting fires all around Miami?”

  “You said it yourself: she’s no rookie,” Christian said. “What leads was she chasing down?”

  “Something about where the guy worked. He was a telemarketer, I think.”

  “Hey,” I said. “That office fire we saw last week, the one with the false alarm one day and then the real fire the next? That was a telemarketing company.”

  “You’re right,” Angel said. “Marketing Resources.”

  “You think she’s going there to find more information?”

  Vazquez grabbed a laptop from the table and pulled up a browser. “Marketing Resources. HQ in Orlando, but they have nine locations around Miami.”

  “Nine? How do we figure out which one she went to?”

  “Three in Hialeah. A floor at the Panorama Tower. Two more corporate offices up near Fort Lauderdale.”

  Just then came the familiar and blood-chilling sound of the station alarm going off. The speaker crackled to life: “All engines report. We have a five alarm fire downtown. All engines report…”

  “Good luck finding Amy,” Vazquez said as they rushed out of the room.

  “All engines report. We have a five alarm fire at the Panorama Tower in downtown Miami.”

  Vazquez, Rogers, and Dominguez skidded to a stop and looked at us.

  “I think we just found our answer.”

  35

  Amy

  I woke up groggy and confused.

  I tried to move my hands but they were pulled behind me. Tied with rope. I was sitting on an office chair in a cubicle. That was weird. I didn’t work in an office. I was a firefighter.

  Memories came back to me in a rush. Driving to the Panorama Tower. Going to the 32nd floor. Finding it empty, and then hearing a noise.

  “Ezra,” I said out loud.

  “You shouldn’t have come.”

  I heard him but couldn’t see him, even when I tried to crane my neck. Somewhere behind me in the dark room.

  “What?”

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” he moaned again. “Nobody had to get hurt. But now you’re here. You’ve seen me…”

  A smell hit my nose, strong and harsh. Gasoline.

  Oh.

  Oh no.

  “Ezra!” I said. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “No! You don’t!”

  He came into view on the left, carrying a red plastic gas can in each hand. He splashed the
m back and forth while walking down the aisle. They were nearly empty.

  He turned to glance at me. Only for a moment, but long enough for me to see the crazed look in his eyes. These weren’t the actions of a sane man. This was someone acting under compulsion. A slave to the flames. Like an addiction.

  I wasn’t going to be able to plead with him.

  The sight of him splashing gasoline around made me furious. I’d seen the results of arson too many times, but never before or during the act itself. For someone like me it was a terrible crime to witness. A hollow ache filled my gut and made me want to vomit.

  “You tried to kill your wife,” I said. “Your baby girl!”

  He whirled to face me, his expression full of pain. “No. No no no. They weren’t supposed to be there.”

  “Weren’t supposed to be there? She was making dinner!”

  “She wasn’t feeling well,” he moaned. “She said she was taking the baby to her friend Kathy’s house. I came back and she wasn’t in the kitchen, so I assumed she left, that the house was empty…”

  “But why?” I said. “Why would you do this?”

  It was a foolish question. Arsonists were twisted individuals. They were obsessed with fire, with the savage way it consumed everything. There would be no logical answer except that old love letter from Guy Montag himself: it was a pleasure to burn.

  He stood in front of me. Aside from the look in his eyes, he looked professional. Normal. “The insurance money. I had debts to pay. Ones from the casino. I couldn’t tell Cynthia, she would have left me if she knew I was still going there, and the money I lost… The fire gave us a chance to start over. A new life! We’re happy again, don’t you see?”

  “And the call center?” I asked. “And the Callaway Building?”

  He gritted his teeth like a feral animal. “My boss wouldn’t transfer me closer to home. I’ve been with this company longer than most and I’ve never gotten a promotion or preferential office treatment. Leslie has been here two months and she gets to work out of the Hialeah office, while I drive 90 minutes each day! That’s time I could be spending with my daughter.”