Chapter Three
Parker
The door to AJ’s office is open when we get back. Makes me wonder if he’s not buried, or just pretending he’s not buried. His new position gets him home on time most nights, but it comes with a hell of a lot more public relations bullshit than he expected when he accepted the promotion.
Stepping in front of the cameras, talking to City Hall…
He even coordinates with the Austin Police Department—though that relationship is held together with duct tape and mutual resentment after they botched the initial investigation into Grace’s kidnapping.
They really sunk their battleship when they tried to take over the case again after she was found in Mexico with no memory of her life or AJ.
Our jobs got a hell of a lot easier after that. His…not so much. But he’d never say that out loud.
Nate and I head for our separate offices—a perk that came with the promotion. I drop my bag next to my desk, and a small puff of soot escapes when it lands. Shit. Nate’s upholstery might never forgive me for today. At least my boots are mostly clean. Well, no dirtier than they were this morning.
I scrub my hands over my thighs and curse at the black smear left across the denim.
Snagging a tissue from the box on my desk, I try to clean it off, but only make it worse.
Nate’ll definitely notice that. I pat my pockets like they might hold a miraculous solution, but all I find is more soot and regret.
I stare at my reflection in the darkened computer screen, and regret turns into alarm. There’s a faint smudge on my cheek, another across my forearm, and my nails look like I lost a fight with a fountain pen.
If I can get out of here for the weekend before Nate does, there’s a chance he’ll detail the car himself before he gets a chance to demand I do it for him.. It’s not a good plan, but it’s the only one I’ve got.
That and the secret stash of wet wipes in my bottom drawer.
Ten minutes later, the only evidence I was elbows deep in a charred shell of a building is the black smear on my thigh.
I run my finger over the edge of the El Paso Comfort Food mug on my desk. It chipped ten years ago, so it’s only good for holding pens now, but I still keep it next to my monitor, always in view. It was the last place my mama worked before she got sick. She always had a pack of wet wipes on her.
Nate raps on my door. “AJ’s ready for us. If you wanted coffee, you’re too late now.”
I push back from the desk, tossing the last wet wipe into the trash. “If I want coffee? I swear, sometimes, I don’t think you know me at all.”
My partner produces a Department of Public Safety mug from behind his back and offers it to me. “Your lack of faith is noted.”
“You have snacks too?” I accept the cup, give it a quick sniff, and take a sip anyway. Motor oil is better than fumbling my report to AJ.
“Sorry. Only one expired granola bar per person, per day. Please see the terms and conditions you agreed to upon accepting this partnership,” he deadpans. “Additional snacks require upgrading to Hardison Plus Max Commercial-Free Edition for an extra $29.95 per month.”
“I can’t decide if that’s a bargain or a rip-off.”
When we reach his door, AJ’s behind his desk, a file open in front of him. He spins a pen slowly between his fingers, his eyes unfocused.
“Cap—Chief,” Nate says, because neither of them have fully committed to the promotion yet.
AJ’s mouth twitches, and he huffs a quiet laugh. His gaze tracks over us, checking for damage without making it a whole thing. For a moment, he looks like he should be standing next to us rather than sitting behind that desk. But then he blinks and his whole demeanor changes.
“Took you long enough,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Y’all get lost?”
“Nate drives ten miles an hour under the speed limit at all times. It’s a miracle we made it back before our shifts were over.”
“Defensive driving is a lifestyle choice,” he mutters. “One you’d appreciate if you’d ever tried it.”
“Enough,” AJ grouses, though he’s smiling. “Got an update for me?” He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving a few of the strands sticking up. He looks tired.
“One fatality.” I set my coffee mug on his desk and pull out my notebook. “Jerry Hollis. Fifty-four. He was on site for ninety minutes after his shift. We don’t know why yet.”
“Could he have set the fire?” AJ asks.
My hands start to shake, so I shove them into my pockets to keep them out of sight. All I can see are those grooves in the back of the door. “Doubtful,” I manage. “He was locked inside a utility room on the second floor. If he was responsible, he probably would have had an escape plan.”
Nate gives me the side-eye, but I ignore him.
“You hear from the fire marshal yet?” AJ asks. “Texas Department of Insurance should have sent someone.”
“Eliot Flint. We did a walk-through together,” Nate says.
“He’s good.” AJ nods, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Quiet, but good. Worked with him a time or two. He give you any jurisdictional bullshit?”
"No. He stayed out of our way, we stayed out of his.” I reach for my mug, take a sip of coffee, and immediately regret it.
Nate snorts quietly.
AJ looks at him. “Do I want to know?”
Neither of us say a word.
“All right.” He closes the file. “Keep me posted if this turns into anythin’ other than an exercise in futility.” He spins the pen once more, then sets it down. “And the cookout starts at four tomorrow.”
“The…what?” Nate asks.
AJ stares at him like he grew a second head.
“Cookout. Where you eat food and drink beer and carry on civilized conversation? I texted you last night. Grace thinks she remembers her cinnamon roll recipe. She’s been testin’ and making small changes all week.
” AJ’s voice softens whenever he talks about his wife.
Like even now, he can’t believe she came back to him.
“I got no idea how close she is to the original, but if those rolls aren’t the best damn things you’ve ever tasted, yes they are. ”
“I had plans…involving having no plans”—Nate swallows at AJ’s glare—“but a cookout sounds better. I’ll bring a veggie tray.”
Back at my desk, I pull up the State Fire Marshal’s Office directory and search for Eliot Flint. I like knowing who I’m working with.
His credentials are impressive. Certified Fire Investigator for the past five years. Before that, he put in more than fifteen years with Engine Company Twelve of the Austin Fire Department. Enough commendations and certifications that he’s clearly committed to the job.
But that doesn’t tell me anything about him.
I’m not sure why I care, but I type his name into the browser and find half a dozen news articles about fires he fought with AFD. Nothing that wouldn’t come up for any firefighter with fifteen years on the job. But at the bottom of the page, there’s a result I don’t expect from ten years ago.
Engine Company Twelve wins the AFD Chili Cookoff.
Third place went to Engine Company Seven. Second went to someone named Kowalski from Engine Company Four. He disputed the results, which tells me all I need to know about Kowalski. But Eliot took first, and they published his recipe.
Not one, but four kinds of dried chili pepper.
Thirty-five minutes of prep and three hours of cooking time after a six-hour braise for the brisket.
The recipe is a photocopy of the original, with notes in the margins in careful, precise handwriting that belongs to someone who doesn’t half-ass things.
I scroll down to the photo.
Eliot’s holding a trophy that’s aggressively ugly.
A plastic flame mounted on a wooden bowl, filled to the brim with something that was probably supposed to be chili, but looks more like gravel.
The kind of thing that lives in the back of someone’s garage until they die and their relatives throw it away.
And yet, Eliot lifts the thing high above his head like it’s the Stanley Cup, and he’s laughing.
I look at it longer than I mean to. This isn’t the man I met at the crime scene today. Something changed him, and dammit, if I don’t want to know what.