Chapter Eight
Eliot
By the time we roll into Cedar Park, the ice in our cups is mostly gone.
Parker drains the last sip of her joyless black coffee and glances at her phone.
“AJ—Chief Stone—said the building’s a distribution center.
Handled heavy restaurant supply for almost ten years, but they’re switchin’ over to commercial HVAC components. It’s been empty for the past month.”
“Empty is good. Easier to collect evidence.” I stare up at the burned-out shell stretching toward the deep blue sky. Smoke stains the brick around the windows in ugly black streaks that tell me where the fire burned the longest—and where it didn’t bother to touch.
Yellow tape cuts across the parking lot. Three guys in uniform stand around shooting the shit in front of the barrier.
Killing the engine, I ease myself out of the truck. Heat rolls over me, so thick and damp, for a moment, it’s like breathing through a wet rag. Texas in June likes to remind everyone that Hell is real and we’re livin’ in it.
My leg stiffened up on the drive, and I take a couple of short, slow steps until my quad decides it’s on board with the idea of being upright.
Out of habit, I reach for my gear bag in the truck bed with my right arm.
Letting my left do the work usually leads to an argument as the old scar tissue pulls across my torso.
It’s a fight I never win, and I’ve long since stopped trying.
Parker rounds the bed, glances at my kit, then lets out a low whistle. “You brought enough for a small army.”
With a shrug, I unfold a Tyvek suit. “I like to be prepared. And restocking the damn thing requires a mountain of paperwork.”
Her blue eyes catch the sunlight, and for a moment, I’m mesmerized. Until she gestures to one of the many compartments in the body-sized duffel.
“That explains the emotional support evidence bags.”
I pass her a hard hat. “Laugh all you want. You’ll be beggin’ me for leather gloves in about ten minutes.”
“Please.” She sets the bright yellow hard hat on the tailgate, pulls a pair of nitrile gloves from their box, and snaps them on. “I’m a Ranger. Tetanus fears me.”
“Pretty sure that ain’t how bacteria works.”
Her rich laugh is about to make me forget all about the crime scene we’re walking into.
“Fine. I’ll take a pair. Booster shots require paperwork too, and we definitely feel the same way about that part of the job.”
Our fingers brush as I hand them over. Damn if the sensation doesn’t shoot all the way to my dick.
What the hell. Focus, Flint.
Respirators, goggles, and radios are next. “I’ll be on channel four.”
“Gotcha. I’m gonna start with a sitrep from Cedar Park PD. That guy already looks annoyed enough to be useful.” She nods toward a uniform pacing beside the tape. “Probably the first officer on scene.”
“Good luck.”
Her mouth twitches. “You think they’re gonna be difficult, or I am?”
“Still gatherin’ evidence.”
That earns me a look hotter than the heat rolling off the asphalt. But then another laugh.
Worth it.
She clips the radio to the collar of the suit, leaves her respirator hanging around her neck, and tucks the leather gloves under her arm. “I’ll walk the perimeter when I’m done. You want me anywhere after that?”
“Southwest corner? Not much damage over there, but still worth checkin’ out.”
She gives me a quick nod and heads for the guys standing in front of the yellow tape. My gaze locks on the curve of her ass through the Tyvek, and I wonder if I’ll get to hear that laugh again before the end of the day.
The Cedar Park guys wave me through without much fuss. Probably relieved to hand the building off to someone whose job it is to walk into places everyone else is trying to stay out of.
As I duck beneath the tape, I pass Parker standing with the officer in charge. He’s barely in his early thirties, with a sunburn crawling up the back of his neck.
Parker has her notebook balanced in one gloved hand, the other moving steadily across the page. The officer says something I don’t catch, but it earns him a dry chuckle.
Hell of a thing to notice right before walking into a crime scene. I’m almost jealous, until she flashes me a smile. “You’re on the clock, Flint. Don’t leave me hangin’ out here in this heat.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Adjusting the strap of my collection kit higher on my shoulder, I drag my attention back where it belongs, and start mapping the exterior.
Smoke staining tells more of a story than most people realize. The heaviest concentration is on the northeast side of the building, streaking up from a blown-out window close to the roofline, while the southwest corner’s almost untouched.
This fire started somewhere in the back half of the structure. From the little information Parker got from Chief Stone, the fire suppression system deployed, but something still burned long and hot enough to compromise the integrity of steel. Again.
Inside, the air is thick with wet ash, burned plastic, and suppressant foam. I switch on my flashlight and wait for my eyes to adjust.
Here at the northwest end, the forklift lane markings are still visible on the concrete.
The break room’s mostly intact, the door hanging on by a single hinge.
Another dozen feet, and a second door is propped open by a chunk of drywall.
Some sort of office with a desk, chair, and water-logged papers littering the floor.
I round a corner, and the damage gets worse with every step. The ceiling tells the story first—smoke stains giving way to ash and char, then gaping holes where the tiles burned away completely. The steel struts are warped in spots.
Even through the N-95, I catch the distinctive scent beneath the smoke and chemical suppressant.
Naphthalene.
The chances of two unrelated fires using such a hard-to-find and even harder-to-process accelerant? About the same as my chances of becoming a shirtless underwear model.
I switch on my hydrocarbon detector and sweep it along the steel support beams. Three separate locations send it beeping off the charts. I take samples at each one, labeling the cans and tucking them back into my bag.
As I expected, the whole southeast corner is gutted—debris thick on the floor, ceiling gone in patches, the roof struts and load-bearing columns warped from the heat. I don’t risk another step. It ain’t safe.
Rather than go deeper into the building, I pull out my camera and start photographing what remains of the sprinkler system. Naphthalene might have ignited the flames, but the sprinklers should have put them out.