Chapter Forty-Six
Parker
Nate lasts exactly four minutes in the passenger seat before he starts looking for an imaginary brake pedal.
Mid-morning traffic crawls through the streets of downtown. A bright red convertible darts around a delivery truck and slips into my lane with barely enough room to spare.
“They missed us by three whole feet,” I mutter. “You’re fine.”
Cyclists weave among the cars while office workers crowd the sidewalks, coffee cups in one hand, phones in the other.
I ease my Toyota through another green light and turn onto Guadalupe.
Nate has one hand wrapped around the “oh shit” handle, the other fisted against his thigh. Every muscle in his body is braced for impact.
“You know,” I say, easing to a stop behind a city bus, “this car’s ten years old and the paint’s still almost perfect.”
“And…?”
“You can stop trying to save us from the perils of driving the speed limit.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
I angle my gaze at his right hand.
With a sigh, he releases the handle, then folds both hands in his lap. “See? Relaxed.”
“Your jeans disagree.”
Nate looks down, grimaces, and smooths the deep crescents his fingers left in the denim. “Circumstantial evidence at best.”
I snort.
The city rolls by. Another bus. Another coffee shop. Another office building with people rushing to meetings that could probably be emails.
We make it through two more lights before I realize Nate hasn’t said another word.
I cut my gaze to him as the sidewalks start to empty. He looks calmer. Well, to anyone who doesn’t know him. But his eyes never stop moving.
Fewer skyscrapers now. The occasional old live oak at the edge of a parking lot. Traffic eases, and reaching the speed limit stops being aspirational.
Office buildings give way to strip malls, fast food joints, and gas stations. We pass a billboard advertising Austin Large Animal Feed, the same place Eliot’s calendar came from. A hint of a smile curves my lips.
Out of the corner of my eye, Nate shifts. Like he’s about to say something. By the time I look over, he’s watching the traffic again.
The strip malls are the next to go, replaced by tractor dealerships and more feed stores. A barbecue trailer sits outside a used car lot, the smoker pumping out a scent that makes my mouth water. Even Nate can’t resist a glance.
“If that’s still open on the way back, we’re stoppin’,” I say.
“What are the chances they have anything with vegetables in it?”
“Collard greens are a veggie. One usually paired with bacon, but still…”
“It’s called ‘Cooter’s,’ Parker. That truck is a felony waiting to happen.”
My phone drops a bar. Nate grits his teeth. A few minutes later, another one bites the dust. His hands tighten into fists, but at least he’s not trying to tear through his jeans anymore.
My thoughts start to wander as the last of the traffic falls away. I’m here, but I’m also sitting across from Eliot, listening to him recount the worst day of his life.
He truly believes Zack’s death is his fault. For seven years, he’s carried the guilt of something he believes he could have prevented.
I run through the facts he shared with me. Zack. Great instincts. Smart. Experienced. On the other side of the building. Doing what he’d been trained to do.
Stop. He didn’t ask you to investigate a crime. He asked you to listen.
God, I wish I could do more than that. Listening feels like the least useful thing I can do. I chase answers. I find what other people miss. I build cases.
Sitting next to someone while they hurt? Knowing I can’t make it better? That’s—
“You’re doing it again,” Nate says.
I blink, and the city has largely fallen away. Long stretches of pasture and live oaks are broken up by the occasional farmhouse set back from the road, and not much else.
“What?”
“Trying to find the answer before you’ve figured out the question.”
I open my mouth to tell him he’s wrong, then close it again. Because telling him he’s right would definitely be a mistake.
The live oaks disappear, replaced by pine trees.
“Lost Pines,” Nate murmurs, almost to himself. Then, because he’s Nate, he grins. “Did you know the entire state used to be covered in Loblolly pine? But the climate dried out after the last ice age, and everything but this thirteen-mile stretch died off. The sandy soil kept them alive.”
“You have random facts locked and loaded at all times, don’t you?”
“Everyone should. You never know when you might need to defuse a tense situation with trivia. Remind me to tell you about the Great Canadian Maple Syrup Heist sometime.”
I groan, and take the turn onto a dirt road. Potholes rattle my teeth, and for the first time since we left the station, Nate might be happy we’re not in his Impala.
Five miles later, I’m questioning the integrity of my suspension as I park in a clearing of hard-packed dirt next to an old F-150.
“He could be armed.” My hand finds my gun for a moment. “Scared.”
“Yup.” Nate rests his right hand on his gun, grabbing the door handle with his left. “Calm approach unless he decides to be…difficult.”
I keep my eyes on the front window. The curtain ripples, a shadow passing behind it for a brief moment.
Three feet to my right, Nate sweeps his gaze over the old wooden planks. “If we fall through that floor, I’m blaming you.” His voice isn’t much more than a whisper, too quiet for Kessler—or anyone else inside—to hear.
“One time. One time,” I hiss.
“Mr. Kessler?” I climb the three steps up to the door slowly, hoping not to spook him. “I’m Captain Elmore, and this is Captain Hardison with the Texas Rangers. Can we ask you a few questions?”
A board creaks inside, followed by the metallic thunk of the lock. The door opens a crack, stopped by a thick chain an inch below eye-level.
Charlie looks older than his file photo. Grayer. His cheeks are thinner, and exhaustion has settled beneath his eyes. He darts a gaze from me to Nate, then to his truck.
“I didn’t do anything,” he says, his voice cracking.
I keep my tone gentle, my expression calm. “Okay. We’re not here to arrest you. We have some questions, and we think you can help us answer them.”
He blinks at me, and rubs a hand over his jaw. Several days’ worth of stubble rasp against his fingers.
“Can we come in?” Nate asks. “Get out of the sun? Just to talk.”
Kessler doesn’t answer. He’s studying us. Nate slouches a little, doing his best to appear non-threatening. I offer Charlie the barest hint of a smile.
His shoulders drop half an inch as he looks to me. “Just…talk?”
“Yep.”
Charlie nods, releases the chain, and opens the door the rest of the way. “Watch your step. And…sorry for the mess.”
Inside, it’s clear this place isn’t meant for long-term use. A sagging couch sits in the center of the room with a rough-hewn table off to one side, four mismatched chairs around it. The kitchen’s seen better decades.
Even with the front door open, the room is dim. All the curtains are drawn, and only thin ribbons of sunlight slip around the edges.
I catch the scent of the tequila before my gaze lands on the half-empty bottle and single glass next to the couch. The trash can in the kitchen is about to overflow, paper plates and fast food wrappers sticking up from the plastic liner.
A small duffel bag in the corner is unzipped, but the clothes inside are folded neatly. Nothing about the room is careless. Just…temporary.
Charlie shuts the front door and leads us over to the kitchen table. He takes the chair against the wall where he can keep an eye on the front door.
“Thanks for gettin’ us away from the sun. It’s brutal out there.” I don’t ask a question. Not yet. Silence has a way of doing the work for you.
“I reckon you’re here about the fires?” His voice drops to a rough whisper.
“You were expecting someone.” I don’t reach for my notebook. Nate has his out, but he hasn’t opened it yet. Kessler needs a little more time to get comfortable with us.
Charlie stares down at his hands, folded on the table. “Eventually.”
“Why?” I ask.
“My name’s on those inspections.” He shakes his head. “My name’s on a lot of inspections.”
I study him for a moment. The fear in his voice. The way his eyes start to shimmer. The tremor shaking his fingers. “Not anymore.”
“What?” He sits up a little straighter.
“Your name isn’t associated with any of the fires we’re actively investigating.”
“Then…why…how did you find me?” He stares over my shoulder at the front door, his voice suddenly tight.
“Sometime between the Rutherford Lane building catching fire on Monday afternoon and my partner showing up to work on Tuesday morning, the signature on the inspection report changed from Charlie Kessler to Todd Ferris.” I pull a folded piece of paper from my pocket, and smooth it out on the table in front of him.
“That’s…that’s not right.” Kessler lifts his gaze. “I know Todd. He handles residential buildings. Good guy. Wife, two kids.”
“We know.” I try to keep my tone as reassuring as possible. “He has an alibi. No one’s going after him.”
Charlie shudders with relief. “But…I signed off on the building. The one on Aldrich Street too. The one where two people…died.”
“Tell us about Aldrich.” I finally take my notebook out, but don’t open it yet. Nate’s got that covered.
“I walked every inch of that building.” Charlie reaches for my hand, then lets his own fall back to the table. “You’ve gotta understand, Captain, I never meant for anyone to die. I cut corners. Looked the other way on a few things I knew weren’t up to code. But that building was safe.”
Nate’s brows disappear under his hair. Frustration sends a brief tremor running down his back. “The panic hardware in one of the units was installed upside down, Mr. Kessler. The two women who died couldn’t get out the back door.”
“No. No.” Kessler shakes his head hard enough, I’m surprised he doesn’t fall off the chair. “I checked every one of those doors. They were all workin’.”
I exchange a glance with my partner. Kessler’s telling the truth. At least about this. The fear in his eyes, in his voice… He isn’t looking for an escape route. He’s staring straight at us.