Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
For three days, Joe worked around the clock.
He had inspections, plan development meetings at town hall, fires to investigate and reports to write, and now he sat at dinner with Cindy, nodding as she talked about her day, he forced himself to sit straight up for fear he’d fall asleep and land face-first into his meal.
The fact was, he’d wanted to stay home, maybe barbecue, definitely rest his weary body. But Cindy had wanted to take advantage of his rare night off, so here they sat, at an expensive steak house with a waiter hovering and Joe with a headache brewing.
“It’s a great neighborhood to raise kids,” Cindy was saying while he cut into his steak and unintentionally tuned her out. He figured if he could just get to bed early, he’d wake up refreshed and get to his reports. Yeah, that was it. He’d—
“Joe? Are you listening to me?”
He would be if she’d just rest her tongue for even a second. The thought made him feel like a jerk. It wasn’t her fault he was exhausted, heading into a coma. “I’m sorry.” He tried to put his mind back into her one-sided conversation, but while he watched her lips move, thoughts of work invaded.
The city was trying to rush him through one of the inspections for a large commercial complex, and yet the plans hadn’t matched the actual work done.
Now he had several city officials riding his ass for slowing them down.
And then there were several fires disturbing him, not the least of which was the Creative Interiors warehouse fire.
They’d released the scene two days ago. There’d been no other evidence found to go with the gasoline and boot print, except for a half-burned cigarette butt.
They’d not put out an official ruling, but the general consensus between MAST and the insurance company was that it would probably be undisclosed accidental fire—
“Babe, please. You’re not even pretending to hear me now.”
Caught off guard, he blinked at Cindy. “I’m sorry,” he said again and scooped up a bite of baked potato, instructing himself to tune in. “I really am. Can you say that again?”
She reached over and squeezed his hand. “You’re going to make me think I’m boring.”
“I’m just tired.”
“Which is my point. My La Jolla townhouse is bigger than your place, which goes without saying since you live on a sailboat in a marina in Mission Bay.”
Uh-oh.
She shot him a smile. “And I have plenty of extra closet space for you.”
Joe tossed back his entire glass of water and thought please don’t do this now.
But Cindy turned out to be a lousy mind reader. “I mean I really do understand the allure of living on the water, but it’s just not big enough for both of us…”
“Cindy—”
“And I have to admit, I have a secret fantasy about having a house in the suburbs. Something simple, with a nice yard for the kids.” She let out a bubbly laugh while he stared at her. “And a white picket fence. I know it’s a cliché straight out of the 1950s, but I want one.”
The succulent steak he’d eaten caught in his throat.
“I know it’s silly,” she said. “But you know I grew up in Manhattan, in a third-floor walk-up. No yard, no place to call my own. Nothing like my dream house.”
Joe had grown up in her so-called dream house, but he’d only found nightmares there. A white picket fence was on his Never Have list.
“Our kids will love it.”
Kids. He nearly choked. He didn’t know the first thing about raising a kid, and with his father’s blood running through his veins, that was just as well.
“Joe? You’re looking pale. Like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Yeah, the ghost of his future. “Cindy,” he said again, gently now, because he was going to hurt her and he hadn’t meant to ever do that.
Her smile faded. “Is this about moving in together?”
“We’ve only been dating a little over a month—”
“Two months. Two months, Joe. And that’s plenty of time.”
“Maybe if we’d been seeing each other regularly.”
“Your job doesn’t let you do anything regularly.”
“That’s true. And because of it, out of those two months we’ve really only been together a handful of times.”
She stared at him for a long, long moment. “I see. You’re not ready. I should have known, you’ve never even told me about you. You’ve never really opened up.”
The same old refrain. Kenny would be happy to hear it. “I’m sorry, Cindy. I’m…” He spread his hands helplessly. “Just not ready.”
“Okay.” She folded her hands and paused, looking incredibly hurt. “Will you ever be?”
Don’t. God, don’t. “Cindy—”
His cell went off and he had no idea if it was relief that washed through him, or shame that he needed the out. He glanced down at the screen, saw the emergency code, and grimaced as he set down his fork. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re always sorry.”
Yes. Yes, he was. He was one sorry son of a bitch.
“Don’t listen to it,” she begged him. “Don’t leave now.”
“You know I have to.” He stood and opened his wallet, taking out the money to cover their meals while she stared at him, boring holes into his body with her resentment. With a sigh, he bent over her and brushed his mouth over her temple. “I really am sorry,” he murmured.
“Please just answer me.” Her voice trembled and he felt like the lowest bottom-feeder as she grabbed his wrist. “Will you ever be ready for this? For me?”
They were in a restaurant, surrounded by a crowd. He didn’t want to do this to her, not now, not here. But she wouldn’t let go of him.
“Do you even want that white picket fence, Joe? Just tell me that.”
He swiped the pad of his thumb over the tear that had slipped down her cheek. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t.”
At that, she pulled away from his touch. “Good-bye, Joe.”
And then she walked away before he could.
The emergency call was about a fire. It always was.
By the time Joe arrived at the single-story residential structure, the damage had been done.
Flames leapt fifty feet into the black, opaque sky.
More sirens sounded in the distance. A backup engine arrived to help protect the houses on either side.
There were two ambulances there already, but Joe could tell from the screams as he got out of his truck, someone wasn’t going to make it to the hospital.
His stomach sank.
The on-site fire captain, Jake Rawlins, was an old, close friend.
He came over to Joe while still yelling commands to his squad through his radio.
“Carter and Martinez, pull back from the east side! Too hot! Too hot!” He watched as the truck engineer obeyed his orders, pulling the ladder away from the house, protecting the two firefighters on the end of it.
Long streams of water from the hoses on the ground hit the hot flames.
“What do you have?” Joe asked.
“Hottest on the east side. Kitchen.”
“Who was inside?”
“A woman and her three young children. One didn’t make it out.”
“Christ.” Joe could still hear the mother screaming, hoarser now with her inconsolable grief.
“The father’s MIA,” Rawlins said. “They’re in the middle of a nasty divorce. He was spotted outside the kitchen window about three hours ago. The cops were called but when they got here, he was gone. They’re looking for him now.”
Joe knew all about asshole fathers. Too much.
With a heavy sigh, he began taking notes.
It was another half hour before the firefighters beat the flames down.
During that time, Joe took pictures of the fire, the surrounding houses, the people watching.
Later he’d study them all for clues, but for now he just worked to record everything.
He interviewed the witnesses and all the neighbors.
Kenny showed up and joined the fray. “I got called out in the middle of an incredibly hot first date. And you?”
“Cindy’s pissed.”
“Shocker.”
“She told me to keep walking.”
“She’ll want you back.”
“No.” Joe shook his head. “Not this time. It’s not going to work out.”
“Yet another shocker. Let me guess. You got the ‘you don’t open up to me’ complaint.”
“Actually, she was willing to overlook that if I moved in with her.”
“And you said, ‘oh goodie, where’s my key,’ right?”
“You’re funny.” He tossed Kenny a flashlight and they went into the house. As always, the work distracted Joe, and he lost himself in it.
The kitchen had been hit hard. The countertops, floor, ceiling, and walls were down to blackened studs, and yet right across the room, the Formica and steel table and chairs stood perfectly in place, though the plastic coverings on the chairs had melted, and the cushions had burned.
Joe spent the first few minutes taking more pictures, recording the scene to preserve it for their report.
Then he investigated for evidence of the origin/cause.
He went through everything with a fine-tooth comb before his attention was caught beneath the sink.
Before tonight there’d been a cupboard there, but now only the shell remained.
As he moved closer, a sudden, piercing, heart-wrenching scream filled the air outside.
Lifting his head, he met Kenny’s eyes from across the room.
“They found the kid’s remains,” his partner said quietly, his eyes shiny with emotion.
Joe let out a long, shaky breath and nodded.
“Look.” He pointed with a gloved finger to the charred remains of a rag, balled up beneath the sink.
Shining his flashlight for better illumination, he slowly pulled out the rag.
The stench of paint thinner had his nostrils flaring. “Bingo,” he said softly.
“Maybe the mother had been removing her fingernail polish,” Kenny said, coming closer, playing devil’s advocate, as was their routine.
“Maybe.” Joe flashed the beam of light on the gallon-sized container of paint thinner, hidden behind the plumbing. It was charred on the outside, but opened and tipped over. “Because using a full gallon of paint thinner is so much easier than a small bottle of fingernail polish remover.”