Chapter One
Firehouses didn’t sparkle this way back on the South Side of Chicago.
Not even close. And though Mick Prentiss had psyched himself up to march through the door with at least the illusion of confidence, he couldn’t help but stop and stare like a dumbfounded toddler at the yawning fire palace before him.
A place where no sooty turnout jackets and helmets nor the stench of smoke and human sweat belonged.
As they’d all soon discover, he had no business being there, either.
Mick unwound his scarf, soaked and itchy, and unzipped his parka as he stepped deeper into the abandoned apparatus bay where the firefighting and emergency response vehicles were stored.
He’d heard that some of the newer stations were like Taj Mahals, but until today, he’d never seen one like that up close.
Everything in the place had to be brand-new.
Epoxy-covered concrete floors, shiny enough for firefighters to catch their reflections in them while suiting up for their charity calendar shoots.
Four bright red engines and a matching fire-and-rescue truck so pristine that they all could have come right out of their boxes.
Had the taxpayers agreed to pay for all of this?
Based on what he’d learned about suspicious fires and possible corruption in this tiny southeastern Michigan town—technically a village—his new station was as much smoke and mirrors as his fitness to be back on the job.
“That you, Prentiss?”
Mick scanned the empty room, trying to locate that familiar voice.
He found it when he tilted his head back and peered toward the massive rafters.
Peter Russo waved down at him from the landing of the steel staircase, mounted to the concrete wall.
Of course, the place would have a balcony, à la Juliet, but he doubted the House of Capulet also had a firefighter’s pole.
“Good to see you, Russo.” Well, good might have been an overstatement, but everything about his first week would require spin. And having a familiar face around while he settled in couldn’t hurt.
“Same, buddy. I mean ‘Chief.’”
Peter started down the stairs, the thuds of his black athletic shoes echoing with each step.
Though it couldn’t have been more than thirty degrees outside, he still wore a short-sleeve polo with his matching navy work pants.
The symbol for fire service, the Maltese cross, plus the words Mount Isabel, covered his heart on the uniform shirt.
His last name was embroidered on the opposite side.
Both men reaching the landing at the same time, Peter jutted out his hand, and Mick gripped it.
“Welcome to Station 1,” Peter said. “I know you don’t officially start until tomorrow, but I thought you said you’d stop by earlier. That drive on I-94 must have been a skating rink.”
“Yeah, it was slow going in my truck. Happy first week of March in Michigan.”
“Not to worry. Spring will be here in two more weeks, probably bringing more snow with it.” Peter’s shoes squeaked on the floor as he shifted his feet.
“I was glad to hear you changed your mind about applying for the chief job. It was short notice. And I wasn’t sure you would at all… you know…after.”
Mick nodded at the other man’s meaningful look, his throat thickening as he waited for questions about the events in Chicago last September. A rig-size weight lifted off his chest when Peter didn’t ask.
“I was surprised to hear from you, too. Hasn’t it been five years since you abandoned us for a job in your hometown?”
“Six. But we needed some help around here. Fast.” Peter dragged his front teeth over his bottom lip. “And I’d heard you were, uh, available.”
Mick wasn’t surprised that the news had traveled across state lines. The firefighting community could be a small one, especially when tragedies occurred.
“It’s been like fire-style whack-a-mole around here these past two months.” The younger man indicated the apparatus bay with a sweep of his hand. “Sometimes as many as two intentionally set fires a week since early January. It’s like somebody’s trying to burn down Mount Isabel.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Mick said. “We have to stop whoever’s setting them before someone gets killed.”
Though he was no longer arrogant enough to consider himself a worthy opponent of the flames, he hadn’t been able to resist that call for help.
Even if he could never atone for those he’d failed to save six months before, maybe, just maybe, protecting a few lives here would give him a start toward redemption.
“It’s not just the fires.” Peter lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “The police have also opened another investigation, looking at former Fire Chief Hoffman.”
“I know it’s been tough.” He’d been briefed about that and the other cause for his predecessor’s removal—he’d shown up drunk on the job—but Mick didn’t say more.
Though none of the village leaders he’d spoken with had suggested a connection between the string of arsons and the embezzlement investigation involving the former chief, Mick found the timing suspicious. He didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Doesn’t anyone work around here?” He gestured to the five deserted bays.
“You know what time it is, don’t you?”
He peeked at his watch, only then noticing that the time had updated. “Right. Eastern Time Zone. Did the dinner bell already ring?”
Come to think of it, the aroma of something spicy and delicious had melded with the scents of wax and wheel cleaners in the room.
“Long past,” Peter said.
“Pans already licked clean?”
“Since Ingram cooked tonight, that’s a likely guess. Scott’s the Emeril Lagasse of the firehouse.”
“Glad I picked something up on the way, then.” He hoped his stomach wouldn’t growl and prove him a liar. “Any interesting calls on the log this week?”
“Just property-damage accidents, a couple of unintentional, false alarms from our frequent flyers and not one but two cats stuck in trees. We’ve had no structure fires in five days. And not one fatality traffic accident. We’re definitely due.”
At Mick’s hard look, Peter shifted his sneakers on the floor. “Sorry, boss. I just—”
“I know what you meant.”
Out of the public eye, first responders often referred to life-and-death situations in crass terms, which they believed helped them keep their distance and their edge.
But the way his friend kept glancing over his shoulder, his hands jammed in his pockets, made Mick wonder whether Peter had lost both.
With questions swirling about the former chief’s misconduct compounding the already tense situation involving the fires, the whole crew had to be wound tighter than a broken music box.
“Like I said in the email, I’m really sorry about the guys back at the old station.” Peter stopped and cleared his throat. “It must have been awful—”
“Thanks,” Mick rushed to say, as he dodged the slideshow of images that played on repeat in his thoughts. More so since he’d accepted the new position. “Sounds like we all could use a fresh start.”
“You can say that again.”
Mick took another look around the apparatus bay, not surprised that Peter had been the only crew member who’d made the effort to greet him.
None of them could be happy that the village council had brought in an outsider—and expedited his hiring process—rather than promote from within.
Just like thirteen years earlier, when he’d shown up at his former station as a probie hose jockey, he would have to prove himself to his crew and himself at the same time.
“I’ll just get a soda and introduce myself to the guys before I pick up the keys to my apartment.” He pressed his lips together, hating that he’d misspoken. “I mean the men and women.”
“Your slip’s safe with me,” Peter said. “Only two females in the whole crew, Felicia Lucas and Emily Garritt. Lucas is on Rotation 3, and Garritt is paid-on-call, mostly weekends. Word to the wise, never accept if Lucas challenges you to an arm wrestling match.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” He also needed to be more careful with his words. Crew members with connections, criminal or otherwise, to the former chief might be watching him. As much as he hated to consider it, that could also include Peter.
“About the job, don’t thank me too soon.”
“What do you mean?”
Peter gestured with a tilt of his head to a half-glass door beneath the staircase. “Some guests have been waiting for you in your office.”
“Guests?”
“Rachel Hoffman.” Peter nodded when Mick lifted a brow. “Yeah, one of those Hoffmans. Sister to the most recent chief, Riley, and daughter of former chief, Stan. I mean the late former—”
“I get it.” Even if firefighters were statistically more likely to die by suicide than in the line of duty, they usually avoided discussing that dark truth. “Why’s the sister here now?”
“Guess you’ll have to ask her that. Well, them. She’s here with her kids.”
Mick rolled his eyes but followed his friend down the hall and around the corner. They stopped in front of a second half-glass door, this one frosted at the top.
“How long have they been in there?” He pointed to the window.
“A while. She wanted to wait. And, like I said before, we expected you a lot earlier.”
“Great,” Mick ground out.
“Go easy on her, okay, Chief? She’s had to deal with a lot in the past year.”
That made two of them. But if he hoped to earn the respect of his crew, he couldn’t have disgruntled family members of former employees camping out in his office. He gestured for the younger man to step aside.
“I’ll meet you in the day room. Ten minutes tops.”
Peter rolled his lips inward and stared at his shoes. “See you in there.”
His friend wasn’t the only one who doubted he would escape this moment easily.
Wasn’t it challenging enough that he’d assumed a position he might not be ready for, surrounded by a crew who had to be equally skeptical?
Now, before he could pick up his keys and wolf down a pizza in his empty apartment, he would have to face a woman with more reason than most to want him out of Mount Isabel.