Chapter One Noelle #2
Morrison, ever so patient, waits for my response. He already knows where the conversation will end, and so do I. Of course, I could argue. I could come up with an excuse and volunteer one of my colleagues for the task instead, then make it up to them later.
But the problem is that everyone already knows I’m the most available person for the job. It’s Christmastime, after all. They have partners and children and happy hometowns.
I have none of that.
Also, Morrison is right. Firehouse 23 is probably next and I’m the best at what I do.
I let out a long exhale. “Fine. When do I start?”
He grins. “Today.”
I fight the urge to groan out loud.
“Right. Okay. Who’s the captain?”
“Fella named Grant Hale. Young guy for the position, relatively speaking. Capable. Dependable. He runs that place very well. It’s one of the most efficient stations in the city, and that’s exactly why it would be a damn shame if it was lost.”
I ignore all of that. Firefighters can be as allegedly competent as they want, but they aren’t without their flaws.
Even supposed heroes are capable of failure.
“Does he know I’m coming?” I ask.
“He’s been informed.”
“And?”
Morrison snorts, which isn’t a good sign. “Oh, he’s thrilled.”
Meaning that this captain most definitely doesn’t want me there.
It’s hard to be offended, though. If I had to keep an essential city service running at maximum efficiency and be prepared for the imminent possibility that the whole place could go up in flames, I wouldn’t exactly be delighted to learn that the city was sending an investigator who will get all up in their business, to take up space there.
Oh, well. He’ll have to get over it. I have a job to do, too.
***
I arrive at Firehouse 23 a few hours earlier than necessary. Not because I’m eager, but because arriving exactly on time gives other people the opportunity to establish the environment first.
I prefer knowing what I’m walking into and having at least a semblance of control over it.
The station occupies a corner lot. Unlike Station 4 this morning, it remains very much intact, its red brick exterior lit up warmly under strings of white Christmas lights wrapped around the building’s front columns.
Someone has placed illuminated reindeer in the little patch of grass near the administrative entrance and a six-foot inflatable snowman stands guard at the door itself.
I glare at it as I stomp up the steps, and the snowman stares back.
I already hate this place. Holiday decorations should be heavily regulated. All that cheap plastic and wasteful energy use.
The December air bites at my cheeks. Before I even reach the door handle, I can hear loud laughter from inside. The kind of boisterous, unencumbered laughter that people emit when they’re comfortable enough to be ridiculous around one another.
It drifts through the glass and increases in volume as I take a deep breath and step inside.
The warmth hits first, then the full swell of noise.
Conversations overlap from three different directions.
To my left, someone is arguing passionately about whether Connecticut deserves its own NHL team.
A television blasts the news somewhere to my right from within a lively lounge of mismatched furniture.
I can smell coffee brewing in industrial quantities from a machine in the attached kitchen.
For a minute, I stand there and get my bearings.
It’s not like I expected to be greeted by a prim secretary behind a generic front desk like in every other government building I spend time in.
But it’s undeniable that the station feels less like a workplace and more like a family home that just happens to also serve as a garage for emergency vehicles.
To make matters worse, Christmas decorations cover nearly every available surface inside.
Stockings hang from a mezzanine railing overlooking the main room.
A massive tree occupies one corner, branches laden with tacky ornaments and the bottom half nearly drowning in an assortment of wrapped parcels.
Children’s drawings are taped to bulletin boards.
Photographs cover the walls, both official portraits and casual snapshots.
The building feels lived in, rather than merely maintained and managed.
I dislike it immediately. The building where I work has cubicles and desks and filing cabinets. People minding their own business and diligently getting their work done. Everything and everyone has its place.
A particularly loud burst of laughter erupts from the kitchen. I turn toward the sound.
Five firefighters occupy a large table cluttered with coffee mugs and pastry boxes. One of them appears to be reenacting something with dramatic hand gestures while the others watch.
The moment I appear at the threshold, the conversation dies. One head turns, then another. Another. Within seconds, every pair of eyes in the room is fixed on me.
Nice. Everyone knows that women absolutely love being gawked at by strangers.
The silence lasts long enough to become awkward.
Then, a dark-haired man rises from the table.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered. Ridiculously handsome, too, but that’s hardly important.
Incredible bone structure and gorgeous hazel eyes are the sort of qualities you’re born with, not ones that require any merit to obtain.
Thus, irrelevant.
His smile comes warm and easy, entirely too charming for the dour afternoon.
“You must be the investigator,” he greets me.