The Arsonist

Nathan sipped his coffee. “Do you know what started it?”

The chief shook his head. “Don’t know. We got the arson boys from Roanoke coming in tomorrow.”

Darcy lingered.

“You think someone set the fire on purpose?” Larry asked.

“No, I doubt it. Likely someone did something stupid,” the chief said. “They’ll have a report for us in a couple of days.”

Larry pulled a toothpick from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “Bet it was teen gangs.”

Chief Wheeler laughed. “Larry you got teen gangs on the brain since you saw that 20/20 show last month.”

George rang a bell, which told Darcy another order was up. Swallowing an oath, she picked up the order and took the plates to table number six. By the time she’d gotten them ketchup and refilled their colas, the men at the bar were talking about another fire.

Darcy topped up the chief’s drink. “You get a lot of fires in the area?”

The chief shrugged. “Not many as a rule.”

Darcy held up the pitcher of cola. “Like a refill, Larry?”

“Not yet,” he said smiling.

“So how do you like Preston Springs so far, Nathan?” She wanted to stay in on this conversation without being too obvious.

Nathan sipped his coffee. “Love it.”

She held up the coffeepot. “So you’re working on the condo project off I-81?”

He held up his cup. “That’s right.”

She refilled it. Given time, she’d crack this Nero case. There was a story here and she could feel it in her bones. “Long hours?”

He nodded his thanks. “Always.”

George rang his bell and Darcy had to abandon her conversation and serve another customer.

Given time. Who was she kidding? She barely had time to pee.

It was nine o’clock before Darcy could pull her head above water again to think. Nathan, the chief and Larry had left and there was still no sign of Trevor.

Her feet ached from running from table to table. If her brother had been here, she’d have had more time to talk to the chief, maybe find out something about Michael Gannon. But Trevor was nowhere in sight.

At nine forty-five, she’d not had a break and was starving. She’d eaten three large handfuls of the cocktail nuts—a good four hundred calories by her way of thinking. At the rate she was going, she’d weigh two hundred pounds before she got back to D.C. When the guy at table seven sent his order back for the third time, she vowed to skin Trevor alive when he did arrive.

At ten, the crowd had turned over several times. Folks looking for a meal had long cleared out. Most were now there for drinks.

At ten-fifteen, the front door opened and to her great relief, Trevor strolled in. Everyone at the bar and the booths waved him a greeting as he flashed his million-dollar smile. Trevor, tall and muscular with thick brown hair, kissed his mother, who beamed up at him from her current post at the cash register, and then strolled over to the bar as if he had all the time in the world.

When he spotted Darcy, his grin widened. “Mom said you were back.”

“Man, it’s about time you got here,” she said as she stuck a lime in a Gin Fizz and handed it to a customer at the bar.

He studied her trim figure. “You’ve lost weight.”

That compliment was her Achilles’ heel and she immediately started to thaw. “Yeah.”

Trevor opened his arms wide. “Is that the nicest thing you can say to your baby brother?”

Darcy really wanted to stay mad at Trevor. He’d left her in the lurch for most of the evening. But there was something about Trevor and his natural charm. She couldn’t stay mad at him.

She stepped into his arms and hugged him. He wrapped his long arms around her and squeezed her tight against him. He smelled of cigarettes and beer, but in all honesty, she’d never felt more welcome than she did at this moment.

Since her breakup with Stephen, there’d been no one to hug or comfort her or tell her that everything was going to be all right after a bad day. Trevor’s hug made up for all of that. For just a split second, she felt safe, secure and loved. And for that she could forgive him almost anything.

Darcy choked back the tears crowding her throat and pulled back. “It’s good to see you.”

His smile lit up his eyes. “You too. So who’s the bastard that fired my big sister? I want a name because I’m going to have to rough him up.”

Darcy laughed and tears did fill her eyes this time. “Thanks, but I got it under control.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble at all, Dee. I can drive up to D.C., pound some flesh and be home before you know it.”

Gratitude choked her throat. “Just the offer makes me feel better.”

He hugged her again before he released her. “It’s a standing offer.” He moved behind the bar and drafted himself a beer. He took a long drink, nearly draining half the mug. “Hey, thanks for covering the delivery today. I don’t know what happened with the payment. But I’ll write you a check first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks.” Darcy smiled. “So when did you start drinking?” Their dad had been an alcoholic, and, like her, Trevor had always sworn to stay off the sauce.

He rolled his eyes. “A half a beer is hardly a drinking problem, Dee.”

“That’s what Dad used to say.”

Michael Gannon often lost track of time when he was working on a new bike. Regularly, he worked hours under the garage’s fluorescent glare often skipping meals. Tonight, however, he was having trouble concentrating. He kept thinking about the fire at the Super 8. The fire at the motel possessed an intensity that had surprised him. An older hotel could easily have burned that fast, but new construction rarely did.

He shut off the flame of his blowtorch and set it and the solder down on the workbench next to the gas tank he was fabricating. He pulled off his faceplate and stepped back, easing the kinks from his back as he moved. He’d been working on a custom gas tank for a vintage old-school bike most of the day. The task should have taken a few hours. But his concentration kept wavering and he’d been forced to work well into the night to finish it.

The bike was expected to go to the paint shop in six days, and if he didn’t get it built in time, he’d fall behind schedule.

He picked up the tank and studied the cigar-shaped form. The seams and edges were rough now, but tomorrow he’d buff out the uneven spots. And once painted, it would be sweet.

Gannon set the tank down and walked over to the long window of his shop. Outside, the bulb above his front door cast a ring of light. Across the street, the neon lights of the Varsity tavern blinked. The tavern was winding down and the last customers made their way out the front door.

Thinking about their new waitress, he went outside. She had a real mouth on her, but he still couldn’t help but grin when he pictured her green eyes blazing at him.

He glanced again at the Varsity and then checked his watch. The tavern was open for another fifteen minutes, enough time to get a bite to eat. But he didn’t like being close to cigarettes when he was this edgy. He’d not had a cigarette in a year and he wasn’t going to mess up just because some fool had set an accidental fire.

A bike ride was in order. He needed to get out in the open air and let the wind clear the cobwebs from his brain. As he started back inside to get his bike, the leggy waitress pushed through the front door of the tavern. She had her arm around a guy who was clearly drunk.

Gannon paused, stepping back into the shadows. He imagined the waitress had handled her share of drunks, but he hung around in case there was trouble.

The waitress and her customer stood outside the tavern and he suspected they were waiting for a cab. The drunk swayed a couple of times and then his right hand drifted up to the waitress’s butt. She slapped it down.

Gannon grinned.

When the cab arrived, the brunette helped the drunk into the cab. She leaned in the backseat window, her ponytail swishing forward over her shoulder as she bade him good evening. When the cab drove off, she waved.

He watched her walk back toward the bar, admiring the way her jeans hugged her rear. He couldn’t resist stepping partway into the light and shouting, “Break any plates tonight?”

She whirled around searching the darkness until she saw him. For a moment she stared as if she didn’t know him and then she connected the dots. “Six. Run over any more people today?”

He laughed. “You’re it so far.”

Unexpectedly, she smiled. The smile lit up her face, making Gannon very aware that it had been a long time since he had been with a woman.

Shaking her head, she said, “I’ll be sure to look both ways. Have a good night.” She disappeared into the tavern.

He lingered a few more moments and watched her move through the tavern picking up stray glasses and plates.

Gannon started to whistle. As he turned to get his bike, he noticed his mailbox on the wall by his front door was full. He reached inside the rectangular box and pulled out two days’ worth of mail. Most of it was junk flyers and bills.

Standing under the porch light, he started to flip through the mail. He was halfway through the stack when a packet of matches fell out of the stack to the ground. The packet was red with lettering embossed in gold.

Little Rome—Great Italian Food.

His blood ran cold.

The matches were identical to the ones Nero had sent him after each Washington, D.C., fire.

He opened the pack. Inside was scrawled Day One.

He closed his eyes, then quickly opened them to refocus on the note. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. This was how it had begun with Nero in D.C. a year and a half ago.

Gannon exhaled, tipping his face to the stars. Anyone could have sent the matches. He’d made no secret of his past when he’d moved to Preston Springs and a good many knew he’d investigated the Nero fires in D.C. The matches were common knowledge, thanks to the Channel Five reporter, Stephen Glass.

He glanced down at the matches. If this was someone’s idea of a joke, it wasn’t funny.

Sick bastard.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed, trying to release the tension from his shoulders. He was twisting himself up in knots.

One fire. One pack of matches. Neither countered the mountains of evidence the D.C. fire investigators found that proved the body in that warehouse was Nero.

Raymond Clyde Mason had been Nero’s real name. The man who had terrorized D.C. for nearly a year was dead. Mason hadn’t fit his idea of Nero, but gut reactions didn’t hold a candle to the hard evidence that said Nero was dead. And whatever lingering doubts Gannon had had faded when the fires had stopped completely.

So why did he have the feeling that Nero was back?

“You’re losing your mind, Gannon,” he whispered.

Someone is jerking your chain.

Nero is dead.

He walked over to the trash can by the door and was ready to toss the matches away when he changed his mind and slipped them into his pocket.

Chapter 4

“Motorcycle Man, you are a pain,” Darcy said, smiling as she stacked the dirty glasses on her tray.

Times were tough if she was semi-flirting with a redneck biker. Still, when she heard the roar of his bike engine, she moved to the window and watched him drive off into the night.

“What are you staring at?” Trevor shouted from behind the bar.

“Nothing.” Turning from the window, she flipped the sign on the door to Closed and turned the lock. She wondered where Motorcycle Man would be riding to at this time of night. She started to run through possible scenarios when she caught herself. Who was she kidding? She’d come to Preston Springs to find Gannon and get a lead on Nero. Not for a fling.

Darcy moved to the bar where her brother was wiping up a spill. Trevor had lost his bright smile from earlier in the evening. Dark smudges hung under sunken eyes and judging by the way he moved, he was working on a headache. “Hey, Dee, do me a favor and finish closing up the bar.”

She sat on a stool, groaning with pleasure to be off her feet. The counter behind the bar was littered with olives, limes and covered in a mixture of alcohols and juices. “I don’t want to do it and you seem to be doing a good job of it.”

He seemed agitated. “I’ve got to close out the register.”

“Where’s Mom?” Lord, but her back and legs ached. Hard to believe she held this job through high school and college.

Trevor went to the cash register, positioned a few feet to the right of the bar and directly in front of the door. He opened the register and scooped out all the money. “I sent her upstairs. She was wiped.”

Darcy rubbed the back of her neck. Closing the bar would take another hour and she could barely see straight as it was. This certainly wasn’t what she’d pictured when she’d imagined her return home. “This sucks.”

He laughed. “Hey, you wanted the job. I didn’t come begging.”

Imagining the Pulitzer in hand, Darcy stood. She moved behind the bar, punching him in the arm as she passed. She grabbed a rag. “Don’t forget my check.”

Rubbing his arm, he nudged her to the side sending her slightly off balance. “First thing in the morning.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a real jerk.”

He closed the register drawer. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

“Hey, thanks.”

He didn’t look up from the cash in his hands. “For what?”

Tender emotions weren’t her strong suit. “For letting me come back to work. It won’t be for long. I swear.”

His blue eyes softened. “You’d do the same for me.” He shoved the money into a bank deposit bag. “If you wipe down the bar, I’ll sweep up.”

“Bless you.”

The instant Trevor left for the night deposit box, Darcy realized she’d gotten the short end of the stick. The bar was a real mess. She could have left it until the morning, but she pulled her own weight. She went to the small sink at the end of the bar, soaked the rag and started to clean.

A half hour later, Trevor returned from the bank. “I’m back.” He looked alert and he’d lost the edginess.

Darcy wrung the rag out in the sink. “Good, you can sweep the floor.”

He came into the bar. “I will. Hey, the bar looks good.”

She lifted a brow—amazed at his energy. “Trevor you are the sloppiest bartender I ever met.”

He shrugged good-naturedly. “Yeah, but no one makes a Gin Gimlet like I do.”

No doubt it was a crusher. “So, get to sweeping.”

“If you don’t mind, I need to do a little inventory in the kitchen and then I’ll come back and do it.”

Darcy started to mop down the top of the bar. “You’re slacking, Trev.”

He lifted his elbows as she wiped past him. “Hey, I’m a man of my word.”

God, she was tired. “Fine go, but I’m not sweeping.”

Twenty minutes later, she’d finished cleaning. Her body aching, she started toward the back stairs ready to dive into her bed. She noticed Trevor’s light was on in his office, but she didn’t bother to check in with him. Each leg felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds as she climbed the darkened staircase. She made an effort to move quietly. Her mother had dog ears and she didn’t want to wake her.

Two steps past her mother’s door and she heard, “Darcy, have you checked to see if the front and back doors are locked?”

“I did the front. Trevor will get the back, Mom.”

“Remind him.”

If she’d had the strength, she’d have argued. But the end result would have been the same. She’d have to check the door. “Okay.”

Turning, she flipped on the staircase light and headed back downstairs. As she crossed the empty tavern room, she heard the roar of a motorcycle engine.

Darcy moved to the front tavern window and watched as Motorcycle Man pulled up in front of his garage. She paused and watched as he parked his bike under the streetlight and swung his leg over the side. Pulling off his helmet, he walked to the garage door and pulled it open. He flipped on the light.

There was an arrogance about his gait that reminded her of men in the military or the police force. She’d interviewed enough like that to recognize the look. But his longish hair and scraggly jeans and T-shirt screamed anti-establishment.

“So who are you, Motorcycle Man, and what brings you to this small town?” Her reporter’s mind started to click. Without even realizing it, she’d ticked through a half dozen scenarios for him and had come up with the questions she’d ask if she had the chance to interview him. Hometown? Service record? Reason for leaving your last job? Why the interest in motorcycles?

Of course, she’d never interview him. His story, despite his action hero swagger, wasn’t likely the kind that grabbed headlines. She was after the big game—Nero.

Motorcycle Man tossed back his head, clearing his dark hair from his eyes, and pushed his bike into the garage. She watched as he stretched his long, lean body and reached for the garage door handle. He glanced toward the Varsity and for a minute she thought he was looking right at her. Her heart pounded in her chest. But, of course, he couldn’t see her in the dark.

When he closed the door, she released the breath she’d been holding. He turned off the garage light.

Disappointment flickered. She liked looking at Motorcycle Man and wondered what he’d taste like if she kissed him. Darcy was acutely aware that there’d been no one in her bed since she and Stephen had broken up ten months ago. She missed the touch and feel of a man inside her.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.