Playing with Fire
She wondered why he was schooling her. She was the arson specialist. She might have gotten annoyed at being patronized, but somehow he didn’t give her that feeling. It was more as though he was trying to shift mental gears and get into the groove on the Buell fire. He drank more water and offered her a bottle from the small fridge beside his desk. She accepted it gratefully. Flying always left her parched.
Suddenly he zoomed in on her and on the subject at hand. He leaned forward, as if he had finally fully switched mental zones. “It was arson, all right. I don’t think the Buells did it, and you can’t smell accelerant in the house—just in the barn. More important, it went up too hot and fast. Who the hell around here would know a different way to start a fire?”
He had her full attention now, too. And now she understood why he’d mentioned aromatics, the things you could smell. He hadn’t been schooling her. He’d been working up to something.
“Do you think the Buells did it?” he asked her.
“I haven’t seen the site.”
He shook his head almost irritably. “Don’t fence with me. You’re the insurance carrier, you know their coverage. Do they stand to gain from this?”
“It’s always possible,” she said truthfully. “Even the minimally insured have been known to set fires in order to get aid. But really, I have to see the extent of the damage and evaluate some other things before I can say.” And if that made him feel protective of people he knew, too bad.
“Black bones pointing to the sky and some dead livestock,” he said shortly. “There isn’t a whole lot left except the herds out in pasture. Amazingly, we didn’t get a grass fire. It was hot, it was too fast and the Buells were damned smart to have alarms. Now Fred Buell is out there every day trying to tend his cattle from the back of a truck with the help of neighbors. He didn’t gain a thing that I can see except a whole pack of new problems.”
She nodded, willing to accept his judgment for now. Her own would come later.
He stood up and went to stare out his own plate-glass window at the men who were finishing the cleanup. “We got us a firebug, Ms. Atkins. Bad and mean. I want him.”
“Your inspector mentioned this was the third arson in a year.”
“Close to. Less than a year, to be specific. The first two were definitely gasoline, but this one is different. If they’re the same perp, then we have a huge problem. He’s getting smarter.” He turned and looked at her. “And more dangerous. The first two didn’t go up like a bomb. We had time to get out there, and the ranchers are pretty good with a hose themselves. This time...” He shook his head, a dark frown on his face. “Are you gonna help me?”
She started. She hadn’t expected this. She had come to assess one situation, not hunt for an arsonist. But something in her quickened, and she felt a touch of his fury.
“I hate arsonists,” she said finally. “Passionately. I’ll do what I can, what my job allows.”
After a moment he said, “Fair enough. You’re an expert. I’m not really. I can recognize arson, can usually tell where the fire started and what caused it. But this is different. I need some expertise around here. I sent for a state investigator, but they’re shorthanded. I’ve covered the points of ignition I could find, but with every passing minute, evidence is disappearing.”
She completely understood and shared his concern. While she had no stake in any of this, she did indeed want to help figure out what had happened and who had done it before this creep managed to kill someone. Still, given her job, there were definite limits on what she could do. She also liked that Wayne Camden cared this much. She’d known some who didn’t.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll go out first thing in the morning. Where are you staying?”
“There’s a motel...”
He shook his head sharply. “You won’t catch any diseases there, but you’ll be right across the street from the truck stop. It’ll be noisy and it’s probably not what you’re used to.”
“I’ll survive,” she answered, but just from the way he’d objected to the idea, she already felt her skin starting to crawl.
He returned to his desk and picked up his phone, dialing a number from memory. “Hank? Wayne. Listen, I got an arson investigator in town for a few days. You wanna do me a favor? She needs a place to stay, and I don’t mean the La-Z-Rest. Yeah, okay.”
When he hung up he said. “Solved. A friend of mine has a furnished house for rent. You can use it, no charge.”
Astonishment filled her. “Why would he do that?”
“Because he used to be a fireman, too. Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”
* * *
She followed his red SUV down narrow tree-lined streets for a few blocks until he pulled up in front of a small house. A man was waiting for them outside, the perfect image of a cowboy except he canted a little, suggesting he had some kind of back trouble.
He smiled and held out his hand. “Hank Jackson.”
“Charity Atkins. It’s so kind of you to do this.”
He shook his head. “Teeny little thing. The place is empty. Empty houses aren’t happy houses. It’s fully furnished, though. Some groceries and you’ll be all set. Let me show you.”
“Tell her about Maude’s,” Wayne Camden said. “I need to get back to the station. Paperwork awaits.” He paused and looked at Charity. “I live just one street over, not that I get home often. Hank here can help you with just about anything, okay?”
“Thanks so much.”
“No problem. Not for me anyway. Should I pick you up around eight in the morning?”
Converted to Eastern Time, she realized, that would be her equivalent of ten. “Or I can come by the station after I get some breakfast.”
“Okay, I’ll see you there.”
He strode to his car, leaving her with Hank Jackson, a man with a weathered face and eyes that crinkled when he smiled.
“So you were a firefighter, too?” she asked.
“A long time ago. Now I’m just a cowboy. Come on in. Make yourself at home.”
* * *
Elsewhere, an arsonist pondered the arrival of the insurance investigator. How much did she know? How much could she figure out? Was she like the state investigator?
That was worrisome. The delay in getting the state guy down here created time between the fire and the investigation, and time made evidence go away, killing it with sun, wind and rain. Longer was better.
If the woman was a threat, the arsonist needed to know. Certainly, the fires had to stop for now. Frustrating, but necessary. There was no way to explain that the fires were meant to be helpful. Watching the investigator became paramount. If she became a threat, she would have to be removed somehow.
But that Buell fire had been something else, far more than the arsonist had expected. So fast, so all-consuming, way beyond the plan. Watching it erupt had been a thing of pure beauty and pure terror. The arsonist had been afraid of it, even at a distance. Way beyond control, not supposed to happen that way. The kind of fire that would draw major attention from every direction. A mistake.
Looking through binoculars, the arsonist had made sure the family escaped, and only then could enjoy the show. Sheets of flame reaching heavenward, whirling in fiery tornadoes, the sparks creating fireworks as the house and barn had collapsed. The biggest fire, short of a wildfire, ever. Two buildings, barn and house. That hadn’t been intentional, but the show... Well, maybe that made it worth it.
A perfectly created work of art. And all of it for a good cause.
But that arson investigator could prove to be a huge headache. Something drastic might need to be done.
With memories of that gorgeous fire still dancing, the arsonist decided the investigator needed to be driven away. Somehow. With any luck, it wouldn’t take much.
But if she nosed around too much, killing her was a possibility.
Chapter 2
By morning, Charity felt she had begun to land. Yesterday had been long, with a red-eye flight out of Atlanta to Denver so she could catch the puddle jumper to Conard City in time for her meeting with the chief.
She was used to it, did it often enough, but by the time she could finally hold still, she was ready to crash. She hadn’t even considered getting dinner. A shower and a comfy bed met her needs.
It was dark when she awoke, still on Atlanta time. She turned on all the lamps and light poured through the house, revealing it to be pleasant, and dashed with color here and there as if someone had tried to brighten it. Better than most motel rooms any day, and Charity felt grateful to Wayne and Hank. She’d only be here a short while, but she’d at least be comfortable when she wasn’t working.
Today, however, looked like the day to start wearing her real work clothes: jeans, shirt, boots and jacket. No place for the fancy suits while wandering around the fire scene.
She found coffee of an indeterminate age and a coffeepot. She made some and tasted the staleness, the oils just on the brink of going bad. She guzzled half the pot anyway, then realized that morning was beginning to arrive. Already she felt halfway into her workday. Funny how much difference a two-hour clock change could make.
Now that she felt fully rested and awake from the caffeine, Wayne Camden popped into her thoughts. Attractive man. Very. Then she struck that off her mental list. No time, no desire. One-night stands weren’t her thing, and these days she was burned out on relationships. It amazed her how often men could become controlling, resenting her work hours, her frequent trips out of town. Her job was part of the package and she was up-front about it. Yet still, sooner or later, the guy would get unhappy. Danged if she could figure it out.
She rubbed the last of the sleep from her eyes and headed to the bathroom. To makeup or not to makeup, she thought humorously. The familiar face that stared back at her from the mirror showed few remaining signs of fatigue, so she went for a very light touch. Then she clipped her long auburn hair firmly out of the way and hunted up her ball cap and hard hat. She was ready, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
And she figured that she needed to get some things straight with Wayne today. He’d asked for her help in finding this guy, and she shouldn’t have left the possibility open. She was an insurance investigator, not a criminalist or a cop. She’d gone to the arson academy, but her job most often involved checking out the evidence provided by forensics, and then looking for motivations and links. Yes, she was good at what she did, but she needed to make her limitations clear.
He really did need a fire marshal from the state.
She found the diner Wayne had mentioned without any trouble. Shortly after seven, local time, it was pretty well packed, although most of the patrons appeared to be older men who might be retired. A grumpy woman whose name tag announced she was Maude took her order with all the grace of an angry rhino, but the coffee came fast, and the eggs were perfectly cooked. Charity noticed the grumpiness extended to everyone else and no one seemed to mind it, so it must be par. She could ignore it.
Through the window she caught sight of the sheriff’s office up the street on the corner across from the square she had seen for the first time this morning. Maybe she could find some assistance there. They were surely going to need it.
She ate quickly with her laptop open, scanning the fire reports that had brought her out here. No mistaking the all-caps word ARSON typed into the blank for the probable cause. The rest offered little enough information except that both house and barn had been destroyed, horses and calves in the barn had died, but no other injuries.
Really. No other injuries. From the way Wayne had described it, she was kind of amazed. Fast and hot, almost like a bomb. Achieving that was no simple task. Most arsonists fell down in that area. Partial damage, a fire that ran out of fuel too soon, an accelerant that wasn’t as good as they thought, not enough ignition points...
She closed the laptop, the limited facts fresh in her mind. As soon as she paid the bill, she hotfooted over to the sheriff’s office, only peripherally noting that men were playing chess and checkers at stone tables and benches scattered in the gardens of the square.
The wizened woman at the dispatch desk was smoking a cigarette right below a no-smoking sign. Charity almost laughed when she realized that none of the deputies in the room seemed disturbed by this fact. An ashtray of butts nearby seemed to indicate this wasn’t a onetime infraction.
The woman eyed her from rheumy eyes. “Need something?”
Charity offered her card and the woman took it. “I’m Charity Atkins, an arson investigator. I’m here about the Buell fire. I was wondering if I might get some information here.”
Thin eyebrows reached for an equally thin graying hairline. “You need the sheriff. Straight back that hall on the left. Can’t miss it.”
She found the door labeled Sheriff Gage Dalton and had just raised her hand to knock when the door flew open. The man who faced her appeared to be about fifty, one side of his face marred by a shiny burn scar.
“Whoa,” he said. “Sorry if I startled you.” He held out his hand. “Gage Dalton.”
“Charity Atkins, arson investigator.” She pulled out a card for him. “If you have a minute, I’d like to ask about the Buell fire.”
“Sure.” He stepped back in. “Wayne’s the guy you need, though.”
“I’m meeting him in twenty minutes at the firehouse.”
Dalton’s eyes crinkled with a crooked smile. “Not much time, then. Take a seat.”
But before he joined her, he called down the hall, “Velma! We got a statey on the way over. Get rid of your butts. And while we’re at it, why don’t you take up electronic cigarettes?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but limped around the desk to sit facing her. Files teetered on one corner. A computer occupied the other. He sat with a grimace of pain, then smiled again. “Velma’s too old to change. But she’s not too old to get me into trouble.”
“I hear you.” Charity wanted to laugh. “I know you’re probably busy, but I was wondering what, if anything, you might know about this situation. The fire chief is hoping I can help him solve this somehow, but honestly, I’m an arson investigator who is primarily concerned with fraud. Fire and law enforcement are the people who do the real work. I just put it together.”
He nodded, drumming his fingers. “I don’t know much. I know Wayne is worried. Third arson in less than a year, but this was the worst by far. As for the Buells... Hardworking family. They’ve treasured that place for generations and never caused a lick of trouble. I wish everyone was like them.”
“But ranching is a hard life,” she said quietly.
“Not hard enough to give up everything he’s worked for. Not the kind of man who’d kill his own livestock, either. And you should talk to his wife and kids. They got out by the skin of their teeth. Fred Buell is now one very angry man, and I can’t say I blame him. If you’re still in town and want to get a measure of the regard folks around here feel for that family, come to the barn raising on Saturday.”
She blinked. “People still do that?”
“Don’t have to do it often, but yeah, they still do. Give the man a barn, he can take care of his business and his family will have a roof until they can put up another house.”
Charity tried to imagine it. “Living with the animals?”
“People used to do it all the time. Anyway, I got nothing on the Buell family. He’s not exactly in high clover, but he pays his debts and takes good care of his family. I can’t imagine him doing this to himself.”
She glanced at her watch. “Thank you, Sheriff. Guess I’d better run over to the fire station.”
“If you need anything else, let me know. It’s not like we’re not trying to look into this. I’ve battered the phone lines with demands for an investigator, and I know Wayne has sent samples to the forensics lab. But right now, we’re pretty much stalled without a trained arson investigator.”
She shook his hand again, then paused in the doorway. “Are the property appraiser’s records online?”
“More than mine,” he chuckled. “Yeah, they kept up with the times. Around here, we’re still catching up with the twenty-first century.”
Her car was still parked in front of the diner. She hurried back to it, then set out for the fire station. One thing to say for small towns, it was easy to find most places.
The only guys she saw as she walked up to the station, carrying her hard hat and laptop, were two men in the bay busy running on treadmills. She wondered if they had a weight room. Probably. There was even a basketball hoop hanging above the bay doors. That had been a favorite pastime when she’d volunteered.
Donna was still at the desk and simply waved her on through. “Chief’s waiting for you.”
Wayne rose the moment she opened his door. This morning he looked rested and his smile came easily. She found herself wishing he lived in Atlanta. She’d gladly get herself into some trouble with this guy.
“Ms. Atkins.”
“Charity, please.”
His smile widened a shade. “Wayne. Ready to head out?”
“Actually, do you have any internet Wi-Fi hotspots around here?”
“Not many,” he answered. “We’ve got Wi-Fi for law enforcement, the schools, the library, and us, but you need a password. I can get you one if you want.”
Oh, boy, she’d come back to the Stone Age. She quashed the thought immediately, as being rude. This area was extremely rural, and she was simply spoiled to think she could find a hot spot behind every storefront. “Thanks. I need to look at the property appraiser’s records on the Buell place.”
“Before we go?”
“It would help me understand what I’m seeing.”
Without another word, he turned his monitor so they both could see it. “Take a look,” he said as he began to type. A minute later, she saw the appraiser’s page for the Buell homestead. At once she started taking notes, tapping quickly on her own keyboard.
“Let me print it out.” As soon as the printer started humming, he rose and opened his office door. “Donna, can you fix it so Ms. Atkins can access our Wi-Fi while she’s here?”
“It’ll take me a few to set up a new account.”
“Later will be fine,” Charity said as she scanned the page. Big house, big barn, big appraisal. Her stomach sank as she read. Fred Buell had been underinsured, probably painfully so when you added in the livestock. No way would he gain from this fire. How had her company let this happen? When including reconstruction costs, they usually went overboard.
“This afternoon,” Donna said. “The darn thing always argues with me. I swear these machines have their own minds. Of course, if I wait for county IT to do it, it might take a week.”
Charity closed her laptop and reached for the sheet from the printer. As she did so, she saw a framed five-by-six photo on his desk. A young woman with long dark hair smiled back at her. Was he a cradle robber?
“She’s lovely,” she said to Wayne, indicating the photo.
“That’s Linda, my daughter. Seventeen and getting ready to leave me for college.”
Charity smiled. “You started young.”
He chuckled. “Older than I look. I guess I should take it as a compliment.”
“By all means.” She started to open her mouth and ask about his wife but realized it would be rude. Not everyone with a child had a spouse. She didn’t want to risk opening an old wound, if one existed.
“My wife left us about five years ago.” A shadow passed briefly across his face.
She guessed she’d given herself away somehow. “I’m sorry.”
“This town doesn’t suit everyone,” he said, closing the subject. “All set?”
“All done. Thanks.”
“Ride with me. Better for the roads than your rental.”
* * *
Wayne noted Charity’s change of garb and approved. She’d been pretty in that suit yesterday, but city had been written all over her. He could be excused for wondering how she could do a job like this. How could anyone do it in a business suit, male or female?
Now he saw the signs of a woman who’d be capable of climbing through the ruins with him and across the rough, open spaces. Even her boots were sensible and looked as though they had steel toes.
But she was still a pretty package. When he’d stared at her in surprise yesterday, all duded up in city clothes, the first thing he had noticed were her gentle curves. Just gentle ones, reminding him overall of a thoroughbred, perfectly shaped and in shape. Those curves hadn’t vanished in jeans and a long-sleeved button-down shirt. If anything, they stood out more. Her hazel eyes were probably a little more expressive than she realized. The rest of her face revealed little, if anything, and he suspected she had schooled herself to keep her secrets.
Regardless, she was still a lovely package.
Food for fantasy, he told himself, and nothing more.
He stared down the roads, amused by himself. Why even waste the time noticing her appeal? She’d be out of here the instant she could shake the dust from her heels. Same as a lot of women. Same as his woman. She’d grown a taste for flashier towns, and coming back here had about killed her. At the end of a year she swore she was losing her mind.
Finally, feeling he was being too silent and far from friendly, he asked, “What did you find out from the appraisal?”
“Plenty. Mr. Buell was underinsured. That shouldn’t have happened. Somebody was asleep at the wheel.”
“Meaning?”
“We generally look at appraiser’s records and adjust values accordingly. We don’t want our clients getting caught short like this.”
“You mean you can charge more.”
She didn’t answer for a few seconds and he wondered if she was hanging on to her temper. Her face told him nothing. Too bad, but he didn’t believe insurance companies were in the charity business.
“Yes, that, too. Although it doesn’t affect our bottom line any if we pay out less.”
“But how often do you have to pay for a total property?”
He glanced at her and at last saw a faint frown on her pretty face. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s reality. Everyone needs to make a living.” Even if some of them made more than a decent living. Way more. But this time he guarded his tongue.
“Look,” she said finally, “I don’t want to argue with you. Believe it or not, I’m not here to cheat our client. My job is to prove that he isn’t trying to defraud us, then we’ll pay. From the look of it, fraud’s out of the question for now.”
He didn’t miss the qualifier. He wanted to respond, but decided against it. Her job was to be distrustful. He let the conversation drop.
“I’ll need to see the files from the other two arsons,” she said finally. “They’re not my clients, obviously, but there might be links.”
“The biggest link is three arsons in such a short time. That’s not a routine problem around here. And ranchers are especially good about avoiding fires. It takes too long to get help.”
“I know.”
He glanced over and saw her staring out the window at the sage and fresh green grasses of spring. If the Buell place had gone up in a few months, they might have been fighting one hell of a brush fire. As it was, it was bad enough.
“Our usual rule,” she said, “is not to insure a dwelling or business more than eight minutes from a fire station. We make exceptions for ranches and farms because, you’re right, they avoid fire. We get the fewest claims from that segment. As you noted, most of these folks are equipped to deal with a small fire on the spot. My company even gives a discount if they have a high capacity water pump and fire hose. You know, like we do for households with fire extinguishers and security systems.”
“That’s good to know. I can tell you one thing for sure, these ranchers out here regard fire as their worst nightmare. They worry about it all the time, especially when we dry out in the late summer. Fighting brush fires and wildfires is a lot of my job. These guys are all over it. I’ve arrived at more range fires than I can count to find every rancher and hired hand in the area already trenching a fire line.”