“It won’t change what happened,” Matthew Tobias whispered. “But I suppose we should thank you.”
“Any idea where you are going to stay tonight?” Ellie was a cop, but she was also a human being. As of yet her stone and timber house up in the woods of Lincoln County hadn’t sold, and she valued every single piece of furniture and anything else she owned in it. If someone had done to her what had just happened to them … she wasn’t sure how she’d deal with it. There was always something that couldn’t be replaced. Furniture for the most part was not a tragedy, but pictures and other keepsakes were just … lost.
Matthew put his arm firmly around his wife’s shoulders, more effectual than he seemed on first impression. “We have friends and family. We’ll make arrangements.”
At this point it was futile to try to question them further, especially since they didn’t seem to have any information to offer, or
wouldn’t
offer. Ellie rose, nodded, and headed for the door.
Bad timing.
They happened to be bringing out the body from the still smoldering house, the quiet street crowded with spectators and a camera crew from a local station. Santiago stood at the fringe of the police tape, talking to one of the crime scene guys. One lean hand ran systematically through his already disheveled hair, and he shook his head emphatically.
She wished they connected better. Rick, her last partner in the investigation that had helped her get this job, had been a typical pigheaded male in some ways, but they had gotten along. He had never possessed a jagged edge like she felt with Jason Santiago.
Not that it really mattered. They
would
work together because that was what the department wanted, and as long as he was a good cop—everyone said he was—then it would have to be okay. Maybe he’d grow on her. Like a rash or something, she thought wryly.
She walked over, looking at Santiago, not the gurney being loaded into the ambulance. The body was zipped into a bag, but that didn’t help; she’d seen it, and the image was burned into her brain. The doors closed with a final bang that rang out with a singular sound. Her partner glanced at her. “Well? Our lucky couple give you anything?”
“Not really.” She blew out a short breath. “Let’s talk to the neighbors, find out who was home at the time the fire started. Maybe someone saw something. Anything. If the fire was set, and it clearly was, it looks like two people broke into this house uninvited and only one of them left. Until we have more information and an ID of the victim, all we can do is go fishing.”
“Let me guess, you’ll cast and I’ll reel them in.”
That tone again. She looked at him. “What?”
He lifted one of his eyebrows and said, “Never mind. Fine, let’s go.”
* * *
Carl
Grasso let
himself into the foyer, welcoming the cool waft of the air-conditioning, dropping his keys into a crystal bowl. The faceted mirror his mother had bought in France hung above the marble table and he caught his reflection in the glass. He’d probably changed some in the past five years. A few more silver flecks in his hair, maybe some more lines at the corner of his eyes. He usually didn’t pay much attention, but he had to shave every day, so he saw his reflection each morning; he just didn’t really look at it. All the requisite parts were okay, eyes, nose, mouth, square chin … at least he wasn’t losing his hair, not yet anyway, and he worked out like a religious fanatic and ran at least ten miles a week.
Anything to fill the time.
He discarded his tie over the back of a wing chair in the family room as he walked toward the kitchen, going into the butler’s pantry and taking out a bottle of single malt scotch from the bar, and fishing a glass out of the cupboard above the small sink. Two fingers, some distilled water, and a couple of ice cubes, and he took a sip, thinking about the day.
About the murder in Bayview.
He still didn’t know much, but he knew
enough
.
If he considered this too much he wouldn’t do it. So he went back into the kitchen, set his glass on the marble counter, and got out his cell phone. He hadn’t talked to her in two years so maybe her number had changed, but he tried it anyway.
Rachel answered on the third ring, her voice tentative. “Hello?”
“Hi. It’s Carl.”
“Oh.” She sounded nonplussed. He could see her in his mind’s eye, shapely, early forties now, auburn hair, or it had been that shade when they’d been involved and he could testify that it was genuine. Then her voice returned to the usual modulated professional tone he remembered. “Well, Lieutenant Grasso. I admit this is a surprise.”
There were French doors that led outside to the patio and beyond that, the water in the pool shimmered blue-green in the slanting light. Not quite dusk yet, but it was coming. He took another sip of his drink before he said, “I think The Burner is back.”
“No ‘how are you’? I’m fine, by the way. I’m opening a bottle of a Willamette Valley chardonnay and I might drink every drop because I just took my mother to dinner—wait, excuse me, how could I make such a mistake. I meant supper. Dinner is at noon, supper in the evening. She corrected me when I invited her and there I went, slipping again.”
He laughed quietly. He’d missed her. And yes, her mother, whom he’d met twice, was a woman who had her first child in middle age, so there was a more pronounced generation gap than usual.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You know me, always on the job. Besides your mother, how are you? How is the position at the university?”
“Being a professor of journalism is not nearly as exciting as being a reporter, but I like it.” She sounded like she genuinely meant it. “I even agreed to teach summer classes this year.”
He heard it in her voice.
Why not?
They always had too much in common. A restlessness and sense of purpose that should have brought them closer but instead made them drift apart.
“Good for you.”
“It might be,” she agreed, the audible sound of liquid splashing into a glass in the background. “Now, what’s this about The Burner? Who is that?” Then she stopped and there was a momentary silence and her voice was remarkably different when she spoke again. “Wait. Are you talking about that homicide five years ago?”
“I am.” He slowly swirled the ice in his glass. The sky was starting to turn an interesting shade of red streaked with indigo. “I think it might be the same person, and that’s my affectionate nickname for the perpetrator in that particular case.”
He’d worked it for months until he’d just reached one dead end after another, and Rachel, as an investigative reporter, had interviewed him about it, and that had been how they met. Essentially lust at first sight, but their relationship had gone nowhere, much like the investigation.
“Why?” She switched instantly to that professional reporter he remembered with the rapid-fire questions. “Hold on, I’m taking off my earring.” A pause. “All right, go ahead. I woke up just the other night and was thinking about that case. What a coincidence. What makes you think there is a connection?”
“Body on a table and the whole place lit on fire.”
She said something softly under her breath and then asked, “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, I’m not on this one.”
He wasn’t even homicide any longer. His fault. He knew it, but he missed the division, and this had once been
his
investigation.
The rustle in the background might have been her settling into a chair. She had a condo right across from the lake, modern, comfortable, perfect for a single woman, with spectacular views. He’d been there more than once, spent the night quite a few times actually, and he liked it. The place was opposite the house his parents had left him, which was anything but cozy and modern, but he hadn’t seemed to be able to come to a decision about putting his home on the market.
Clinging to the past, he would guess a therapist would tell him, but he didn’t see therapists—didn’t really believe in them—and at the end of the day, it was just a place to live.
Rachel asked carefully, and he knew it was careful by the tone of her voice, “So, what are you going to do?”
The ice had melted in his drink, the liquid a beautiful pale gold. He considered it abstractly. “I might look into it on my own.”
“Why did I know you were going to say that? Should you?”
“Have dinner with me.” The suggestion was not exactly impulsive. The call had been a little impulsive maybe, but the question, no. He’d been thinking about it, about her, for some time. “Do you still have all your notes?”
“Burned bodies over dinner? That sounds romantic, Detective.”
“We’ve done it before.”
The double entendre made her laugh, though he hadn’t particularly planned it. It made him laugh too. “I meant—”
“How about tomorrow night? I assume if you haven’t changed considerably, you will want to discuss this as soon as possible. Pick me up at seven.”
“Dinner tomorrow then.”
“Supper,” she corrected and ended the call.
Chapter 3
I
drove along the rutted road about twice a year. In the spring the apple trees bloomed, tiny white flowers exploding like a frost of fallen snow, and later in the fall, the apples would weigh the branches almost to the ground. The deer would come at dusk, shadows in the dying light, and eat the fallen fruit, the big bucks heavy with their racks, the does small and graceful. One year my father shot a ten pointer, out of season, and bragged about it for years.
The barn had started to fall in on itself a long time ago, rotted timbers collapsing slowly, sagging like an old woman’s tits, showing its age, no longer useful.
Parking the car, I got out and slammed the door, the sound echoing in the quiet. My shoes crushed the overgrown vegetation, instantly damp in the evening dew.
It was unnaturally quiet, as if my invasion was a personal affront to nature, even the birds silent at the presence of an interloper. It was almost eerie.
* * *
Ellie parked her
car and sat for a moment, looking at the house. The Land Rover was in the garage no doubt, parked in the clean, neat interior, the shelves holding only a few necessary tools, the lawn mower in the other bay. The exterior of the split level was brick, the lawn had some nice mature trees, and the neighborhood was upscale middle class, into the 25 percent tax bracket. Down the street there were some kids playing basketball in a driveway; she could hear the smack of the ball on the pavement and the resulting shouts when someone sent it up.
She’d forgotten to pick up the bottle of merlot she’d offered to bring.
Damn
. He’d better have some, she thought as she slid out of the car. Luckily, Bryce was a more talented cook than she was, so she could at least count on a nice dinner.
The glass door was shut, but the door was open, and she didn’t knock but just twisted the knob and stepped into the flagstone entryway. It was high, two stories, with a modern chandelier made of pendant lights—her suggestion—and ivory walls. More grand than her usual taste, but she had to admit the place was finally coming together, the furnishings in the living room masculine with leather couches and mahogany tables, a couple of lamps with stained glass shades scattered around and no television, which always impressed her. That was in the den, down the hallway, and Bryce didn’t seem to use it too much, preferring his precious books. Not too surprising, since he had a Ph.D. in literature, but she was a lot more used to guys who watched ESPN like it was their job.
This was the most interesting relationship of her life and she really wished she was more convinced it would work out.
She was into it … into him, the sex was good—great even—but he was really laid back, and she just … wasn’t. Her job, what she did, was not conducive to being laid back.
Not to mention that they had met when she was working the serial murder case up north and he had been the main suspect. He’d been cleared, but one of their problems was that she was not anxious for any of her colleagues—particularly Santiago after today—to find out she was involved with someone she’d once investigated.
Bryce was in the kitchen. She could smell the tantalizing aroma of garlic with a hint of soy. “Please tell me,” she said by way of greeting as she walked in, “that you are cooking Chinese food. It smells like it and I am trying to not get my hopes up because this has, like I told you on the phone, been one hell of a day.”
He glanced up from the counter, which was poured concrete in a rich brown color to match the tiled floor. A stray lock of dark hair routinely fell over his forehead and tonight was no exception. He had finely modeled features and a killer—if rare—smile, and a nice, lean build.
The smile flashed. “I might be. Your favorite. Garlic chicken.”
Heaven.
“I canceled on my sister because I was almost out of the city when I got a call from work. And, by the way, I forgot the wine.” She set her purse on the counter. “Sorry. Maybe that makes it two for two on my part. Jody is ticked at me and we have no wine.”
“Relax. It wouldn’t have gone with the food anyway. Have a glass of the Chablis I chilled earlier.” He jerked his chin toward the refrigerator. “I wouldn’t mind one either.”
“Waiting for me?”
“Your text spoke volumes. Even before you called I’d decided you needed garlic chicken.”
Bad day. Watch the news
.
Can we eat in?
Short and sweet and all too accurate. She took out two glasses, uncorked the wine, and he tossed the marinated chicken into the pan where it made a satisfying sizzle. The chopped vegetables on the cutting board also looked promising. For lunch she’d eaten a dry as dust doughnut left in the box in the break room at the station. On her day off, no less, and the beginning of a holiday weekend.
She set down his glass on the counter close to the stove, took her first oh-so-amazing sip, braced her hip, and said, “We have an interesting case.”
“Sure sounded like it.” He scooped up onions and tossed them into the mix. “Or I got that impression.”