Page 7 of Burning Justice

Wow. Great smile. All toothy and white, not that it was relevant or anything.

Blaze lay down on the grass in front of Tanner’s long, outstretched legs. The dog had to be over eighty pounds. Big dog for a big man. No way could she see him with a chihuahua.

“I did.” Without waiting for an invitation, she plunked down on the bench next to Tanner. “I started looking into all accidental house fires in Colorado in the last four years. Then I narrowed them down to those that were total losses and the ones for which the owners had heavy riders for expensive items.”

Tanner raised his brows, looking genuinely interested now. “How many did you find?”

“Twenty-one.”

“That’s about five houses a year that fit your criteria.” Blaze nuzzled his head against Tanner’s leg. In an unexpectedly gentle gesture, he leaned down to scratch the dog’s ears. He might be all tough-as-nails on the outside, but clearly, he had a soft spot for his dog. Gotta give the man credit for that, at least. “That doesn’t sound like an overwhelming amount, and I still don’t see the connection to the warehouse fires.”

“Bear with me here. I dug deeper and guess what?” She leaned in for effect and got a lungful of Tanner’s cologne, a citrusy, woodsy scent mixed with a small amount of smoke. She’d gotten a brief whiff of it during the whole plastered-against-his-chest thing. Guess he hadn’t had time to get home and shower after the fire and arresting Gavin Aldrich. And don’t forget the dead body. “Each of those twenty-one house owners used the same titling company—Kobuk Titling Agency—when the land was sold after the fires.”

“Go on,” Tanner said, seeming more and more interested by the second.

Gemma reached down to pet Blaze at the same time Tanner did. Great minds. Their fingers grazed, and the same unsettling heat she’d felt at the warehouse made itself known. So much for residual fire heat. What was with that?

They both jerked back their hands.

“I tried getting in touch with that titling company, but I kept getting their voicemail. I’ve made a dozen calls in all.”

“Where are they located?”

“Alaska. I can’t exactly pop in for a quick chat, and the NICB doesn’t have any personnel stationed there.”

“Again, what’s the connection between these house fires and the warehouse fires?”

“Maybe nothing,” she admitted. “The first time the warehouse was torched, it was deemed an accident. While you were transporting Aldrich to jail, the local fire investigator pretty much determined those cans of MEK we found were used to set the fire last night. No shock there. But one of those twenty-one house fires on my list was also caused”—she hooked her fingers into quotation marks—“‘accidentally’ by MEK, and it was located practically around the corner from the Frodo Warehouse.”

Tanner’s jaw went hard. One of his arms—the one with the burn scar—was draped across the top of the bench. The thick muscles in that arm went as rigid as a steel pipe, and Gemma could practically see the antennas shooting up from the top of his head. Eyes she’d thought were brown, but were actually a dark blue, came to life, turning as turbulent as a tornado. “18 Torrance Lane.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I was there. The night that house burned to the ground…I was there.”

…

Saying the address out loud was enough to make the blood pound in Brett’s ears and the burned skin on his forearm prickle. Gently, he rubbed the burn that was, at times, still itchy.

As if sensing the change in Brett’s demeanor, Blaze lifted his head, pinning him with questioning, golden-brown eyes.

“Okay,” he said to Gemma. “You’ve got my attention.” If she’d discovered something about that fire that he wasn’t aware of, he sure as heck wanted to hear it.

Her gaze dropped to his arm. “Is that where you were hurt? In that fire?”

He nodded. Luckily, he’d left Blaze in the truck that night, otherwise he might have gotten killed trying to save Brett’s ass. “Two teenagers died in that fire. My injuries are nothing.”

This disfigurement was his penance for surviving, not only the fire last year, but the one twenty-five years ago from which he’d escaped unscathed.

Brett swallowed the familiar lump of guilt that always rose in his throat when he thought back to that fire. It should have been him who’d died that day, not them. Any pain he suffered was deserved.

“I remember that fire. Why were you called to that location in the first place? The ATF doesn’t normally respond to house fires.”

“True that.” Again, he nodded. “Mostly, we’re called in when the locals have a big investigation but not the dedicated resources to handle all the interviews. We have chemists, engineers, and labs to analyze evidence, but we also get involved if there’s a big financial loss, interstate commerce, federal property, non-terrorism related explosives, or”—he paused for effect—“a serial arsonist. As a Certified Fire Investigator, I can also collect evidence and fill in when the local CFI isn’t available.” Which was exactly what had happened that night.

“I read the ATF’s findings in the insurance company’s file,” Gemma said. “I don’t recall seeing you listed as the CFI.”

Something that still chapped his ass. “Because I was injured during the fire, they reassigned the case to another agent.”