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“Consider it done,” Ruiz said with a nod.
“I suppose I should make that call now,” Brandon grumbled, his thumb hovering over his contacts.
Ruiz grinned, a flash of teeth. “Hey, it’s your circus now.”
When Brandon finally left the warehouse, he found the team waiting by the engine. “I reached out to the county. They're sending out an arson investigator in the morning.” The rest of the team nodded, then he continued. “I’m assigning our two probies to stay here and keep an eye on the place—make sure nothing gets disturbed in the meantime. I’ll be back in the morning to relieve you and meet the investigator.”
As they took off for the station, Brandon watched through the engine window as the steam rose off the cooling metal, the structure looking less like a building and more like a warning. But he didn’t get frightened off easily. He was going to do whatever it took to get this case solved, stop whoever was behind so the arsonist couldn’t strike again, and prove that he deserved to be the new fire chief.
CHAPTER 2
Desiree Garcia rolled her county-issued sedan onto Main Street at 7:03 a.m., just as the sun inched over the white wooden church and made the town’s roundabout look like a diorama in a grade school Christmas pageant. A wishing well sat dead center of the circle, its stonework wrapped in evergreen garland and white LED lights that blinked in a festive holiday pattern. The storefronts ringing the roundabout leaned into holiday competition—painted window snowflakes on the Cozy Cup Coffee Shop, a three-piece nativity (inflatable) in front of First Savings, and a tinsel-framed “BOGO Tinsel” sign in the window of the general store. The town park’s fifteen-foot Christmas tree, visible from every angle, wobbled slightly in the breeze, red and gold balls clacking against its wire branches.
She gave it all five seconds of her time. Noted, cataloged, irrelevant to her job. Desiree parked in front of the fire station and sat for a moment in the engine’s low idle.
Her phone buzzed in the passenger seat: a text from her supervisor. “Let me know when you arrive on site. First big case, Garcia. Don’t blow it.”
She texted a quick reply, then closed the screen before checking her reflection in the rearview. She tucked her black bob behind her ears, let a small sigh, and opened the car door.
The cold air whipped around her, prompting her to cinch her parka tighter. She grabbed her field bag and walked into the fire station with a purposeful gait. It was important they knew who was in charge as soon as she entered the building.
Inside, the place looked like every small-town station she’d ever been in—tile floor, walls papered with faded plaques and patches, a faint undernote of burned coffee overlaid with disinfectant. The lobby had a counter with a bell but no receptionist; behind it, an open office door. Desiree rapped the desk once, sharp and businesslike, and a voice called out from deeper in the hall.
She followed the sound and found a firefighter in navy blue turnout pants and a Sweet Bloom T-shirt hunched over a vending machine, counting out coins. He looked up, caught sight of her, and straightened.
“Can I help you?” The young man appeared to be in his late twenties with a short haircut and clean face that read ROTC dropout.
“Investigator Garcia. County arson,” she stated bluntly. “I’m here to see Fire Chief Holloway.”
The man’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s not here right now. Headed out to the warehouse fire, said he wanted to be there before you arrived.”
Of course he did. Desiree’s teeth clenched together. He was staking his claim—doing his best to put her in her place. She’d just see about that.
“Interesting strategy,” she said, keeping her voice level. “Running to the scene so he can trample my evidence before I get a look at it. Tell me, does your chief make a habit of getting ahead of county, or is this a special occasion?”
The firefighter’s mouth opened, then closed. His cheeks flushed.
Desiree didn’t give him a chance to respond; instead, she simply asked, “Can I have a copy of the case file before I head out to the scene?”
“Can’t make you one—Chief’s got it with him. He did leave directions in case you needed them.” The firefighter ducked behind the front desk, produced a Post-it with an address and a phone number. “Said he’d meet you at the scene.”
Desiree took the note. “Thanks.”
She was halfway to the door when he called after her, “Ma’am? You want a cup of coffee for the road? We made it fresh.”
She paused. Did she want caffeine that badly? She debated the risk of looking like she needed anything from them, then opted against it. “No, thank you.” She let the door close behind her, walked briskly to the car, and sat in the driver’s seat with the field bag clamped between her knees.
He hadn’t waited for her. Classic. Already staking out his territory, like this was a PR opportunity for the new fire chief instead of an active crime scene. She pictured the kind of man who showed up early to elbow out the county—young, eager, trying too hard to prove he was the smartest person in the room. The problem was that he hadn’t met her yet. Desiree made it her mission to always be two steps ahead of everyone around her. It was the whole reason she got to where she was—the only female arson investigator in the county.
Her supervisor’s text flashed again in her head: first big case, Garcia. Don’t blow it. She wasn’t going to, even if she had to take on the entire Sweet Bloom fire department, starting with their arrogant new fire chief.
She started the car, rolled her shoulders, and set her jaw, determined to prove she deserved her hard-earned position.
By the time she reached the warehouse, she’d rehearsed her opening line twice and already downgraded her expectations to “don’t kill anyone before 8:00 a.m.” She turned off the ignition, checked her hair in the rearview one last time, and stepped into the morning with the look of someone ready to punch a problem in the mouth.
The warehouse was wrapped with yellow crime scene tape and had the lingering stink of total loss. Desiree noticed two Sweet Bloom firefighters standing guard on folding chairs by the hood of a battered truck. Both looked up as she climbed out of her car.
She grabbed her kit, tugged her collar tight, and walked straight past the men without giving them a second thought.
