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Briar
Briar’s cell phone buzzed against her thigh, but she ignored it. Her focus needed to be one hundred percent on what was in front of her, even if she’d rather it wasn’t. The acrid smell of smoke assailed her nose and her eyes watered from the stench of melted plastic and treated wood, all the chemical odors from the crap that went into building materials these days. Briar’s heavy steel-toed work boots protected her feet and a mask somewhat protected her face, but there was no protection from what she was looking at. Luckily, she hadn’t had lunch.
It was mere chance that Briar had been driving on this side of the city when the call about an explosion at a newer housing development came through. Fire and police units were on their way, but they were requesting additional agencies. The word bomb had been uttered by someone, a victim or a witness.
She hadn’t expected to be among the first to the scene. As she pulled up, she noticed that only a water truck, ambulance, and two police vehicles had made it through the afternoon traffic before her. She parked on the other side of the yellow tape and flashed her badge so she could get through.
What remained of the two-story townhome wasn’t going to make the cover of Town and Country. The front was blown out and had showered the residential street with debris, while the second floor sagged onto what remained of the joists like a mouth without teeth. From where she stood, in what had been the living room, the back of the house appeared to be mostly intact, at least.
Briar would bet her retirement fund that this incident was not a nicked gas line, there were too many fail-safes anymore. Yes, accidents did happen, and mistakes were made, but this home was so new it still had the realtor/builder sign in front declaring it “sold.” And the kitchen, she noted, had been located at the back of the house—that relatively untouched back of the house.
“Christ,” muttered a nearby first responder, his voice muffled. She couldn’t see his face clearly as it was covered with a tinted plastic shield. “This is fucked up.”
“What?”
He turned his head in surprise, as if he hadn’t noticed Briar in her heavy ATF jacket and boots that she always kept stashed in the trunk of her car. Or maybe he hadn’t expected a woman. Whatever. He didn’t answer, just pointed off to his right. Briar had to circle around behind him, stepping over some debris as she did so, to see what he was indicating. There, underneath the edge of the beam and the floor, was a human hand.
“Damn.” Briar squatted to look closer. The hand definitely wasn’t attached to an arm, and there wasn’t a body on the other side of the beam. “We’re going to have to figure out who that came from.” She almost said where, but she did her best not to reduce victims to body parts. Her shoulder ached and she rolled it, trying to keep comfortable. The PT had said light duty, but maybe that didn’t mean combat driving through rush hour traffic.
Not only had she not had lunch, but bomb sites weren’t her specialty, although she had investigated plenty of them over her thirteen-year career. In fact, she was currently on loan to the FBI. Likely, her boss, SAC Klay, was not going to be happy with her impromptu stop at the site though. Not an unusual situation, hence leaving her phone in her pocket instead of answering it.
From behind her, she heard, “You’re ATF?” Ah, the responder finally clued in—or read the back of her jacket.
“Yep. Would you mind grabbing an evidence tech?”
She’d seen the nondescript county van parking as close as they could just moments ago, so she knew the site would be swarming with investigators soon and she would be free to check her voice mail. She glanced down at the hand, its fingers curled upward as if whoever it had belonged to was reaching for something.
“Why should it be me?”
Deep breath, she reminded herself. God, she hated these far-too-often interactions—as if she didn’t already know this guy would rather be anywhere but in the neighborhood of a disembodied hand, yet he was going to try and out-man her.
Standing to her full height of six feet with the boots on and taller than this yahoo, thankyouverymuch, she said, “You can stay here if you want. Given the strength of the blast, I’d say that, if there are more body parts, they’re probably in that direction.” She pointed toward what had been a powder room. “Start looking there.”
Her phone buzzed again, the third time in as many minutes. Leaving the potential mansplainer staring after her, Briar stalked through the debris back to where the front door used to be and out onto the lawn. Hailing a tech, she explained about the remains, and when her phone buzzed for the fourth time, she ripped off one glove and pulled the damn thing out of her pocket.
“Nilson,” she said sharply.
“Briar, it’s Julianna.”
Julianna Alworth, Briar’s sort-of stepmother and the only person she kept in touch with from her childhood.
“Julianna, this is a bad time.”
“Briar, it’s always a bad time.” There was something, a certain tone to Julianna’s voice, that had Briar on alert.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
She turned away from the police and fire vehicles to stare across the perfectly manicured lawns opposite today’s tragedy. Neighbors huddled on their porches or peeked out their windows, trying to see what was happening. A few stood at the edges of the tape line with their cell phones to their ears, no doubt letting loved ones know they were okay—or talking to the press already. Damn, somebody needed to move them back and corral the press when they arrived.
“It’s not me, I’m fine. It’s your father.” Julianna paused slightly before rushing on. “He’s dead,” she finished baldly.
Briar didn’t expect her stomach to drop like it did. She and Tor were, at best, cordial acquaintances. Her father had been in his early forties when she was born, not prepared at all for parenthood. He was an improvement over Briar’s mother, though.
“When?”
Like it mattered whether it had happened that morning or two weeks ago. Tor Nilson hadn’t been a part of Briar’s life since she was seventeen. Sure, Briar had been the one to leave town, but he’d been the one who’d let her stay with Julianna instead of dragging her home. Her mother had been no better, and the last time Briar had seen Courtney Schwartz, née Nilson, she had insisted she tell no one they were mother and daughter because Courtney was lying about her age and didn’t want Briar “ruining everything.”
In Briar’s opinion, it was Courtney’s lies that ruined most things, but what did she really know?
