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THREE
BRIEXPELLED A BREATHand moved aside to let a waiter with a laden tray pass by.
She was not in the mood to socialize.
If she’d known Les’s toxicology report would land on her desk this morning—much faster than the usual four-to-six-week turnaround, thanks to her constant calls to the County medical examiner’s office and Les’s position with the unit—she would never have set up this lunch.
Especially since the results pointed to an accidental fire, as had the autopsy report. Les had died of smoke inhalation. You didn’t survive with high amounts of soot and smoke in your upper and lower respiratory system and a carboxyhemoglobin level of 81 percent. Yet he’d stayed in his chair, making no attempt to leave the house while the fire raged around him.
Now, thanks to the autopsy report, she had a potential explanation for why he’d done that.
But none of the ME’s findings aligned with her suspicions. Suspicions that had grown in the ten days following Les’s tragic death.
Because it didn’t make sense for a diligent, seasoned fire investigator to die in a fire at home in his recliner.
She hoisted her purse higher on her shoulder.
Something still didn’t feel right.
Call it intuition, as Marc had, but even the experienced ATF agent had said he listened to his gut.
Without proof, though, instincts took you only so far. Unless specific evidence surfaced that suggested a crime had occurred, she could be at a dead end.
And dead ends stunk.
Bri stepped onto the patio of the popular café and surveyed the diners who were enjoying this sunny October Friday. Tempted as she’d been to cancel after reviewing the report on Les, this lunch had been set up more than a week ago. If she made a habit of bailing on her friends, they wouldn’t be her friends for long.
From a table on the far side, Alison Stephens waggled her fingers.
Calling up a smile, Bri wove through the lunch crowd and joined her. “Sorry I’m running a few minutes late.”
“No worries.” Alison dismissed her apology with a wave. “I’m off today, and fall is in all its glory. Soaking up rays while sipping a margarita was no hardship, trust me. You should have one.”
“I’m on duty. Besides, lemonade’s more my style.”
“I know. I’m giving you a hard time. But seriously, you seem stressed.”
“Goes with the job.”
“Tell me about it.” Alison wrinkled her nose and took a sip of her drink. “We had a bad one yesterday in the middle of that thunderstorm. A lightning strike at one of the century houses in Webster Groves. All the adjacent municipalities responded.”
“Any injuries?”
“No, but it was a long day. I treated myself to a bubble bath after I got home. This girl had more than a few sore muscles, let me tell you. Wielding a fire hose can be like wrestling an alligator.”
“I know.” The very reason the two of them had clicked when they’d crossed paths at a fire three months ago. Femalefirefighters were in the minority, and that sisterhood produced strong bonds.
“I bet. But my job is tame compared to the stuff you’ve done. You’re my role model.”
Bri fidgeted in her seat. Role modeling carried way too much responsibility. “Why don’t we just be friends instead?”
“Whatever you want.” Alison took another sip of the margarita and perused her. “But you do look über-stressed today. Everything okay?”
The temptation to talk about Les’s case with Alison was strong. As a firefighter, her friend would understand the dynamics far better than Bri’s siblings. Yes, Jack’s detective experience was relevant. But fire investigation was a unique animal. As for Cara ... while her younger sister had empathy to spare, the sort of research a historical anthropology professor did was a world removed from the kind of foraging and analysis required in a potential arson situation.
Nevertheless, sharing information with anyone on an in-progress case—even one that appeared poised to wrap up—should be need-to-know based, colleagues included.
Her lunch companion tipped her head. “Does your funk have anything to do with the Les Kavanaugh fire?”
