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Bri straightened the cutlery on her napkin. “Why do you ask that?”
“Because I know it landed on your desk, everyone at County is talking about it, and the case hits close to home.” Her forehead crimped. “It’s such a tragic situation.”
“Yeah, it is. Did you know Les?” Maybe she could glean a few pieces of back-door information about the man that would be helpful.
“I ran into him on occasion at fire scenes, but we weren’t best buds, if that’s what you mean.”
“What was your impression of him?”
“Hard worker. Meticulous. A bit crusty. He had no qualmsabout yelling at firefighters who put extinguishing the fire above protecting evidence. And according to scuttlebutt, even in retirement he continued to unofficially stir the embers of cases that bothered him. Pardon the pun.” Her lips twitched. “He was a character.”
“So my boss said.”
“Are you still investigating?”
“Yes, but I’m getting close to wrapping up.”
“I heard your boss sicced the ATF on you.” Alison squeezed the lime wedge from her glass into her drink and rolled her eyes. “Those Fed types can be a pain in the you-know-what.”
“Not in this case. The agent showed up the first day at the scene, but that’s been our only contact.”
“Lucky you. They tend to want to run the show. Sounds like he may leave you alone.”
“We can hope.”
But if she really didn’t want to see him again, why did images of him keep flitting through her mind—and through her dreams?
She quashed that annoying question.
“So did you ever find out why Les wanted to meet with you?” Alison took another sip of her margarita.
Bri erased the latest picture of Marc Davis her brain had called up and switched gears.
Since she and Alison had been chatting by phone the day Les’s incoming call popped up on her cell screen and she’d put her friend on hold to take it, that made this topic fair game.
“No. I hoped I’d find a clue at the scene, but that didn’t happen. The oddest thing we found was a misplaced piece of crystal that—” Her phone began to vibrate, and she pulled it out. The number on the display didn’t register, but letting calls roll—particularly during normal working hours—wasn’t her style. What if someone had a lead to report on one of her cases?
“Go ahead and take that if you need to. I’ll continue to enjoy my margarita.” Alison swirled her drink.
“Thanks.” Bri pressed talk and greeted the caller.
“Detective Tucker, this is Sandra Morris.”
Les Kavanaugh’s daughter.
She hadn’t talked to the woman since two days after the fire, when Sandra had confirmed that Les did indeed smoke cigars on occasion and often indulged in a glass of bourbon in the evening.
Now, with the tox report in hand, there were tougher questions to ask. But posing them in a crowded café wasn’t ideal.
It might be more prudent to see why Sandra had contacted her and arrange another conversation for later in the day.
“Hello, Ms. Morris.” She held up a finger to Alison, who nodded and began to peruse the menu. “I was going to call you today or tomorrow with an update on my investigation. How are you doing?”
“I’m hanging in.” The last word scraped, and she cleared her throat. “But the past ten days have been very difficult. My husband had to go back to Phoenix for work on Sunday, and trying to deal with everything alone has been hard.”
“I can understand that. I know losing your dad was a tremendous shock. We’re all still reeling from what happened too. He was a legend in our ranks. Tell me how I can help you.”
“I’ve been through the house—or what’s left of it. I was able to salvage a few personal objects, but the one I most wanted wasn’t there. It was in Dad’s study, where the fire started. I realize it may have been destroyed, but I wondered if by chance you’d found it during your investigation and kept it for some reason.”
