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ONE
FIVE MONTHS LATER
ARSON INVESTIGATORS WEREN’T SUPPOSEDtodie in fires.
Bri Tucker shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and clenched her fists, the acrid smell of smoke prickling her nose. Up and down the quiet suburban St. Louis cul-de-sac of modest homes, flashing lights from emergency vehicles pierced the darkness as small clusters of neighbors watched the roaring flames consume Les Kavanaugh’s house.
All at once, a dormer window on the second floor exploded. Moments later, a portion of the roof shuddered ... buckled ... and collapsed in a cascade of fiery sparks that rose like a swarm of demon hornets toward the inky sky.
Collectively, the onlookers recoiled.
From her spot in the shadows, Bri appraised them. All part of her job as the St. Louis Regional Bomb and Arson Unit investigator assigned to this fire. Bystanders could help her put the pieces together once the flames were extinguished. Determine if the fire was accidental or intentional.
Under any other circumstances, her money would be on the former. Ninety-five percent of residential fires were due to innocent causes.
But most didn’t take place at the home of an experienced arson investigator who knew all the fire hazards and would have taken pains to eliminate them.
So if this blaze turned out to be deliberate, the spectators could be key.
Because arsonists liked to stick around and enjoy the show.
No one in the immediate vicinity raised any suspicions, however. Most were older couples, huddled close together, watching in shock as the tragedy unfolded. The few lone people were also more advanced in age, one in a bathrobe, another watching from a front porch and using a walker for support.
If this was arson, and if the guilty party was close by, they were either an atypical suspect or hiding in the shadows.
“How long have you been here?”
At the question, Bri swiveled to her right. Deep creases lined Sergeant Frank Connor’s forehead.
“A few minutes. I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” Then again, until his retirement, Les had been a fixture in the Bomb and Arson Unit. If ever her boss would show up at a fire scene, this would be the one.
“Les and I go way back. We may have clashed on occasion, but I had tremendous respect for his skills. Everyone did.”
“So I heard.” A gust of unseasonably cool September wind whipped past, and she shivered despite the heat emanating from the blazing house.
“You talked to anybody yet?”
“No bystanders, but I touched based with the captain.” She motioned toward one of the fire trucks.
“He’s next on my list. Is there any news about Les? Was he home?”
Sarge didn’t know.
Bri took a breath. Gave a slow nod. “Yes. They found him in the back of the house. Too late to save.”
A muscle tightened in Sarge’s cheek as he scanned the burning structure, and his voice hardened. “I want the ATF in on this one. They have resources we don’t. If it’s arson, let’s find out ASAP.”
The irony of a fire investigator dying in a fire must have set off an alert for him too.
“You think this was deliberate?”
“It’s possible. I imagine Les made a few enemies through the years. He was like a dog with a bone while he was on the trail of a suspect, and he didn’t worry about social niceties or political correctness in his quest for truth.”
“I heard that too.”
One side of Sarge’s mouth flexed. “He was a character. And he never left a stone unturned in an investigation. Pardon the second trite, but apt, cliché. Nor did he hesitate to pull in people he thought could help him put a case to bed.”
Hmm.
