Where There's Smoke. Kristin Hardy
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a pile of books to the floor. “There.” The telephone jangled for attention and he answered it impatiently. “House sixty-seven, Trask. Oh yeah, right. Giancoli says the brakes on the pumper are down.” He slid into his chair, instantly absorbed, leaving Sloane standing in the middle of the room.
Setting down her briefcase, she took the opportunity to look around. Photographs covered the walls: smiling fire-fighters in front of shining engines, men crowded together at the kitchen table, competing in the Firefighters’ Olympics. A newspaper clipping showed grim men in helmets and turnouts, lines of exhaustion etched into their soot-streaked faces as they carried stretchers out of a smoke-filled building. Hillview Convalescent Home Burns but the Fire Claims No Victims, the caption read. The men in the picture were from Ladder 67.
Sloane glanced further along and her interest sharpened. Stacked haphazardly atop the filing cabinet were a pair of plaques, the top one an award of valor presented to one Nick Trask for action above and beyond the call of duty. Impressed in spite of herself, Sloane glanced over to where he sat at his desk, absorbed in his call.
She’d been wrong when she’d thought his face held more character than perfection. Clearly, the sharp slashes of his cheekbones, the compelling shape of his mouth translated into above-average looks. It was simply that the force of his personality was so strong that it overwhelmed the handsomeness, carried it past simple good looks to a more dangerous realm, giving him the ability to hypnotize, the power to obsess.
The sudden flicker of warning ran through her to the pit of her stomach. In defense, she moved to stare out the window. Outside, a dog barked and boys shouted as they threw a football in the street. Inside, a subtle tension filled the air.
Nick shifted in his chair impatiently. “Yeah, okay. Let me know when it’ll go. Great, talk to you later.” He hung up the phone, turning to where Sloane stood. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but for just an instant her hair blazed the exact color of flame. For just an instant, he watched without speaking. He shook his head and forced his mind to business just as she turned from the window.
“All finished?”
“Yes. Sorry about the wait.” Because he was still having a hard time concentrating, Nick plunged in without preamble. “So, Ms. Hillyard, what has the councilman’s office promised that we would do for you?”
His tone was more brusque than he’d intended. It made Sloane’s mouth tighten and she took her time coming back to her chair. “I believe the councilman’s office is taking a sincere interest in your safety, as I think you’ll see. Now, I made an appointment through the city weeks ago,” she said frostily. “I assumed you’d be ready to discuss this.”
Nick silently cursed the man who’d taken the garbled message, then cursed the fact that it had been uncovered so late that he’d had no time to sort it out. And he added Ayre, just on principle. No matter how gorgeous she was, whatever the woman was selling, it was going to take time he didn’t have. “Yes, well,” he said, summoning his patience for what looked to be a long siege, “why don’t you start at the beginning?”
Sloane took a deep breath. “I work for the Exler Corporation,” she said, a little too carefully. “I’ve developed a system called the Orienteer. It’s designed to locate firefighters in burning buildings.”
“How?”
“It’s got a microprocessor that combines global-positioning-system input with a database of building plans to locate anyone, anywhere. You want to find your team members in a burning building, you can. If they need to track their way out, it will lead them. No one will die the way they did in the Hartford packing-house fire ever again.” Her voice caught, so briefly he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it. “We’ve gone through the preliminary lab qualification and breakdowns. The last step is testing in a real-life situation with firefighters.”
“No way.” Nick was shaking his head before she finished. “My guys aren’t guinea pigs.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not a chance.” Nick knew how this went, oh, he knew it. Put on the dog for the politicians, invest precious departmental resources and when the photo ops and the elections were done, so was the funding. That was bad enough, but put his men at risk for that photo op? That was where he drew the line.
“You can’t just refuse.”
“First of all, it’s totally impractical.” That was the part that really burned him about operators like Ayre. It couldn’t be something reasonable or useful. No—some babelicious Girl Scout turned up with her science project and Ayre saw only the headlines, not the lives at risk.
“Impractical?” Sloane’s eyes flashed. “How can you say that when you don’t know the first thing about it?”
“Where are you going to get all the blueprints?”
“We’ve already gotten them from the planning commission. The microprocessors for the test units are being loaded up with plans for every building in Boston and Cambridge.”
He snorted. “Do you actually think those are up-to-date in a city like this? You really want to bank someone’s life on that?”
“We’re confirming layouts as we’re entering them.”
“Checking up on every structure? You’ll never get it done,” he said dismissively. “You want to be useful, get me a couple more thermal cameras, build me a better breathing mask. Something proven. Something practical.”
Sloane flushed. “The equipment is practical. And proven. It’s been completely lab tested, it just hasn’t been used in a fire situation before. Both the department and Councilman Ayre’s office are behind this.”
“I’m sure they are. The chief and Ayre grew up on the same block.”
She gave him a level stare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sighed. It really wasn’t her fault. “Look, I’m sure you’ve got the best of intentions, but you don’t know how the game goes around here.”
“But I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
She looked, he thought, strung tight as a piano wire. It didn’t make her any less gorgeous. “Ayre starts with the fire-safety shtick every election cycle. It gets him press, photos in front of shiny red trucks. It’s all about exposure and it’s nothing he’ll support with funding. Trust me on that, I’ve been through it before.” He shook his head in frustration. “Ayre just wants to make headlines. You’re the tool he chose to do it with.”
“What is with you? I’m talking about equipment that can help you and you’re talking about conspiracies.”
He bristled. “No, I’m talking politics.”
“And I’m talking about saving lives,” she retorted. “You’ve got problems with Ayre? Then vote against him next month. I don’t care. All that matters to me is getting this equipment qualified.”
“And you’re dreaming if you think they’re actually going to buy this gadget.”
“It’s not a gadget,” she said hotly. “It’s a very sophisticated system.”
“A very…” He shook his head like a dog throwing off water. “Do you understand anything at all about firefighting?”
Her eyes burned for a moment; it took her a visible effort to tamp her reaction down. “Of course I do. I consulted with firefighters in Cambridge when I was designing the equipment.”
“Great. Take it to them to test.”
“We’re not taking it to them. We’ve taken it to the city of Boston and the city says you. This isn’t some project of the week. This testing is critical and trust me, it is going to get done. Bill Grant in the fire chief’s office wants your company to do the testing. Ayre wants it. I want it. You’re way down the list, Captain Trask.”
Nick