Burning Love. Debra Cowan
Читать онлайн книгу.
and water as the firefighters from Stations One and Four, her old station house, stood amidst snaking hoses and a now soggy lawn. In a neighbor’s yard, a firefighter stood videotaping the scene. Terra would get the tape from him later.
The blaze appeared to have burned only one area of the home before firefighters managed to douse it.
Urgency had her slamming her door and looking around for the police officer who held the log book to check people in and out of the scene.
The familiar sharp odor of burning wood and engine fumes wrapped around her like the wet midnight. This fire was different. It had taken more than a home, more than memories. It had taken a life. And she had to know whose.
Ash swirled through the air, clung to her cheeks. The Oklahoma County Medical Examiner’s wagon eased past her and found a spot farther up the crowded street.
She opened the back door of her Explorer and grabbed her boots. Stumbling out of a dead sleep when her pager buzzed, she had automatically pulled on jeans and a heavy flannel shirt with sleeves she could roll up. She’d sleeked her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. Hoping like crazy that the victim’s identity would be someone other than the mentor whose company she’d enjoyed earlier in the evening, Terra toed off her tennis shoes and tugged on her rubber, steel-soled boots.
The ambulance pulled out and ambled down the block. Trying to steady her racing pulse, she grabbed her hard hat and slid it on.
Her thick, well-worn gloves were in her pockets. She slung her camera around her neck, picked up her shovel and a tackle box containing her hand tools. Stepping around the back of her truck, she racked her brain for any memory of Harris’s house number. She came up empty, which only sharpened the dread pricking at her.
Her gaze swept the knots of people moving around the scene. Several uniformed officers wound through the crowd of reporters, cameramen and neighbors. At the sidewalk which led to the front door, Terra spotted a cop holding a clipboard. She started toward him, dodging the hood of a police car, stepping over a hydrant hose.
This neighborhood had probably never seen anything more traumatic than a bicycle wreck. Farther up the street, uniformed officers were directing passersby to keep moving and news vans to park at the end of the block.
As they’d finished dinner, Harris had mentioned taking in a movie after running some errands. Terra had grabbed a swim at her gym before heading home to turn in early. She hadn’t been asleep two hours before her pager went off.
Four years as a fire investigator and nine years on the job had taught her to level out her emotions so she could objectively do her job, but tonight she failed. Tonight she was terrified of whose body the firefighters had found.
Her nerves snapped tight as she continued to walk toward the slightly built policeman with the clipboard, standing at the curb in front of the victim’s mailbox. Water dripped from the mature maple trees in the front yard, their yellow and red leaves glimmering red and blue in the flashing lights from one of the police cruisers. Firefighters walked past dragging hoses back to their engines. Perhaps the officer in her sights would know the victim’s identity.
“Hello, Luscious.”
Ugh. Terra knew the smooth, practiced voice, but kept walking. Dane Reynolds was an investigative reporter for one of Oklahoma City’s television stations and seemed to always beat her to the scene. “No time, Reynolds.”
“Just one minute, Angel Face.” The local newsman with spray-stiff hair hurried toward her. “Just one?”
Terra kept moving, drawing up sharply when the reporter suddenly appeared. Flashing too-perfect teeth, Dane Reynolds planted his impressively trim self in front of her. He probably spent hours at the gym, and more time on his hair than she did on hers.
She stepped around him. She wasn’t about to let Reynolds see the cold sweat that clung to her nape. Or get a glimpse of nerves that were raw with uncertainty. Dane Reynolds would jump on that like a rat on a Cheetoh. “I’m working here, Dane.”
“I know.” He fell into easy step beside her as if he’d been invited. “Just wanted to ask if you’d talk to me about this case when you’re finished here?”
“Station Four caught this one. Captain Maguire is around somewhere.”
“But I want to talk to you.” He lightly skimmed his fingers over her shoulder as if brushing away something. “You know you want to.”
What she wanted was to pop him with her shovel. “I already told you—”
“And what about that interview we talked about? Surely you’ve changed your mind by now. The guy’s set three fires and you’re no closer to—”
“How’s that camera working out, Investigator?” A pleasant male voice interrupted firmly.
“It’s great, T.J.” Terra smiled over at T. J. Coontz, Dane’s cameraman, who had played the buffer before. A few months ago, she’d asked the cameraman to recommend a place to buy a good used camera for the advanced photography class she’d enrolled in this semester. The city’s current budget didn’t support further education so Terra had signed up on her own time and money. She would have borrowed a camera from Harris, but she needed to learn how to use a newer model. T.J. had generously offered one of his cameras in order to save Terra some expense. “Thanks for loaning it to me. I’ll get it back to you as soon as the class ends.”
“Keep it as long as you want.”
She eyed his dark suit and tie. “You look nice.”
“I was at my cousin’s wedding when I got the page for the fire.”
Dane shot T.J. a withering look before saying to Terra, “Come on, Luscious. What about that interview?”
“Dane, you’re not helping your case,” T.J. said.
“Good point.” Terra stepped past the men. “Please excuse me.”
She had to make sure it wasn’t Harris inside that torched house.
“How about a drink tomorrow night?”
“Sorry,” she called to Reynolds over her shoulder as she moved up to the cop. The guy couldn’t take a hint. She’d refused every time he’d asked her out in the past two months. Just as she’d refused his requests for an interview.
“What about Thursday?”
Ignoring him, she flashed her badge at the thirty-something officer who stood eye-to-eye with her five-foot-nine frame. “Terra August, Fire Investigator.”
He nodded and held the log out for her to sign her name and record the time.
Her gaze going to the brass nametag he wore, she swallowed around the painful knot in her throat. “Officer Lowe, do we know the victim’s name?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He skimmed a finger up to the top of the page. “Officer Farrell spoke to a neighbor who said a man named Harris Vaughn lived here and the neighbor saw him come home around nine-thirty.”
No! A sharp pain pierced her chest and Terra struggled to absorb the shock, tried to keep her wits about her.
“Hey, you okay?” Lowe peered at her.
“Do they know for sure that it’s him?”
“No, ma’am. Just that this is his residence.”
She shook her head, urgency and dread fusing inside her. What had happened? Electrical fire? Arson? She could already rule out cigarettes. Harris didn’t smoke, never had.
“Ma’am?” The policeman had lifted the tape and now waited expectantly.
Her knees wobbled, but she moved forward, partly out of reflex, partly out of denial. No, it wasn’t Harris. It couldn’t be.
Wait for facts. Harris’s ingrained instruction played through her mind and she hung on to it with single-minded focus as she sidestepped