“No. Guys like him chap my ass. Thinking they’re somehow better than us professionals because they operate without all our equipment or specialty training. They have to improvise. Think on their feet.” Mike was making quotation marks with his fingers. “But who do they call when it gets too hot for amateur night?”
“If J.W. wasn’t at the party, what was he doing at that bar?”
“Trying to talk to you.” Mike pulled into the drive-thru lane of the BBQ place. “At least, he asked me if you’d come in yet.”
Noah had gone still. Harley, smelling the rise in his handler’s pheromones, snuggled his big head in closer to Noah’s, rubbing his snout along Noah’s jaw. “You might have told me sooner that someone was looking for me that night.”
Mike spared him a quick glance. “We’re talking about J.W. Why would he want to burn you up, man?”
Noah shrugged. “I’m clutching at straws. You got any other candidates?”
“No.”
“Me either.” That didn’t mean Noah was ready to jump to the conclusion that because he’d been looking for Noah that meant J.W. was the person who wanted him dead. First of all, they were on friendly terms. Besides, there was no motive.
Even so, the cop in him reverted to investigative procedure. When one didn’t have a suspect, one didn’t rule out anyone.
Noah cycled through what he knew about J.W. They’d been together when J.W. was taking some classes on firefighting that Noah had taught two years ago. He’d made an effort to be friendly whenever they bumped into each other after that. Which, now that he thought of it, was fairly often. The guy liked to hang out with professionals because he had dreams of being a professional firefighter. Everyone who ever talked to J.W. knew that.
That’s why Noah had made the call a couple of months back after J.W. missed making the Fort Worth Fire Department newest class of recruits. He thought the turndown might go easier coming from an acquaintance. He’d even made suggestions about trying his luck in a smaller metropolitan area. Even offered to write the guy a recommendation. Thinking of J.W. as his enemy didn’t make sense. Especially in light of the other evidence.
“You still got to explain those other fires.” Mike looked over at Noah as he passed him their order. Obviously, Mike was spooky good at reading his mind.
Noah shrugged, drawing in the deep mouth-watering smells of warm slow-cooked beef and ribs wafting from the bag. “Without the suicide, the rest becomes circumstantial, at best. I need to talk to Durvan.”
Mike snorted. “You start trying to tear his case apart, Durvan’s going to double down on you.”
Noah nodded. “I would, too. He’s close. But I’m going to snatch my freedom out of the gap in his case. Which means we need to talk. Tonight.”
Mike smiled. “This could get interesting. Let me make the call to set it up.”
Noah nodded.
One minute later Mike disconnected. “Durvan says if you want to come in and make a statement tomorrow morning, he’ll be in the office. Bring your A game.”
Noah nodded, feeling the tiniest bit of light at the end of his tunnel. “Guess I’ll take that shower after all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Carly was running late, half-hoping Cody had not been able to find the place or been scared away. Not that meeting Cody anywhere else was a better idea. More than likely she was just clutching at straws in order to feel that she was doing something, anything, to help Noah. That thought made her finally push open the door to the bar.
The Usual was the kind of place a stranger might pass by and never notice. The building showed Magnolia Avenue a windowless pale-brick front with a single small door set in the middle. It had an industrial speakeasy vibe and a modern hipster atmosphere with handcrafted cocktails.
She let her gaze roam the softly lit open area. The bar to the right was cluttered with upscale professionals and artsy regulars who liked to watch the bartenders create classic and spur-of-the-moment requests. Her focus moved quickly from there to the sparsely arranged tables and chairs and on to cozy sitting nooks with sofas or comfy chairs. Radiohead played on the jukebox. It took a few seconds for her to realize she was already staring at the man she’d come to meet.
Cody sat at a table near the back, a beer can in hand. He’d changed from coveralls into a plaid shirt and jeans. Even from a distance she could see colorful tats on his forearms where he’d rolled his sleeves back to the elbow. His hair, uncovered for a change, had been washed and blow-dried and fell in a straight flop above one eye. He’d made an effort, which she appreciated. But it wasn’t going to do him any good.
She moved toward his table, glad she’d dressed down in baggy jeans and an oversized top that enveloped her figure. No need to give him the wrong impression. She’d even covered her hair with a fedora and wore sunglasses, in hopes of not being recognized. For the past few days local media had been showing pictures from her modeling days.
“I see you found a drink.”
Cody held up the can. “Something they call imperial lager. It’s not Bud but it’s beer.”