“Come on in,” a voice with a Southern drawl answered.
The voice and the man who stood beside the sleek iron and glass-top desk were nothing like Patrick expected. The bank of floor-to-ceiling windows showed treetops and blue sky, and Braxton looked like he was posing for a photo with one of those fake too-good-to-be-true backdrops.
The mountain of a man with a sprinkle of silver in his hair offered Patrick a beefy hand. “You must be Murphy.”
The unexpected grip crushed Patrick’s hand.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m golfing in an hour, so you’ll have to excuse my attire.” The Southern accent made “attire” sound like two words, “a tire.” “My wife buys these shirts for me with the little polo player on them.”
The knit shirt was bright blue, the khakis well pressed. The tops of the leather moccasins were well polished.
“Guess she’s always hoping she can make this ol’ boy look fashionable.” Again, “fashionable” was drawn out into separate words. He gave Patrick an easy, genuine smile as he waved him to take a seat in front of his desk. “You married, son?”
The question disarmed Patrick, though he tried to conceal that. “No, sir.”
This wasn’t anywhere near the conversation he’d had going through his mind all morning.
“When you find the right one, son, don’t let her go.”
Braxton’s eyes were on the framed picture that took up the left front corner of his desk’s pristine glass top. The woman looked young and small compared to her husband, tanned, with lean arms and friendly crinkles at her eyes. Both of them wore khakis and polo shirts, hers pink, his a different version of today’s blue.
Patrick had no clue what the correct response was, so he simply said, “I’ll try to remember that, sir.”
This time Braxton’s eyes found Patrick’s and held them. “You be sure and do that, son.” But the playfulness had been replaced with something sober. There was almost a sad tinge to his voice. “Hands down, that’s the best advice I can give anyone. You find a good thing, don’t let go.”
Not hesitating, he tapped his index finger on the one file folder on his desk. “Well then, let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said as he opened it.
Patrick’s palms began to sweat. Was it possible the man didn’t know yet why he was meeting with him? He realized he was holding his breath as he watched Braxton slip on reading glasses and start to thumb through the contents.
“Master’s degree in fire science,” Braxton said without looking up. “Impressive.”
This wasn’t supposed to be a job interview. Patrick already had the job. The question was, Would he be allowed to keep it? Or did his background somehow help plan his punishment? Perhaps Braxton had decided to go easy on Patrick because he knew how serious he was about being a professional firefighter. The man had to have already looked over his file, didn’t he?
“Worked your way through college as a bartender. Even volunteered for a community fire station. Very admirable.”
Patrick eased his back into the chair, relaxing a bit from being on the edge. He set his sweaty palms on his thighs. All those extra hours and all-nighters would finally pay off. Someone finally saw the value. He could breathe again and had to stop an almost audible sigh of relief.
“You must want to be a firefighter pretty bad?” Braxton looked up, gave him a tight smile.
“Yes, sir.”
Patrick had relaxed just enough that he didn’t see the undercut coming.
“Son, I catch you saving another pansy-ass’s house who’s not a paying policyholder of ours, and you won’t just be without a job, but this two-bit degree of yours won’t land you another. You know why? Because I’ll make sure no one—and I mean no one—will hire you ever again, as a chimney sweep let alone a firefighter.”
The tight smile showed bright teeth but the eyes were cold blue marbles when he added, “You think you can try and remember that, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 12
WASHINGTON, D.C.
R. J. Tully fingered the small cartridge in his trench coat’s pocket. The camerawoman had handed it over too easily. Even offered that the live feed would have been recorded at the station and could be viewed there.
Now, as Tully looked down at the body beside the Dumpster, he doubted there would be much to see on the film. This killer had done all his dirty work well in advance of the fire. Tully didn’t need any experts to point out the trail of accelerant that had been poured along the side of the building. Black cinder marked the brick wall and he could still smell gasoline.
Judging by this and the timing of the second blast, both fires had been carefully orchestrated. Chances were, the guy was long gone. Maybe even home watching on TV, enjoying from the warmth of his living room the same film footage Tully now had in his pocket. But gut instinct gnawed at Tully. He still believed the guy who started the fire was here tonight, watching and enjoying the chaos.