“Looks like he’s gotten Harvey to help him.” Patrick laughed.
It was funny and Maggie smiled, relieved despite the tightness in her chest. Four months ago Jake had saved her life. She wanted him to feel safe here, to feel like he finally had a home, and yet he insisted on escaping like she had infringed on his freedom. Maybe she had been wrong in taking him away from the vast openness of the Nebraska Sandhills. She had wanted to save him, like she had saved Harvey, but maybe Jake had never needed saving.
The dogs lapped up water, sharing the same bowl, leaving dirt in the bottom. Patrick and Maggie returned to their pizza just as Maggie’s cell phone began to ring.
She checked the time—1:17 in the morning. This couldn’t be good. For some reason she thought about her mother, but knew it was just Catholic guilt for not telling her about Patrick staying here. Not like it was a problem. Her mother rarely came to her house. Finally she grabbed her phone and saw the caller’s number displayed on the screen.
“Detective Racine,” Maggie answered instead of offering a greeting.
“Hey, sorry to wake you.”
“No, it’s okay. I was already up.”
Maggie was surprised. Usually Julia Racine’s brisk manner didn’t include an apology no matter what time of day. It took a lot to soften up the District homicide detective. Maggie had witnessed the occurrence only a handful of times.
“I already called Tully. Our firefly’s been busy,” Racine said without much pause. “And this time he’s left us a body.”
CHAPTER 4
WASHINGTON, D.C.
R. J. Tully flashed his badge at the uniformed cop patrolling the first set of crime scene ribbons. The guy nodded and Tully slipped under. He wished he’d grabbed something warmer than his trench coat.
And, damn, when had he gotten a stain on the lapel?
Didn’t matter. His choices had been limited. Staying overnight at Gwen Patterson’s was still something new. With his daughter, Emma, away and in her second semester of college, there wasn’t any excuse to hurry back home, but he hated the idea of having two different sets of clothes at two different houses. He had been married for thirteen years, on his own now for more than five. Maybe he was too set in his ways to be in a relationship.
Gwen had generously given him his own drawer at her house and his own side of a closet, almost twelve inches next to her soft and colorful fabrics. His space looked pathetic with only an extra shirt and an extra pair of trousers. That’s all he had hung there. None of it seemed right. It felt like he was playing house at someone else’s place and he didn’t like it no matter how much he loved Gwen.
When the phone call woke them both, Tully should have been reluctant to leave, disappointed or something—anything, but not relieved.
Thank God, Gwen had been too sleepy-eyed to notice.
He stepped aside. Let two firefighters tromp past him headed into the billowing smoke. Before sunrise he guessed this one would be a two-alarm. In less than a week Tully had learned more about fires than he cared to know.
Another thing about staying at Gwen’s—it put him at the scene sooner than perhaps he wanted to be here. This time of night it was a short five-to ten-minute drive from her Georgetown condo. Ordinarily it would have taken him thirty to forty minutes to get to the District from his bungalow in Reston, Virginia.
He took advantage of being early. Found a spot downwind from the smoke. The flames actually felt good against his back, warming the chilled night air, letting him forget the thinness of his trench coat. The days had been unseasonably warm for February but the evenings were still a reminder that winter was not over.
Tully pushed up his eyeglasses. He pulled out a pen, and his fingers checked his pockets for something, anything, to write on. He settled for a sales receipt. Then he found a spot under an oak tree, safely out of the way, and started to examine the gathering onlookers.
Son of Sam had admitted to starting hundreds of fires. Even before he shot his first victim, he claimed to be a serial arsonist. He’d set a fire, then stand off by himself someplace where he wouldn’t be noticed. He’d watch the blaze, enjoy the chaos, and masturbate.
Tully studied the faces in the glow of the flames, trying to ignore, to shut out the crackling whoosh behind him. A camerawoman and a reporter had already stationed themselves up close to the ribbon.
How did they get here this soon?
Tully jotted down, “Who called in fire?”