Twenty minutes, two cigarettes, and three voicemails later, he was still killing time.
To keep himself from cursing, he stared at the structure and was reminded of his own farm. Like what he had saddled himself with, this place was two stories of vacated-long-ago, the roof holier than the Christmas season, the dormers more broken glass than window, the siding worn to paint chips and bare wood from countless winter blizzards, spring gales, summer thunderstorms, and fall winds. Maybe the property had once had a lawn, but now a meadow on its seasonal last gasp was a scruffy base for the vines that grew Charles Addams–style all over everything.
The nearest neighbor was a quarter of a mile away.
Walking forward, he high-stepped through the tall grass and weeds until he crossed over onto a broad, freshly mowed ring around the house and its collapsing porch. As he mounted the three steps, he stayed on the nail pattern on the left so his weight was supported by the stairs’ undercarriage. By the off-kilter front door, there was an official document stapled to the siding, proclaiming that the structure was going to be used by the fire department on this date, and that trespassing was prohibited.
Hinges creaked as he opened the way in, and inside, everything was all haunted house, cobwebs hanging from darkened corners, dirty windows filtering light that seemed more portent than illumination, rotting places in the floors and ceilings creating pockmarks, open wounds, sores.
Danny walked throughout the first floor to make sure there were no people and no wild animals anywhere. It was a short trip. Upstairs, he went more slowly because there was a lot longer distance to fall through courtesy of a bad floorboard. He checked closets, inspecting the odd lonely hanger. He ducked into bedrooms, reviewing the shells of bedposts and bureaus. He stepped into baths that had claw-footed tubs with cracked porcelain and broken mirrors over stained sinks.
The attic on the third floor was all bat guano, water stains, and leaves that had come in through the holes in the roof.
As he went back downstairs, his sinuses were pissed from the mold and dust, his ribs sore from that messy rescue the day before, and his head pounding from the alcohol and the no-sleep he’d pulled during the night hours. And yes, he refused to see any parallels between the state of his life and the condition the old house was in.
Nope.
There was no connection between the two.
Off in the distance, he heard a low growl. “’Bout fucking time.”
As he went out the front door, Moose’s bumblebee-yellow Charger was stopping behind his truck, and the guy unfurled his heft from the driver’s side with a glower.
“You got a helluva nerve.”
“Good morning to you, sunshine.” Danny put his cig out on the tread of his work boot. “What took you so long. You’re late.”
Moose stomped over and did not come up onto the shallow porch. He looked tired with the bags under his eyes, and his hair was messy like it had taken a page from his beard’s book and was trying the disorderly routine out at a higher elevation. New Brunie FD shirt was tight around the middle, looser than it had been on the shoulders, testament to brawn turning into paunch—oh, and naturally, his heavy khakis had the faded stains of motor oil all over them.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” the guy said.
“You’ve never done a training exercise by yourself.”
“You’re suspended.”
“Do you have the accelerant?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
As Danny thought about Anne showing up in the middle of the night, that anger of his came back. “Fine, how’s Deandra. She ask about me lately?”
Moose went still. “No, she hasn’t. And don’t be an asshole.”
“Sorry. I thought I was being polite. You wanna talk about your car instead?”
“Don’t get pissy with me about Anne, okay? That shit’s on you—”
“You should never have called her.” Danny went down the steps, ignoring that follow-the-nails rule on rickety shit. “She’s got more than enough on her plate. She doesn’t need to worry about me or anybody else.”
“Come on, Danny. What am I supposed to do, huh? There’s talk about you and not just at the station. Jack’s worried about you, too—”
“I’ll tell you what to do. Live your own life. If you can stand it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Even though Moose had inches and pounds—note: horizontal inches—on him, the other man looked away.
“You think you’re paying me back for Deandra?” Danny stepped up even closer. “Because she called me the other night?”
As Moose seemed surprised, Danny wanted to curse himself. He really didn’t need to bring up the guy’s nightmare—and besides, Moose was a good man in a bad situation. It was his wife that was the problem.
“I told you,” Danny muttered, “she’s no good. I warned you—”
Moose’s head ripped back around. “You always got to win, don’t you.”
“You’re the only one who’s competing here. I’ve never given a shit about her.”
“That’s your problem, Danny. You don’t care about anyone or anything.”
“Spare me the moral superiority when it comes to women. Not only do I know too much about you, I’ve covered for you too many times. All I care about is keeping Anne out of this. Do you understand me. No more phone calls to her.”
Ever since the two of them had met in Economics 101 freshman year at New Brunie, there had been a keep-up element to Moose, a foster-kid leftover that dragged down the adult, a fault line under the thick bluster and big-man facade. And that was why Danny knew that this was the last time they were going to have to talk about this Anne issue.
“I don’t want you calling Sister ever again,” he repeated. “Not about me. Are we clear?”
After a moment, Moose looked away. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Good, now, you want a cig?” Danny asked. “I just opened this pack.”
As he held out the Marlboros out, he knew Moose was going to take one. And the guy did, but not before he made Danny wait there for a while.
Danny shared his Bic. “So we gonna light this place on fire or what.”
“Chief’s not going to let you work this drill.”
“He’ll get over it.”
Right on cue, Tom Ashburn’s SUV pulled up behind the truck and the Charger, and Anne’s brother got out of it like he was prepared to hop into an octagon and break someone’s head.
Oooooor maybe he won’t get over it, Danny thought.
* * *
“I can explain,” Anne said as she got to her feet. “I, ah . . .”
Don came in and walked around the desk. As he looked down, Soot shrunk back into the crate, ducking his head and letting out a soft growl—which might have been threatening if the dog hadn’t been shaking like a leaf.
“Poor kid,” Don murmured. “Poor damn thing.”
“Look, I didn’t mean this to happen. This morning. I mean.” She cleared her throat. “What I’m trying to say is that I called the vet to check on him, but they’d let him go to the city pound and I was worried he was going to be put down. I had to go on the way here or risk—”
“What’s his name?”
“Soot. You know, ’cuz he’s gray.”
Don backed away. “So about those emails you sent last night.”
Anne looked at dog. Looked at her boss.
Don’s face was utterly composed. And when she seemed confused, he raised an eyebrow. “The three emails you sent. At ten p.m.? Or were you sleep-typing.”
“Right.” She pushed her hair back. “So, ah, yes, you have to agree that there’s a pattern. Six fires in the last two years. All in that same zip code with an unusual amount of office equipment at the scenes. It’s an arson cluster.”
“Or it’s a bunch of abandoned buildings in a bad area of the city known for drug deals and gang territory disputes. I’m not sure we need to call 60 Minutes yet,” he said dryly.
“Did you read my report?”
“Twice. While I was on the StairMaster this morning.”
“There was too much plastic noted in three of the reports on those other scenes.”