So This Is Love

chapter Four

After a sixty-minute power nap, Emma showered, dressed and returned to work just after one o'clock. She had a brief meeting with her boss, Scott McAvoy, then spent the rest of the afternoon inputting data into the computer and following up with witnesses. When that was done, she returned to the crime scene.

She knocked on doors and spoke to the owners of businesses in the area to see if they'd noticed any suspicious people in the neighborhood in the days prior to the fire. Unfortunately, no one had seen anything out of the ordinary.

Her last stop was the bar. There was yellow tape across the entrance, but she ducked under it and stepped inside. She wasn't surprised to find Max poking around the main dining room, although there was not much to see in the blackened burned out room. The only good thing about the blown out windows was that much of the thick smoke had dissipated.

Max wore black slacks and a dress shirt, a tie hanging loosely around his neck, as if he'd spent some time tugging on it. He'd ditched his jacket, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows.

He gave her a tired nod. "Callaway."

"Why do you look worse than I do? You went home before I did last night."

"I didn't sleep at all."

"Thinking about the case?"

"Among other things."

"Any word from the medical examiner's office on cause of death?" she asked.

"Unofficially, it looks like Sister Margaret died of a heart attack."

His words surprised her. She didn't know what she'd been expecting, but it hadn't been that. "A heart attack? Are you saying that she died of natural causes?"

If that were the case, then Sister Margaret would return to the suspect category, and Emma really didn't want to put her there.

"I didn't say that," he replied. "The ME found traces of duct tape around her mouth and wrists. She'd obviously been bound and gagged, but there was no evidence of physical or sexual assault."

"What about time of death?"

"Fifteen to twenty hours before her body was discovered."

Emma blew out a breath. "Then she definitely didn't set the fire."

"What did you find here?" Max asked.

"Gasoline cans, rags, same as at St. Andrew's. There were forensic teams from both your department and mine bagging up evidence earlier, so hopefully they'll find something. In the meantime, we continue investigating. We should work together."

"I agree." He sounded no more enthusiastic about the idea than she felt, but they were both professionals.

"Okay, then. Do you want to get out of here? Go somewhere with clean air where we can go over the case?"

"Sure. But I'm going to need to get some coffee."

"I know just the place. I'll drive."

"You really hate to give up control, don't you?" he said, as he followed her out the door.

"I'm a great driver. And since there's a good chance you'd fall asleep at the wheel, I think we'd both be safer in my car."

"Lead the way."

* * *

"So where is this mysterious coffee place?" Max asked, as Emma headed west toward the beach.

"It's near the Cliff House. It's called Water's Edge. Do you know it?"

"I know the Cliff House but not Water's Edge. I don't remember a coffee house along the beach."

"It's about ten years old." She gave him a sideways glance. "I keep forgetting that you grew up here. I'm still curious as to why that never came up before now."

"You're curious about a lot of things," he commented.

"So are you," she retorted.

"Must be why we both went into investigation."

"You're definitely better at asking questions than answering them."

"That's true." He let out a sigh that turned into a yawn.

"We need to get you some caffeine fast," Emma said with a laugh.

"Yes," he agreed. "The long night is catching up with me. It doesn’t seem to have affected you though."

"I took a nap this morning. It gave me a second wind."

She fell silent as she maneuvered through the late afternoon traffic with confidence and purpose. She was a good driver. She was also a fast driver, which didn't surprise him. Emma definitely had a wild side. He couldn't help wondering what she'd be like in bed. That thought woke him up from his afternoon daze.

He deliberately forced his gaze out the window, idly watching the traffic and the streets of San Francisco passing by. He'd been back in the city a little over three months, but most of that time had been spent at work or in his barely furnished apartment. He'd left a lot of his furniture in a storage unit in Los Angeles, not sure he was ready to commit to a permanent move.

However, he had to admit that the charm of the city was beginning to take hold. He liked the constantly changing neighborhoods, the steep, narrow hills followed by surprisingly startling vistas of blue water, whether it be the ocean or the bay. He liked the food and the mix of cultures, but was he ready to call the city home again?

With the exception of his family and his boss, Hank Crowley, Max hadn't reconnected with anyone from his past. Not that there was anyone he was dying to see. The last thing he wanted to do was answer questions about Spencer, and with old friends, those questions would undoubtedly come up.

Another sigh escaped his lips, drawing Emma's attention.

"Still awake?" she asked.

"Barely."

"We're here." She drove down a steep hill that gave them a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean.

It was a beautiful afternoon, a bright sun in a royal blue sky and a sea that went on forever. A large restaurant sat at the bottom of the hill perched on the edge of a cliff, hence the name Cliff House. Above the restaurant was a smaller café called the Water's Edge.

Emma pulled into a spot out front. "This place is crazy busy on the weekends, but not too bad during the week."

He was happy to see the empty parking spots. He was a little too close to his old neighborhood for comfort.

He got out of the car and drew in a deep breath of cool, salty air. It felt good to be outside. He needed a moment to regroup after the chaotic events of the last twelve hours.

"I love this place at sunset," Emma added, as she joined him on the sidewalk. "That's my favorite time of day. What about you?"

"I like mornings—dawn, the first sunrise, the potential of the day ahead. Nothing bad has happened yet."

She nodded. "I can see that about you. A new day, a new adventure."

He smiled. "Now that sounds more like you. I'm not the one who runs into burning buildings."

"But you do chase down bad guys, and that's just as dangerous."

As they started down the hill, Emma walked in front of him. Her blonde hair blew in the wind, and she drew her black windbreaker more closely around her shoulders. She wore the field uniform of her office, black slacks, black knit shirt, black jacket, but she was still pretty, still feminine. Whether she was wearing a sexy short dress like she'd worn to Brady's, or bulky firefighter's gear as she had last night, or pants and a jacket, she always looked exactly right, which was a huge problem for him, especially when he was tired. His muddled brain was happy to suggest that having a professional relationship and a personal one could work out just fine.

But it wouldn't work out, and the last thing he wanted to do was put his job in jeopardy. It was the only thing in his life right now that was actually working. He didn't need to screw it up.

Emma opened the door to the café, and he followed her inside, his senses assailed with the fragrant smell of coffee beans and sweet pastries. They paused in front of a glass display case filled with mouthwatering sweets.

"Those look good," Emma said, pointing to a chocolate pastry. "Do you want one?"

"No, but you go ahead. I'll just take a coffee." He gave his order to the cashier, then grabbed a table by the window.

The waves were big today, crashing against the shoreline with a white shimmering spray. He could see a large freighter in the distance, making its way toward the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a view that he'd seen many, many times in his life, and he hadn't realized until just this second how much he had missed it.

Emma sat down across from him with her pastry. "I wish I could say that I felt guilty for eating this, but I don't." She took a bite and smiled happily. "I love chocolate."

He smiled back at her. For the moment they were not competing or battling, and it was a nice respite from their usually tense conversations.

"Do you want a bite?" she offered.

"You mean you'd actually share?"

"I feel compelled to be polite."

"But hoping I'll say no. Thanks, but I'm good."

"Your loss." Her unbridled enthusiasm and the way she attacked the gooey chocolate pastry sent all kinds of unwanted images through Max's head.

Emma never did anything halfway, and he couldn't imagine that she'd be any different in bed. But he was not taking her to bed, he reminded himself. Having coffee with her was bad enough.

The server called their order, and he jumped to his feet, thrilled with the interruption. "I'll get it. You eat."

He returned to the table a moment later and set down their drinks. He took a sip of his coffee and liked the immediate kick the extra shot of espresso gave him. He needed to wake up, pay attention, and stop daydreaming about Emma naked in bed with her sexy mouth just ripe for the taking.

"I love the view from here," Emma said, oblivious to his thoughts.

"It's very nice," he muttered.

"I don't think I could ever live too far from the ocean. Whenever I feel like the world is closing in on me, I go to the beach. It opens up my perspective."

He gazed back at her, and his heart tightened as their eyes met—her beautiful, sparkling blue eyes. Emma was such an intriguing mix of hard and soft. Her hair was cut in sharp angles, but the strands were silky smooth. Her voice could be sharp and demanding, but her lips were full and sweet. She had an incredibly kissable mouth. But if he tried kissing her, he'd probably see the hard side of her fist.

"What are you thinking, Max?" she asked, her gaze curious.

"Nothing," he said quickly.

"It doesn't look like nothing."

"Trust me, you don't want to know." He looked out the window and decided to change the subject. "I used to surf those waves," he said.

"Really? I would not have taken you for a surfer dude."

"Why not?"

"Because you're always tense. I can't quite picture you waiting patiently for a wave to take you to shore."

"When I was out on the water, I could be very patient. The perfect wave would deliver the ultimate ride, and I didn't want anything less."

Her thoughtful gaze met his. "That makes sense. Do you still surf?"

"I haven't been out in at least ten years."

"Why not? They have beaches in L.A."

"Surfing was part of another life."

"A life you've come back to," she pointed out. "Maybe you could take it up again."

"Maybe." He didn't know if he could go back to that place in time. "What about you? Have you ever surfed?"

"I tried it a few times with my brothers, but they liked to go out early in the morning, and I'm not really a morning person."

"The mornings are the best. The water is calm, the sun is just coming up, and everyone else is still asleep. It's just you and the ocean. The day's problems are hours away."

She tilted her head, studying him with a thoughtful gaze. "It sounds like the sea was your escape, too."

He'd forgotten how good she was at reading between the lines. "It was," he admitted. "My parents fought a lot when I was young. They eventually divorced, but that didn't end the fights or the drama. My mother was an emotional person, so even when my father was gone, she was often a mess. When I was on my surfboard, all that seemed very far away."

Emma nodded, understanding in her gaze. "I used to hide in my closet. My parents didn't fight in front of us, but late at night, I could hear their voices. I was too little to understand what they were talking about, but I could hear my dad's low angry voice, and then my mom would cry. Her sobs always made me feel afraid. So I'd get out of bed and take my dolls and my blanket into the closet. One morning, my mom found me in there. I usually got back into bed before they woke up and came into my room. But that night, I didn't. She told me later that she took one look at me curled up like a ball and knew that she couldn't stay married to my dad."

He'd forgotten for a moment that she wasn't talking about her mother and Jack Callaway but about her biological father. "Did their split make you feel guilty?"

"Very much. How did you know?"

"Because I'm starting to know you, and you feel responsible for people, especially people you care about."

"That's true. I worried for a long time that I was the reason for the divorce. I remember my name coming up quite frequently in their arguments. I have a feeling that my father didn't really want a second child. But as I got older, and I saw my father for who he really was, I was better able to accept the fact that they would have divorced eventually."

"How's the relationship between your mother and Jack?"

"It's great," she said with a smile. "They'll be married twenty-five years next year. I'm sure they have their problems, but they always seem very happy and connected to each other. My mom got lucky the second time around."

"Do you still see your biological father?"

"The last time was probably seven or eight years ago. We ran into each other while we were both shopping at Union Square at Christmas time. He was with his second wife. It was awkward, and we both tried to get away from each other as quickly as possible." She paused. "What about you? How old were you when your parents divorced?"

"I was eight." He realized how quickly she'd turned the tables on him. He preferred to be the one asking the questions.

"Did your parents remain friends after the divorce?"

"God, no," he said forcefully. "I'm not sure they were ever friends. But I do know they became bitter enemies."

"I'm sorry. I touched a nerve, didn't I?"

"It happened a long time ago," he said with a dismissive shrug.

She gave him a speculative look. "It doesn't seem that way."

"Why don't we talk about the case?" he suggested. "What did you do today?"

"I touched base with the witnesses I spoke to last night to see if they remembered anything new. I also spoke with the woman who called in the fire. She's a nurse at San Francisco General, and she was driving home after her shift when she saw the fire. I don't believe she had anything to do with setting it. I also spoke to the bartender at Brady's. He said he left before Harry did. He didn't notice anyone hanging around the bar, nor was he aware of anyone who might have had a grudge against Harry or one of the other employees."

"What about Harry?"

"I called twice, but his son, Christian, told me that Harry took a sleeping pill. I'm hoping to talk to him later tonight or tomorrow."

"A little convenient," Max said dryly. He could see she was itching to defend Harry, who was apparently a long-time friend of the Callaways, but she refrained. "Anything else?"

"I checked with the insurance company. Brady's had a standard policy. Premiums were paid on time. No changes were made in the last five years. I checked Harry's credit report and didn't see any problems with debt that might give him motivation to burn down the bar for the insurance payout."

He wasn't surprised by her findings. The fire at the bar had to be connected to the fire at St. Andrew's. Sister Margaret's body made that connection. "I don't think the fire had anything to do with money."

She met his gaze. "I don't, either. So what's the motivation—attention, revenge, a thrill?"

"Maybe all of the above. The fact that Brady's was a firefighters' bar also makes me wonder if that was a factor."

"But the school fires had nothing to do with firefighters, so maybe that link doesn't work. Which brings us back to Sister Margaret," Emma said. "I thought she was an amazing teacher, but my brother, Drew, told me earlier today that Sister Margaret was much nicer to the girls than the boys. Drew, apparently, spent a lot of time in detention with Sister Margaret, along with some of the other boys in the neighborhood. I don't know what to make of that information. It probably means nothing, but I thought you should hear another perspective." She paused. "I feel a little guilty even saying it, because I'm sure that the boys probably deserved to be in detention, and she was just doing her job."

"It's good to look at all facets of her personality."

"Oh, and there's one more thing. Drew said that he heard Sister Margaret was once engaged to be married, and her groom ran out on her the day of the wedding. That, according to my brother, is why she disliked the boys and why she became a nun."

"That must have been a long time ago. I've gone through her relationships and history over the past ten years and that didn't come up."

"I think she was in her twenties. And, as I said, it could have just been a rumor."

"I have run into a few people who were not big fans of Sister Margaret," he commented, thinking about some of his interviews. "The new principal at St. Andrew's said she thought Margaret was stuck in her ways and not open to change. They were not on the same page. That's why the principal put another teacher in charge of the choir that Sister Margaret had run for twenty years. She wanted to freshen things up."

"I'm sure Sister Margaret didn't take that too well."

"The principal said Margaret was unhappy and mentioned she might have to rethink her employment." He paused. "But none of this information gives us a suspect. All we have is a possibly unhappy nun who disappeared after school one day. She had no financial problems. She had no known enemies. She lived a relatively quiet life of devotion to her job and her church. Very few people knew her well. Even her roommate, Ruth Harbough, said that Margaret was an extremely private person. Ruth claimed she had no idea Margaret was considering leaving St. Andrew's."

Emma stared back at him with a contemplative expression. "Where does that leave us?"

"I'm not sure. Let's look at the circumstances surrounding Margaret's death. She disappears the night before a fire. Her car was in her parking spot in the garage of her apartment building. Some trace amount of blood was found nearby, but not enough to warrant a suspicion of foul play. It's believed Margaret walked to work. She was in her classroom all day, and the last time anyone saw her was four o'clock. She dies a week later of a heart attack. There's evidence she was being held against her will. But no one actually killed her."

"I think that hesitation to kill her might have to do with the fact that Sister Margaret knew her kidnapper, or possibly because she was a nun."

"I agree. There's a good chance it was someone who went to the church or the school."

"So let's say the arsonist is a former student." Emma rested her forearms on the table. "How can we narrow that down?"

"We could start with the detention records."

"How far back would we go?" she asked. "Ten years? Twenty years?"

"I'd start at least ten years ago. The arsonist is most likely in his twenties."

"I would agree. Maybe even older based on the pattern of the fires," Emma added. She picked up her coffee and took a sip. "After I spoke to Drew, I tried to remember which boys in my class had been in trouble or what some of my brothers and their friends had done in school."

"Are you saying the Callaway boys weren't all saints?" he asked with a raise of his eyebrow.

"Not by a long shot. Only Burke was perfect. I don't know if that came from being the oldest, or if it was always his personality, but he never did one damn thing wrong. Aiden came next in the line-up, and he was a terror. Drew was also rebellious but not as bad as Aiden. Sean just didn't care about school. All he wanted to do was play music. And Colton was another Aiden, just ten years later. I think it's safe to say that St. Andrew's was relieved to see the last of the Callaway boys. Although, they loved having me, Nicole and Shayla," she said with a smile.

"I'm sure you were perfect."

"Actually, I did get into trouble for talking too much in class and one teacher hated that I asked questions. He used to roll his eyes every time I raised my hand. I really annoyed him."

"I can imagine how he felt," he said dryly.

She made a face at him. "My questions are always good ones. Anyway, as I was saying, I was thinking back to problems at St. Andrew's and I have this vague recollection of a fire in the school dumpster when I was in the fifth or sixth grade. I remember standing out on the playground and hearing that some boys had been playing with matches." She frowned. "I just wish I could remember who did it. A lot of arsonists start with smaller fires in their juvenile years."

"St. Andrew's may have a record of that fire, although it was a long time ago. I'll check with Mrs. Harbough."

"Were you the one to tell her that Sister Margaret is dead?" Emma asked, a somber note in her voice now.

He nodded. "Yes, I spoke to her earlier. She was devastated. She said Margaret didn't have any blood relatives. She considered the church community her family."

"I wonder when the funeral will be," Emma mused. "I'm sure the church will be packed with mourners."

"And maybe suspects," he said.

"Maybe."

He could see the sparkle in her eyes as she worked the puzzle in her mind, and he found himself smiling.

"What?" she asked suspiciously.

"You're in your element."

"This is my job," she said.

"And you love it."

"I do. Probably more than I should. It already cost me one relationship. My ex-boyfriend thought I put more energy into my work than into him. And he wasn't completely wrong," she added with honesty. "I've always felt like I had a lot to prove, both to get this job, and now to do it well. I figured there was time for everything else later. Turns out I was wrong."

"If he couldn't support you, you're better off."

"To be fair, he thought I was the one who wasn't supporting him. But in reality, we were both too focused on ourselves to give the other person what they needed. And in the end Jon got what he needed from someone else."

"There's no excuse for cheating," he said. He'd never had any tolerance for infidelity. If someone didn't want to be in a relationship, then they should get out of it.

"I don't think there is, either. Wow, we just agreed on something. Miracles can happen."

He grinned. "Don't get too excited. It may never happen again."

"I'm sorry I brought my personal life into our conversation. The chocolate must have gone to my head."

"Good thing I didn't have any."

"Why? So you can continue to be the man of mystery?"

He shrugged. Seeing the determined look in her eye, he had a feeling he wouldn't be getting out of this conversation without giving her some personal information.

"What are you hiding?" she pressed.

"If I were hiding something, why would I tell you?" he countered.

"Because if you don't tell me, I'll start digging, and I'll probably learn far more than you want me to know."

"Why would you go to the trouble?"

"I like to know who I'm working with. Why did you come back to San Francisco after being away for so long?"

"Maybe I missed the sourdough bread," he said lightly. "Or the clam chowder."

"Fine, I'll figure it out myself."

He sighed. "You're like a dog with a bone."

"I've been called worse things."

"My life is complicated."

"Tell me something simple."

He drank his coffee as he thought about what he wanted to say. She would be able to find out just about everything with a simple Internet search. And with her resources, she could probably get every last dirty detail. He might as well give her his side of the story.

"Seven years ago, my older brother, Spencer, was convicted of manslaughter and sent to prison. Today, he was released."

Her eyes widened. "I—I had no idea."

"My mother asked me to move back to San Francisco, so that I could help Spencer get his life back together. When Captain Crowley offered me a job a few months ago, I decided to take it. Tonight will be the first family dinner we've had in a decade, and I think it's probably going to be incredibly awkward and uncomfortable."

"Why? I would think everyone would be happy."

"My brother blames me for not getting him out of prison. And my mother feels much the same way," he said flatly.

"That's rough."

The compassion in her eyes undid him. This was exactly why he didn't talk about his family. He'd been holding in his emotions for a decade, and he had no intention of putting them on display now, but his stomach was in knots, and his heart was beating way too fast. He needed to move. He needed to breathe.

"I've got to get out of here," he muttered, jumping to his feet.

He was out the door before she took her next breath.

He raced down the hill, trying to burn off some of the adrenaline rushing through his veins. When he got to the bottom, he hit the beach, enjoying the hard work of walking through the shifting sand, the ocean breeze blowing in his face, the watery spray of the waves cooling off his heated body.

Finally, he stopped and sank down on the sand, staring out at the ocean that had gotten him through a lot of bad moments. He needed the sea to work its magic.

A few minutes later, Emma sat down next to him. "Are you all right, Max?"

"No," he said, his voice clipped.

"Can I help?"

"It's my problem, not yours."

"That's not exactly true. We're partners. What affects you affects me."

"You don't have to worry. I don't let my personal life impact my job."

"I'm not worried about the case. I'm concerned about you. You're hurting, and I don’t like to see people in pain."

"Then you should get the hell away from me."

"Max—"

"No, I mean it," he said forcefully, giving her a hard look. "You should walk back up that hill, get in your car, and drive away."

"And how will you get back?"

"I don't know. I'll take a cab. I'll walk. It doesn't matter. Just go, Emma."

"Why?"

"Because I feel in the mood to do something I shouldn't do."

Her blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. "Then you shouldn't be alone."

"Emma, you have about two seconds…"

"Or what?" she asked recklessly, her sweet lips so tempting.

"Or this."

He put his hand on the back of her neck, pulled her close, and covered her mouth with his.