Smoke And Ashes

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The letter... The divorce papers... Oh...

She sat up but was forced back down by the thump, thump, thump of the bass drum beating in her skull. She picked up the pills and swallowed them down, anything to stop the pounding.

Light streamed through unfamiliar white curtains and she looked down at a dark gray shirt, underneath which was a miniskirt. She remembered Brittany’s skirt but where had the T-shirt come from?

The bedsheets were yellow and soft, but those, too, were foreign.

She sat up more slowly, and this time the pounding of the bass drum changed to the tom, tom, tom of a timpani.

She pushed down the miniskirt and the simple action brought back a flash of her kissing Kevin, her hands sliding over the muscles of his stomach, her lips tasting the salty flavor of his skin.

Her body ached from what felt like gallons of tequila sloshing through her veins. At the very least she hadn’t had sex with him—if she had, she could have never faced him again.

Hopefully he didn’t think that her feelings were just some attempt at a drunken rebound. She had been foolish, but for her, it had sometimes felt as though there was more than a simple friendship between them.

She was such an idiot.

She tiptoed to the door and peered out into the empty hallway. This early in the morning everything was still. She slipped through the house and made her way outside, making sure to grab her shoes and purse by the front door.

The grass dripped with dew and not a single house’s lights were on, with the exception of her and David’s perfectly white house, where every single window was alight. He must have been awake all night, waiting for her.

Her stomach lurched, forcing her to run to the hedges that acted as a fence between the houses. She made it there in time to be sick.

There was a squeak of hinges as a door opened. She looked in the direction of the eerie, disquieting sound. David stood on their front step and glowered out at her.

His arms were crossed over his chest and his jaw was set, making him look like a dictatorial tyrant peering down upon his subjects.

“Get in the house.”

She made her way to the door, carefully sidestepping him as she went inside. She could feel his glare upon her.

“Your catting around just saved me a lot of money.”

* * *

KEVIN TRIED NOT to think about Heather slipping away. He should have known that was exactly what she would do when she woke. Regardless, it still bothered him that she would run away as soon as she realized how badly he had wanted her.

Hopefully they could still be friends. Hell, maybe something more if her divorce went through, but something like that had to be months, maybe years, away from happening. For all he knew, last night had been her attempt at a one-night thing. Maybe she only wanted to get back at David. Maybe his was just the closest door.

Maybe, when it came to him, she didn’t really care.

He wouldn’t know how she felt until he saw her again. He didn’t know whether to look forward to it.

Meanwhile he walked into Colter’s room. He made his way through the mess and stopped at the side of his bed. Colter’s chin showed the nicked signs of a recent battle with a razor. He reached up and pulled fuzz from a hair that had been missed. The hair was barely enough to be called a whisker, yet it was just another sign of the changes in their lives.

He leaned in and gave Colter a kiss on the head and drew in a breath, the way he used to when his son had been a baby. He no longer smelled of milk and baby powder, but rather he carried the odor of sweat with a pungent sock-scented kicker.

“Hey, bud,” he said softly, trying to rouse him. “Time to get up.”

Colter opened one eye and, seeing him, answered with a forgiving, sleepy smile.

There was still a chance to fix what was broken.

* * *

AFTER COLTER LEFT for school, Kevin dropped Lindsay off and made his way to the diner. No matter what was going on in his personal life, work awaited. At least in an investigation there was a chance he could get answers. It was black and white. Not like his mess of a private life.

His phone rang as he pulled the truck into a parking spot.

“Hello?”

“Inspector Jensen, this is Chief Larson.”

“Hey, Chief, how’s it going?” He tried to sound nonchalant.

“Not so great. I heard you and I may need to have a little meeting.”

Kevin forced a laugh. “Come on now, Chief. I didn’t do anything that bad, did I?”

“You were at last week’s meeting, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you may have some idea why you and I would be having a problem.”

“I’m aware that we’re trying to cut back on costs. I understand and would love to comply with your request. However, sir, I must be able to do my job in a professional manner. Protecting lives and saving property—am I right, Chief?”

“Absolutely.” There was a rustle as the chief moved the phone. “However, as I was made to understand, your investigation was impeded by your need to go to a neighborhood barbecue. Correct?”

His stomach clenched. How did Larson know?

“I did need to attend a social event with my family. It was an unavoidable situation.” He tried his damnedest to make it sound like brain surgery instead of a party.

“So let me get this right, Jensen. You took two rookie firefighters and had them sit on an investigation that should have been buttoned up in one pass so that you could go to an unavoidable social event? Do you know how much you cost us? I had to call in two more firefighters and give them time and a half to cover for the ones you needed to retain your chain of custody.”

“That wasn’t my intention, sir.”

“Your intention or not, this has to come to an end or I’m going to have to start cutting. We’d hate to lose you, Jensen.”

“I’m working on the investigation now. I’ll have this wrapped up soon.” He walked up to the diner. Near the door was a newspaper kiosk where a picture of Elke’s yellow-taped house blared out from the front page.

“I don’t see why you need that much time.”

“I’ve come to believe this may be the work of a serial arsonist. I’m hoping to pin down the suspect before there are any other fires.”

“What makes you think it’s a serial arsonist?”

“It’s just my gut, sir.”

“Your gut is going to cost me thousands...and possibly cost you your job. You need to get your butt over to that scene and pull the men off the lines.”

He stared at the picture on the front page of the Missoulian. “I would, but I’d hate for the press to get the idea we aren’t doing our best to keep the public safe. I mean it would look bad if there was another fire, a fire where someone was killed.”

The phone rustled. “You’ve got thirty-six hours.”

The line went dead.

He slid his phone into his pocket. The pressure was on.

Kevin walked inside and a sixtysomething waitress strode up to him.

“Can I help you, sonny?” she asked in the raspy voice of a lifelong smoker.

“I’m looking for an Elke Goldstein. She work here?”

The woman frowned. “Waddya want with her?”

“I’m just here to talk with her. I’ll sit down and wait, if that’s okay.”

She grabbed a menu and led him to a table close to the kitchen door. “She’ll be right out. Coffee?”

He mostly wanted answers, but coffee would do for now. “Sure. Thanks.”

“Take it black?”

“Unless you can pour some of your sweetness in,” he joked.

“Oh, we got a charmer, do we?” The woman strode into the kitchen with a wide smile on her lips.

A minute later a mousy, brunette woman walked out and stopped beside his table. She had a nice face, but her eyes told him she was a woman who worked long hours and dreamed of something more.

“I’m Elke.” She scowled at him as she poured his coffee. “I know you?”

“The name’s Kevin Jensen. I’m a fire inspector for the city of Missoula.” He took a long drink of the ashy tasting coffee. “I was called to your house last night. Nice to meet you.”

She took a step back from the table and looked over her shoulder. “How’d you find me? I thought y’all weren’t going to bother me,” she said, her voice tinged with a slight Southern drawl.

“Battalion Chief Hiller told me you worked here.”

She nodded, but her body tensed and the pot in her hand shook slightly, sloshing the coffee. “He had no business tellin’ you. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that fire.”

In the fire academy, one lesson had been drilled into him over and over: It didn’t matter what words came out of a person’s mouth, body language and demeanor were a much better indicator of someone’s guilt or innocence. Right now, Ms. Goldstein looked guilty. All he needed to figure out was whether she was guilty of setting the fire or guilty of something else.

“I’m sure you didn’t have anything to do with it,” he lied. “I just need to ask you a few questions so we can make sure you get the money you are entitled to from your insurance company.” He paused as he let the bait sink in. “You do have insurance, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I think so...” She looked away as though she was trying to catch a memory that had drifted out of reach.