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He pushed off the wall and headed for the door, pausing only long enough to add, “You’re welcome to the conference room back at the station, if you want to work somewhere warm.”
“I’m good here.”
He nodded and left, boots echoing, taking the silence with him.
Desiree let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She finished her grid, then started again from the beginning, this time noting anything she might have missed the first time through.
It was going to be a long day. But at least she knew—make or break—it was up to her. She wasn’t going to let anything, or anyone, stand in her way of proving she belonged in the arson unit.
CHAPTER 3
Brandon waited until he was sure the arson investigator had run her grid twice, then stepped under the caution tape for the walkthrough he’d promised. Desiree was crouched over a flagged scorch mark, scribbling into her notepad. He could see the concentration in the set of her jaw, the exactness of her hands. Not a wasted motion. The crime scene vest fit her snuggly, shirt sleeves cinched at the wrist, and she wore her outfit like a uniform.
He planted himself in the center of the ruined space, hands on hips. “I want to give you a couple of notes about the building’s past.”
Desiree didn’t look up. “I’m sure it’s all in the tax record.”
He bent down, ran his glove along the lowest point of the wall, felt the way the concrete under the char flaked differently here. “Not that kind of note. Old man Greely used to own this place. Before the co-op, it was his tractor repair shop. There’s an oil drum built into the subfloor near the main beam, to catch runoff. My dad always said it was a fire waiting to happen.”
“Subfloor was stripped years ago,” she said, examining the flagged section. “But if there’s residual accelerant, I’ll find it.”
He watched her for a long second, then let out a little laugh. “You’re not interested in the local angle?”
She pulled the evidence bag from her kit and scraped a sample off the concrete. “If it’s relevant, I’ll include it in my report.”
He leaned against the blackened doorframe and shrugged. “It’s more relevant than you think. You want to know who’d torch this place, you start by asking who Greely owed money to before he lost it to the bank, and it was sold to the co-op. They were still fighting about it at the diner just a month ago. Some people around here hold grudges longer than most marriages.”
Desiree put the sample bag in her pouch and finally faced him. “You know, if you keep trailing me and leaving footprints while telling stories, the arsonist’s defense team will argue scene contamination.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “They’ll have to find a better argument than that. I’m good at not compromising a scene. But you should really think about the local history of this place. My dad always said you need to know what happened before the flames, not just after. Sometimes gut instinct is what closes a case.”
“Gut instinct doesn’t hold up in court,” she pointed out, straightening. Even standing, she was a full head shorter than him, but the look she gave him didn’t give an inch.
“Neither does ignoring local knowledge,” he countered. “Ask any investigator who actually sticks around to see how things turn out.”
She was silent for a moment, eyes narrowing as if she was weighing how much of this was worth her time. “You’re not the first fire chief who’s tried to tell me how to do my job.”
He put a hand to his heart. “Hey, I’m just trying to make sure nobody screws up your pristine crime scene. It’s what we call community service around here.”
A flicker passed across her face, something that almost looked like amusement. “I bet your guys call it a lot of things.”
He wanted to ask her what she called it, but instead he pointed his flashlight at the next flagged ring. “You notice how even the edge is? Like someone poured out a cake mold, not a normal splash.”
She knelt by the ring, scanned it, and nodded. “You’re not wrong. There’s discipline to it.”
He felt a little thrill, absurdly proud she’d agreed with him, and immediately tamped it down. “You think we’re looking at a professional?”
Desiree ran a finger along the inside of the burn, careful, methodical. “If so, it’s someone who likes their work clean. No signature, no clever tells.”
“Could still be a local, trying to look smart,” Brandon suggested. “You’d be surprised what a high school chemistry set, and an internet connection will teach you these days.”
She snorted, just barely, but it was enough. “You really don’t think much of your neighbors.”
“I think a lot of them,” he said, then regretted it—sounded too earnest. He dialed it back. “I just know that not all of them operate exactly above the law.”
She locked eyes with him, and for a moment he couldn’t decide if she was about to rip into him or let it pass. Up close, her eyes were a mix of green and brown, sharp and focused and just a little tired at the edges, like she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a month.
“So, who’s your bet? If it’s a message job, who’s the audience?” She asked, clearly wondering what his take was on the situation.
