An Inner Fire (22 page)

“I’ll try.” His voice sounded strained when he said good-bye.

Grayce reached for the Tylenol. She needed pain relief and sleep before the party.

* * *

Davis hung up the phone. Grayce worried about him, had told him to be careful. No one ever worried about him. Since his mother died, he’d spent his life convincing everyone including himself that he was invincible.

He didn’t know how to proceed with a woman like her. She was straight-forward, honest. No games, no secrets with Grayce Walters. She wasn’t anything like the lying Daphne.

This was totally foreign territory. He had no idea how his apology would go tonight, but he was eager to try. All because one ethereal woman worried about him.

Chapter Thirty-Four

A crew of beefy firefighters huddled around Grayce. Davis’ colleagues exuded testosterone, intense male energy. She had covered herself in long sleeves, tights, and high boots to hide her bruises. From the frequent glances, she surmised that the men approved of the outfit or at least the short skirt.

The firefighters joked, pushed, and jabbed each other with insults. They mocked Davis’ usual serious veneer. She smiled and nodded, allowing Davis to do the talking. The men hooted loudly, entertained by the idea that Davis was dating Mitzi’s vet.

The men quickly dispersed once the buffet line opened, leaving Grayce and Davis alone.

“Are you hungry, Grayce?”

“I had a late lunch. What about you?”

Davis watched her as if she had an answer to a problem he needed to solve. “I can wait.”

He was different tonight, more relaxed, openly affectionate, touching her at every opportunity, a brush across her back, a hand briefly on her shoulder. His gentleness was helping her forget the assailant’s brutal hands.

Davis shifted his weight from side to side and looked directly into her eyes. “I want to apologize for the other night. I know you were trying to help.”

Like in his childhood picture at his aunt’s house, Davis’ face was open, vulnerable. Mesmerized by the emotion in his voice and his unguarded look, she wanted to touch him, to run her finger along his rugged cheekbone, to soothe away his troubles.

“When Mitzi almost died…I felt like I let her down. She saved me, you know that.”

She wanted to tell him that he hadn’t failed Mitzi, but he wouldn’t want easy words of reassurance.

“It felt like when my dad died. I couldn’t save…”

“What do we have here?” An older officer, with multiple ribbons on the blue suit of the fire department, inspected her from her blond hair to her black leather boots. “Am I interrupting?” He feigned concern, but his tone wasn’t the least bit regretful.

“Oh, hell,” Davis said it loud enough for his superior to hear.

“Davis, introduce me to the lovely lady. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” He stretched the word pleasure with sexual innuendo.

“Grayce, this is Assistant Chief MacLean. Maclean, this is Dr. Grayce Walters.”

“My pleasure, ma’am, excuse me, I mean doctor.”

The assistant chief’s slip was intentional. The grooves around his thin lips and above his eyebrows were deep from years of scowling in dissatisfaction.

“What kind of doctor?” Like a child with a stick, Maclean needed to poke everything and everyone in his vicinity.

Davis moved closer to her. He and Mitzi made a great pair of a watch dogs.

“Grayce is a vet.”

“Your name sounds familiar. Are you the one who saved the poodle?”

“No, a colleague took care of Mitzi.”

“How did you hear about my dog?” Davis’ voice was sharp. He angled his body toward Maclean, ready for a face off.

Maclean ignored Davis but stared at Grayce. “I make it my business to know everything.”

Did he know she had been on the wharf? Was Davis not supposed to be dating a witness?

“Do you have any pets, Officer Maclean?” She asked.

Maclean gave Grayce an oily smile. He stepped closer, too close, invading her personal space. “With such attractive animal doctors, I might have to reconsider.”

“Maclean.” Davis loomed over his superior, his body tight, ready to defend.

Maclean’s lips and face moved in an imitation of a laugh. “How archaic, Davis. I’m sure Dr. Walters has many admirers.” Another smarmy smile.

She touched Davis’ arm. “I’m starving and, by the looks of these firefighters, the food will go fast.”

“You’re right. Let’s get in line. Excuse us, sir,” Davis emphasized the sir.

“I wouldn’t want to detain you.”

Davis pulled Grayce to his side and moved them away from Maclean. “Are you all right? He’s such a…”

“Does he know I’m a witness?”

“What does that matter?”

“He was so antagonistic. I thought you might be in trouble for bringing me to the party.”

“He doesn’t know. And there’s no policy that prevents me from dating you. He treats everyone badly. He enjoys goading people, getting under their skin.”

“It seemed more personal,” she said.

“You’re probably right. When I first arrived, he wanted us to be buddies over our shared Scottish heritage, and I wasn’t interested.”

“He holds that against you?”

“And that I’m an investigator. We’re known for our attitude, not kowtowing to the brass.”

She shivered. Her own energy was depleted from last night and Maclean’s primitive aggression drained what little she had left.

“Are you cold?”

“Just a bit.”

Davis placed a warm hand on her back, guiding her. She scanned the room for the assistant chief. He stood engrossed in conversation with a large blond woman in a revealing black dress. She had her hand on his arm and the assistant chief was focused on the woman’s exposed cleavage.

Grayce looked down the long table, filled with egg rolls, sushi, barbeque ribs, salads, a smorgasbord of Seattle’s ethnicity. “Wow, a lot of food.”

“The guys usually choose quantity over quality, but this looks decent.”

Davis held her plate. She chose from the assortment of salads. He looked at her heaped plate. “Lucky you had a late lunch.”

She laughed and looked up at Davis to share the joke. His eyes were warm, light.

“We’ve made our appearance. Let’s get out of here.” He bent over her, as if he were about to kiss her in the buffet line.

“Davis.” Someone behind them murmured his name in a low sensual tone.

Davis straightened.

The same blond she had seen with Officer Maclean.

“Toni.” Davis’ relaxed teasing was gone, his shoulders hunched.

“How are you, Davis? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Great.”

The woman had the stature and presence of a Wagnerian soprano. Everything about her was larger than life.

“Grayce, this is Toni Williams from Ladder Seven. Toni, this is Grayce Walters.”

Grayce smiled, ignoring Toni’s open perusal. She wasn’t good at these female games, never knowing how to respond to the layered subtext.

“Are you a new firefighter?”

Davis’ burst of laughter at the idea of Grayce as a firefighter didn’t help her mood. She wished she had worn her Jimmy Choos so she didn’t have to look so far up at Toni. “I’m a veterinarian.”

“You take care of Mitzi?” Toni made it sound as if she groomed dogs.

The three proceeded down the buffet line.

“Toni is part of an elite group of firefighters. They do the rescues the regular guys can’t do—high angle rescues, confined space. They’re also trained as divers.”

“Impressive.” She could imagine the gargantuan woman pulling someone out of a burning building. Toni radiated the same physical confidence as Davis. Grayce tried to stand taller, all five feet of her.

Toni put her hand on Davis’ arm. “Davis, did you hear about the rescue down on the Duwamish?”

Grayce waited for Davis to finish his conversation. Officer Maclean sidled up next to her.

“I seem to have forgotten silverware.” He pressed against her, his shoulder rubbing against her back, reaching across her.

She moved away from him, moving closer to Davis. “May I get something for you?”

“Thank you. I’ve got it.”

His long, manicured fingers stretched across the table to the stack of rolled silverware. A dark blemish was partially exposed below the cuff of his crisp white shirt—a purple striated scar.

Her heart skidded and stopped for a micro-second, leaving a hollow feeling, like a cave in her chest. Was this the scar from Mitzi’s vision?

He leaned closer to her. “Have you seen the Sculpture Garden?” She could smell his expensive musky aftershave.

She needed a closer look at his scar. Was it the scar from her vision after Mitzi’s poisoning? He was very knowledgeable about Mitzi’s near-death experience. Her heartbeat did skips and leaps defying normal sinus rhythm.

“No, I haven’t yet, but I would like to.” Her voice was rushed, breathless.

He stood too close, leering down at her. “You shouldn’t go home until you’ve seen Richard Sarro’s piece—right outside the doors, down the steps.” His bleached white teeth exaggerated their size-large canines in his large mouth.

“It’s called
Wake
—walls of steel, shaped like hulls of ships moving through the water. Impressive, massive.” He turned to walk away. “Don’t miss it.”

“Thank you. I won’t.” Was he trying to get her outside to prove his sexual prowess or for something more dangerous? She was more familiar with the nearby dog park than the sculpture garden. Both had been built on an old railroad bed running along Puget Sound. Several of her clients were regulars at the dog park. They had the same aggressive and territorial behavior as the assistant chief.

“Let’s find a table?” Davis’ voice made her jump. He was half-turned toward Toni, listening to her story. He gestured with his head toward an expanse of window looking down on the gardens. “How about over by the windows?”

Grayce was confused. The scar on the assistant chief’s arm was very similar to her vision. Most of the men and women at this party probably had scars, occupational hazards, even Brunhilde from Ladder Seven. Davis had most likely explored each and every one of her scars, judging by his obvious discomfort introducing Grayce.

“I’ll get us drinks and be right over.” Davis bent close. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She wanted to add.
I’m fine, if thinking your boss might be a criminal because he has a scar on his arm that I’ve seen in a vision from your dog is fine. I’m fine if I don’t have a concussion from being pushed down steps by a man who might have started the wharf fire. Sure I’m fine, darn fine.
She walked to an empty table by the windows, the heels on her boots clicking on the concrete floor of the cavernous space.

People were busy eating at nearby tables; no one paid attention to her. She put her plate down on an empty table. A door was open to a deck, overlooking the gardens. She turned to look for Davis. He was walking toward the bar.

She scanned the room for the assistant chief. He sat with his back to her, at a table filled with men in identical blue suits.

Last night’s experience was affecting her, clouding her judgment about the assistant chief and his scar. She couldn’t intuit if the man was a threat.

The room felt crowded and claustrophobic. She walked outside to the end of the deck, away from the door, out of view of the party goers. She drew fresh air into her lungs. Inhaling deeply, she ignored the throbbing of her bruised ribs. A train rumbled below the park.

“You must be new in the department?”

A man twice her size towered over her. Were there any average sized people in the fire department?

“I’m a guest.” Shivers ran through her body, another side effect of her nighttime activities and pain medications.

“I’m Niles Olsen, the chaplain.”

She had felt paranoid at the party and now she felt paranoid talking with the chaplain. He moved out of the shadows. His face was round with baby fat, although he was at least in his fifties. It was time to go home, if she was too afraid to talk with a chaplain.

“I’m Grayce Walters. I’m here with Ewan Davis.”

“Grayce Walters, I’ve heard that name before. You’re the witness to the wharf fire?”

Her scalp tingled. “I really didn’t witness much.”

He stepped closer, his large frame blocking the light from the party. “I thought you saw someone.”

She had to crane her neck to look up at him. Shards of light broke his face into harsh slats. She didn’t know if she was supposed to talk about evidence. It couldn’t be a problem to tell the chaplain, could it?

“I did see a man, but Davis thinks he was a fisherman.” Discussing the man on the wharf stirred the memory of his rage, the same rage as last night’s attacker. She remembered how hard he had gripped her, squeezed her. Trying to blot out the memory, she rubbed her arms, as if she could erase his fingerprints from her skin.

“Are you going to walk in the sculpture garden? I personally love Richard Sarro’s piece
Wake
. I believe he meant it as a metaphor for death.”