Through the Fire (12 page)

I looked back at the river and swallowed lukewarm coffee, the heat from my cup already lost to the autumn air.

Christine had come from an affluent upbringing, her sights always set a bit higher than mine. “One day when we have our home on the lake . . .” she’d say, meaning Tahoe. And, “Ooh, A-O, have you seen the new Porsche?” Which of course, I hadn’t. Or if I had, I sure wasn’t taking notes to decide what color to pick out.

At times I would stop her midsentence and in all seriousness say, “Babe, I am a
fire
man.” I would elongate the word too, and associate it with the phrase “glorified garbageman.” And she would laugh as if I had just said the funniest thing in the world, and by the way, did I like her new Coach purse and wallet? She got the wallet on sale, only three hundred forty-eight dollars.

What had fueled her persistent disassociation from reality? And what convinced me that it wasn’t that big of an issue?

The fact that she had been in school had probably delayed the inevitable. As she neared completion of her degree and contemplated establishing her life as she had pictured and footnote-captioned it in her mind, the clear lens of reality started taking focus.

She was engaged to be married to a fireman.

No home on Lake Tahoe.

No fancy foreign sports cars.

No high-society art fund-raisers.

A brisk breeze spun dried leaves in an eddy on the sidewalk.

Someone spoke behind me, “What’s up, loser?”

I turned to see Blake, his dark wavy hair combed with a pomade gloss, crisp lined collar under a tailored suit jacket. A slight fold betrayed the piece holstered at his flank.

I took a deep breath. Sometimes a friendly ribbing found the space between the bones.

CHAPTER
21

W
hat’s up, Gary Cooper?” I stood. “You get a lot of chicks walking around in that getup?”

He swung his arm wide and gave me a hearty handshake. “You look like you’ve been sleeping under a bridge. Somebody beat you up before I got here?”

“Yeah, you know. Engine One nights. But I can still get chicks looking like this.”

He grinned. “It’s cold out here. You want to go inside?”

He was right, even my clothes felt cold. I followed him through the front doors.

Espresso wafted through the room. Blake bought me a refill, and we found a seat by the windowed wall. A girl sat at the baby grand piano playing something somber.

Blake’s news came sudden and unexpected. “I lost my house, Aidan.”

His clean Brut-basted jawline defied what he was saying. It was like Pierce Brosnan telling you that he wasn’t really James Bond.

I had expected him to unveil some sort of striking discovery and inroad on my father’s case. “What happened?”

He leaned back in his chair and undid a button on his coat. “I did some pretty aggressive real estate investing. I got overextended and had to short sell three houses. Now the bank has foreclosed on my primary.” He shifted his lower jaw to the side and shook his head. “I screwed up, man.”

I leaned forward with an elbow on the table and rubbed the back of my neck. “Wow. I had no idea. It all came down that quickly?”

“About half a year ago I knew I was in trouble. But the market . . . you know. So . . .’’ He looked out the window. “I just needed to find somewhere, so I—”

“Hey, if you need a place to stay you can always have the extra room at my house.”

He shook his head.

“I mean it,” I said. “It’s no burden.”

He let out an embarrassed laugh. “You don’t make things easy, do you, A-O?”

“I’m sorry?”

He swallowed and looked out the window again. He rubbed his forehead. “Look at me, huh? Here I am straight off talking about myself. Tell me what’s going on with you. How are you? I heard all about that fire with Hartman.” Then quickly, “I hear he’s getting better, though.”

I ignored his questions. “Blake, it’s all right if you’re in need, man. That’s what friends are for. Whatever it is, just tell me and I’ll help.”

He exhaled and nodded. “Right. Thanks. You know, I’ve actually been rooming over at the Cairo for the last couple of weeks. It’s not so bad.”

“Last couple of weeks? You’re already out? What about your stuff?”

“In storage.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I could have helped you move.”

“You know, I kept thinking I’d find a way out of it.”

I glanced at the earthy brown liquid in my mug. “So . . . how’s the room service at the Cairo?”

He released a laugh. “It’s just great, Aidan.” He lifted his cup and mouthed a curse at me.

I rubbed the scratch of day-old stubble on my jaw. “Look, man, I really mean it. I have that spare bedroom—”

“Aidan, I can’t impose on you like—”

“Don’t even.” I raised a hand. “The truth is out. Blake Williams actually needs help.” I stood and mock proclaimed it to no one in particular. “Blake Williams actually needs my help.”

A man behind a laptop raised a disinterested eyebrow.

I sat back down. “You can’t backpedal now. You don’t have anywhere else to go. Look, I could just as easily be in your shoes, and I don’t even know if I’d have sense enough to just go to a buddy and ask for a hand.”

He jutted out his chin and stared at the table.

“Just consider it payback for all your research on my father’s fire. You’ve done so much for me. Christine reminds me of that all the time.”

“Heh. Right.” He sat up straight, a buoyed expression on his face. “You’re a true friend, Aidan. I’ll give it some thought, okay.”

“All right.”

He glanced at his watch. “Hey, about your dad’s fire.”

“Yeah?”

“I do have to get going here, but I will say that we’re close.”

“Last time we talked you said you’d made inroads with some calculations.”

“You’re talking about the ones on the wall’s structural integrity?”

“Yeah.”

He adjusted his watchband. “Oh, this goes far beyond that.”

“But that was significant, right? That brick shouldn’t have collapsed that fast.”

Blake nodded. “And your dad knew that. When James went into that structure, he expected, and rightly so, to have more time than he did. Even with unreinforced masonry, those rafters were all cut and stack, not lightweight trusses. Their integrity under those fire conditions should have been way longer than today’s gang-plated stuff. That fire with Hartman, you guys would have—”

“I know, had much more time with a solidly built roof. I know that. We pushed the envelope for—”

“You don’t have to justify what you did. I’m just talking about the difference in construction. My point is, that the wall in the fire James was fighting should not have fallen as quickly as it did given the conditions.” He drank the last of his coffee.

“So don’t go spreading this as gospel,” he continued, “but the pieces are lining up. More and more of them with each day.”

“Each day?” I said.

“With each fire.”

“So these current fires and my father’s—”

“Are related. Yes. I believe so. Now, there are still missing pieces. And I’m still studying the findings from last night’s fire, but—”

“Did Biltman set my father’s fire?”

Blake pushed his lips together. “I’m not quite at the point where—”

“What point are you at? I need to know, Blake. If that guy—”

“I know, Aidan. I know. Listen, I’m busting my butt working on this.” He stood and buttoned his coat. “I’ve got to get going, all right? You’re just going to have to trust me.”

CHAPTER
22

I
felt as if I’d just walked onto the set of
CSI.

To be fair, everything at the Prevention office that afternoon was brighter. But phones rang, and people shuffled around desks with flapping papers in hand, glinting badges pinned to white-collared uniform shirts. An investigator stood at one end of the room, suit coat haphazardly draped over a swivel office chair, leather handgun harness hanging loosely under his arm. He scribbled on a large whiteboard decorated with circles and arrows and black-and-white photos of unshaven suspects. Business was hopping in the fire prevention world.

I didn’t see Julianne, and Blake wasn’t anywhere to be found. I stopped short of clamping down on the arm of Prevention Officer Jim Schaeffer as he passed me in full stride. “Hey, Jim.”

He glanced at me without slowing, returning his eyes to his route. “Hey.”

“No. Hey, Jim? Quick question.”

He stopped and turned, eyebrows raised.

I put my hands in my pockets. “Have you seen Blake or—” I cleared my throat—“Lab Analyst Caldwell this afternoon?”

His eyes deviated to his right and down. I tried to remember from detective shows if that meant he was fabricating an answer to my question or if he was actually searching his memory. “No.

No, I haven’t seen Blake. But Julianne should be around here somewhere.” He waited as if I had just thrown a ball and he needed my permission to chase it.

“Thanks.”

He sped off, staring at the papers in his hand.

I rubbed my neck, taking a few steps backward.

A sudden “Oh!” and the clanking of glass told me my presence had elevated from nuisance to interference. I turned and caught a surprised Julianne by the shoulders. She held a wooden tray, and her lab glasses had fallen forward to the tip of her nose. She shifted her elbows and her shoulder in an effort to right the glasses.

I stepped back. “Hey. Wow. I’m so sorry. Here. May I?” I pointed to her glasses.

She glanced at them, then back at me. “Please.” She leaned her chin forward and up. I pushed the frame to the bridge of her nose. “Woo,” she said. “Thank you. Much better.”

I grinned. “Everyone is in quite the hurry.”

“It’s been this way for days. Nonstop. Admin is bringing down the hammer. City manager’s breathing down the fire chief’s neck, and it all rolls its way down here. It’s been an interesting first few weeks.”

I realized I was still blocking her way. “I guess I should let you take your beakers to the lab.”

She laughed. “These aren’t beakers.”

“That’s right. Those are . . . the cylindrical glass . . .”

“Test tubes?”

“Yes. Test tubes. I was getting there.”

She smiled.

“Thank you for the note,” I said.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more friendly before.”

“No, no. It’s okay.”

She studied my face. “You still don’t remember me, do you?”

“That’s not entirely true. I remember you. I just have no idea where from.”

An awkward silence transcended the small gap between us.

“I remember seeing you,” she said, “on TV at your father’s department funeral. I remember wondering if what was going through your mind was anything like what I was going through.” She pressed her lips together. “I’d lost my father a week before that.”

I shook my head. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

She made a quick scan of the room. “Have you spoken with Blake recently?”

“Yes, actually. This morning we—”

“Follow me.” Motioning with her head, she led me across the room to a door and asked me to open it. “Thank you. Come on in.”

We entered a large laboratory. A protected hood system stood to one side. Tables held vials and droppers and microscopes. Labeled cardboard shoeboxes lined wall shelves next to binders with laminated page protectors.

Julianne set down the tube tray. She peeled off her gloves and propped up her glasses. “I’m Julianne, by the way.” She offered her hand and shrugged. “Just to make it official.”

I shook. Her grip felt slender and smooth. “Aidan O’Neill. Pleasure to officially meet you.”

“Grab a seat if you’d like.” She pointed to a tall table bordered by metal stools. She pulled up a seat from a different table and glanced at the closed lab door. Specimen refrigerators and a host of electronics hummed.

Her feet paired on a rung. She leaned her forearms on her knees.

“So much more peaceful in here, don’t you think?”

“Your little enclave?”

She nodded and then took a deep breath. “So you really don’t remember, do you?”

I shook my head.

She played with a button on her lab coat. “You were on the island. At the Celtic festival.”

“At Wingfield Park?”

She nodded, eyes glinting.

I searched my memory. Images entered like a flood. . . .

Dancers on stage hopping to the rhythm of fiddles and drums . . . A young woman leaning on the bridge railing, watching the Truckee River pass beneath. Her deep blue eyes met mine and she smiled.

I looked up at Julianne. “You were on the bridge.”

She nodded again.

An older man behind her had looked pale and tremulous. He was holding his head. She took his arm and walked him to the edge of the bridge. When he stepped onto the island, his knees buckled.

“You were the one,” I said. “The one who helped that man who collapsed.”

Her expression saddened.

I felt as if an album of old photos had opened in my mind.

“I came over . . . and you were shaking his shoulders and saying something. I said—”

“ ‘I’m Aidan O’Neill with the Reno Fire Department. I can help.’ ”

“That’s right. I knelt by his head and opened his airway. He was unconscious but breathing shallow.”

She wiped her eyes. “Yes.”

“He . . .” I stared at her. “He was your—”

“Yes.”

“Your father.”

I watched the scene replay in my head. The medics coming. Me standing on the island by the entrance to the bridge, watching her cross with them.

I put my hands on my head and looked at the ceiling. “So that’s how we first met.”

She folded her arms and gave a tempered smile.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay.” She shook her head. “I am, too. For your loss.”

The second hand ticked on the wall clock.

“Did you go away after that?” I asked.

“Yes. But not far. I went through school at Davis before coming back for this job.” She stood and set her lab glasses on the table. “I’m not satisfied with the ‘undetermined’ conclusion, either. Blake told me. I know you feel the same way.”

I leaned my elbows on the table. “I’m really glad to have him on my side. He’s refused to put this thing down.”