They followed Samuel around the building toward the alley that cut between the Beau-T-Shop and the law offices behind it. Gideon knew the attorneys well enough from his divorce and subsequent custody battle. He had spent a good bit of treasure and time on those folks.
Samuel paused at the mouth of the alley and pointed toward a blue purse leaning against the brick wall. “Seems odd that it would be here.”
Gideon reached in his coat pocket and removed a pair of protective gloves. Normally, he might not have been so conscious of forensics with a lady’s purse, but it was too close to the fire for it to have been a coincidence. He worked his large hands into the gloves and knelt beside it.
The purse, which did not appear expensive, was sitting upright, as if it had been placed carefully. If it had been stolen, the chances were that it would be lying haphazardly on its side. Thieves, in his experience, did not take the time to carefully set down a stolen purse. It was also zipped closed. Again, that did not fit the profile of a stolen item.
He searched around the purse and then grabbed his phone and took several pictures.
“Why the careful handling?” Clarke asked.
“It just doesn’t look right to me.” He unzipped the top and noted the wallet inside. He removed it, unfastened the clasp, and discovered three credit cards and thirty-six dollars in cash.
He glanced at the driver’s license. It had been issued to Lana Long and listed a Denver address.
“You think she might be the woman you saw inside the shop?” Clarke asked.
Gideon rose and looked at the burned-out structure. “If she was, she’s dead now.”
Confessions of an Arsonist
Each time I stare at one of my fires, I feel in control.
When I hear the flames roar, I feel power. When I see the black smoke rise toward the heavens, I believe I can accomplish anything. However, when the fire finally dies out, as they all do, that control, power, and optimism vanish.
CHAPTER FIVE
Missoula, Montana
Saturday, September 5, 2020
9:55 p.m.
As Gideon parked, his headlights swept the front of the three-hundred-unit apartment complex located on the outskirts of Missoula. Each of the buildings had three floors, with weathered wood siding and a pitched roof that mimicked a ski resort. Age and too many harsh winters had taken a toll on the buildings, which now looked worn and dated. But because housing in Missoula was not easy to come by, he knew the rents here would have been steep.
He had made a few calls and discovered that Lana Long had held a beautician’s license in the states of Colorado and Montana. And it was her Montana beautician’s license that had given him her current address. He’d placed calls to Jessica and Darren Halpern, hoping to get background information on Lana Long and to discuss the fire, but so far, his calls had landed in voicemail.
Out of his vehicle, he pushed back his jacket to clear his sidearm for easy access as he strode toward the manager’s first-floor apartment.
The curtains were drawn in the front display window, but a television’s wavy light leaked out around the edges, suggesting the manager was up and ready for him. He’d called ahead but had not shared specifics of his visit. For all he knew, Lana Long’s purse had been stolen, and he was not ready to raise questions about the woman until he had all the facts.
He pounded on the door and stood to the side. The call appeared to be straightforward, but too many cops had been shot or attacked on calls just like this.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. A security chain scraped out of its latch, and the dead bolt turned seconds before the door opened. The man standing in the doorway was midsize and stocky, with a full black beard and thinning long hair tied back at the nape of his neck. A plaid shirt skimmed over a full belly and was tucked into worn jeans. In the background, the television light glowed from a back bedroom and softly broadcast what sounded like an old western.
“Mr. Victor Oswald?” Gideon asked.
“That’s right.” His gaze settled on the seven-pointed gold star pinned to his brown overcoat. “Detective Bailey?”
“That’s right. Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Oswald.”
What should have been the living room of his apartment had been set up as a leasing office. A pizza box, a couple of dirty blue ceramic plates, and a few beer cans lined the breakfast bar attached to the kitchen.
Following Gideon’s line of sight, Mr. Oswald cleared his throat as he moved toward the kitchen and gathered the beer cans and dumped them into the trash.
He sniffed as he tucked in his shirt more securely. “You had a question about one of my residents?”
“That’s right. Her name is Lana Long?”
“Long.” He shook his head. “I know Lana. She moved in about nine months ago. We don’t get that many move-ins in the winter, so I remember her. Pretty little thing. She all right?”
“Her purse was found in town. This is more of a wellness visit to make sure she is.”
“The ladies do not like being separated from their purses.”
“No, sir, they do not. That’s why I’m concerned.”
“Did you call her?”
“I was hoping you could give me her phone number.”
“Sure. Let me check her records.”
The manager went to a computer resting on a desk shoved in a corner and typed several keys. “Ready?”
Gideon opened his phone. “Shoot.”
The manager rattled off the number, which Gideon typed into his phone. It rang twice and then, “This is Lana. You know the drill.”
Gideon left Lana a message instructing her to call him. Next step would be to check with the phone carrier to see if they could locate her cell. “She’s not answering. When was the last time you saw her?”
“Oh, it’s been a couple of weeks. She’s a hairdresser and works long hours.”
“Has she had any trouble or complaints?”
“No.”
“Can you direct me to her apartment?”
Mr. Oswald scratched the back of his head. “You’re going to a lot of trouble over a purse.”
“I just need to confirm she’s all right.”
Mr. Oswald grabbed a lightweight jacket, and as Gideon stepped outside, he closed the door behind him. “She’s in building two. It’s a quick walk.”
The few seconds in the manager’s warm apartment had sharpened the bite of the evening chill as they crossed the lot, full of potholes. The air was crisp and ripe with the scent of moisture. Snow in September was not uncommon, and he would bet money they were in for an early winter.
Mr. Oswald fished a ring of keys from his pocket and walked up to the first-floor unit. He knocked hard on the door several times. “Management,” he said in a clear, practiced voice. “Ms. Long, are you in there?”
They stood in silence, waiting outside the darkened door. If she was inside, she was either a heavy sleeper or passed out.
“Can you open it?” Gideon asked.
“I don’t know. Don’t you need a search warrant?”
“I’m just looking for the lady so I can give her back her purse.”
A fierce independence ran through Montana residents, as Gideon knew well; they were not fond of the law poking around. “You know exactly what you’re looking for?”
“One Ms. Long.”
“All right.” He selected a key from his ring and unlocked the door. He knocked harder, announced it was management again, and then, after no response, opened the door and switched on the light.
The apartment’s interior was dark and silent. The living room was similar to Mr. Oswald’s layout, though it appeared this unit had only one bedroom. The living room was furnished with a couple of lawn chairs, a folding table, and several boxes of books that lined the wall. A few of the books dealt with arson and the mindset of an arsonist. Could Lana Long have set the fire at the shop? If she had, she would not be the first arsonist to have underestimated the power of a fire and be consumed by their own blaze.
Gideon unholstered his sidearm. “Ms. Long, police!”
No response.
Mr. Oswald turned on the lights in the kitchen and hallway, calling out as he stayed behind Gideon while they walked toward the bedroom.
Another flip of the switch and they were staring at a single mattress on the floor, covered with a rumpled purple comforter twisted around gray sheets. Butted against the wall was an open suitcase neatly packed with clothes. Either Lana lived out of her suitcase or she was ready to leave town.
There were no pictures on the walls, and the bathroom was cleaned out except for a nearly empty bottle of lavender shampoo in the shower stall. The towels lay in a damp pile in the sink.
“Did she mention she would be moving soon?” Gideon asked.
“No. She signed a year’s lease. Said she was going to make a home here. A fresh start. But she wouldn’t be the first to skip out on rent.”
Gideon wondered how many folks planning on a new start in Big Sky Country ended up in his jail. These people figured moving to the edge of nowhere would solve their problems, until they realized their problems knew no zip code. As tempted as he was to search the open suitcase, he would wait. Better to have a search warrant.
“I should have known she was going to skip on the rent. Too positive and too cheery.”