“Three years ago,” Gideon said.
“Caused by a dried-out Christmas tree the father had promised to take down, but he put it off several weeks because the kids wanted to keep it up.”
Gideon knew Clarke had nearly been killed saving the father and his two young children. He had turned around to go back in for the mother, but the structure had been fully engulfed. The mother had died in the blaze. Clarke had later been decorated by the city, but he’d privately admitted he’d been deeply shaken for months.
“When can you tell me definitely that this was arson?” Gideon asked.
“My boys and I need to thoroughly comb this place and search for traces of accelerants and incendiary devices.”
“But you have a theory.”
Clarke dropped his voice. “I’d bet my last dollar it’s arson.”
“Keep me posted. I’ll send a deputy by to secure the scene until the medical examiner arrives.”
Gideon strode across the blackened debris, and when he stepped out onto the curb and ducked under the crime scene tape, his chest was tight. He drew in a deep breath, expanding the compressed muscles banding his rib cage. He reached for his phone and dialed Detective Becca Sullivan’s number.
She picked up on the second ring. “I knew three consecutive hours of sleep was too much to hope for.”
“I wish I could let you sleep,” he said. “I’m going to need you at the fire scene. We just found the body of the woman I spotted during the fire.”
In the background, he heard a light click on. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I’ve put out a few queries about Lana Long. Can you also see if there’ve been any hits?”
“She connected to the fire?”
“Maybe.”
“Will do, boss.”
“Appreciate it. I’m going home for a few hours to check on Kyle and talk to Ann. She might have a few insights about this fire.”
“Solid police work and forensics is going to solve this, not psychology,” Becca said.
“I’ll take all the help I can get.”
They made promises to touch base by noon before he ended the call. As he tucked his phone in his pocket, a blue pickup truck splashed with dried mud parked behind Gideon’s car. A tall man with a thick waist and broad shoulders climbed out. He wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and old work boots. Dark hair was brushed off a square face.
Gideon recognized the man instantly. His name was Dan Tucker Jr. Like his father before him, Dan owned Tucker’s Diner, a fairly successful eatery that was popular with the college kids. But his real claim to fame was the creation of a local citizens’ action committee dedicated to keeping Elijah Weston out of Missoula. Dan and his followers had made it clear during parole hearings that the ex-con was not welcome, and Gideon would bet money they were behind the faint remains of the sidewalk graffiti in front of the boardinghouse.
“Mr. Tucker.” Gideon moved to cut Tucker off as he strode toward the gutted structure. “I’m going to have to ask you to stand back. This is an active crime scene.”
Tucker stopped, clenched fists at his sides as his gaze remained rooted on the former beauty shop. “I knew this was going to happen. I been telling you since the day his release was approved that it was a matter of time. I’m only surprised he did it so quickly.”
“We don’t know how this fire was set,” Gideon said. “It’s going to take days, perhaps weeks, to determine that.”
“I can save the taxpayers a lot of money,” he said, turning to Gideon. “Elijah Weston set the fire. He can’t help himself.”
“We don’t know that.” Gideon took a step closer to Tucker. “And I want you to stay away from him. No vandalizing and no threats, or I will put you in jail.”
Tucker’s anger turned sullen. “How many buildings and people does this guy torch before something is done?”
Gideon ignored the comment. “If I end up with a case against Elijah, I don’t want a defense attorney getting my charges thrown out because some vigilante compromised the investigation.”
“I haven’t hurt him.”
“Keep it that way. Stay away from him. That includes any more spray-painting stunts. Let me do my job.”
Tucker glanced toward the sun gaining distance above the mountain range. “I respect you, Gideon. You’re good at what you do, but you haven’t been around for months.”
“Your point, Mr. Tucker?” Gideon’s voice was steady enough to pass for calm.
“Must be nice to take the summer off. I just want to make sure you’re with us now that we got a madman living among us.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Tucker.” He was committed to the community and the ranch’s legacy more than ever.
“I’ll leave it to you, then,” Tucker said. “But I’m going to be watching, and if you or the law can’t act, then someone will.”
“What does that mean?”
Tucker shrugged. “Take it any way you want. I care about this town and will do what’s necessary to protect it.”
Gideon stood in the center of the street, his body tense with fatigue and frustration as he watched Tucker storm to his truck and gun the engine.
He reached for his phone and dialed the medical examiner’s office. The situation was going to spiral out of control quickly if this was arson.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Missoula, Montana
Sunday, September 6, 2020
9:55 a.m.
Joan did not understand the concept of a sleepover. Nate and Kyle had barely slept last night, and both still possessed boundless energy.
After pouring a fresh, extra-strong cup of coffee, she took a long sip as Nate and Kyle sat at the kitchen table laughing at another stupid joke. Ann was serving them a second batch of pancakes after they had devoured the first.
Joan used to have that kind of energy. She could go and go like the Energizer Bunny. These days, her idea of pure pleasure was rising on a Sunday, having a coffee, getting back into bed, pulling the covers up over her head, and sleeping. If only she had such a luxury today.
“Joan, can you pull my finger?” Kyle asked, giggling.
“No thanks,” Joan said.
“Auntie Joan has not had a full cup of coffee,” Ann offered. “Let her drink her witch’s brew so it can transform her into Glinda the Good Witch.”
Joan arched a brow. “That’s very optimistic.”
Ann shrugged as she set a platter of blueberry pancakes in the center of the table. “I see the sunny side of life.”
Joan topped off her coffee cup. “Can I borrow your car today? I’d like to visit an old friend in town.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Ann asked.
“Very,” Joan said.
“Who’s the friend?” Nate asked.
“You don’t know him,” Joan said.
“I might. Who?” he insisted.
“Never mind,” Ann said. “And yes, you can take Mom’s car. It’s in the garage.”
“Great.”
The front doorbell rang, and Ann sighed as if she was a little relieved to have this boy party end.
“The cavalry,” Joan said.
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
Joan was anxious to get into town. Elijah had been out of prison only forty-eight hours, and he would still be getting his bearings. In her experience, suspects were more likely to make unintentional, telling comments when they were off balance.
The front door opened, and she heard Ann’s light tone mingle with the deep timbre of a man’s voice. For a split second, she thought it might have been Clarke, but as she listened closer, she heard a very familiar voice. Her nerves tightened like an archer’s bow. Gideon. They had not seen each other in more than a decade, and though his voice was deeper, there was no mistaking it.
A tremor radiated from her tightening belly, shimmying up her back and over her scalp. Her fingers grew unsteady, forcing her to set the half-empty mug on the counter. Most days she could convince herself he was part of her past. But right now, with him so close, she wasn’t sure how she felt.
Stepping out the back door was an option, but that would make her look weak, and if anything, she was strong. Fireproof, as a paramedic had said years ago.
Squaring her shoulders, Joan came around the corner and into the foyer. Gideon held a familiar black Stetson from his cowboying days in his hand and was smiling as he spoke to Ann. Immediately, she was struck by how tired he looked. Fatigue was part of being a cop. She’d surely pulled her share of all-nighters when she was working a case. But seeing him worn down troubled her more than she would have imagined.
She had a scant second to look Gideon over. Even with the bulky police jacket, she could see that his body remained lean. The once ink-black hair had touches of gray at the temples. She’d hoped he might have grown fat or bald, but he still looked great. She felt her face flush.
She’d pretended that her feelings for him had died when she’d left Montana years ago. But those feelings had never died. They had just curled up into a tight ball and waited for a bit of sunshine and water so they could spring back to life like a bitterroot blossom.
“Gideon.” Joan had mastered the art of a clear, crisp voice, because no one respected a cop who sounded like Minnie Mouse.