Elijah had never mentioned Clarke’s visit in any of his letters. It was a subtle reminder that there was a lot Elijah was not telling.
“Did he ever write you?” Joan asked.
“Hell no,” Clarke said. “Why would he?”
“He wrote Joan,” Gideon said. “And she wrote him back.”
Irritation gnawed. She was not ashamed of the correspondence, but that did not mean she wanted it made public knowledge.
“I bet you didn’t learn a damn thing,” Clarke said.
“Not about the College Fire,” she conceded.
“Is Elijah still insisting he’s innocent?” Clarke asked.
“Yeah.”
Clarke worked his mouth, like he might if he’d taken a bite of a sour apple. “Any word yet on the body we found in the blaze?”
“None yet,” Gideon said.
Clarke shook his head. “My money is on Lana Long. Leaving the purse in the alley suggests she planned to burn the place down but didn’t realize her fire was like a wild dog ready to maul her.”
Gideon did not respond.
Joan understood he wanted the strangulation detail on Lana’s neck kept quiet. She had worked enough investigations to know that certain facts were best kept secret, even from the other professionals working the scene. Cops and fire crews talked to each other, and information got leaked.
“Was anything found on Jane Doe’s body?” Clarke asked.
“It was all pretty well destroyed,” Gideon said.
“When will the docs get the DNA back?” Clarke asked.
“That’s hard to say. They fast-tracked it to the lab in Helena.”
A dark-green Jeep parked behind her rental. The driver’s side door opened to a tall bleached blonde wearing snug jeans and a fitted sweater that set off a silver-and-turquoise necklace dangling over full breasts that Joan would bet were a plastic surgeon’s work. The hair was shoulder length and teased and sprayed enough to resist the Missoula wind.
Her gaze settled on what had been the beauty shop. She blinked, cursed, and blinked again. Custom boots clicked against the asphalt as she neglected to look before crossing the street. “Detective Bailey. I’m Jessica Halpern. What the hell happened? Jesus H. Christ.” She walked toward the blackened rubble, stopping just short of the yellow tape.
“We’re still investigating,” Gideon said.
She turned and faced them, blue eyes glistening in a pool of unshed tears. “This was my life. I sunk my entire life into this place.”
“We’re very sorry,” Gideon said. “And we’re doing all we can to get to the bottom of this. Have you heard from Lana Long?”
“No, but I’ve spoken to all the girls except her.” Mrs. Halpern then challenged, “Did she do this?”
“Too early to say,” Gideon said.
“Where’s your husband?” Joan asked.
Jessica leveled her gaze on Joan as she absently rubbed the naked ring finger on her left hand. “Who are you?”
“Detective Joan Mason.”
“I make enough donations to the police funds to stay in tune with the hires and fires. I don’t remember your name.”
“She’s from Philadelphia,” Gideon said. “Visiting and lending her expertise.”
“You need help from a tourist, Detective?” Jessica asked. “That doesn’t instill confidence.”
Gideon did not rise to the bait.
“Can you tell me the cause of the fire?” Jessica asked. “My insurance company is already asking. I told them it had to be electrical. The building is nearly a century old, and my girls were always overloading the sockets with their curling irons and hair dryers.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Clarke said.
“So it was negligence,” Jessica countered.
“Where is your husband?” Joan asked. “You’re not wearing your wedding band.”
Jessica turned to Gideon. “Shouldn’t you be asking the questions, Detective?”
“Please answer Detective Mason’s question,” Gideon said. “Where is Darren?”
“My husband is at the doctor’s office. All this really freaked him out, and he’s having chest pains. And I was so rattled, I left my rings on my dresser this morning.”
Gideon’s expression did not change, but Joan sensed frustration simmering. “I want to see him as soon as he’s cleared by his doctor.”
“Why? He was in Chicago with me when all this happened,” she said, waving white-tipped french-manicured fingers. “We’re the victims here. We did not burn down our business. Why would we?” Her voice rose, high pitched and sharp. “This is our livelihood!”
“Your insurance company would expect it, and I owe it to you to see that the investigation is done right.”
That seemed to appease her. “The sooner this can be wrapped up, the better. I want to rebuild. I can’t make money until then.” Her fingers slid into the tight pocket of her jeans. “All the girls who work for me have said they’re going to have to find other jobs. Do you know how hard it is to find stylists?”
“I’ve spoken to or left messages with everyone who worked here,” Gideon said. “But there will be follow-up interviews.”
“Of course.” Jessica laid a hand on his forearm, a move that was as decidedly feminine as it was controlling.
The trio watched as Jessica Halpern walked away and slid behind the wheel of her car. When she started the engine, her phone was already pressed to her ear.
Clarke stared after Jessica and then shifted back to Gideon. “We just found the delivery device. One of my men unearthed traces of a plastic milk jug melted by the back door. It was buried under rubble,” Clarke said.
“Fill a jug with gasoline and stuff a sock in the top, and you’ve got a wick and a bomb ready to go off,” Gideon said. “Evidence gets consumed by the fire. Leaves no traces, if done correctly.”
“Money, revenge, and thrills always top the list of motives for arson.”
“Tell me more about that plastic jug,” Gideon said.
“Follow me.” Clarke guided them around the building’s footprint to the alley. “It all happened as I said. Gasoline trail down the alley to the milk jug filled with accelerant and then into the shop.”
Gideon’s phone rang, and one glance at the display sent him walking a few steps away, head ducked as he listened. Finally nodding, he ended the call and returned. “That was Dr. Christopher. He called the forensic lab and asked if Lana Long had any insurance or medical cards in her purse. We got lucky. She had an old appointment card from a dentist here in Missoula. The doc called Dr. Bischoff, explained his situation, and got the dental X-rays.”
Joan was impressed. “And?”
“Dr. Bischoff recognized his work. He compared both sets of X-rays and determined they both belonged to Lana Long.”
“Why would a gal who worked in a salon want to burn it down?” Clarke asked.
“Who says she did it?” Joan asked. “Maybe she caught the person who did.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Missoula, Montana
Monday, September 7, 2020
11:00 a.m.
Joan knew the trail to this arsonist might very well be through Lana Long, but for now, she was leaving that to Gideon, who had been on the phone requesting a search warrant for Lana Long’s apartment when she left the arson scene.
Joan decided to take a different angle. She drove toward the edge of Missoula down Bitterroot Road until she reached a blue-and-white sign for the mobile home park. She turned onto the dirt road and drove down the narrow lane past the collection of twenty or so battered homes arranged along a cul-de-sac. The development backed up to the railroad tracks and Hayes Creek. Most of the trailers had fences posted with NO TRESPASSING or NO PARKING signs and were surrounded by corralled spare car parts, grills, unused propane tanks, and patches of scrub grass.
She checked the address on her phone and followed the occasional posted address numbers until she located the trailer she was looking for in the back. There were three cars parked out front, but the Chevrolet was on blocks, and the muddied white Wrangler beside it had flat tires. The black Ford truck appeared to be the only operational vehicle.
Parking, she realized how vulnerable she was without her sidearm. Domestic calls always made the hair on the back of her neck rise because emotions were high. Serving a warrant, conducting a wellness check, or asking basic questions could turn deadly in a heartbeat. Many cops had been killed by simply knocking on a door.
A dog barked behind the fence as she climbed the three wooden steps to the small porch by the front door. Before she knocked, she took a moment to look around. In the trailer next door, yellow-and-white curtains flickered.
She knocked on the door. Inside she heard canned laughter from a television but saw no signs of movement. She knocked harder and stepped to the side, one foot on the lower step.
Finally, the television silenced, and footsteps vibrated in the trailer, moving with what sounded like annoyed, clipped foot strikes. The door opened to a slim woman in her midfifties. She had long gray hair that draped over narrow shoulders. Wiry hair coupled with sharp brown eyes conjured images of witches and spirits. A black cat strolled near the woman’s feet, weaving its scrawny body around worn jeans.