“You know the way to a girl’s heart.”
He chuckled as he pulled off his glasses and set them and the book on the table. “Still take your coffee black?”
“I do.” She opened the psychology book and noted that almost every page had a comment or mark on it. “You’re thorough.”
He opened a wooden coffee tin painted with faded roosters. “Like I said before, I love learning.”
“You certainly do.”
He poured the coffee in the metal cone and then filled the machine’s water well. “I would like to be a professor one day.”
“You kept your professors on their toes your freshman year.”
“I wasn’t totally impressed by most of them. They started to resent my questions.” He flipped the coffee maker on.
“Maybe they were embarrassed because you knew more than they did.”
He leaned against the counter, folding his muscled arms over his chest. “I did.”
She closed the book. “Do you really think it’s wise to take Ann’s class?”
“She’s the only one teaching the subject that I wanted.” He regarded her. “You didn’t come here to scold me about taking Ann’s class, remember?”
The machine hissed and gurgled as she sat. She wished she had a cup in her hands to give her something to do. “You’ve always maintained that you didn’t set the College Fire.”
“That’s correct.”
“Assuming you didn’t . . .”
He arched a brow. “What’s caused the turnabout?”
“Maybe nothing. Just exploring theories.”
“Okay.”
“Who do you think could have set it?”
He studied her a long moment and then said, “I don’t know. And believe me, I have put a great deal of thought into it.”
“You must have some ideas.”
“None.”
“Why did you really set the fires near your mother’s trailer?”
“I was working out rage. My mother was not a very pleasant woman.”
“I went by her trailer and met her.”
His expression was unreadable. “How is Mom?”
“She’s still your number one defender.”
“Is she?”
“You don’t sound impressed.”
He turned to the cabinet and removed two ivory earthenware mugs. He carefully filled each with coffee. “She had her good moments, but unfortunately, when I was a child, they were few and far between.” He set a cup in front of her and then sat at the table across from her. His head tilted slightly. “Are you entertaining the theory that I didn’t set the College Fire?”
“DNA at the scene is hard to argue with.”
“No one believed my backpack was stolen, not even my public defender.” His gray eyes focused squarely on hers as he turned his mug until the handle was angled at ninety degrees. “The key to your case is the victim.” When her surprise must have shown, he shrugged. “I watch the news. I know there was a fatality.”
“What would you say the motivation was?”
The silence that followed was as intentional as a seasoned cop’s. He wanted her to put more of her cards on the table.
“We’re just spitballing here, you understand,” she said.
He regarded her over the rim of his cup. “Anger.”
“Anger?”
“This arsonist is angry.”
“Angry at what?”
“Not what but whom.” He dropped his voice a note. “It might be a long shot, but I’m betting she has something in common with either Ann or you. Maybe both of you.”
She absorbed his theory. Lana looked a little like Ann. “What about the owner of the beauty salon? She could have been the target.”
“The fire consumed her business, not her body. Big difference. He has also set other fires.”
“He? A woman could have set them all.”
“Avery Newport is an anomaly. Female arsonists set only ten percent of the fires, and as you know, their fires are generally near their homes.”
“Go on.”
“The Beau-T-Shop and College Fire were bold statements. Nothing tentative about either one of them. How did your victim die?”
“She’s not my victim.”
“Did the fire kill her?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Oh, but you just did.” He shook his head, his eyes glittering with an excitement she had not seen before. “Too bad you don’t fully trust me yet. We would be a great crime-fighting team.”
Joan pushed her coffee a few inches from her. She had grown far too chummy with Elijah. She needed to remember that they were not on any kind of a team. “This conversation is over. I better go.”
“I understand, but I hope you come back soon.”
She rose, knowing she would return. Like it or not, for now, their goals could be aligned. “I will.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Missoula, Montana
Monday, September 7, 2020
5:00 p.m.
Gideon had been pressing for the search warrant for Lana Long’s apartment, but finding a judge today was proving difficult. In the meantime, he had a cold can of soda, aspirin, and crackers when he and Becca opened the cell of Lana Long’s ex-boyfriend, Ryan Davis. Enough time had passed for the guy to sleep off most of his inebriation. And Gideon, after hearing Joan’s theories on the arsonist, wanted answers.
Ryan Davis sat on his bunk, his head resting in his hands. He wore faded jeans, a sweatshirt dirty and frayed at the cuffs. His lace-up shoes as well as his belt had been taken from him at the time of his arrest. As he lifted his gaze to Gideon, the smell of sweat and vomit stirred around him.
“Have any stomach for a soda?” Gideon asked.
“That would be awesome, man.”
Gideon popped the top and filled a paper cup, waiting for the soda fizz to settle before topping it off and handing it to him. He offered the crackers and two aspirin. Ryan took the aspirin and washed them down with soda.
“Do you know why you’re here, Ryan?” Gideon asked.
He sipped the soda and then, seemingly deciding he liked it, finished off the cup. He held it out to Gideon, who refilled it with what remained in the can.
“I got drunk,” Ryan finally said. “I must have done some damage.”
“You’ve done this before, according to your arrest record in Denver.”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you in my town, Ryan?”
“I came to see my girlfriend.”
“Who’s that?” Gideon asked.
“Lana.” He took a sip. “Lana Long. I went by her place, but she wouldn’t answer her door.”
“When is the last time you saw Lana?”
“It was right after Christmas.”
If that was true, then Ryan was not the father of her baby. “You didn’t visit her here even once over the last nine months?”
“No. She told me to stay away.”
“Why did you finally come after her?”
“Out of the blue, she called me last week. She said she wanted to start over. She said she was tired of living out here alone. She said she was in over her head.”
“What about the arrest for vandalism in Denver?”
“Lana could get emotional. She saw me talking to another woman and freaked out. She set fire to the garbage cans by the woman’s house. She didn’t mean for it to get so big.”
“And charges were dropped.”
“Her mother paid for damages.”
“She set any other fires?”
“No.”
Gideon shifted his stance. “So she calls and you came running?”
“Yeah. I love her. Do you know where Lana is?” Ryan asked.
Gideon studied the man’s bloodshot eyes and hands that trembled slightly but deflected the question. “Why did Lana move to Missoula?”
“I don’t know.” He ran long fingers through his hair. “She broke up with me, packed up her car, and drove here.”
“So she just randomly picked this place on a map?” Gideon asked.
“No. She’s had a thing about Montana for a couple of years.”
“What kind of thing?”
“She thought it was pretty. That she could be something here.”
More than a few people moved to Big Sky Country thinking their troubles would not cross the state line and they could reinvent themselves. But long winters had a way of fanning, not extinguishing, old problems.
On a hunch, Gideon asked, “Was there anyone else in Lana’s life? Another man? Another woman?”
Ryan’s watery eyes narrowed. “Look, I’m not saying another word until you tell me what happened to Lana.”
Gideon never relished moments like this. “I’m sorry to inform you, Ryan, but Lana is dead.”
Ryan’s head snapped up; then he winced as if the movement had irritated his aching head. “Dead? Not Lana. I just spoke with her on the phone last week.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“Like I said, she wanted to see me again. I thought we were going to get back together. That whatever was here had worked its way out of her system.”
“Maybe it had,” Gideon said. “Maybe she was ready to go back to Denver and be with you.”