Ryan looked up, his still-bloodshot eyes reflecting grief and anger. “Thanks for coming.”
“You had something important to tell me?” Gideon asked.
“Yeah.” Ryan threaded his belt into the loops on his pants and fastened the buckle. “I’ve been thinking about Lana.”
Gideon escorted Ryan out of the holding area and through the security doors to the lobby. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“I know a diner.”
Ryan nodded, sliding into the front seat of Gideon’s SUV without a word. Gideon drove across town and parked in front of the Buffalo Café. Inside, the sweet scents of cinnamon and maple syrup blended with the crispy tang of bacon. A tall waitress with red hair poured coffee for both and took their orders.
After she left, Gideon asked, “What did you want to tell me, Ryan?”
Ryan set his cup down. “Lana always had a thing about texting through encoded apps. She didn’t want her mother snooping, which she did a lot when we were dating. When Lana told me that she wanted to see me again, she sounded off, so I logged into her account.” Ryan fished his cell from his pocket. “I figured she’d changed her password and username and stuff, but she hadn’t. She could be lazy about that kind of thing.”
The boy had a nervous edge that came with a juicy discovery.
Ryan turned the phone around, his face hardening as the meaning of his find settled. “It looks like she was pregnant, and her boyfriend didn’t want it. That explains now why she called me. She always came back to me when she was having a hard time.”
“Did she name the boyfriend?”
“The name he used was Roger.”
Gideon took the phone and dropped his gaze to Lana’s exchange.
Lana: Don’t pull that shit with me. The baby is yours.
And DNA will prove it. Step up or I’m going public.
Roger: Don’t do that.
Lana: Why shouldn’t I? You made it clear you don’t care about me or the baby.
Roger: I care. I do. Let’s meet. We can talk. I have a ring for you.
Lana: What?
Roger: That’s right. I love you.
Lana must have accepted the ring, because in subsequent texts she said how much she loved it.
Roger: I have a surprise for you.
Lana: Really?
Roger: Meet me at the Beau-T-Shop?
Lana: Time?
Roger: Now. I need to see you.
Lana: Okay.
The last text was sent at 6:15 p.m. on Saturday. The fire crews estimated that the blaze had started about 6:45 p.m.
“Do you have any idea who Roger is?” Gideon asked.
“No. I never heard the name until I read the texts.”
A DNA test would create a profile for the father of Lana’s unborn child, but whether that individual was in any DNA database was impossible to tell. Still, it was a solid lead in the process of solving who had strangled Lana and then left her to burn alive in the fire.
“Can you give me Lana’s password and username? I want to read all her messages to Roger.” He removed a pen and pad from his coat pocket and pushed them toward Ryan, who wrote down both. “Thanks, Ryan. This could be a big help.”
Their food arrived, and they both ate in silence. Ryan all but cleaned his plate in less than five minutes, and Gideon gave him his extra bacon and toast.
When Ryan seemed to have had his fill, he sat back and said, “Lana and I were once really good together. I would have taken her back even with the baby.” He stared down at the empty plate, trying to hide his tears.
Gideon wanted to promise that he would solve this case, but he had learned a long time ago that sweeping promises were a recipe for disappointment. “Are you staying in town?”
“There’s a bus to Denver in two hours. I’m going to be on it.”
“I can drive you to the station.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate that.”
“Sure.”
“You’ll call me when this is solved, Detective?”
“As soon as I have an update I can share, you’ll be getting a call from me personally.”
Confessions of an Arsonist
Out of all the destruction caused by fire, there is always new growth eventually. New bonds.
Death before life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Missoula, Montana
Wednesday, September 9, 2020
10:30 a.m.
When Ann and Nate left for school, Joan had every intention of following them into town. But the fire last night and the lack of sleep had left her exhausted.
She swallowed a couple of aspirin and sat on the couch for a quick break until the throbbing in her head eased. But her eyes quickly drifted closed, and this time she fell into a deep sleep, only to be awakened by pounding on the front door.
She jumped to her feet, fingers fisted, ready to fight as she quickly oriented herself. She glanced at her phone, groaned at the lost couple of hours, and then hustled toward the door. She opened it to find Gideon and Clarke standing on the front porch steps. “Hey, fellas.”
Gideon’s gaze pried into her, as if he was searching for a nugget of information that would answer questions that went back more than a decade. “Did we wake you?”
Joan moistened her lips and drew in a breath. “No. Just about to make a second pot of coffee. You guys want any?”
“No,” Gideon said.
“Can we come in?” Clarke asked.
Joan stepped aside. “Sure. I figured you’d be back this morning. You boys know where the fire started, so I’ll leave you to it while I make coffee.”
“Did you sleep at all last night?” Gideon asked.
“I don’t need much.”
“What about Ann and Nate?” Clarke asked.
“Both got to bed. Nate went right off to sleep, and Ann finally gave up and grabbed a few hours.”
“Did you have any other problems last night?” Gideon asked.
“No,” she said. “Very quiet.”
“Any calls afterward?” Gideon asked.
“No contact of any kind.”
“Did Nate or Ann see anyone before the fire?” Clarke asked.
She had not really thought how she was going to juggle Ann’s paternity reveal and also the boy’s presence at the fire. But for now, she would not tell. “No.”
Clarke accepted her comment with a nod and headed toward the bedroom. Gideon lingered a beat. Those dark eyes searched her face for any hint of deception. Finally, both men walked out the back door and crossed the yard toward the crime scene tape.
She moved to the kitchen and made a single cup of coffee, figuring if the dynamic duo wanted coffee now, they could make it themselves. Cup in hand, she trailed them outside. The air was still cool, but the sun was bright and warmed her skin. She burrowed deeper into another one of Ann’s jackets.
“What woke you up last night?” Gideon asked.
“An explosion.” Last night’s memory had mirrored the long-ago past far too well. But to her credit, her voice did not break. “Then I put on my boots, ran outside, and grabbed the hose.”
“And you saw no one?” Clarke asked.
“Wish I had. It would have made last night a lot calmer.” She sipped her coffee. “It’s always the unknown that eats at you.”
“I’m going to walk the woods and see if there’s anything,” Clarke said.
Joan shoved her hands in her pockets, promising herself to buy gloves before the day was out. “Have at it.”
When Clarke vanished into the woods and they were alone, Gideon said, “You’re very calm.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she challenged.
“Last night had to be traumatic. A reminder.”
She crossed her fingers. “Haunting memories and I are well acquainted. I don’t run from them anymore.”
His brows knotted together. “Are you still troubled by the College Fire?”
“Troubled is a strong word.”
“You said haunting memories.”
“A figure of speech.” The emotional scars, unlike the physical ones on her hands, were very much alive and painful.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked.
Again, Gideon lingered, his head cocked, as if searching for any small clue lurking behind her expression and tone. Her skin tingled, and a restless energy surged inside her. Finally, he shook his head as if whatever he had been stalking had eluded him.
Clarke returned from the woods and strode toward the burn site. Gideon joined him, and the two poked through the ashes. Clarke stopped in what had been the center of the shed and knelt down.
“See anything?” she asked.
Clarke held up a blackened, twisted blob covered in charred mulch and dirt. “It’s plastic. Likely the delivery device for the accelerant.” He held it up to his nose. “Gasoline. And there’s a burn track in the grass. The arsonist trailed the gasoline from the shed to the woods.”
She imagined someone placing the jug in the shed and setting it on fire knowing she had a front-row seat. She tried to imagine Nate at the center of this storm, but the more she thought about him as an arsonist, the less it made sense. Christ, if genetics were a precursor to trouble, she and a lot of other folks were screwed.
“If there’s any chance of pulling prints or DNA, our best bet is the state lab or the FBI lab at Quantico,” Gideon said.