Sparking His Interest. Wendy Etherington

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      The mayor sat erect, even as Ben sighed. “What do you mean by that? The last thing I need is my peace officers making attacks against our citizens. We must all put up a brave front in this time of crisis.”

      Ben held up his hand. “Mayor, let’s please not jump to conclusions about anyone or anything.” He directed his gaze to Wes, giving him no doubt that he was included in this warning. “We don’t need the newspaper to get wind of any more problems. I understand from a friend at the paper that the Atlanta media have been calling them all afternoon for updates. Their cameras are imminent. We all need to be professional and resolute in this.”

      Wes had been pushed beyond his already shaky patience. He wanted to scream, to explode. He stalked across the room. “You be professional. I’ll be pissed. A man has lost his life. There’s an arsonist running loose in our town.” He yanked open the door. “We have to—”

      He ground to a halt, encountering Cara on the other side of the door. Her hand was raised to knock.

      “Oh, hi,” she said. Her eyes were droopy and bloodshot, her skin pale.

      “You—” He stopped. Her exhaustion was none of his business. She was a trained expert. She didn’t need him babying her. “Come on in.”

      Ben and the mayor both stood up as she walked into the room, with Ben offering her the chair next to the mayor. “Coffee?” he asked.

      She shook her head. “I’ve had too much already.”

      “What do you know about the victim?” Ben asked.

      Wes returned to his place by the window, all thoughts of storming out gone. Ridiculous, this need to be near her. But there it was. Undeniable.

      “Not too much,” Cara said. “He definitely died of smoke inhalation. He probably never even woke up. He had holes in the bottoms of his shoes and several of his teeth were rotten. I think he was a homeless person or drifter, who wandered in looking for a warm place to sleep. The lock on the back door had been jimmied, so he probably sneaked in that way. The warehouse manager confirmed having to run out a man who fits his general description a couple of weeks ago.”

      “Any chance he’s the arsonist?” the mayor asked, wringing his chubby hands.

      “It’s possible, I guess, though no traces of gasoline were found on his hands or clothes.”

      “You don’t think he’s responsible?” Ben asked.

      “No, I don’t.”

      Wes kept silent. He’d have the opportunity to argue his point about Addison being the prime suspect, but he had no intention of doing so in front of the mayor. They’d already had an argument about this after the first fire. Wes had made the mistake of pointing out that Addison had had the property up for sale a few months before and hadn’t been successful in dumping it, and wasn’t it convenient that the property was now a complete loss?

      The resulting diatribe, complete with horror at the quick, wrongful judgment of a generous (aka rich) law-abiding citizen, still rang in his ears.

      The mayor bit his lip, then glanced at his watch. “Good grief, I’m going to be late to the garden club luncheon.” He shook his head. “And I must say, it’s a measure of how upset we all are that no one commented on my garden motif suit.” He waddled out.

      For the first time since their horrible discovery in the warehouse, Wes met Cara’s gaze, and they shared a smile.

      “Don’t start with me—either one of you,” Ben said, obviously noting their amusement. “You haven’t had to listen to him moan about the upcoming elections, about how he’s dedicated his whole life to this town and how that ‘young, whippersnapper lawyer’ running against him will use these fires to prove he can’t maintain order and safety.”

      “I’ve been at the morgue, you know,” Cara pointed out.

      “And I’ve been…” Wes began. Actually, he’d been brooding. “I got chewed out after the last fire.”

      Ben went on as if he hadn’t heard them. “And the whole time he’s rambling I’m thinking, Where exactly does he get those suits? I mean does he have them made? I can’t imagine a store carrying them in inventory.”

      Wes crossed the room, sitting on the edge of Ben’s desk. He hadn’t seen his brother this messed up since the day he’d asked for advice about dating Monica. “Cheer up, Chief. It could be worse.”

      “I don’t see how.”

      Wes fought back laughter. “The whippersnapper lawyer could be a big Kiss fan.”

      Ben groaned, then narrowed his eyes at Cara. “You look terrible.”

      She blinked, then glared back. “Gee, thanks.”

      Ben’s face flushed. “Sorry. You just—” He stopped, looking to Wes for support.

      Wes simply shook his head.

      “You need some rest,” Ben said, gazing unflinchingly at Cara.

      Brave guy, Wes thought. That pistol is within easy reach.

      Ben began writing on a slip of paper. “These are directions to my house. I want you to go back to the apartment you’re renting, sleep for at least four hours, then come to my house for dinner at seven.” He extended the paper, which Cara took. “That’s an order.”

      Cara clamped her jaw tight, but managed to ask, “Is there a room I could use here? I’d rather be close if a lead develops. And I’m fine with ordering pizza and meeting in your office.”

      “I’m fine with pizza, too, but my wife has other ideas, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

      Cara nodded. “I’ll be there.”

      “Wes, can you come to dinner, too? We’ll have some privacy to discuss the case at length.”

      Wes noticed his brother asked him rather than demanded, even though the jurisdiction of the case allowed him to command the police however he saw fit. It was this unfailingly polite, restrained tone that set Wes’s teeth on edge. Their teasing over the mayor seemed forgotten, replaced by the usual tension.

      He shoved aside the trouble. “I’ll find you a room,” he said to Cara.

      She rose. “Chief” was all she said to Ben in parting. She didn’t speak to Wes either until he stopped outside a private room decorated in blue and gray and resembling a small hotel suite, including a computer and entertainment center and a bathroom off to the right. “Nice room. Does everybody else’s look like this?” she asked suspiciously, as if wary of special treatment.

      “No, the guys sleep in a one-room bunk hall. This would be for our female firefighters—if we had any.”

      She raised her eyebrows.

      Her silence unnerved him. No one could ever accuse him of being the most talkative person in a crowd, so carrying the conversation didn’t set well with him.

      “They keep bringing the local school kids СКАЧАТЬ