Fade the Heat (7 page)

That would mean Rozinski had been down for thirty seconds, which would have triggered the personal alarm system. How much longer, Reagan wondered, before they’d dug him out and gotten him outside? She didn’t ask, though, for she trusted that Beau and Zellers, a seasoned, solid firefighter, had done everything they could—and because they would have to endure more than enough second-guessing as it was.

Beau’s gaze flicked up to meet hers.

“Everyone’s been wondering—why have they been questioning
you?
” The question tumbled out of him sounding bewildered—and more than slightly hostile. “What could you have to do with this? You weren’t even at the fire.”

“I don’t have anything to do with it,” she said, “but I may have seen something earlier. I saw a man who
might
have vandalized Jack Montoya’s vehicle and could’ve set the fire, too. At least, that’s what the cops and arson seem to think.”

“Montoya? Wasn’t he the guy we were looking for inside the apartment?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I happened to be in the neighborhood of his clinic today. He’s a doctor on the East End.”

She decided to keep to herself the part about her visit to his office.

“Is he the one you showed up with? His picture ran on the news, and C.W. said he saw the two of you come in together. You know him?”

“Not lately. We grew up in the same neighborhood, that’s all. But we were talking about the damage to his SUV when you called me about the captain.”

“Tell me the two of you aren’t dating. From the stuff on TV, the man’s trouble.
Huge
trouble.”

Once again, Reagan found herself denying a relationship with Jack.

Beau’s gaze hardened, and she recognized the same skepticism she had seen from the detective. Why was the simple truth so hard for them to believe? It wasn’t as if she had a reputation for sleeping around. Hell, it had been months since she’d even gone on an honest-to-goodness date. She liked men well enough—too well, upon occasion—but her odd hours and her refusal to get involved with coworkers or suffer through another blind date hadn’t exactly filled her dance card.

“I’ll cover for you,” Beau said, “but if I were you, I’d stay as far from Jack Montoya as you can. Because I got a gut feeling that by the time this investigation’s over, his ass will be in jail. And maybe on death row, if the cap…if the captain doesn’t…”

Beau pinched the bridge of his nose as his voice hitched, but it didn’t matter. She understood what he was trying to tell her. In Texas, an arson leading to the death of an on-duty firefighter was a capital offense.

And if Joe Rozinski died, the union and its members would push hard for an arrest, a conviction, and the execution of whichever parties they deemed responsible.

“I’m asking you again”—Jack looked Arson Investigator Esteban Salinas directly in the eyes—“am I a suspect here?”

When Jack had first asked whether he should call an attorney, the investigators had told him it was certainly his prerogative, but they’d also assured him that no one was looking to arrest him.

But Jack didn’t like the tone of these questions, which had started out innocuously enough but invariably led down the same thorny path.

“
How was it you drew the attention of the media?
”

“
So, Dr. Montoya, can you tell me if there’s some personal enmity between you and Darren Winter?
”

“
Would you mind giving us the address where your vehicle is parked? We’ll need to impound it to look for evidence.
”

And especially troubling: “
Can anyone besides Ms. Hurley and your sister verify your whereabouts throughout the afternoon and early evening?
”

Salinas shook his head and passed Jack one of the two coffees he had brought up from the hospital’s cafeteria. “There’s no need to get defensive. We’re just trying to cross our t’s and dot our i’s here—in case there are any questions later.”

Though the coffee was both tepid and doctored up with cream and artificial sweetener instead of black as he preferred, Jack drank it for the caffeine. He probably should call someone, he thought, if only to keep the investigators from wasting their time trying to catch him in some inconsistency about where he’d been at what time and with whom. Still, he hesitated, thinking that “lawyering up,” as he’d heard it described, would mean a long delay and probably a trip to police headquarters for more “voluntary” interviews. Besides, it went against his grain to cloud the basic fact of his in
nocence by acting anything but eager to answer questions. By stalling and behaving as if he were guilty, wouldn’t he slow the arrest of the real culprit?

Arson Investigator Esteban Salinas sipped his coffee. Along with the police detective, Salinas’s Anglo partner had disappeared from the borrowed conference room, and Jack couldn’t help wondering whether they had decided he would be more comfortable with another Hispanic asking the questions. Not that Salinas looked the part, in spite of his surname. With his fair skin, angular features, and blue eyes, the inspector could as easily have been named Smith or Williams—except that when he returned along with his “good cop” offering, he had greeted Jack in informal border Spanish.

Jack answered in English, and Salinas had quickly taken the hint and dropped the here-we-are, a-couple-of-young-
vatos
-from-the-neighborhood routine. Which was just as well, considering his mention of a Latino radical group that had supposedly lauded Jack as some kind of hero.

“I don’t know anything about them other than what I’ve seen in the papers and on TV,” Jack said. “But from what I understand, I sure as hell don’t want to be their poster child. How they could blow up a place that served poor immigrants in the name of helping them—I don’t see the logic. But then, I’ve never understood terrorists, no matter what their cause.”

“Do you know anyone connected with BorderFree-4-All?”

Jack shook his head. “Not at all, unless one of my patients is a member. It’s not exactly the kind of information people volunteer during medical examinations.”

Even as he spoke the words, he mentally shuffled through the roster of his regulars. Nearly all of them
were mothers, young children, or elderly; most of them struggled to get along from day to day. Jack had a hard time imagining any of them toting guns, building bombs, or donning hoods in their spare time.

“Has anyone from the group ever tried to contact you in any way?” Salinas asked. “Maybe with a solicitation for donations, or an invitation to join?”

Jack rubbed the stubble along his jawline. If someone offered him a hot shower, a good meal, and a quiet corner, he would confess to almost anything.
Anything
, if they would throw in a fresh pot of black coffee.

“I get hit up for every kind of cause you can imagine. I guess the charities all assume that doctors are not only rich—which is pretty damned humorous in my case—but philanthropic. But I would’ve remembered a request from that group. Hasn’t happened.”

Salinas typed Jack’s response into the laptop computer he had used throughout the evening. Despite the late hour, the arson investigator was fast enough that he didn’t miss a beat.

Once he was finished, he passed Jack a business card. “That’s all I have for now. If there’s anything else, we’ll contact you at—you’ll still be going to your mother’s house, right?” Salinas used the computer’s mouse to scroll up, then read off the address and phone number, along with Jack’s cell-phone number, from his notes.

Jack confirmed the information and said, “You mean I’m free to go?”

Salinas glanced up from his computer. “Actually, there are some agents on their way to talk to you—FBI and ATF. They’re members of something called the Lone Star Terrorism Joint Task Force—along with half a dozen other alphabet agencies.”

Jack’s heart skipped a beat. This was getting more serious by the moment. He’d been a damned fool not to recognize it from the start, but that didn’t mean he had to
stay
an idiot. “I’ll need to make some calls first. I think I’m going to want that lawyer after all.”

Cell phones were not only banned in this section of the hospital, they usually didn’t work because of all the electronic equipment. Unwilling to risk being overheard at the bank of pay phones, Jack stepped outside into the shadowy margins of the ambulance bay.

A chill wind stole beneath his jacket and blew his hair across his eyes. Raking it back, he saw that even at this hour, the bay remained busy. The Houston Fire Department crews of two advanced life-support units were in the process of unloading patients, while not far away, a pair of EMTs climbed into a third ambulance, apparently to head back out into the streets.

Typical Friday-night mayhem at its finest.

At least the activity would keep anyone from paying Jack much heed. And as long as they kept the sirens off, he ought to be able to hear whomever he called.

Jack stared at the telephone in his hand and wondered, who the hell
should
he call? It was after two
A
.
M
., and he didn’t exactly have an attorney on his speed dial.

Earlier, he’d phoned his mother to let her know he hadn’t been hurt in the fire at his apartment. She had been concerned but surprisingly practical about the whole thing, inviting him to come to her house once he finished talking to investigators, even though he had told her that might not happen until morning. But his mother didn’t know the half of it, and he wasn’t about to wake her at this hour to frighten her with the details.

He thought next of his sister, but hesitated at the idea of catching her with Sergio and having her bring her boyfriend into this business. Besides, if he reached Luz Maria at the house, their mother would inevitably get sucked into it.

An ambulance attempting to pull out into the street flipped on a siren briefly. Apparently, the driver was trying to get the attention of the news van that had edged into his path as it reversed into a spot along the curb.

Jack shifted to better see around the nearer of the two parked units. At the sight of the line of various news vans, trailers, and floodlights, he stepped back into the shadows.

But not before someone grabbed his elbow and pulled him even farther in.

“Watch it,” said a voice behind him. “There’s a camera pointed this way, and I’m pretty sure they’re watching for you.”

In his haste to turn, Jack nearly dropped the phone. “Reagan—I thought you’d be with your captain’s family. He hasn’t—”

“No, no. He’s still alive, thank God. I just…I needed some time alone to pull myself together. And after being inside for all these hours, the cold air feels kind of…I guess you could call it bracing. At least it’s waking me up.”

She seemed to be speaking—and probably breathing—more easily tonight. Maybe she would feel better, now that the sky had cleared. Houston’s frequent wet spells triggered myriad breathing problems.

“What makes you think those vans are here for me?” Jack spotted the camera set up in a blocked and unused former emergency approach, then put the bulk of an ambulance between himself and the lens. “Don’t they always show up when a firefighter or a cop gets hurt?”

“It’s not just the local stations. That’s the CNN van, the one trying to squeeze into that spot that’s too small. And besides, there are way too many of them.”

“I wonder if the guy who called Channel Four and told them my body would be in the apartment tipped off other people, too.”

“You mean the arsonist brought the media into this?”

“That’s why the fire department thought I was inside.”

She said nothing in answer, but as a brittle silence took shape between them, Jack knew she must be thinking about her captain, how he might die as a result of that phone call.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I have no idea who the bastard was that did this, but I’ll do everything I can to help the authorities figure it out.”

In the distance, another siren grew louder as it drew near. Instead of trying to talk over it, Reagan said nothing until the ambulance pulled into the far end of the bay.

When the blare ceased, she said, “I have to know one thing, Jack, and I have to know for sure. Do you have
anything to do with BorderFree-4-All? Have you ever?”

A tremor in her voice bespoke her emotion, yet he heard no accusation in her questions.
Thank God
, something in him whispered, though he couldn’t say why that absence brought him such relief.

“I don’t know anything about that group except that those filthy murderers have smeared my name by using it this evening.”

“Do you think they did it for some reason? Set the fire, I mean?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea. I don’t know all that much about them, and I can’t imagine what good it would do them. But why would anybody want to do it? There were other people living in that building besides me—older couples, families with children. I was told all the residents got out, but—It is true, isn’t it?”

He saw her nod, her pale hair gilded by the light streaming through the glass door. For a moment, he wished he could touch it, find out if it was as silky as it looked.

“I’ve heard the same thing, so I guess so,” she said. “But maybe it wasn’t that group. Maybe it was Winter. You seem to be pretty near the top of his shit list lately.”

“Winter.” Jack spat the word out like a curse. “He’s been a pain in the ass, but he doesn’t strike me as the kind who goes around trying to burn out the people he’s criticizing. If that were true, half the country would be in flames.”

“I don’t mean he did it personally. But this afternoon, that jackass gave out a link to what he implied was your home phone number. What if one of his
listeners—some unbalanced head case—typed it into his computer and reverse-searched the phone book? What’s to keep this sicko from finding your address and taking matters into his own hands?”

“Do you think that could have happened?”

“It’s easy enough to do on the Web, and if
I’ve
thought of it, you know those news crews have. I’m sure they’re drooling all over themselves to be the one to break a new angle on this Winter story. He’s big news—people all over the country are watching this election, trying to guess how far he’ll go.”

“I wish I’d never heard of Darren Winter.” Mentally, Jack added,
or better yet, that he’d never heard of
me.

“So who were you calling?” Reagan asked, nodding toward the cell phone he still held. “Do you need a ride or something? I could leave for a few minutes and run you back to your SUV.”

Jack shook his head. “The police impounded it for evidence. I take it they’re looking for evidence the vandal might have left behind. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave them your address so they could get it.”

“That’s fine.”

“Actually,” Jack admitted, “I was trying to think of how to get a lawyer. You don’t know anybody I could call at this hour?”

“They
aren’t
arresting you.”

He was gratified by the disbelief in her voice—until she added, “Are they?”

He shook his head. “No, they aren’t, but I don’t like the way these questions are going. And they’re bringing in some task force: the FBI, the ATF, and heaven knows who else. It’s sounding really serious.”

She crossed her arms in front of her breasts. “You didn’t think it was before?”

He caught the incipient anger in her voice and sensed that, like a gas leak, all her temper needed was a stray spark to ignite it.

“Of course I did,” he added quickly. “With your captain injured and so many people out of their homes, how the hell could I think anything else? But I never imagined anyone would suspect I was a criminal—or that I might have been the one who did this. Why the hell would I want to burn down my own place and wreck my SUV?”

In the pause that followed, an ambulance’s doors slammed. They both looked over as a child, no more than three, was wheeled inside the ER. The tiny dark-skinned body jerked against its bonds in what looked like a grand mal seizure. Despite the cold night air, the toddler was clad in nothing but a diaper.

Jack swallowed hard, hating, as he had always hated, to see a child suffering. For a long time, he had wanted to go into pediatric emergency medicine, but he’d never been able to distance himself sufficiently to tolerate scenes such as this one—or the brutalized bodies of the youngest victims of abuse. One night in this very emergency room, he’d decked a smirking, strutting bastard who had brought in his four-year-old daughter with vaginal bleeding and contusions, along with the lamest cover story Jack had ever heard. Fortunately, the sorry son of a bitch had not pressed charges, but the incident had been enough to make Jack rethink his career plans.

“Wait ’til morning,” she advised. “You can tell the investigators you’ll call them and come in for an interview after you’ve had the chance to retain legal services.”

“I can do that, make them wait?”

“Since they’re not arresting you,” she said as she
nodded. “You’ve been cooperative. We both have. But they have to end the interview as soon as you ask for an attorney, and they’ll wait a reasonable amount of time for you to hire one and come in. And even though it’ll be Saturday, it’s Houston, where we have more lawyers than hydrants. You ought to be able to find somebody decent.”

“Are you sure? How do you know all this?”

“I’m a career criminal. I was only kidding about all that firefighter stuff.”

When his gaze jerked to meet hers, she laughed. “Had you there for a second, didn’t I? Sorry, my morbid sense of humor cranks up after midnight. The truth is, I’ve been around enough investigations—patching up assault and accident victims and putting out arson fires’ll do that for you—that I couldn’t help picking up a few things.”

He smiled. “I’m quicker on the uptake after a night’s sleep.”

“Then get some. If the investigators you talked to were the same ones grilling me, you’ll need a clear head.”

“They’re grilling you? Do you get the idea they think you’re a suspect?”

“Not me,” she said. “Not yet, at any rate.”

He winced at the thought that simply being a witness—or a victim—could cause an innocent person so much trouble. “Are they done questioning you?”

“I doubt it,” she said. “If they’re bringing in the feds, I’dsaythefunhasjustbegun.Buttheycanwaitforme, too. I’m finished talking to them for tonight.”

“I think I’ll take your advice. I’ll grab a cab at the main entrance, then catch a ride to my mom’s house. She’s expecting me. I’ll start phoning attorneys in the
morning.” It infuriated him that he would have to foot the bill, but what choice did he have?

She pulled her keys out of her pocket. “If you call a cab, some reporter’s bound to spot you. Let me give you a lift to your mom’s place.”

“You’re leaving?” Given her reaction to her captain’s injury, he’d figured she would stay.

“I need to stop by my house to let the dog out. Afterwards, I’m coming right back.” She took a deep breath, then shuddered out a sigh. “It’s just…I really need a break, you know? My crew—my friends are looking at me funny since I’ve been questioned, and I wasn’t at that fire tonight, like I…like I should’ve been.”

The raw pain in her voice sent an answering jolt through him, and before he could stop himself, his hand settled gently on her shoulder. “The asthma isn’t your fault. And even if you’d been there, the same thing could have happened.”

She turned away from him. “You don’t know that. No one will ever know. But I would have gone in with him. I would have been there when it—”

“Don’t do this to yourself, Reag.”

“Don’t call me that,” she lashed back. “You don’t even know me anymore.”

“I know enough to see you’re torturing yourself for no reason. Who’s it helping?”

After a pause, she whispered, “No one.”

“Come on, then. Let’s go for that ride.”

She nodded. “Better go tell the detectives or the arson investigator you’ll contact them in the morning. Otherwise, they’ll be imagining the worst. And don’t mention you’re going with me, or they’ll suppose we’re cooking up some kind of story. That jackass Detective Worth is already convinced we’re sleeping together.”

“I’ve been suspected of worse things.” He smiled at her.

Her answering smile looked strained, but he caught a spark of her old spirit in her eyes.

“Well,
I
haven’t,” she said, “so hurry up and meet me at my car before I change my mind.”

For the sake of his promise to the Firebug, the driver of the green car kept the images alive throughout the night. Not only the smashing glass and the exploding colors—yellow, white, and blue around the spill of fuel—but the tremendous
whoosh
as the flames took hold of not only the wooden framework of the fireplace where the bottle struck, but the carpeting and sofa where the flaming mixture splashed.

In its own way, it had been so fucking beautiful.

Grabbing a handful of fast-food napkins from the dashboard, he wiped his nose, still running from the acrid petroleum odor. While the doctor and his woman were inside the hospital, the driver had risked losing them to run to a nearby burger joint, where he had washed up in the restroom. But no matter how he scrubbed his face and neck, his hands and arms, the smoky stench clung to his hair and clothing, as damning as a freaking set of fingerprints if the cops should pull him over.

And the stinking food had given him a gut ache, too, coating his intestines with a greasy film that left him sweating out the hours he’d spent waiting. But he remained inside the parking garage nonetheless, eager to figure out where the doc would be staying, now that his home was gone.

And planning how to catch the man alone to deal with him.

The girlfriend had come out first, and this time he recognized her. The parking lot, of course, the one over by the clinic.

She had been the one he’d nearly mown down on his way out, a long, lean bitch, and sexy as hell, despite the pale hair cropped closer than he liked it on a woman. He remembered glancing in the rearview and seeing the way she’d stared after him—the only one he knew of who could place him at the scene.

The only one who might connect him to the fire at the apartments…