Knowing there was nothing else she could do before first light, she'd pulled on one of Gary's Seahawks jerseys, hugging it around her as she'd dropped off into a fitful doze—only to awaken from the nightmare less than an hour later, feeling as if she were drowning.
She shook herself out of her reverie. She should be out looking for Gary—not dreaming about a past that she couldn't change. Or about a burned-out arson investigator, for that matter.
Michael Chapman thought Gary had run, and that by running, Gary had as much as admitted he was guilty of arson and murder. But Gary had other reasons to run.
For twenty agonizing days during the Iraq war, she and the rest of Astoria had watched and waited for the Iraqis to release Gary and four other POWs after his unit had been captured during a covert op. He'd finally come home, quiet and withdrawn; the rest of his unit hadn't made it out alive. He'd never talked about what he'd endured, but the experience had changed him into a remote stranger who had trouble sleeping through the night, who no longer spent any length of time confined inside.
Chapman intended to prove that Gary had set the fire—she knew that as surely as she knew the tides. And Jim Sykes—well, Jim would do whatever it took to keep his town clean. If that meant throwing Gary in jail, he wouldn't hesitate.
Lucy had related how people in Astoria thought Jim Sykes walked on water ever since he'd busted up a burglary ring. But Sykes' overzealousness on the job made Lucy a tad uneasy.
"He's taking 'by the book' to a whole new level," she'd told Kaz.
Since Gary was the most obvious suspect, Kaz had no illusions that Sykes would waste time investigating anyone else. She was the only person, with the possible exception of Lucy, who was in a dicey position, who wouldn't readily accept that Gary was guilty. So the responsibility lay with her to prove them all wrong, Chapman and the police.
She needed a plan, and fast. Planning was her forte—she'd built an entire career around her organizational skills. It was time to put those talents to good use outside the corporate boardroom.
She sighed, turning away from the window and heading for the bathroom. Getting the smell of smoke out of her hair and off her skin would be a first step toward feeling up to facing the day. The quick shower she'd taken last night before falling into bed hadn't even made a dent. So first, a long, hot shower. Then caffeine. She definitely needed lots of caffeine.
#
A half hour later, Kaz stood in her cheery turn-of-the-century kitchen, watching the coffee drip with excruciating slowness into a glass carafe while she listened to the sounds of the house waking up around her—the ancient furnace in the basement kicking on with a thump, the whoosh of air through the cast iron heating grates, the creak of the walls and floors as the wooden structure warmed up.
She'd missed the old place. It represented home to her in a way that her condo in Stinson Beach never would. Her great grandfather had built the Mission-style cottage for his young bride in the early 1900's, handling all the finish carpentry himself. The house wasn't luxurious by anyone's standards, but its high ceilings, built-in, glass-fronted cabinets, and mahogany crown moldings made her condo seem cold and sterile by comparison.
Each of the rooms of the Astoria house held decades of memories, images of times when the family had still been together. Good memories, memories to cherish. In the last decade, she'd led a full and productive life down in San Francisco, but she'd been too focused on building her consulting business, and she'd let her relationships with family and friends suffer. Maybe she could be happier here than she'd been down south…no, that was crazy. It was insane to think moving home permanently would fill that empty place deep down inside her. Wasn't it?
There was a loud pounding at the back door, jolting her out of her thoughts. She jumped a foot.
Michael Chapman stood on the other side of the glass, his gaze watchful. Zeke stood on his hind legs beside Chapman, both paws on the window ledge, looking in. The dog grinned, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Chapman wasn't nearly so cheerful, but neither did he look as ghoulish as he had in her nightmare.
Rubbing damp hands against her jeans, she walked over and flipped the lock. Zeke pushed against her leg, wagging his tail, and she leaned down to let him sniff her hand. "Don't you two have a home of your own to go to?" she asked Chapman. It was the first time she'd said something out loud since she'd awakened, and the words came out raspy. Obviously, the abuse her throat had gotten the night before hadn't helped her vocal chords.
"I went home after I left you for a change of clothes." Chapman handed her the morning paper that she had yet to retrieve off the lawn and sniffed the air appreciatively. "You going to share some of that coffee?"
His Bostonian accent was stronger this morning than it had been last night, and he looked as tired as she felt—he probably hadn't gotten any sleep at all. Although she didn't need the diversion of having him underfoot, she simply didn't have it in her to refuse him the coffee. As far as she was concerned, coffee was one of the major food groups and should be featured prominently in international human rights laws. She pointed to a chair and then opened a cupboard door to retrieve a second mug.
He sat down at her oak pedestal table, slouching comfortably, his long, jeans-clad legs stretched out in front of him. His hair was damp and casually disheveled—he'd evidently showered on that trip home. But he hadn't taken the time to shave. A day's growth of beard darkened his strong jaw line, making his pale gaze seem even more piercing by contrast.
Zeke collapsed at his feet with a moan, resting his chin on his paws. They both looked disgustingly relaxed and comfortable with their surroundings—a couple of confident males. Chapman's gaze was sharp, though, as was his dog's. The laid-back attitudes were a pose, meant to encourage her to relax her guard. She frowned and turned away to deal with the coffee.
Carrying the steaming mugs over to the table, she came to the point. "So why are you here?"
"I brought your clothes back. They're clean of accelerant."
"You didn't have them long enough to send them to a lab," she pointed out, taking a chair across from him and sipping from her mug.
"Zeke sniffed them. His nose is as good as any gas chromatograph, and he didn't find anything. I didn't see any reason to send them to the lab."
"So I'm no longer a suspect?"
One corner of Chapman's mouth quirked, drawing her gaze there. He had a very nice mouth, one that encouraged fantasies. And okay, she might need to revisit the whole Freudian dream-scenario issue. Then she realized the direction her thoughts were taking, and froze. My God. She wasn't actually attracted to the man, was she? How insane was that?
If he noticed her momentary distraction, he didn't comment on it, saying only, "It means I don't think you set the fire while you were wearing those clothes."
She barely managed to refrain from letting her impatience show.
He pulled a large manila envelope out of his jacket. "I'd like you to look at some pictures of the crowd from last night and tell me who you recognize. Whether you see anything out of the ordinary, like a boat moored in the wrong location, a car that isn't usually there—that sort of thing."