Lucy pulled into the brightly lit parking lot, suppressing a pang of homesickness for their old headquarters in the heart of Astoria's historic downtown district. Progress, she reminded herself, was good. Smiling hello to Joanne, she used her keycard to open the secure door to the squad room.
"Everything quiet?"
"Yep," Joanne replied, with no hesitation in the rapid clicking of her computer keys. A single mom with three young boys, Joanne was fond of telling anyone who'd listen that her job of police dispatcher was merely relief duty.
The door closed behind Lucy with a hollow click. The place was empty except for her partner, Ivar, who sat at his desk, studiously working his way through a stack of files. A mug steamed gently at his elbow, and soft classical music played on a boom box confiscated from the evidence room.
Lucy dropped into the desk chair facing his, sniffing at the pale green liquid. "I hope that vile-smelling crap is for poisoning some perp, or else I'll have to request a transfer to the state police."
"Green oolong tea," Ivar rumbled in his soft, deep voice without looking up. "Full of antioxidants. You should try some."
"Over my dead body."
He nodded while he calmly made a note in the margin of the page. "A real possibility, since you insist on eating red meat." Setting his pen down, he leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head and stretching his legs out so far that his feet crowded hers. He eyed her with his typical air of quiet aplomb.
Her partner was tall, thin, pensive, and when he bothered to speak at all, laconic. In the five years Lucy had been teamed up with him, she'd never once seen him lose his cool. Which actually made him the perfect foil for her, because she lost her cool as often as possible. In fact, she considered a well-honed rant a work of art.
"Chief would like to talk," he informed her now.
"Any idea what he wants?"
"Nope."
"Any chance I can delay this and go home for a good soak in the tub?"
Ivar shifted his gaze over her head in warning, and she glanced around to find Jim Sykes approaching her desk. He'd changed out of the tux he'd had on earlier for some kind of political fund-raiser. His "day" suit was baggy and rumpled, and he looked as if he'd been living in it for too long.
Sykes was an okay boss, mostly staying out of their way and letting them do their jobs but providing support when they needed it. She might not agree with how he'd handled Gary's prosecution, but to be fair, Gary had set himself up for a fall when he'd landed that punch. With Sykes standing no more than ten feet away that night, Gary might as well have handed him an engraved invitation to arrest him. The hotheaded idiot.
Sykes settled his large frame heavily against the edge of her desk. "I'm hearing rumors about the fishermen," he said without preamble. "That whole community is tense—they're hiding something."
Lucy sneaked a peek at Ivar, who wore a surprised frown. She'd heard hints of something big going down, but she hadn't heard about any connection to the fishermen. And she had yet to discover anything concrete. So far, the only people talking were a couple of small-time junkies who were trying to bargain their way into their next fix.
What surprised her was that the rumors had made it up to Sykes' level—few locals felt comfortable confiding in him.
"I'm making you the primary on the investigation," Sykes informed her. "See what you can dig up."
She hesitated, taken aback. She was the rooky detective on the force, so surely, this assignment should go to Clint Jackson or one of the other, more experienced detectives. Besides, this didn't feel like a solid investigation—at least, not yet. "I don't know if that's warranted, Chief. Why don't I do some unofficial poking around and—"
"What I'm hearing indicates otherwise," Sykes interrupted. "You may not want to believe that your friends might be involved in anything illegal, McGuire, but my sources say they are."
"They're decent folks, just trying to make a living," she said quietly.
"Yeah, and until the government makes good on its buyout promise, that living is damn poor. I need you to use your contacts within the community to find out what they're up to. We don't want this thing exploding in our faces."
She glanced at Ivar again, to see his reaction. He was still frowning. So maybe that was what this was all about—the fact that her contacts with the fishermen were better than Sykes'.
Before she could frame a suitable response, Joanne poked her head into the room.
"Chief—"
"Not now, Joanne," Sykes said over his shoulder, then stood. "Something's going down, I can feel it. Take Ivar with you, question the fishermen. Get results."
"Chief!"
"Dammit, Joanne! What?"
#
Michael Chapman was driving east on Irving Avenue, only a block from his new home, when the two-way radio crackled to life. He eased his foot off the accelerator and listened intently.
Swearing, he cranked the steering wheel hard, pulling a U-turn in the middle of the street and throwing Zeke across the back seat. He stomped on the gas, searching for a through street that would take him down to the waterfront.
#
For one stunned moment, Kaz simply stared at the roaring inferno. Then she threw herself at the gate, jerking it back and forth. "Gary!"
The flames leapt higher.
Backing up, she vaulted, hitting the top half of the gate with enough momentum to drag herself over, then ran down the ramp.
"Gary!" She glanced around for someone, anyone. The docks were deserted. "Fire!"
The entire deck of the trawler was burning now, flames roaring off the bow and around the winch, aft of the wheelhouse. She strained to catch a glimpse of her brother, but all she could see silhouetted against the orange glow were the boat's mast and boom. A gust of wind shifted the flames toward her, and she fell back from the searing heat, flinging an arm up to protect her eyes.
"Gary!" she tried again.
The wind switched again, propelling the flames toward their other trawler, the Kasmira B. Kaz took advantage, leaping onto the Anna Marie's deck. Flipping open the nearest seat cover, she reached for the fire extinguisher.
Gone.
The flames whipped toward her again, and she dove behind the wall of the wheelhouse.
She pulled herself into a crouch, coughing, then tried to look through the open door to see if the passage to the engine room and galley was clear. Twice she had to pull back.
The boat's aged timbers crackled. The wall beside her, when she touched it, singed her fingers. She pounded on it with her fist. "Gary!"
No answer.
Edging around the corner, she assessed the stairs. Flames were burning down one side of the risers, but they were still partially clear. Pulling the hood of her coat over her head, she dove into the darkness below.
Landing hard on the engine room floor, she rolled onto her stomach, the scrabbled on all fours away from the flames that were burning next to the equipment. Inside, the roar was muted, but the heat was stifling. The timbers overhead hissed in the relative silence. Varnish from the ceiling plopped onto her coat, and thick, black smoke hung in the air.
Sweat poured off her, and a strong metallic flavor coated the inside of her mouth, making her gag. Her face and hands were unbearably hot, and her skin felt as if it was melting. She couldn't see more than a few inches into the smoky gloom.
In desperate need of air, she took a cautious breath. The bitter, chemical odor of hot carpet assaulted her. She crawled through the galley door. More flames, though smaller, ran in a line across the floor and were hungrily eating at the galley wall. With one hand stretched out in front of her, she crawled toward the forecastle where the berths were. "Gary!"