Quinn stood up and looked around. As he suspected, the spot was the lowest point the fire had touched. There was no question this was where the blaze had begun. He could see the patterns made by the flames as they moved outward and then up what was left of the walls toward the second floor. But as to how the fire started in the first place, there was no definitive indication.
The job brief had said the second-floor room in which Taggert had died had collapsed onto the family room in the back of the house. Quinn backtracked out of the living room the way he had come in, then walked around the perimeter of the burnt remains until he was in the backyard.
At the far end of the debris, a man was leaning down, looking at the snow a few feet away from the house. His back was to Quinn, and on his jacket were three large letters: ATF.
Quinn stared at him for several moments, his face expressionless, then returned his attention to the house. His best guess was that he was standing only a dozen or so feet away from where Taggert had been found. Unfortunately, there was nothing much to see. A half-burnt dresser was about the only identifiable piece of furniture left; other than that, the back of the house was just an additional mound of junk.
He spotted another path through the wreckage, this one no doubt created to recover the body. But it didn’t look inviting. And there really was no reason for Quinn to take a closer look. Any useful information had likely been destroyed in the fire.
He closed his eyes, freeing his mind from any distractions, and tried to mentally visualize what had happened. If this wasn’t an accident, then someone had wanted Taggert dead. In that case, whoever had set the blaze would have wanted to make sure it took. Quinn pictured the arsonist-assassin as he went methodically through his tasks. He would have arrived either via the driveway or by way of—
Quinn opened his eyes and turned around to face the rear of the property. Directly in front of him, the snow had been thoroughly packed down, probably by the fire crew. There was a point in the snow about thirty feet away from Quinn where the foot traffic tapered off to a few scattered tracks, and another ten feet beyond, where the snow was just a flat surface, undisturbed since the last storm. This went on for a hundred feet to the back of the property. There the forest began again, lining the rear of the Farnhams’ property, then wrapping around the sides of the clearing and coming all the way back to the house along either edge.
It was beside the row of trees along the left side of the property where Quinn spotted something. It was an indentation in the snow, perhaps only a pinecone or a branch that had fallen from a tree and created a depression in the cover of white. Or perhaps something more.
The man in the ATF jacket stood and turned in Quinn’s direction. He was in his mid-twenties, a good ten years younger than Quinn. He was also a couple inches taller, topping out at about six feet. His brown hair was short, but not drastically so. When he saw Quinn, he smiled and started walking over.
“Thought I’d run into you here,” he said as he got close. “Look what I found.”
He held out a silver bracelet. Quinn reached his hand out, but instead of taking the piece of jewelry, he grabbed the ATF man by the wrist and pulled him forward. At the last second, Quinn released his grip. The man’s momentum was still carrying him forward as Quinn shoved him in the chest. The ATF agent immediately lost his footing and fell to the ground.
“What the hell?” the man said.
But Quinn had already started walking away.
CHAPTER 3
Quinn headed toward the depression he’d spotted in the snow. Behind him, the ATF agent pulled himself up off the ground and ran to catch up.
“What are you all mad about?” the man asked.
Quinn stopped. “What are you doing here, Nate?”
“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” Nate asked. “You told me to come.”
“I told you to come to Colorado,” Quinn said. “I didn’t tell you to come to the accident scene. And I especially didn’t tell you to impersonate an ATF officer and go visit the police.”
“What’s the big deal?” Nate asked. “Thought it was a good chance to put some of my training to work. I don’t think it harmed anything.”
Quinn was tempted to do more than just throw Nate back to the ground for that comment. “How do you know that?” he asked. “How do you know you haven’t done any harm? Maybe Chief Johnson is sitting in his office right now wondering why he had two visits in one day from federal officials about a fire he thought was just an accident. Maybe while you walked around here you stepped on something that might have been an important clue. Have you talked to anyone else?”
Nate shook his head. “No. Just the chief of police.”
“Give me the bracelet,” Quinn said.
“What?”
“The bracelet. The thing you were showing me earlier.”
“Right,” Nate said. He looked down at the hand he had been carrying it in. It was empty. “I must have dropped it when you pushed—” He stopped himself. “When I fell.”
“Get it.”
Quinn waited as Nate retrieved the bracelet and brought it back. This time when he held it out, Quinn took it.
He draped it over his left palm so he could get a better look at it. The bracelet was a series of solid, half-inch square links with some sort of design on the face of each. A few of the links had melted some from the fire, but otherwise it was surprisingly still intact. Quinn stuck it in his pocket.
“Think it means anything?” Nate asked.
“I want you to go back to your car and wait for me.”
“How am I supposed to learn anything that way?”
Quinn looked Nate in the eye. “Today’s lesson: Do what you’re told.”
Nate stared back for a moment, then looked down. Without another word, he turned and began walking away.
Once Nate was gone, Quinn continued toward the line of trees at the edge of the property. As he neared it, the first flakes of snow began floating down from the sky.
“Great,” he muttered under his breath as he picked up his pace.
When he arrived at the depression, he bent down to get a closer look. Immediately he knew it wasn’t caused by a pinecone, and definitely not by a branch. It was a footprint. Several, actually. Now knowing what to look for, he could see more indentations running along the trees leading back to the rear of the property.
At first Quinn couldn’t tell whether the footprints were heading to or away from the house. A closer look revealed they were doing both. Someone had approached the house from the forest, then returned, keeping his — or her — feet in the same indentations. In fact, the person may have made more than one trip. Or maybe more than one person had used the same tracks. It was impossible to tell. Snow boots, though. Sorels, if Quinn guessed right.
As he followed the tracks, making a new set of his own beside them, the air began to thicken with falling snow. The prints were deep enough, though, that it would take some time before they completely disappeared.
A hundred yards from the house, Quinn found that whoever had made the tracks had stopped, either coming or going, and used the cover of several pine trees to shield him from the house. The person had stomped around a bit, probably to stay warm.
“You watched the fire from here,” Quinn said to himself, picturing the scene in his mind. “Made sure it was doing what you wanted.”
But why had he gone back?
Because now that Quinn had had a chance to look at several of the depressions, the top set of footprints definitely were heading back to the house.