Home Fires (27 page)

Tommy’s eyes held a look of abject disappointment. “I don’t see why he wouldn’t let me ride in the truck with him.”

“They probably have rules about those kinds of things. What if they had an accident while you were in the truck? I doubt the insurance would cover you.”

“Who cares about some stupid old insurance?” He stuck out his chin. “I’m going to that fire. I’ll drive my own truck. Once I get there, Mike will let me help. You wanna go, Cecil? I’ll give you a ride.”

“No more fires for me, Tommy,” she replied. “You go ahead. I’ll stay here and clean the kitchen, then head on home.” Cleaning up would keep her hands occupied, as well as keep her thoughts from straying to the fire scene and the dangers awaiting Mike and the other firemen.

Tommy banged out the door, leaving Rose to survey the leftover remains of their dinners. The kitchen was a mess with pots and pans littering the stove and fruit and papers scattered over the floor. She scooped up the apples and pears that had rolled in all directions, then turned to gather the loose papers strewn in disarray. She stacked them on the counter, struggling to put them into some semblance of order when the sight of a familiar name leaped from the page.

Rose snatched up the city tax report, her eyes quickly scanning the page. Someone had been busy with a magic marker. Bay Properties, LLC was highlighted in yellow. Next to it, the name of the Honorable Harvey James, as its owner agent, was underlined in stark bold slashes of red. Her stomach gave a sickening lurch as she caught sight of the date and the money owed. The information was current, from the past winter season.

Delinquent.

If the paperwork was correct, the Judge was owner of Bay Properties, LLC.

And the Judge was also deeply in debt.

Her understanding and incredulity grew as she flipped through the file. Mike obviously considered the Judge a suspect—the prime suspect—in the arson fires. The proof was right in front of her, outlined in precise array. She read faster, her disbelief growing as she scanned Mike’s handwritten notes outlining his interview with the construction manager on the condo project that had burned to the ground. Condos owned by Bay Properties, LLC. Work on the project had halted shortly before the fire, since the necessary funds to cover the labor and materials hadn’t been provided. The Judge was out of cash.

There had to be some mistake. How could the Judge not be solvent? He had a flourishing law practice, which had to bring in a very nice income. Not to mention all the monies from his rental properties and real estate ventures.

But official tax reports didn’t lie. Neither did exculpatory evidence. Goose bumps popped on her arms as Rose skimmed the evidentiary report on the vehicle fire that had destroyed Charles Kendall’s car late the night of the Fourth of July. Evidence had been found at the scene of the crime. A half-smoked cigar, distinctly unique in make and design, had been discovered near the vehicle’s burnt-out shell. Rose gasped at the implication buried halfway down the page. Those cigars were the Judge’s signature brand, hand rolled for him and imported from the islands. Everyone knew how much he loved them. She’d ordered those cigars herself in the past as birthday gifts for him.

A flash of distant memory abruptly came to mind. A shadowy front porch late on the fourth of July and the soft purr of an engine as the Judge’s car headed downtown. Could Mike be right? Could it possibly be true that the Judge was the one responsible for setting Charles’s car ablaze? Rose struggled to comprehend the impossible. It made no sense. The Judge had no reason to set Charles’s car on fire. Even more improbable was the other question that seared itself across her mind.

Why would the Judge torch his own buildings?

She hit upon the answer on the very next page. Mike had been thorough. Her hands trembled as she scanned the printed report from the Michigan State Police. Airline schedules—confirmed arrival and departure times for the Honorable Harvey James—spilled from the file. Validation of Michigan to Nevada flights. Confirmation of his arrival at McCarren International Airport, Las Vegas.

Las Vegas? She took in a sharp breath. If these reports were true, then the Judge wasn’t in California visiting his ailing sister. He had flown to Las Vegas on July fifth and had been there ever since.

There was no mistake. Page upon page of documents stamped confidential listed gambling debts. The amounts were staggering. A roll of the dice and a spin of the wheel had caused her old friend’s fortunes to tumble. Rose’s cheeks flushed hotter, first in understanding, then in anger, as she flipped through the rest of Mike’s file. He’d known all along that the Judge was deeply in debt, and he’d kept it from her. The Judge had played the slots, while Mike had played her for the fool.

No! It was simply too incredible, too ridiculous to believe. No matter what Mike thought, no matter what the papers said, she would never believe the Judge was the arsonist. Never in a million years. Rose crammed the paperwork inside the manila folder and slapped the file shut. She felt like a firestorm of emotions, a swirl of seething anger. This must be why doctors were prohibited from operating on members of their immediate family. Emotions got in the way. No matter what any official report said, she would never believe the Judge was responsible for the arsons. Not unless she heard it from His Honor himself.

And she wouldn’t hold her breath waiting for that to happen. It never would. It simply wasn’t true. After tonight, she would be able to prove it.

Mike was at another fire. The abandoned boat warehouse, a wooden structure, would probably burn to the ground. And if tonight’s fire proved to be another in the string of arsons, Mike would have no choice but to admit the Judge was innocent. Maybe the Judge was a gambler and deep in debt—but, according to Mike’s own files, at the moment the Judge was in Las Vegas and thousands of miles away. A person couldn’t be in two places at once, even someone as crafty and wise as her dear old friend. Thank God the Judge had a geographic alibi. That would put a kibosh on any convoluted theories of guilt that could be stewing in that fireman’s head.

She eyed the dirty dishes still on the table, the pots and pans on the stove and in the sink. Her first inclination was to leave them sitting. But a promise was a promise, and she’d volunteered to clean up. She got down to work before she could change her mind. Rose bustled around the kitchen, gathering the plates and silverware, rinsing dried spaghetti sauce from the dishes and pans. She kept herself moving and busy, allowing herself no respite or chance to think. Finally everything was put away and the counter scrubbed down. She punched the dishwasher button, bringing the machine to noisy life. Rose grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter and looked around the room, her gaze finally coming to rest on the kitchen table. She stared long and hard at the summertime bouquet. It had seemed such a charming, romantic gesture at the time, but now she could only wonder.

Maybe Mike had meant the flowers for another purpose instead. Had he meant to bribe her? Did he intend to buy her silence while romancing her as he went about his task of interrogating the Judge? Well, if that fireman thought she was going to keep quiet about what she’d seen tonight, he had another think coming. If Mike thought the Judge was the arsonist, she would prove him wrong. Dead wrong.

Rose stormed from the apartment and slammed the door with a satisfied bang, leaving the flowers behind.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BOAT WAREHOUSE FIRE LABELED “SUSPICIOUS”

____________________________________

By: Charles Kendall

The James Bay Journal

____________________________________

JAMES BAY—Another mystery blaze last night destroyed the Waller Boat Company warehouse on Lakeshore Drive. James Bay firefighters were unable to save the hundred-year-old structure, which was completely engulfed in flames by the time firefighters arrived. The boat warehouse fire has been officially labeled of “
suspicious origin
” as this paper goes to press.

____________________________________

“Come on, admit it. You’re mad at me.”

“Why would you think that?” Rose chose to ignore the strain in Mike’s voice. He thought he was so smart? Fine. Let him figure it out. She wasn’t the one with the clandestine file on the Judge.

Rose clenched her thin bathrobe tighter and stared at the
James Bay Journal
in her hand that she’d just picked up from their front porch moments ago. She reread the blaring headline touting last night’s fire. With the Judge still in Las Vegas or California and the Waller boat warehouse fire labeled suspicious, maybe now Mike would believe her.

Maybe he would finally deliver that apology.

A slow sigh flooded across the telephone line. “I’ve lived with women long enough to know when I’ve got one mad at me.”

His words made her hesitate. Once upon a time, not too many years ago, Mike had been a married man. Had Katie given him this much grief? From the little he’d shared about his wife, it sounded as if she had. Well, good for Katie! The thought brought Rose some comfort. Hopefully she’d been the spunky type, the kind of woman who gave as good as she got. This fireman of theirs could use a little downsizing of his ego.

“Is there a chance we can get together today? I’d like to see you.”

“Sorry, I don’t have time,” Rose quickly replied. “I’m supposed to be helping my mom, remember? That’s the reason I came home in the first place.” Even if she wanted to—which she didn’t—she wasn’t ready to face him again. She was still seething about last night and how she’d discovered the thick file he had on the Judge.

“Tomorrow,” he suggested.

“That’s not a good day, either,” she shot back.

The silence between them lengthened.

“Boy, you’re really mad, aren’t you?” he finally said.

Fuming, Rose held back the torrent of words stoking the fire inside her. Mike was no fool. If he gave it some thought, he could make an educated guess as to exactly why she was upset. He knew how she felt about the Judge.

“Obviously something’s bothering you.” His voice sounded weary with defeat. “I guess whatever it is will just have to wait. I don’t have time to be playing games. I’ve been up all night fighting a fire. I’m tired and hungry. I’m going to climb in the shower, then grab some breakfast and get some sleep.”

Rose’s heart softened as a clear vision of his face rushed to mind. He was probably sooty and reeking of smoke, his eyes clouded with fatigue. Fighting fires was hot, heavy work.

“So, tell you what, Rose. When you’re ready to talk, you give me a call. You know the number. And by the way, it’s not 911.”

Her mouth dropped as she heard the sharp click on the other end of the phone. He’d hung up on her? The man had some nerve! She slapped the phone back in its cradle and headed for the staircase. Call him when she was ready to talk? Mike had better not hold his breath. There weren’t enough days in the calendar to mark the distance she intended to put between the two of them.

The shrill ring of the telephone stopped her mid-flight. If he thought he could simply call back and say he was sorry, he had another think coming. It would take more than a simple phone call. And he still hadn’t apologized for calling her bossy the other night. Rose marched down the steps to her grandmother’s antique cherry buffet and snatched the phone up. “You’ve got some nerve, hanging up on me like that.”

“Excuse me?” The gruff, familiar voice gave a short cough.

“Judge?” Rose felt her knees grow weak.

“You sound a little out of sorts. Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine,” she sputtered. “I thought you were someone else.” She took a deep breath and tried to gather her wits.

“I didn’t mean to call you so early, my dear, but I was hoping to catch you at home.”

Rose quickly did the math. Las Vegas was three hours behind them on the clock. Good thing the Judge was an early riser. Then suddenly she remembered that he would have no idea that she was on to his true whereabouts. With a sinking heart, she forced herself to play along with his little game. “How’s your sister?”

“My sister?”

Rose hesitated at his confusion. The Judge wasn’t doing much better than she was in their verbal chess match. “I thought that’s why you’re in California,” she reminded him. “Visiting your sister.”

“Oh, yes, thank you. I believe she is doing much better. Indeed, from what I’ve been told, she will be just fine.” His sentence finished in a firm, clear voice.

Rose frowned. If he’d called merely to cover his tracks and plant an idea as to how long he would be away, the Judge wasn’t doing a very good job of playing a convincing role. “Is she in the hospital or home with you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, my dear. My sister is in California.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“But I’m right next door,” he replied. “My flight got in late yesterday afternoon.”

The bottom of Rose’s stomach yawned in disbelief and suddenly her legs felt wobbly. She sank down on the cane-backed chair next to the cherry buffet and stared at the faded carpet runner beneath her feet. The Judge had come home yesterday.

And last night Mike had been toned out to the scene of another arson fire.

“Cecilia Rose? Are you still there?”

“Y… yes.” She swallowed hard and forced down the lump in her throat. “Yes, I’m here.”

“I was hoping the two of us could meet today. Could you spare a few minutes for an old friend?”

The sound of her heartbeat pounded hot in her ears. It felt as if she’d been sucked up in some bizarre parallel universe that resembled her hometown… only it wasn’t James Bay. None of these people were doing what they were supposed to do. Mike shouldn’t still be investigating the Judge. And the Judge shouldn’t be home. Why wasn’t he in Las Vegas, recouping his gambling debts?

“What time did you want to meet?” she asked.