fire in my garage. It didn’t do much damage except for the smoke, but the police called it arson and want to talk with me this morning. I’m sure they’re going to ask me who might want to do such a thing, but—”
“But they have to consider whether a homeowner might do something like this to collect insurance,” Kyle said, finishing her thought. “Who are you meeting and what time?”
“Bill Larson said he’d call and set it up.”
Kyle’s mental file whirred and spit out data on Detective Larson. Late thirties, dark hair that always seemed to need a trim, not really handsome but possessor of just the type of rugged good looks some women liked. Larson had a reputation for persistence among the lawyers in town. When he was working a case, he was like a dog with a bone, never turning loose until he finished. That didn’t bother Kyle, but the presence of another man in Sarah’s life at this point was a bit disconcerting.
Of course, there were also whispers circulating around the courthouse that Larson’s excessive drinking was the reason for his divorce. The man’s ex-wife and son had moved to Montana, while Larson was starting over here in Texas. Evidently the detective had it more or less together thus far in his new situation—at least, it seemed that way. But Kyle knew that with alcoholics the struggle was lifelong and never-ending. An alcoholic was never “recovered,” just “recovering.” Larson would bear watching—on several levels.
“Did you see Larson after all this took place?” Kyle asked.
“Yes, we sat in the fire chief’s SUV and talked a bit. I didn’t really answer all his questions, but I think he could tell how upset I was. He suggested we meet today.” She cleared her throat. “Will you go with me?”
“Sarah, just tell me where and when. I’ll be with you as a friend, not simply as a lawyer.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But if I need a lawyer, I want you.”
You’ve always had me, Sarah . . . >and not just as a lawyer.
* * *
Bill Larson heard her footsteps before he saw her. He got up from his desk in the otherwise deserted police squad room. “Sarah . . . ” he started to say. But he stopped the word before it left his mouth. Keep it professional. “Dr. Gordon, thank you for coming down here,” he said.
She took the chair he indicated. “I . . . I didn’t think I had much choice.”
“Last night you didn’t seem up to answering too many questions. Coming here this morning seemed more convenient for both of us,” Larson said. “It saved me some time and effort. That’s all.”
“I hope I haven’t missed too much.” The words were accompanied by the sound of leather heels hitting the linoleum of the squad room in a rapid rat-tat-tat.
Larson frowned when he saw attorney Kyle Andrews hurrying toward his desk. “Nothing of significance, counselor.” The detective stood and offered his hand, then said, “Pull up a chair from one of those other desks. I was just starting to interview the doctor.”
Andrews reached down and hugged Sarah Gordon, perhaps a bit more enthusiastically than mere friendship would dictate, something that didn’t escape Larson’s attention. Then the lawyer grabbed a chair from the next desk, pulled it over beside Dr. Gordon, and sat.
“Well, I’m glad I made it in time,” the lawyer said. “I always advise my clients not to talk to the police without their attorney present.”
Larson wasn’t certain why he didn’t trust Kyle Andrews. Perhaps it was just his nature as a policeman to look askance at people. His wife—that is, his ex-wife—had mentioned that tendency on more than one occasion. Today, Andrews was in full lawyer mode: gray glen plaid suit, red and gray tie, rust-colored hair carefully styled, rimless glasses giving him a serious look. Even his briefcase was perfect for the part, scuffed just enough to show it wasn’t just for show.
The detective directed his attention to Sarah. “Dr. Gordon,” Larson said, “Let me make it clear that we don’t suspect you of anything. I don’t think you’ll need a lawyer.” He looked pointedly at Andrews for a moment before turning back to Dr. Gordon. “I’ll say up front that all I’m looking for from you is information.”
“And I’ll say up front that I’m here to lend some support to a friend,” Andrews said with a half-smile.
Larson nodded. He sensed that he and Kyle Andrews might not end up exchanging Christmas cards. On the other hand, it seemed they both had Sarah Gordon’s best interest in mind. He’d accept that for now. The detective pulled a note pad toward him. “Let’s start with the names of anyone who might be angry with you—not necessarily someone who’d want to kill you, but people who might carry a grudge, be unhappy with something you’ve done. Disappointed patients. Frustrated colleagues. People from your personal life who might wish to harm you. Anyone.”
The doctor’s immediate response was, “I don’t know of anyone who fits that description.”
“You may change your mind as you think about that,” Larson said. “Let’s consider patients. How about them?”
“As an emergency room physician I treat dozens of people every day. Some of the cases are simple. Some are literally life-and-death situations. I exercise my medical judgment all the time, and if I make a mistake, the consequences could be minor or they could be catastrophic. Most of the time I don’t even remember the names of the patients I treat, much less which ones could be carrying a grudge.”
“Okay, I may want to go through some ER records with you to get some names, but we’ll come back to that,” Larson said. “Anything from your personal life? I’m sorry that I have to ask, but any ex-boyfriends, former lovers, men you disappointed?”
Before Sarah could open her mouth, Kyle Andrews said, “Are you implying—”
“I’m not implying anything,” Larson said. “I have to ask these questions, and if you think about it, you’ll see that.” He looked at Dr. Gordon. “Anyone?”
“No,” she said, and shook her head.
“Did you hear or see anything last night before the fire started? Was there anything that suggested there might be someone in your house or garage?”
She chewed on her lower lip. Larson knew from experience there was something there—if he could just keep quiet long enough.
“I didn’t hear anything until I awoke to the smell of smoke. There might have been a noise downstairs at about that time—I wasn’t sure. Then, after I got out of the house, I thought I saw a shadow hurrying around the corner of the house.”
“Which side?”
“Where the garage is,” she said.
“That would be the west side.” Larson made a note. “I know you didn’t mention this to me at the time, but did you tell the chief or any of the firefighters about it?”
“No, I guess I was too rattled,” she said. “And, honestly, I wasn’t even sure I hadn’t imagined it.”
“Do you have any idea how an intruder got into the garage to set the fire?” Larson asked.
“I’ve
