“There are at least a couple of ways, actually,” Larson replied. “First, I noticed your car was parked at the curb last night. Most people keep their garage door opener remote clipped to their auto’s sun visor. Is that what you do?”
She nodded.
“Thieves now have sophisticated ways to get into cars without leaving a trace. If he did that, a press of the button on the remote and the garage door would open for him.”
“Is that what he did?” she asked.
“No, he used a very low-tech method to get into the garage, and he didn’t need a remote control for it.”
Andrews leaned forward in his chair and asked, “And you know this how?”
“Two things,” Larson said. “First, when we looked inside, the fire marshal and I both noticed the emergency release for the garage door opener had been tripped. And second . . . ” He reached under his desk and produced a straightened wire coat hanger and a small triangular piece of wood. “I found these on the floor of the garage near the door.” He shoved them forward. “You can touch them. They didn’t have any useful fingerprints on them.”
“How—” Dr. Gordon started to ask.
“Whoever broke in inserted the wooden wedge under the weather-stripping at the top of the garage door. Then he used the opening he created to insinuate this coat hanger along the track. When the coat hanger was far enough in, he hooked the emergency release lever and pulled it.”
“Then—” Andrews said.
“Then he set the fire, closed the garage door manually, and waited to see what happened,” Larson said.
“And maybe that’s the noise I heard,” she said.
“Which brings up the question of why all he did was pile some oily rags on the garage floor and set them afire. It would have been easy for the intruder to go through your garage into your kitchen and . . . ”
“And take what he wanted, assault me, or even murder me in my sleep,” Dr. Gordon said. “I wonder why he didn’t.”
Larson’s gaze went to Kyle Andrews and he realized the attorney had made the same assumption he had. Maybe whoever did this didn’t want to kill Dr. Sarah Gordon. Maybe he wanted to frighten her. And judging from what Larson had seen last night and this morning, he’d succeeded.
* * *
Early summer days in Texas could be pleasant or they could be very hot. It was almost noon, and today the sun on the concrete in downtown Jameson produced heat that was withering. Sarah stood in the shade of the blue awning that covered the entrance to the Jameson Police Department’s headquarters and listened as Kyle Andrews offered advice she didn’t want to hear.
“If you don’t want to stay with a friend or neighbor, why don’t you let me get you settled into a hotel for a few days? I know the owner of a company that does remediation—that is, they restore damage after fires. If I call him right now, I can meet his crew over at your house with a key. If they start cleaning the smoke and soot from your place this morning—let’s see, this is Saturday—you’ll probably be able to move back in by Monday. Maybe even earlier.”
“Kyle,” Sarah said, trying to be patient, “First of all, I don’t want some stranger to have a key to my house. And besides that, I’m not going to leave there . . . not even for one night.”
“Why?”
“Because that house was our home—mine and Harry’s and Jenny’s. It may be silly, but I don’t want to leave it.” She paused. “In a way, being there helps me feel close to the family I lost. And moving out, even for a day, might break that bond.”
This went on for a few more minutes, with Sarah repeating her reasons, until finally Kyle gave in.
“Okay, how’s this?” Kyle said. “Let me call the guy. You can meet him there and go over the damage. He can start his crew working this afternoon, but I’ll ask him to quit by seven or eight this evening, so you’ll have the house to yourself tonight. They’ll work around you. You won’t have to move out. They should be finished in a day or two, and when they do, your home will be good as new.”
No, it won’t. It will have been invaded. It will never be the same. But it will still be our home—mine and Harry’s and Jenny’s. “I guess that would work,” Sarah said. Then she had another thought. “I need to call my insurance agent and report this.”
“Tell you what,” Kyle said. “Let’s get out of this heat. We’ll go to my office. You can contact your insurance agent and let him get started. He’ll probably want to schedule a visit from an adjustor to inspect the damage. While you’re on the phone, I’ll use my cell to call Tom Oliver so he can get started. After that I’ll buy you some lunch.”
Sarah hesitated. “Kyle, you don’t have to do all this. I know I called you, but that was because I thought I might need a lawyer. If Detective Larson is to be believed, I didn’t really need legal representation.”
“You may not need me as a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure you could use a friend to help you through this. Remember, I was Harry’s friend. Now that he’s gone, I think I owe it to him to be around when you need me.”
As the two walked away, Sarah wondered if the call to Kyle had been unnecessary. When she reached out to him, she thought she might need an attorney, but judging from what Larson said this morning, that wasn’t the case. Now it seemed that Kyle wanted to take charge and help her through this trial. Sort of like what Harry would have done.
* * *
Bill Larson sat at his desk with his tie loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled above his elbows. He probably ought to get some short-sleeved dress shirts to wear during the summer. He’d thought about it recently, but he kept putting it off. Maybe it was because there were times when he thought this stop in Texas was just temporary. He had dreams of winning back his ex-wife, and of his family reuniting and moving back to Minnesota. Then again, maybe it was just inertia, the same thing that kept him living in a furnished apartment rather than looking for a house although he’d been in Jameson for almost a year.
He looked at his watch and did a rapid calculation. It would be an hour earlier in Montana. Annie and Billy would be up by now. She’d be having her second cup of coffee at the kitchen table and his son would be watching cartoons. He pulled out his cell phone and made a call.
“Annie, this is Bill.”
“Good morning.” He couldn’t tell from her words or the tone in which they’d been spoken what her mood was. He wanted to tell her he was working to get his life back together. He wished he could ask her if she was seeing anyone. He had lots of things he wanted to talk about, but any one of them might set off an argument. It was like trying to navigate through a minefield.
He talked for a few minutes with her—desultory conversation, nothing of consequence. He did manage to mention that he was staying sober, but Annie didn’t seem to want to pursue the subject. Finally he said, “Can I talk with Billy for a minute?”
But if trying to talk with his ex-wife was difficult, talking with Billy was like pulling teeth. It was obvious that the preschooler would rather watch Saturday morning television than
