ended the conversation, promising to call again in a few days. Just before she hung up, Annie said one thing that encouraged him. “It’s good that you’re sober. I hope you stay that way.”
Larson sat for a few minutes afterward, wondering how he let his family get away from him. Actually, he knew very well how he did it. The same way he wound up being given the choice of resigning from the Minneapolis police force or being fired. He’d drunk himself off the force and out of the life of his wife and son. And he was still working to repair that damage. He wondered if he ever could.
He sighed and picked up his notebook from where it lay on his desk. Larson riffled through the pages where he’d jotted down information about the fire at Sarah Gordon’s house. He was about to start reading when he heard someone come up behind his desk.
“Working on a Saturday! Are you trying to get promoted to Chief of Detectives? If so, let me remind you that the Jameson police force doesn’t have that position. We’re too small.”
“Just doing my job, Cal,” Larson said. He swiveled around to face Cal Johnson, who was standing next to his own desk, right behind Larson’s.
“I waited for you, but you didn’t show. I thought we were going to run together this morning at the high school track,” Cal said. He half drained the bottle of water he held.
Cal’s skin, the color of old mahogany, glistened with sweat, evidence of his recent exercise. Cal wore a University of North Texas tee shirt, grey shorts, and well-broken-in Nikes. In the hand opposite the one holding the water, he grasped a ragged towel with which he mopped his forehead. His dark hair was plastered to his skull by perspiration.
“Sorry. I should have called you,” Larson said. “I had to come in and take a statement this morning. Someone set a fire in Dr. Sarah Gordon’s garage in the middle of the night.”
Cal’s eyebrows went up, which for him was a significant display of emotion. “Why would someone do that?”
“That’s the question I’m trying to answer.” Larson gave Cal the information he had thus far. “Now I’m getting ready to do what police work boils down to—knock on doors, run things up on the computer, nose around. Want to help?”
“I will if I’m needed,” Cal said. “Otherwise, I’d better get back to the house. Since it’s my day off, I promised Ruth I’d take care of a pretty significant honey-do list.” He took another swipe at his forehead with his towel, then finished the water he held. “Of course, if anything breaks and you really need some help, give me a call.”
Larson was already shaking his head. “Cal, you’ve already had one marriage end because your wife couldn’t stand your being gone so much. I’ll call you if I have to, but I’m not going to contribute to your second divorce.”
“It’ll happen or it won’t,” Cal said. “Ruth seems to be a little more understanding than Betty was.”
“That’s good, but don’t test her.” Larson was silent for a moment. “You’d better do your best to make your marriage work.”
Cal moved to Larson’s side and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know that’s a sensitive subject for you. How long’s it been?”
Larson didn’t have to think about it. “It’s been a little over a year since Annie left.”
“She still in Montana?”
“She and Billy. I call them about once a week.” He held up his cell phone. “I just finished talking with them.”
“Any chance you and your wife will get back together?” Cal asked.
“She hasn’t remarried, so that’s good. Even though she divorced me, I keep hoping if I stay sober she’ll agree to try it again.” Larson looked at the ceiling and counted. “I’ve got eleven months of sobriety now.”
“That’s great,” Cal said.
“Time will tell whether it’s good enough,” Larson said. “Meanwhile, I guess I’d better get to work. Getting fired from this job wouldn’t help my situation.”
* * *
After lunch, Kyle offered to follow Sarah home to make sure she arrived safely, but she declined with thanks. He’d persisted, but she finally convinced him that she’d rather be alone. “I’ll be safe. Don’t worry about me.”
“Well, call me if you need anything. I’ve talked with Tom Oliver, and he and his crew should be at your house when you arrive.”
When Sarah parked at the curb beside her house, a white van and a red pickup truck were already there. Three men in work clothes leaned on the van, talking and laughing together. As she exited her car, a middle-aged man in jeans and a tee shirt emerged from the pickup and walked toward her. He was clean-shaven. Brown hair in a brush cut. His face was pleasant but unremarkable. Average build. Sarah decided that an hour from now she’d be hard-pressed to describe him.
He stopped in front of her and held out his hand. “Tom Oliver.”
She took the proffered hand. “Sarah Gordon. Thank you for coming out on a weekend, Mr. Oliver,” she said.
“It’s Tom. And when people need us, they need us right then. Besides, Kyle’s pretty persuasive, and I owe him something,” he said. Then he pointed to the three men by the van. “Darrell, Carl, and Louie are ready to get started. Why don’t we see how much work we have to do?”
Sarah led Oliver inside. She was curious about the apparent debt Oliver owed Kyle, but decided not to pursue it right now. Instead, she briefly told him about the fire, where it had been located, and the fireman’s description of the damage as mainly cosmetic. “So, can you take care of this?” she said, waving her hand in the general direction of the soot-blackened wall in the kitchen.
“If the fire chief’s right and there’s no structural damage, we start by dealing with the residual smoke stains and soot. Ridding the house of most of the smell will take at least a day. We’ll shampoo the carpets, use fans and vacuum extractors, probably apply some air freshener, whatever it takes.”
“What will it take to get everything back like it was before the fire?”
“Just a little more work and expense. We’ll get rid of the smoke smell first. We may need to replace some of the carpets—I’ll have to see what they’re like after we shampoo them. We wash down the affected walls and treat them with a chemical that further neutralizes the smoke smell. Finally, we apply fresh paint. Of course, you’ll be trading the smell of smoke for the smell of paint, but that won’t last long, and pretty soon everything should be back like it was.”
No, the house will never again be like it was when Harry and I bought it, but at least I can remove the traces of this invasion. “What’s ‘pretty soon’?”
“Three days at the outside, probably less, certainly no more,” Oliver said.
“Do it.”
“Well, it’s going to cost—” he started to say.
“Never mind. I’ve already talked with my insurance agent. He told me that, beyond my deductible, everything is covered. Just do the best you can, and do it as
