and make her feel better and who would ever know? But he reached across the table and patted her hand. “I’m afraid not.”
“I used to fantasize about him, you know?” she said. “Mom absolutely refused to talk about him, called him a cad, said she didn’t even know his name, used him as a cautionary tale for premarital sex as I grew up. But I created stories about him anyway, larger-than-life-type fantasies. He was always searching for me in these daydreams, I was always just one day away from being found. And all the time, he knew more or less exactly where I was and didn’t give a damn.”
“I’m sorry—”
“No, please, don’t be sorry.” Looking him square in the eye, she said, “Tell me how he died.”
At last. Ryan took a deep breath and met her gaze. “A couple of months ago there was a fire. The woman trapped in the house was an invalid. Your dad—”
“The woman lived?”
“Yes. Your dad—”
“My father died a hero? This is what you’ve been wanting to tell me? That’s wonderful. Oh, you know what I mean, not that he died, but that he died trying to save someone. Still, I imagine his unexpected death made Katie crazy.”
He couldn’t let her go on this way. He said, “No, Tess. Not a hero.” For a second Ryan flashed back to that terrible night. By the time he’d arrived, the woman had been in the ambulance, her small dog yapping endlessly in a neighbor’s arms. Matt was already dead; it was assumed he’d answered the fire call. That was before anyone realized he’d arrived before the call ever came.
“Ryan?”
“What I’m trying to tell you is that your dad shouldn’t have been in that house. It was outside our district. He didn’t know the family.”
Tess looked puzzled. “Then how did he end up there?”
“Nobody knows for sure, but everyone suspects. He sent me off on a wild-goose chase. By the time I found out about the fire, he was dead. What you need to understand is that the fire investigator found an accelerant on scene. That means arson.”
He could tell she was beginning to sense the direction this talk was taking, and he hated himself for having to continue. He folded his hands together and pinned her with his gaze. “When a fire is purposely started, everybody involved gets investigated, and that includes the cops. Your dad died with huge gambling debts, Tess. I didn’t even know he gambled, let alone on that scale. He’d lost almost everything he owned. Once the newspapers caught wind of his involvement, other stuff started surfacing. Kickbacks, extortions, bookies. I didn’t know about any of it. I just thought he was a quiet guy. I didn’t know he was addicted or crooked.”
She stared at him with a deer-in-the-headlights gaze, tears blurring her lashes. “Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“You think my father started the fire?” She asked it as if she couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. “Why would he do something like that?”
“Someone must have hired him.”
“Who would hire a cop to burn down a house?”
“Someone who knew the cop was bent.”
“Such as?”
“In this case, the logical suspect is the widow’s stepson, a guy by the name of Nelson Lingford. A valuable art collection was mostly destroyed in the fire. Just a few paintings survived. If the insurance company can’t link this back to Nelson, they will have to pay up, and the widow will collect a good chunk of change. Since she’s relatively elderly, the money will go to Nelson.”
“But why wouldn’t he wait to inherit the collection itself?”
“Because it was about to be transferred to the museum to be assessed and catalogued. The widow was going to donate it—lock, stock and barrel. Once that had been completed, Nelson would have been out of luck. I don’t imagine anyone was supposed to know the fire was arson.”
“In other words, my father was supposed to make the fire look like an accident. So why not arrest this stepson?”
“There’s nothing linking him to the fire or your father. Look, Madeline Lingford’s late husband—Nelson’s father—was a longtime businessman in New Harbor. After he died, Nelson took over, but he doesn’t have his father’s scruples. Some of his dealings have teetered on the edge of the law. Let’s just say he’s made his share of enemies. From what I hear, a former friend of Nelson’s named Vince Desota lost his shirt on one of Nelson’s deals. Since it’s well known Nelson spent several evenings a week in residence at his stepmother’s house, speculation has it old Vince decided to instigate a little payback.”
“By destroying Nelson’s stepmother’s house?”
“And everything of value in the house, all of which would come to Nelson sooner or later, or so Vince probably thought. Like I said, it’s speculation.”
“So was Nelson Lingford at his stepmother’s house that night?”
“Nope. Begged off at the last minute to attend a concert. Interesting, huh?” He stared at her a second before continuing. “Tess, your father’s life was out of control. He apparently got caught in his own trap. They found receipts for a fuel can in his truck, the same kind found inside the house. They found a clerk down the coast who remembered him coming in and buying the damn thing. There was no fuel can at his apartment or in his truck or anywhere else except in that burned-out shell of a house. It was well known the widow was disabled and seldom left the place. A fire would kill her. Your dad would know that. I didn’t want you hearing it from someone else.”
“He tried to kill a woman?” Tess said, her eyes huge.
“I know it must come as a shock to you—”
“Oh, who cares about me? Poor Katie.”
At that moment, for Ryan, Tess Mays stopped being a novelty, stopped being a carbon copy of her sister and turned into an individual. He searched his mind for a few comforting words to offer and came up short. He couldn’t even reassure her about how Katie had taken it.
With a sigh he resolved to finish this. “That’s not the worst of it,” he mumbled at last, wishing the waitress would come back with the coffee and pour it over his head. He was suddenly freezing. Tess looked as though she was, too, and he fought an alarming desire to take her hands, to hold them close to his mouth and breath warm air on them.
“Tell me,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “Just get it over with. My father—”
“It’s not about your father,” he said, interrupting. He took a deep breath. “It’s about your sister.”
“My God, what has she done?”
“It’s not like that,” he said quickly. He scanned the diner out of habit before lowering his voice and leaning over the table. “I don’t think her ‘accident’ was an accident,” he said with a knot in his throat. “I think someone purposely tried to run her down.”
Tess gasped softly. “What are you saying?”
“I
