during a fire call at the gymnasium of Presley’s oldest high school. The second victim had been murdered five weeks later at a motel he’d checked into with a mystery woman. Number three, the only female, had been shot in her home garage.
Somebody was after the firefighters in this Oklahoma City suburb.
Kiley gathered her mass of wild red hair into a ponytail, stuffed her feet into sneakers and grabbed her heaviest coat out of the hall closet. Moving out of the house, she clipped her badge and holstered Taurus onto the waistband of her jeans. The new year was starting off with a bang. Literally.
January cold pressed the air like a thick layer of batting. As Kiley maneuvered her late-model Mustang through the streets of Presley, she called her sister’s cell phone and left a message so Kristin would know Kiley would miss their weekly Saturday breakfast just a few hours from now.
She headed for the south side of town and Benson Street, an industrial area that housed several warehouses. The fire was at Rehn’s Coffee Warehouse.
By the time she arrived, patrol officers had blocked off the area. Red and blue lights flashed from the police cruisers book-ending the scene. She showed her badge to the uniformed officer posted at this end of the street, then parked beside the ambulance crouched in front of the curb with its back doors open, its empty gurney raised and waiting.
Scanning the massive building, Kiley stepped out of her car and pulled on her fleece-lined gloves. The blaze appeared to be out. Large scene lights, attached to two fire trucks, shone on the warehouse. Gray-brown smoke swirled into clouds. A concrete drive, wide enough to accommodate two semi trucks side by side, led up to a heavy metal door. Docking doors and offices opened into a large parking lot on the side.
Shards of glass glittered in the dusky white light put off by bulbs shining from under the eaves of the flat-topped building. Black sooty water ran down the concrete drive and into the streets, sloshing over the tops of her tennis shoes.
Kiley’s breath frosted the air. Thank goodness this wasn’t a residential area and there were no bystanders. Three fire engines, one ladder truck and one rescue unit lined the curb in front of the warehouse. Stations One, Two and Four, she observed. More than one Presley station house responded to fire calls, mainly to ensure enough manpower. House fires typically had two stations responding as well as the station that housed the rescue truck. The size of this warehouse had probably warranted the response of three stations. Tonight’s victim was the second one from Station Two. Did that mean anything?
Three black-and-whites, two trucks from local utility companies and the M.E.’s wagon crowded the width of the street. Two vans sporting local news logos pulled up to the barricade blocking traffic behind her. Kiley moved around the rear of her car and stopped at the curb to give her name and rank to the cop logging in personnel with his clipboard. A sharp wind pulled tendrils of her hair across her face, and she shoved them back.
Having checked in, she started up the flat drive, sidestepping deflated canvas hoses. Firefighters moved around the scene, the short browned grass now soggy and black. A length of yellow crime-scene tape stretched down the left side of the drive, across the entrance and up to the back corner of the shipping dock. Although she expected to find nothing, she sent two officers to search the area and the area across the street for the gun.
There were no windows in the front of the building, but there were several on the side, a few panes now shattered and saber-toothed in the darkness. A male firefighter stood in the center of the football-field-size drive, aiming a video camera at the scene. Kiley had recently learned that the Presley Fire Department videotaped eighty percent of their scenes, especially if they appeared suspicious.
About seventy-five yards from the door, a lone fireman knelt on the ground next to a body. Other firefighters gathered around him.
“Detective!”
Kiley turned to see Captain Martin Sandusky from Station Two.
“Here. You’ll need to put on some boots.” The barrel-chested man, sweating despite the freezing temperature, caught up to her. “That way you won’t have to worry about any hot spots or sharp objects.”
Debris littered the grass and the cracked concrete drive. From what Kiley could tell, the trash appeared to be mostly ash, glass and fiberglass insulation, but nails, screws and pieces of metal could easily be scattered as well.
“Thanks.” She took the steel-soled rubber boots and pulled them on over her tennis shoes, then walked with the captain up to the circle of firefighters.
Frigid air stung her cheeks and nose. She burrowed deeper into the lining of her coat. Presley was small enough that all police, including the detectives, worked solo except in fire death cases. Procedure between Presley’s police and fire departments stated that when PFD had a dead body at a fire scene, they contained the blaze then stopped and called Homicide. Tonight, the victim was again one of their own.
“What can you tell me so far?” she asked the captain.
“We rolled up. Lazano and McClain both headed for the nozzle. I thought McClain had it until I heard a boom and saw Lazano being dragged over by the rescue crew.”
So, Collier McClain was working tonight. Peachy. “How severe was the fire?”
“It was going great guns when we arrived and powered up as soon as Lazano got the door open, but it was out in less than twenty minutes. It was a sniper shot again, came from behind us across the street.”
What was going on with this lunatic? As she approached the tight circle of firefighters with their captain, the five men and two women eased back enough that Kiley could see the body.
Captain Sandusky cleared his throat, drawing the gazes of the firefighters except the one guarding the victim. “Guys, here’s Detective Russell.”
They greeted her with solemn nods. She’d come to know most of them over the past three months.
“Where’s Investigator Spencer?” someone asked.
“She’s on her way.” Kiley took in the soot-streaked yellow hats, the wet, grimy turnout gear, smoke and tear-reddened eyes on all the firefighters, but her attention homed in on the man lying motionless at their feet.
Still wearing turnout gear, the man’s handsome face and dark eyebrows were unmarred from smoke. The glinting darkness of blood on his chest had Kiley swallowing hard.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Who moved the body?”
“We did.” Two firefighters raised their hands.
“Pitts and Foster,” Sandusky supplied. “They’re our Rapid Intervention Team tonight.”
“We retrieved him and started working on him,” one of them said.
“It’s standard procedure.” The kneeling fireman raised his head and looked at her.
The air seeped out of her lungs. After Sandusky’s mentioning that Collier McClain was here, she had expected to see him, but she hadn’t been prepared.
In this light, his eye color was impossible to discern, but Kiley remembered the stormy green that was now glazed with shock. That wasn’t all she remembered.
She’d spent the past four weeks trying to forget the Christmas party at the Fraternal Order
