A Killing Tide (15 page)

The station was quiet in the evening. Since the Astoria Fire Department was made up largely of volunteers, the firehouses weren't manned around the clock. Instead, on-call firefighters kept their gear with them.

Michael liked it that way. It gave him undisturbed time to think through the complexities of an investigation. To get inside the arsonist's head, to feel the guy's excitement as he'd lit the match or set the timer.

He read through his notes once more, frowning. So far, the forensic evidence was inconclusive. The lab techs were comparing the human hair they'd found to the victim's, and the unofficial word was that it probably wasn't a match. The hair was blond, a possible match to either Kaz or Gary. But Astoria had a huge Nordic population, so that was hardly conclusive. DNA tests weren't yet complete, so Michael wouldn't know for certain for another day or so.

He'd spent the dinner hour interviewing the fishermen as they came into port, and he'd come away with one overriding impression—that they were afraid. What could possibly have these fishermen—who braved some of the world's most dangerous waters—
that
spooked? And talking to Lundquist's widow and the bartender at the Redemption had been even less illuminating.

Michael had a whole town full of people who weren't talking. Even if he cut them some slack for being wary of outsiders, their reaction was still extreme. This town had a secret, one that caused people to clam up tight. He'd seen real fear in the eyes of the fishermen and the bartender. Something—or some
one
—was putting a lot of pressure on them.

The detective in charge of the case, McGuire, was acting like she had a good idea of what was going down, but even
she
was holding out on him. And the other one, the tall, thin quiet one, seemed to be content to take most of his direction from McGuire. So much for cooperation between the departments. Who was McGuire protecting? The Jorgensens, the fishermen, or all of the above?

He picked up his sketch of the fire and stared at it one more time. Pools of gasoline had been dumped on both the fore and aft decks, resulting in the caved-in sections over the hold and the forecastle. The crewman's body had been lying directly under the largest pool of gasoline, virtually guaranteeing that the deck would cave and burn the body. There was no doubt in Michael's mind that the arsonist had intended to leave very little forensic evidence behind.

Michael smiled grimly. The torch had miscalculated there—he hadn't foreseen Kaz's determination. If she'd shown up a few minutes later, they'd be matching dental records, or DNA from bone marrow, to ID Lundquist. She was also damn lucky to be alive, and the thought of what could've happened if Michael had arrived only a few minutes later was still giving him waking nightmares.

The torch had also poured streamers down the stairs and through the engine room to the galley, breaching two locked doors. Lundquist's wife had verified that no one except Kaz and her brother had keys to those doors. Both locks showed signs of having been tampered with recently, which might be a point in Gary Jorgensen's favor.

Tipping the scales in the other direction, however, were the records on Jorgensen's military training, which had finally arrived a few hours ago via email. Although most of the material had been deleted for security purposes, the type of training he'd received had been clearly documented. Jorgensen could've set that fire in his sleep, with very little forethought or planning. And if he'd had quick access to a space heater, then Michael could no longer argue that the method of ignition required advanced planning. Jorgensen could've simply killed in a rage and then covered it up.

But at this point, Michael had more inconsistencies and unknowns than he had evidence. Like the fact that Lundquist's body had been moved after he'd been killed, possibly from a location that wouldn't have given Jorgensen the time to do the crime. Like those two scratched locks. And it was those inconsistencies that were giving Michael heartburn.

Then again, maybe his heartburn was caused by Kaz. The more time he spent around her, the more he was starting to care about her. Okay, certainly the way she looked invited him to indulge in a few fantasies. But the way her mind worked—
that
was the real turn-on, and that
was
scary. She was smart, savvy, and…not boring, he realized. Kaz was…fascinating. Challenging.
Hell.
The woman was part of the investigation. End of story.

She knew more than she was letting on—she'd seen something in one of the photos. And if McGuire had seen what Kaz had, she wasn't letting on. He'd gone over and over the snapshots, but he couldn't figure out what—or who—had caught Kaz's attention. Dammit, he didn't trust her. And what had him truly worried was that he wasn't sure his libido cared.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. What was it about moving to a new town that made a person think about new possibilities? Possibilities that he'd never let himself consider in recent years? Ever since Jessica's death, he'd avoided long-term relationships. Anyone close to him could become a target, and that was reason enough, to his way of thinking, to steer clear of commitment. If his actions on this investigation ended up putting Kaz at risk, he'd never be able to live with himself.

He knew his buddies back East thought he'd crossed the line the night he'd finally run to ground his fiancée's killer. Michael would never be able to prove that he'd acted honorably. Going into the warehouse alone had been a mistake, because there'd been no witness to corroborate his version of what had really gone down inside that burning building. The guy had had a death wish—he'd had no intention of going back to jail. Michael would have to live with the rumors for the rest of his life.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and picked up his cell phone, speed-dialing, then waiting for the pick-up on the other end. "Hey, Mac. Still playing politics?"

His long-time friend and police captain in Boston snorted. "Every chance I get. You know how I love kissing ass. Especially your surrogate papa's."

David Waltham, Boston's Police Commissioner, hadn't been happy when Michael had informed him of his plans to move to Astoria. After trying unsuccessfully to change Michael's mind, he'd started targeting Mac, his theory evidently being that Mac could convince Michael to come back home.

"So when
are
you moving back, pal?" Mac asked, breaking into Michael's thoughts. "We've got a pool going on how long you're gonna last out there in the boonies, and I need some insider information here—I could use the cash."

Michael smiled. The guys hadn't changed—if nothing else came to mind, they'd bet on when the first raindrop hit the sidewalk outside. "You're gonna lose this one, Mac. I'm not coming back."

"Oh, man, do
not
tell me that. I'll have to quit my job or else get myself fired."

"You want me to tell him to lay off?"

"Hell, no. I'm getting a kick out of it. For once, the commissioner isn't getting his way. It's about damn time."

Michael couldn't argue with that. He'd be forever grateful that David had stepped into the void left by his parents' deaths, but that didn't mean that the years he'd lived in David's house had been easy ones. Waltham was smart and powerful, and he had one of the most forceful personalities Michael had ever come up against. It wouldn't hurt David to lose a few battles now and again.

"I need a favor, Mac."

He heard his friend sit up in his chair, probably taking his feet off the jumble of papers that always littered his desk. Michael envisioned the serious, all-business expression that had transformed Mac's easy-going looks. When Mac took notice, no one could beat his laser-like concentration. "Name it."

"I need you to check around quietly, see if you can find out who's been checking into my background."

Mac let out a low whistle. "What the hell's going on, buddy?"

"Just a little arson and murder, timed a little too conveniently." He waited while Mac swore, then continued. "It could be nothing—I'm just being cautious."

Mac harrumphed. "Like your instincts on this crap are ever wrong." There was a moment of silence. "You all right?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe the commissioner is right—maybe you
should
come home."

"Quit worrying," he reassured his friend. "I'm up against someone who's clever, that's all. Just get me that info, and I'll be fine."

"If you say so." Mac sounded dubious. "Hey. Maybe I should take a trip out there, check the place out."

"And here I was thinking the commissioner was the only one acting over-protective."

"Okay, okay, I can take a hint." Mac sighed. "You got a name you want me to run through the computers?"

"Not yet. But send me some coffee beans."

"You're shitting me."

"Two pounds of my special blend, from the shop in Faneuil Hall."

"Christ. Do I need to send them by overnight messenger?"

"I'm not made of money. Send it priority mail—I can wait that long." Just. Michael already planned to dip into Kaz's stash whenever he could until his own arrived. But he didn't mention that to Mac—he didn't want his friend getting curious. The next thing he'd hear was that they were betting back in Boston on how soon he'd be getting laid.

He talked to Mac for a few more minutes, catching up on some of the gossip back home, then ended the call with a promise to check back in a day or two.

He leaned back in his chair, thinking about how badly he needed the break he'd counted on but wasn't getting because of this case. When it was over, he promised himself, he'd use some power tools. Knock out a wall or three. Then he'd be back to normal. That is, if he could figure out what constituted 'normal' these days.

He heard a car door slam outside. The chief of police, Jim Sykes, loomed on the other side of the glass door. Michael waved him in, and the police chief opened the door, walking into Michael's office.

"Working late only a few days into the job, eh?" he asked Michael.

"No choice in the matter." Michael gestured to an empty chair beside his desk. "Have a seat." Zeke lifted his head and moaned low in his throat, and Michael gave him a soft command. The dog subsided but didn't go back to sleep.

While Sykes settled in, Michael examined his reaction to the man. The way he'd felt last night hadn't been a fluke—he didn't like the guy, but he couldn't put his finger on why. On the surface, Sykes seemed okay. A little overzealous, maybe, but dedicated to his job. And Michael understood overzealous—he'd seen a lot of colleagues in Boston act the same way.

The police chief drew out a slim cigar. He raised his eyebrows, and Michael kept his expression even while he unearthed a used coffee cup to serve as an ashtray.

He had a real hatred of smoke in any of its forms. Most arson investigators didn't feel that way—they actually
liked
the smell of smoke. And many of them were three-pack-a-day addicts, feeling a genuine affection for anything that burned.

"Came by to welcome you to the community," Sykes said after lighting up. "It's great to have someone with your background in town."

"Thanks." Despite his tailored suit and expensive haircut, Sykes had the look of a man who drank too much. The flesh around his eyes was puffy and his cheeks were webbed with numerous small, red blood vessels. Then again, a lot of cops drank.

Sykes settled more comfortably in his chair. "I have to admit, I had an agenda for stopping by tonight. I'm hoping to convince you to join the Big Brothers here in Astoria. The program has a special place in my heart, and I make a point of asking all my officers to spend some time with the more disadvantaged kids in the community, to let them see that we're more than just a uniform, that we're human beings, too."

His request took Michael a little by surprise, though now that he thought about it, it made sense. Given his childhood struggles, Sykes would be particularly sensitive to the problems of children who grew up without good role models at home.

"I don't know." Michael hesitated. "I was an only child—I'm not sure I know how to be a Big Brother."

"Not a problem. I want these kids to start a dialogue with us now, before they get started down the wrong path."

"I'd be of more help after I've been here for awhile, once I have a better feel for the community."

"Once you get your feet wet, you'll do fine," Sykes assured him. "Both as a role model and as a fire chief. Think about it—that's all I'm asking. You can give me your answer later."

Michael nodded.

"People around here
do
take time to warm up to newcomers, though. We've had a lot of folks move out here and then leave within a year or two. So we tend to hold back some in the beginning." He drew on his cigar, then tapped some ash into the cup. "Give it a while—you'll find folks a lot more willing to talk to you."

"I doubt this investigation can wait that long," Michael said wryly.

"Which is the other reason why I stopped by, to suggest you take it easy on this one. Let the police be the primaries. We've got a lot of history with Jorgensen—he's been on my radar for a long time."