Heaven's Fire (17 page)

The ATF agent
took a step toward
Jake
, making it necessary for her to look up--way up--at him.
"
That’s what I want to know.
Is this supposed to be TV8
news or
some kind of
docudrama? Where do you people get your facts?"

What a difference a day makes. Last night he was all lips and hands, and today he was all mouth.
"
Which facts are you talking about? The fact that the shell exploded when it wasn’t supposed to? The fact that one person is dead and another is presumably dead? We’re making that up?
"

"
You’re exploiting, dramatizing.
"
Simon paced away and then back.
"
For what? Ratings?
"

Gosh, Jake thought. He says it like it's a dirty word.
Despite the fact she'd been known to voice similar sentiments at times, the producer automatically sprang to the defense of her employer and industry. "Without ratings, we can't--"

But
Aamot
interrupted, moving i
n
even
closer
and
bracing
one hand against the truck,
effectively trapping her between himself and the production van.
"
I understand you’re broadcasting the Fourth of July Fireworks. Your coverage of ‘Blast at Lake Days’ pulled in quite an audi--"

"'Disaster at Lake Days'" Jake automatically corrected.

Aamot stopped mid-word. "What?"

"A festival in Kansas has the word 'Blast' trademarked," Jake mumbled. "We're using 'Disaster'.

"Wait a second," Aamot started, "you're telling me someone can trademark a word that's in common usage? That's...," he caught himself, "...beside the point. Whatever you call it, the Firenze explosion has been great for business, hasn't it? What’s your commercial time
for the Fourth
going for?
"

Jake flushed. She knew that despite sky-high rates, the ad time already was sold out. She didn't like what that said about the station or humanity in general, any more than Aamot did.

But
the ATF agent
wasn't coming up for air.
"
Cravens thinks he’s a war correspondent. The same for your camera man. And Martha Malone is doing a made-for-TV movie, with herself in the central role.
And i
mplying that I'm in collusion with the Firenzes. Not to mention disputing the results of my
earlier
investigation, when she doesn't know a damn thing about it.
"

Almost in spite of herself,
Jake was fascinated by Aa
mot’s sudden temper tantrum. He'd been
so laid-back
yesterday
, that seeing him get mad was like watching a heretofore tranquil mountain erupt into a volcano. One minute there were deer grazing on his slopes, and the next minute his head blew off.

"
I'm not sure what you mean," Jake said. "I read the reports myself and there
were no lightning strikes--
"

"
No
lightning
strikes
,
but
lightning in the atmosphere.
"
The vein above his right eye was throbbing.
"
Static electricity."

Jake
thought about it. A little information could be a dangerous thing, especially when it was patched together with a lot of other partial information to fit a foregone conclusion. "Then you need to
clarify. O
n the air."

Simon was quiet. But still simmering underneath, Jake was willing to bet.

"Listen," she said. "You can blame me. You can blame Martha. You can blame Neal, and y
ou can blame Luis.
But you sure have to
include yourself
if you don't show us where we're wrong."

He looked at her like she was a fly who’d had the audacity to
buzz
him. Then something flickered in his eyes, like a sudden thought had struck.

"
What are you doing for dinner
?
"

The drive out to the Firenzes was long and very quiet. Simon was driving the Explorer, and Jake was in the
passenger seat. I
nstead of reacting to his tantrum by being angry right back at him,
the producer
seemed to be enjoying
the outing
. Which
, of course,
made
Simon
feel downright sheepish.

Government agencies were used to being criticized in the media. Hell,
he
was used to being criticized in the media, though usually not by name and acco
mpanied by a full-color photo. Yet h
e’d overreacted again, making him look like he
had
been treating this explosion differently than other investigations.

All was not lost, though. He could still get back on track tonight and set a professional tone with the Firenzes. And Jake would be there to witness it, even better. He looked over at her, and she caught his eye and gave him a big smile.

Jesus,
what in the hell was he doing bringing Jake along? As a witness? A
buffer?

Simon
turned the truck into the Firenze driveway, and they bounced past the factory parking lot and up to a cream-colored brick farmhouse. Pasquale and his wife, Sadie, lived on the northern-most portion of the old farm in the original farmhouse.

Pat was in the front yard with the two dogs
and
called to the shepherds
as
the truck pulled up. Only Lugosi obeyed, flopping over onto the ground
while
Bela chased the truck’s back tire
s
, trying to snap at
them
as he ran.

"
Sorry,
"
Pat said as Simon and Jake got out of the truck.
"
Bela’s a little high strung today.
"

"
As usual,
"
Simon said, stepping around the dog as it practically stood on its head trying to fit its mouth around the steel-belted radial. "Lugosi's looking mellow, though." The two-legged shepherd was lying on the grass chewing on his rear leg.

P
at shook Simon's hand. "
He's been off his feed lately." He turned to Jake.
"
I’m glad you could join us.
"

He didn't sound glad. Simon had called
on his cell phone
to
make sure it was all right
to bring a guest, but now it occurred to him that the Firenzes might
well
have seen Martha Malone’s report, too.

Jake, who had been studying Lugosi, turned innocently to greet Pat. That's why I brought her, Simon thought, she's the TV8 sacrificial lamb.

Just then, Sadie Firenze flew out the screen door and down the wooden porch steps to throw her arms around Simon.
"
Oh, Simon, Simon, what will we do without our Pasquale?
"

Sadie Firenze was all of five feet tall. She had her arms wrapped around Simon’s waist now and was sobbing and murmuring something he couldn’t understand into his shirt. So much for
appearing
professional.

Coming from a family of Norwegians,
Simon
felt awkward around public displays of emotion. Grief in his
childhood
home
was
something to be contained until it could be spilled out safely into a pillow or behind a closed door. To do otherwise was considered self-indulgent and stagy--like rending your clothes or sitting in ashes.

But before Simon could do more than start to put his arms awkwardly around Sadie, she was backing up, wiping at her eyes with the corner of the dish towel she held.
"
I’m sorry,
Simon.
I know you’re here to do your job.
"

She looked up at
the ATF agent
, and he could see that grief had taken all the horizontal lines of her face--the crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the laugh lines around her mouth--and turned them into harsh verticals. Sadie’s face seemed to sag, and her mouth trembled as she struggled to control herself.

The older woman
took his arm.
"
You come in and you eat. Then we talk about what happened to my Pasquale.
"
Sadie looked toward the kitchen window, where a figure could be seen moving behind the sheer curtains.
"
And to my daughter’s husband.
"

She turned toward Jake as they entered the big living room.
"
And this? Is this someone else from the ATF?
"

"
I’m sorry, I thought you
already knew
each other. Sadie Firenze, this is Wendy Jacobus, she’s with TV8.
"

Sadie’s brown eyes got small and shiny.
"
Yes, I remember you," she said to Jake, then turned on Simon. "You bring
this person
to my house, Simon? After what they say about my family? And about you?
"

Oh, boy. Simon started to answer, but Jake leapt into the breach.
"
I’m sorry, Mrs. Firenze. When there’s an accident like this,
we try to explain what happened, given the
best
information we have at the time.
Sometimes
we...
"

"
Speculate
,
"
Simon finished for her, feeli
ng even guiltier for putting the producer in the
situation.
"
But the fact is, it's my responsibility
to find out what really happened
so Jake's station can report it
.
"

Sadie eyed
the TV8 producer speculatively
and then dropped Simon’s arm to take hers. The Firenze media relations department.
"
My husband Pasquale, he was so careful making those shells. No way he make a mistake." She made a violent negative gesture with her free hand to shush Pat, who had opened his mouth.
"
No way. You understand?
"

Jake was nodding
as
Sadie led her off into the dining room
. Trailing alongside Pat
, Simon
saw dinner was
already laid out.

"E
verybody makes mistakes.
"
Pat glanced over at Simon and then quickly away. "
And sometimes accidents just happen, like with Uncle Frank
ie
."

Sadie etched a sign of the cross at the mention of her late brother-in-law and took the chair on the end of the table closest to the kitchen door. She motioned for Jake to sit on her left.

Simon, waiting to be told where to go, wondered if that was what Pat was hiding: A mistake. One his father had made. Or did Pat think Simon was the one who had made a mistake?

Pat sat on the opposite end of the table from Sadie in Pasquale’s chair at the head of the table. He motioned for Simon to take the chair next to Jake.

As he did, Angela's voice floated out from the kitchen. "But Uncle Frank
ie
should not have been working in the factory at all. He should have been in the Pathways Center in Ohio, like Aunt Nicolene wanted."

Angela came out of the kitchen with a dish of stuffed shells. Simon stood up to greet her, having experienced Firenze dinner conversations--which bounced from table to kitchen and back again without a break--before.

"
Your Aunt Nicolene was full of prunes,
"
Sadie snorted.
"
You have to be a Shriner to go there, and one thing your father said his family had no truck with, was those Shriners.
"

"
I think he meant Teamsters, Mamma,
"
Angela said gently, as she hugged Simon in greeting. Her slightly woodsy perfume wafted over him.
"
But the important thing is that Uncle Frank
ie
died doing what he loved. We should all be so lucky when our time comes, my father would say.
"
Her huge eyes filled with tears, and she took Simon's hand and led him around the table to sit next to her.

Simon, feeling awkward, sat down diagonally across the table from Jake. He didn’t want to react to Angela’s tears in front of the TV8 producer, and certainly not the way he'd reacted to Jake's the night before. Instead, he turned his attention to the food. On most American dinner tables, the pasta would have been the main dish. Here the shells were just a side dish, like potatoes--which they were also having, along with roast chicken. And green beans. And an antipasto.