mailbox with the number 1642 on it.
We gawked at the derelict condition of the home.
"I can't believe he'd park his Lexus in that carport," I said.
"This is the right house number," Pearlie said, opening the car door. "I'd knock on doors and ask, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone at home."
"Too bad," I said. "I was looking forward to watching you charm the neighbors, 'cause you're so easy to talk to."
The damp sky only added to our bad mood. I should be glad for the monsoon weather; it acted as a natural water cooler to the dry Arizona climate. But dishonesty and betrayal had left me hot anyway. I shrugged off my anger at Ron and considered the house he claimed to be living in. None of the other houses on the street were in such bad shape. At the very least it looked neglected, and it only added to my suspicion that he'd given us a fake address.
Pearlie opened Ron's mailbox and slammed it shut. "The resident spider inside said Ron doesn't get his mail here. Bet you five dollars it all goes to a P.O. box, the rat bastard."
"Are you getting the picture now?"
Pearlie ignored the comment, marched to Ron's front door and rapped three times. When no one answered, she leaned on the doorbell. "He's probably sleeping off his lunch."
I sidestepped to a living room window, cupped my hands against the glass, and peered inside. There was a fat bald man sprawled out on the floor, and though his face was turned away, I thought he looked a lot like Ron.
Was that dust in the air?
No. Not dust. It was… Smoke!
Hot, swirling, angry smoke crawled across the motionless body on the floor and curled up onto the windowsill.
I stumbled back, grabbed Pearlie's hand, and jerked her off the porch just seconds before the windows exploded, the blast knocking us face down into the gravel of Ron's front yard.
Window glass rocketed over our heads and heat scorched our backs, leaving us gasping.
When the searing heat subsided enough for me to raise my head, I looked up and saw that the house was fully engulfed in flames.
My face hurt from being tossed onto the gravel, and my ears were ringing, but I struggled to my feet, and pulled Pearlie with me to safety.
At the wail of sirens in the distance, Pearlie coughed and said, "Well that didn't take long."
Yep. My lucky streak was over.
.
Chapter Two:
Firemen with axes and hoses poured out of their trucks and rushed to the house. I didn't envy them the job. Flames came in waves from the broken windows and a hole in the roof to swirl into the sky and mix with rain-filled clouds.
Satisfied that Pearlie and I weren't going to need a ride to the hospital, the EMTs removed pieces of glass from our skin, bandaged the scrapes on elbows, knees and faces, and left us to give aid elsewhere.
A man in a dark, neatly pressed suit and tie, cell phone to his ear, got out of his unmarked police car and strode toward us.
Pearlie, noting the man's confident stride, said, "Whadya think―Homicide?"
"Probably," I said with a sigh. "Almost three years under our belts with no murders attached to our names, and now this. I don't know what I'm going to tell Caleb. You got soot on your face."
"Wasn't our fault Ron's house went up in smoke," she said, reaching up to wipe at the soot with her sleeve.
The detective's sharp brown eyes swept over us. Hair singed, soot clinging to our clothes, smeared makeup, a piece of tape here and there—not our most professional look.
When his lips dared to twitch, Pearlie's lip curled into a snarl. "Something funny, Detective?"
He had the audacity to smile. "I’m Detective Hutton, and you are?"
"Pearlie Mae Bains," Pearlie said, daring him to accept her dirty hand to shake.
A dimple appeared in the detective's cheek and just as quickly disappeared.
"I see you've been checked over by the EMTs," he said, wiping the soot from his right hand with a clean, folded hankie.
Pearlie grinned at the fastidious behavior. "A little singed around the edges is all."
When
We gawked at the derelict condition of the home.
"I can't believe he'd park his Lexus in that carport," I said.
"This is the right house number," Pearlie said, opening the car door. "I'd knock on doors and ask, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone at home."
"Too bad," I said. "I was looking forward to watching you charm the neighbors, 'cause you're so easy to talk to."
The damp sky only added to our bad mood. I should be glad for the monsoon weather; it acted as a natural water cooler to the dry Arizona climate. But dishonesty and betrayal had left me hot anyway. I shrugged off my anger at Ron and considered the house he claimed to be living in. None of the other houses on the street were in such bad shape. At the very least it looked neglected, and it only added to my suspicion that he'd given us a fake address.
Pearlie opened Ron's mailbox and slammed it shut. "The resident spider inside said Ron doesn't get his mail here. Bet you five dollars it all goes to a P.O. box, the rat bastard."
"Are you getting the picture now?"
Pearlie ignored the comment, marched to Ron's front door and rapped three times. When no one answered, she leaned on the doorbell. "He's probably sleeping off his lunch."
I sidestepped to a living room window, cupped my hands against the glass, and peered inside. There was a fat bald man sprawled out on the floor, and though his face was turned away, I thought he looked a lot like Ron.
Was that dust in the air?
No. Not dust. It was… Smoke!
Hot, swirling, angry smoke crawled across the motionless body on the floor and curled up onto the windowsill.
I stumbled back, grabbed Pearlie's hand, and jerked her off the porch just seconds before the windows exploded, the blast knocking us face down into the gravel of Ron's front yard.
Window glass rocketed over our heads and heat scorched our backs, leaving us gasping.
When the searing heat subsided enough for me to raise my head, I looked up and saw that the house was fully engulfed in flames.
My face hurt from being tossed onto the gravel, and my ears were ringing, but I struggled to my feet, and pulled Pearlie with me to safety.
At the wail of sirens in the distance, Pearlie coughed and said, "Well that didn't take long."
Yep. My lucky streak was over.
.
Chapter Two:
Firemen with axes and hoses poured out of their trucks and rushed to the house. I didn't envy them the job. Flames came in waves from the broken windows and a hole in the roof to swirl into the sky and mix with rain-filled clouds.
Satisfied that Pearlie and I weren't going to need a ride to the hospital, the EMTs removed pieces of glass from our skin, bandaged the scrapes on elbows, knees and faces, and left us to give aid elsewhere.
A man in a dark, neatly pressed suit and tie, cell phone to his ear, got out of his unmarked police car and strode toward us.
Pearlie, noting the man's confident stride, said, "Whadya think―Homicide?"
"Probably," I said with a sigh. "Almost three years under our belts with no murders attached to our names, and now this. I don't know what I'm going to tell Caleb. You got soot on your face."
"Wasn't our fault Ron's house went up in smoke," she said, reaching up to wipe at the soot with her sleeve.
The detective's sharp brown eyes swept over us. Hair singed, soot clinging to our clothes, smeared makeup, a piece of tape here and there—not our most professional look.
When his lips dared to twitch, Pearlie's lip curled into a snarl. "Something funny, Detective?"
He had the audacity to smile. "I’m Detective Hutton, and you are?"
"Pearlie Mae Bains," Pearlie said, daring him to accept her dirty hand to shake.
A dimple appeared in the detective's cheek and just as quickly disappeared.
"I see you've been checked over by the EMTs," he said, wiping the soot from his right hand with a clean, folded hankie.
Pearlie grinned at the fastidious behavior. "A little singed around the edges is all."
When
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