Borrowing Death Read Free Page B

places where no one was around. This seems like a significant increase in destructive intent to me.”
    Henry nodded, his attention back on the building and the firemen putting their equipment away.
    Finally, Michael emerged from the hardware store. A fireman helped him with the mask. Michael took a deep breath of fresh air, but his face was drawn.
    Charlotte started toward him. “Excuse me, Henry.”
    Her feet slid in the slushy road. It was particularly mucky where the water tank had been dripping, adding to the mess of the wet snow. As she reached Michael, James exited the building with the fire chief, the two of them talking in hushed tones, but their expressions were similar to Michael’s. James held something heavy wrapped in cloth and under his jacket to protect it from the snow.
    â€œIt’s bad, isn’t it?” Charlotte kept her voice low and her back turned so the onlookers wouldn’t pick up on their conversation. No need to get rumors started. “Lyle Fiske?”
    Michael nodded. “It looks like it. They’ll bring the body over to the basement of the hospital. The new morgue is up and running. Just wish we didn’t need it so damn soon.”
    â€œYou’ll confirm who it is and manner of death for an article, won’t you?” Charlotte had no desire to attend this autopsy. One was enough for her lifetime.
    Images of Darcy Dugan’s autopsy three months ago flashed through her mind like a jittery nickelodeon. Charlotte quickly pushed them aside. Insisting on attending that examination might have been a mistake, despite the fact that the results explained why the young prostitute had been murdered. She’d rely upon Michael’s explanation alone this time.
    â€œI don’t want anything out about this yet,” James said as he joined them. He looked cold and wet, his hair dripping. “There are circumstances that need clearing up.”
    â€œLike what?” she asked. “How the fire started? Do you think it was the arsonist?”
    â€œThose questions, and who’d want Lyle Fiske dead.”
    â€œYou’re sure it was intentional?” What a terrible idea.
    â€œThe fire may not have been,” James said, bringing the cloth-wrapped items out from under his coat, “but the knife and hammer near his body suggest his death was deliberate.”
    * * *
    Charlotte shifted on the uncomfortable chair in Michael’s outer office. Staying late at the Times ’s office the night before, she’d typed up a short piece for the morning edition, just a few lines of facts and observations of the fire department’s activities. Mr. Toliver had arrived by the time the fire department was finishing up. He manned the Linotype, encouraging Charlotte to go home and get some rest.
    Sleep had been nearly impossible. Speculation about how the fire had started, why, and the identity of the unfortunate victim were left out of the article, but not her thoughts. The discovery of a possible murder weapon contributed to theories about what had happened.
    Poor Mr. Fiske. Charlotte hoped he was dead before the fire started. Awful as that sounded, she couldn’t imagine the terror of being conscious while the building burned around him.
    The outer door opened and Michael came into the office, quickly closing out the cold and wind. Charlotte caught a whiff of burnt flesh under the “hospital” smell of carbolic acid and cleanser. Probably just her imagination, but she rose and cracked open the window for some fresh air despite the winter chill.
    â€œHow’d it go, Michael?”
    He hung up his hat and mackinaw, then sat in the chair behind his desk. In his usual manner of preparing to deliver bad news, Michael straightened his tie and smoothed back his hair before meeting her gaze.
    â€œI do believe it’s Lyle Fiske,” he said. “Build and clothing—what’s left of it—are consistent with Fiske. His