Charred Read Free Page B

lost.
    Matthew put his arm firmly around his wife’s shoulders, more effectual than he seemed on first impression. “We have friends and family. We’ll make arrangements.”
    At this point it was futile to try to question them further, especially since they didn’t seem to have any information to offer, or wouldn’t offer. Ellie rose, nodded, and headed for the door.
    Bad timing.
    They happened to be bringing out the body from the still smoldering house, the quiet street crowded with spectators and a camera crew from a local station. Santiago stood at the fringe of the police tape, talking to one of the crime scene guys. One lean hand ran systematically through his already disheveled hair, and he shook his head emphatically.
    She wished they connected better. Rick, her last partner in the investigation that had helped her get this job, had been a typical pigheaded male in some ways, but they had gotten along. He had never possessed a jagged edge like she felt with Jason Santiago.
    Not that it really mattered. They would work together because that was what the department wanted, and as long as he was a good cop—everyone said he was—then it would have to be okay. Maybe he’d grow on her. Like a rash or something, she thought wryly.
    She walked over, looking at Santiago, not the gurney being loaded into the ambulance. The body was zipped into a bag, but that didn’t help; she’d seen it, and the image was burned into her brain. The doors closed with a final bang that rang out with a singular sound. Her partner glanced at her. “Well? Our lucky couple give you anything?”
    “Not really.” She blew out a short breath. “Let’s talk to the neighbors, find out who was home at the time the fire started. Maybe someone saw something. Anything. If the fire was set, and it clearly was, it looks like two people broke into this house uninvited and only one of them left. Until we have more information and an ID of the victim, all we can do is go fishing.”
    “Let me guess, you’ll cast and I’ll reel them in.”
    That tone again. She looked at him. “What?”
    He lifted one of his eyebrows and said, “Never mind. Fine, let’s go.”
    *   *   *
    Carl Grasso let himself into the foyer, welcoming the cool waft of the air-conditioning, dropping his keys into a crystal bowl. The faceted mirror his mother had bought in France hung above the marble table and he caught his reflection in the glass. He’d probably changed some in the past five years. A few more silver flecks in his hair, maybe some more lines at the corner of his eyes. He usually didn’t pay much attention, but he had to shave every day, so he saw his reflection each morning; he just didn’t really look at it. All the requisite parts were okay, eyes, nose, mouth, square chin … at least he wasn’t losing his hair, not yet anyway, and he worked out like a religious fanatic and ran at least ten miles a week.
    Anything to fill the time.
    He discarded his tie over the back of a wing chair in the family room as he walked toward the kitchen, going into the butler’s pantry and taking out a bottle of single malt scotch from the bar, and fishing a glass out of the cupboard above the small sink. Two fingers, some distilled water, and a couple of ice cubes, and he took a sip, thinking about the day.
    About the murder in Bayview.
    He still didn’t know much, but he knew enough .
    If he considered this too much he wouldn’t do it. So he went back into the kitchen, set his glass on the marble counter, and got out his cell phone. He hadn’t talked to her in two years so maybe her number had changed, but he tried it anyway.
    Rachel answered on the third ring, her voice tentative. “Hello?”
    “Hi. It’s Carl.”
    “Oh.” She sounded nonplussed. He could see her in his mind’s eye, shapely, early forties now, auburn hair, or it had been that shade when they’d been involved and he could testify that it was genuine. Then her voice returned to the usual