Consumed (Firefighters #1)(48)

Under her palm, his short fur was smooth and warm, and she loved the feel of him pushing into her.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” she said hoarsely.





chapter




22



Midmorning the following day, Anne left the office and went downtown to the registry of deeds. Parking between a Chevy Equinox and a truck that had rusted lace around its wheel wells, she got out and walked up to a building that was right out of the seventies. Floor after floor of individual windows were covered by a superfluous lattice of grungy concrete that was about as attractive as those plaid suits with huge lapels had been.

If it hadn’t been for the set of steps, she would have had no clue where the entrance was.

As she walked into a lobby that was as well-appointed as a Greyhound terminal, she could smell old mold and ancient nicotine. Then again, the fake wood paneling had no doubt been an original installation and the stuff was porous when it came to scents, a jealous guard of dubious treasure.

The registry was on the first floor, and she pushed open a heavy door marked with the city seal and block roman lettering that was flaking off. On the far side, she got a load of the fry-station equivalent of civil servants. The two receptionists, a man and a woman, were seated behind a partition that was like a bank’s, with cutouts to pass papers through and twin computers, and the pair of them looked as if they were along the lines of that not-really-oak paneling: Mr. and Mrs. Anachronism were both in their sixties, with polyester uniforms and the same hair style of a perm pushed back off the face and sprayed into place.

Anne went over to the woman. Because girl power.

“Hi, I’d like to do a records search.” She smiled to seem warm. Nice. Nonthreatening. “It’s on six parcels of property downtown? I have the addresses, but when I tried to get a log-in online, I was denied.”

“Did you call the help line?”

The phone started to ring, and the man next door picked up after three, no, four . . . wait, five rings. “Hello. Help line.”

Anne glanced at him as he doodled on a pad. Looked back at the woman. “Well, it sounds like those calls get answered here.”

“Did you call the help line?”

Is this like a video game where you have to get to the next level? Anne wondered.

“Yes, I did. And I was told to come down here.”

The receptionist over on the phone said in a bored voice, “You’ll have to come down here and get one issued. Our server is down.”

“So that’s why I’m here,” Anne said. “Except if your server’s not working, how will it help to get a log-in?”

The woman took a piece of paper off a stack and slid it across the counter. “Fill this out.”

Anne glanced down. “Can I just go through a physical search?”

“Fine.” The form was retracted and an old-fashioned ledger was pushed across at her. “Sign in. And I’ll need to see your driver’s license.”

After filling in her name and address, Anne flashed her ID, and the receptionist hit a buzzer that released a locked gate over on the right.

“Here is the map. We’re here for questions.”

But I’d have to fill out a form, right? Anne thought. Or call your buddy.

With a nod, she took the piece of paper and walked through. The deed room was lit bright as an OR and had a tall ceiling that was useless, as the rows of metal file cabinets only went up to chin height. There was a long desk with three computers on it, but she never did get a log-in sorted. Besides, she preferred to do things by hand—

Between one blink and the next, she got an image of her fingers clawing into Danny’s shoulder as he churned on top of her.

Exhaustion, a parting gift from her night of not sleeping, bear-hugged her. But she’d already spent enough time trying to frame what she’d done into any kind of rational framework of no-big-deal. At least Danny hadn’t tried to call or text. She needed space.

On that theory, she should move to Canada.

Right, time to look at the map and go on the hunt.

A number of desks with chairs were in the middle of the room, and she claimed one by putting her bag and her coat on it. As she got out her notes, she thought of her new boss’s pep talk. Someone had died in at least two of those old warehouse fires. And hell, she had been permanently changed.

So there were crimes to solve here.

There was still something worth fighting to protect. And in this case, it was justice.

? ? ?

“Sorry I’m running a little late.”

As Danny got up from a sofa that was too soft, he put his hand out to a fifty-year-old woman with thick gray hair and a shapeless brown dress that reminded him of the tarp he had over the chopped wood out at the farm.

“It’s okay,” he said.

Her limpid, concerned eyes made him want to go Warner Bros. cartoon through a wall.

“Daniel Maguire.” She smiled as they shook. “That’s a good Irish name.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Irish, too. Dr. Laurie McAuliffe. Won’t you come in?”

Not if I have a choice. “Sure.”

The office beyond was pretty much what he expected, a lot of earthen tones and more Wonder Bread furniture, an ornamental water thingy in the corner making I’m-a-fountain noises.