Consumed (Firefighters #1)(65)

There was a distant crash of glass, and instantly the volume of smoke dropped, the pressure released.

“We need to wait for that temp to cool,” Danny said.

“Don’t be a pussy.”

Moose marched over to the door, positioning himself off to one side. Taking the heel of the axe, he banged on the thing. “Fire and Rescue. Open your door.” When there was no response, Moose pulled a repeat. “Open up or we’re coming in.”

Through the window at the hall’s terminal wall, Danny saw the ladder shift position. They were breaking more windows, giving the fire a chance to lose heat and stabilize.

Moose tried the knob and, finding it locked, yelled, “We’re coming in!”

He swung that axe in a fat circle, and Danny had to look away from that sharp blade biting into the smooth surface. A couple of good hits and Moose punched his fist in, feeling for a dead bolt.

“Sonofabitch.”

Danny put his mask on. “I’ll shoulder.”

Moose stepped back to secure his own air source as Danny threw his weight into the panels. The wood, weakened by incineration, splintered, and a wave of heat and smoke knocked him back. Crouching down, he hit his head lamp and entered. Daylight didn’t mean shit with the air so thick with soot and contaminants, and he proceeded through the interior, visualizing burned furniture, blackened walls, rugs that were nothing but stains on the floor. Everything was still combusting, even the lowered temperature still hot enough to consume all manner of wood, plastic, and metal.

He found the first body in the hall.

It was lying with the arms and legs outstretched, as if the person had been running for the door when an explosion or other force knocked them off their feet. Impossible to tell whether they were face-up or facedown, male or female, clothed or naked. All the hair and any clothing had been burned off, and charring of the skin and meat over the skeleton was so extensive, there were no discernible features.

“Two-fiver-eight-seven, we have one deceased in the hall off living room. Proceeding back, over.”

“Two-fiver-eight-seven, prepare for water.”

“Roger. Over.”

The hoses were opened from the ladders, gallons and gallons of H2O arching in through the windows that had been broken. Smoke flared, white now from evaporation.

The first charred door he opened revealed a crappy bathroom that had been spared some of the damage, the plastic shower curtained melted like modern art on the edge of the tub, the walls glazed and sweating, the color scheme of pale blue and yellow dulled but extant.

The next door was probably going to be a bedroom—

As Danny opened the way in, he couldn’t process what he was looking at. Walls were stained with something, the pink-flowered paper marked with . . . brown handprints? That was when he saw, through the haze, the body spread-eagled on the bed. The wrists and ankles had been tied to the posts and there was a red gag in the mouth.

No movement.

Then again, the older woman appeared to have been gutted like a deer. Very recently. There was no meaty smell of anatomy, however. The stench of the fire was too loud in his nose.

Danny spoke into his communicator. “Second victim, bedroom. This is a murder scene.”

He forgot to ID himself, but he didn’t care. He went over. The old woman was staring through sightless eyes in terror at the ceiling overhead. Her loose skin was like folds of pale felt pooling under her arm pits, at her neck, on either side of her bony thighs.

He wanted to cover her up. Find a sheet or a blanket and give her some dignity. This was a crime scene, however.

“What the fuck.” Moose came in and stood next to him. “So that’s what was cooking when the fire started.”





chapter




29



“You know, I like unusual women.”

As Charles Ripkin spoke, his eyes focused on Anne’s prosthesis. “Tell me, how did you lose your arm?”

He already knew the answer, she thought. He had to have researched her.

“I think we need to stay on topic. Let’s talk about those fires in your warehouses.”

“Did it hurt?” The man smiled. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be deformed.”

“I understand that they’re held by various LLCs. I’m curious why you haven’t put them in the name of Ripkin Inc.”

“Do you feel ugly now? You know, as a woman. Now that you’re not whole anymore.”

“I’m also curious why they’re insured by different companies. It’s like your spreading risk.”

“Not to get too personal, but when you’re with a lover, do you hide the stump? Keep it under a pillow, a sleeve, a fold of sheet? So they don’t see it. Get distracted. Lose the mood.”

“Because I’m wondering why the concentration of arson.”

His left eyebrow twitched. “Are you ashamed now? Of yourself. Do you miss who you used to be?”

“Yet no one has been charged. I realize that the argument will be derelicts, but if that were true, that area of the city has been run-down for decades. Why in the last two years is all of this happening?”

“Once a firefighter. Now a pencil pusher. You are your own cliché, you realize.”

“Do you have any explanation?”