A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(72)

“Walter?”

He turned and lowered the mask. “Oh, Tempe. I am so sorry.”

“What happened?”

“I looked over and saw smoke billowing from your window.” Pointing the extinguisher’s nozzle in that direction. “Called 911. That was around seven.”

“Thanks.” Stunned mumble through fingers pressed to my lips.

“One responder said the fire appeared electrical in origin. A flying spark hit the rags and open paint and turpentine, and boom.” Dramatized with exploding fingers. “Apparently, the new smoke alarm wasn’t functioning properly.”

“Did you open the door for them?” Knowing Walter had an emergency key to my place.

“Seriously?”

“Right.” The startled hand floating down to my chest.

Disbelieving, I took in the devastation.

“They said it was one of those freak situations where the fire exploded, blew up fast and incredibly hot, then ran out of fuel and died without spreading to other parts of the house. They had a term for it. Flashover? I don’t recall.”

I nodded, eyes still on the chaos.

“You can relax, though. The flames are totally out, and the walls are cool. I checked. I didn’t really trust that crew to be thorough, so I went over everything after the truck left. Twice.” Raising the extinguisher. “My grandfather was a firefighter. He always said secondary flare-ups were the real danger.”

Sudden horrifying thought.

My eyes flew to my desktop. The AC adapter was there, gnarled and melted. A lump of plastic that was once the mouse. Both were embedded in the charred wood on which they lay.

My computer was gone!

Blind fury ramrodded through the shock. “Sonofabitch! Where’s my laptop?”

“Where did you leave it?” Walter, eyes roving.

Ignoring the question, and the gritty crunch of glass underfoot, I darted into the room and began rummaging through the mess. Walter set down the extinguisher and joined in the search.

“I suppose it could be on the lawn,” he said, after several fruitless minutes. “They chucked things out the window.”

I raced down the stairs, fired through the door, and circled to the back of the annex. Shapes littered the ground, unidentifiable in the darkness. Frantic, I moved from object to object, desperately hoping my laptop had somehow been spared and lay among the jumble.

I nearly cried when I found it, a hunk of blackened metal, melted keys, shattered fiber-optic glass and circuit board. Devastated, I laid down the ruined Mac, hurried back inside, and mounted the stairs. With trembling hands, I began picking up and setting aside random items. Paper scraps. Fragments of pillow stuffing. Hunks of wire.

At one point, Walter again offered his condolences, then took his leave, saying something about later retrieving his lamp. I paid no attention.

How could Fred/Frank have been so negligent? How could I have been so stupid? The small space must have been pyrotechnic. Why hadn’t I checked the room following his abrupt departure? Why hadn’t I personally tested the smoke alarm? Why hadn’t I replaced the bungling twit?

My self-recrimination was such that I didn’t hear the SUV engine. The doorbell. The buzz of my mobile against my ass finally caught my attention. I answered.

“You OK in there?”

“Best day of my life.” White-hot with anger at myself.

“You want I should call a SWAT team, or you plan to answer the door?”

I trudged downstairs, let Slidell in, and led him up to the study.

“Holy fucking fuckville.”

“Poetic. Add a bleating goat sound to that, and you’ve got a hit.” Mean, but I hated this. Hated Fred/Frank and the equally inept electrician for causing it. Hated myself for letting it happen. Hated Slidell for being in my home. For being a witness to the disaster.

Slidell’s nose wrinkled, and his face crimped. “That paint thinner I’m smelling?”

I just glared at him.

“What did you lose?”

“My laptop.”

“What else?”

“The Rolex and keys to the yacht.”

Slidell ignored my snark. “You got any idea—”

“Bad wiring and fumes,” I snapped.

“You keep any valuables in here? Jewelry? Electronics? Stuff you’ll need to document for insurance purposes?”

“Isn’t my goddamn laptop enough?”

I noticed that the front of Slidell’s shirt was sweat-stained in the shape of a newt, the holstered Glock at his hip fully exposed.

“Sorry,” I added. “I appreciate your coming.”

“It ain’t the end of the world.” Cocking his chin at the rubble.

“It sure as hell doesn’t help our investigation. Everything relating to the Vodyanov case is toast.”

“Yeah?”

“What the fire didn’t destroy my overly zealous neighbor turned into mush.”

“Like what?”

“The MCME file that Joe Hawkins gave me. The photos I printed. My notes. The scraps from Vodyanov’s trench-coat pocket. Lizzie Griesser’s phenotype sketch and report. I’d just moved it all up here.”

“Your pal can print you another sketch.”

“That’s not the point.”