find.”
Keith Ganza was the director of the FBI crime lab. Maggie wondered why this case suddenly warranted the director’s presence instead of a crime scene tech. Their boss, Assistant Director Kunze, lived by a political code Maggie abhorred. Twice in the past year that code had almost gotten her killed. She hoped Ganza was on the site simply because he wanted to be here instead of sending one of his techs. He was good. She liked working with him. If there were any answers in the rubble, Ganza would find them.
“I’ve got uniforms talking to the locals,” Racine continued. “They’re checking deliveries to the area and cab drivers. Maybe we get lucky and one of them saw something.”
Maggie stopped outside the opening Tully and Racine had just exited. The scent accosted her and she pretended it didn’t bother her. Why had she thought the scorched stench would have dissipated? She knew better. What she didn’t know, what still surprised her, was her body’s involuntary reaction to it. She caught herself wanting to hold her breath as the smell seeped into her throat, her lungs. Even her mouth tasted the charred remains like the black carbon on an overdone charcoal-grilled steak.
Tully kept his fingers at the top of his Tyvek overalls’ zipper, almost as if waiting for Maggie’s signal whether they were going back inside.
That’s when it occurred to her that she didn’t need to go in. What could she possibly learn that Tully and Racine hadn’t found? Her jaw relaxed. To insist on going for a look-see would be overkill. She didn’t need to drive home any point here.
She saw the fire department’s crew still sifting and raking the ashes and rubble.
“Any signs of the timing device?” she asked, not making a move.
Tully shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Fire chief believes they found the start point on the outside of the first building,” Racine said. “Preliminary guess is some kind of chemical reaction, because of the intensity of the fire. Said it looked similar to last week’s.”
“There was gasoline poured along the alley from the front of the building to the Dumpster,” Tully told her. “It was against the brick wall. Burned up the line of accelerant without going anywhere else.”
“The alley wasn’t the start point?”
“Not even close. It might have been an afterthought. And a poorly executed one.”
“The killer didn’t even try to burn the body?”
Tully shrugged. “If that was his intention he didn’t do a very good job. The guy torches two buildings but his murder victim doesn’t quite catch fire. Doesn’t make sense.”
“Oh, and there was another body inside the first building,” Racine said casually, almost absentmindedly. “Or at least someone’s head. They haven’t found the body yet.”
“Stan said something about pressure in the skull building up enough to blow it off the body.”
“Yeah,” Racine added with a roll of her eyes. “Gives new meaning to snap, crackle, and pop.”
“Only the skull looks bashed in. Has a hole about the size of a fist.” Tully held up his own to emphasize how big.
“You’re thinking he killed the person inside, too. But then why leave one body out by the Dumpster?”
“Maybe the one inside was some poor schmuck who was sleeping there. Maybe a homeless person who saw him.” Racine’s turn to shrug.
Truth was, they couldn’t answer any of those questions until they started piecing together the trace evidence or found out who the victims were.
Maggie’s phone started ringing. She pulled it out and was going to send it to voice mail when she saw the caller ID. She shot Tully a look. “You told Gwen?”
“I haven’t talked to Gwen since midnight.”
“Racine?”
“Gwen Patterson is not on my speed dial.”
“But Ben is?”
Racine’s eyes went wide.
Maggie finally answered her phone.
“Hey, Gwen.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. A few stitches. That’s all. How in the world did you find out?”
“I’m watching the news. They were showing the fire. Then you were trying to take away some TV crew’s camera.”
“They showed that on the news?” Maggie glanced at Tully. He pulled a small plastic cartridge from his pocket.
“Just as you’re trying to ask them something, a building explodes into flames behind you. They said you were rushed to the hospital. Are you sure you’re okay? And why am I hearing about this on TV? Or do I need to wait for Jeffery Cole’s profile piece on you tonight to find out?”
“Profile piece?”
“An hour long. You either intrigued him or really pissed him off.”
That’s when Maggie’s call waiting started beeping in her ear.
“I’ve got another call, Gwen. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Are you really okay?”
She hesitated too long, and before she responded Gwen added, “Please be careful.”
Maggie took the next call without looking at her caller ID.
“This is Maggie O’Dell.”
“O’Dell. I just heard what happened.”
It was her boss. But Assistant Director Kunze didn’t sound angry. It was worse—he sounded concerned.
CHAPTER 18
“You didn’t tell me anything about a profile piece.”
Sam Ramirez paced the narrow space in the sound studio. Their feature on this morning’s fire had made the national circuit.
“Big Mac loves the idea,” Jeffery told her from his perch beside Abe Nadira, whose long fingers were playing the computer keyboards as smoothly as if they belonged to a musical instrument.
He was referring to Donald Malcolm, the bureau chief who had taken over programming when ratings dropped last year.
To Nadira, Jeffery said, “You can search and use footage from our affiliates, right?”
“Yes, I can. As well as any syndicated sources.”
“Jeffery, the feds are already going to be pissed I didn’t give them this morning’s film. Do you really want an FBI agent gunning for you?”
“She already has it bad for me, Sam. You saw her. She has a major hard-on for me.”
“No, somehow I missed that.”
Sam rubbed her hand over her face. She was tired. She wanted to go home. Her clothes and hair—hell, probably her skin, too—all reeked of smoke. Jeffery had showered and changed. He kept spare shirts and trousers in his locker, all of them immaculately pressed.
The man was a neat freak when it came to his appearance. Probably an occupational hazard from being in front of a camera. Even in third-world countries he managed to have creases in his trousers and gel in his short- cropped hair. In fact, she had been surprised this morning when he showed up with a brown stain on his shirt cuff. He’d shrugged when she pointed it out, but she saw him tuck it up into his jacket later.
Sam brushed at the grass and cinder stains on her jeans when she really wanted to peel them off and throw them in the washing machine. She shouldn’t have taken off her ball cap. Her unruly curls flew around her face, wild snakes of hair that smelled like burned toast. She wouldn’t blame Nadira if he threw her out of his editing studio,
