Gideon knew Clarke had nearly been killed saving the father and his two young children. He had turned around to go back in for the mother, but the structure had been fully engulfed. The mother had died in the blaze. Clarke had later been decorated by the city, but he’d privately admitted he’d been deeply shaken for months.
“When can you tell me definitely that this was arson?” Gideon asked.
“My boys and I need to thoroughly comb this place and search for traces of accelerants and incendiary devices.”
“But you have a theory.”
Clarke dropped his voice. “I’d bet my last dollar it’s arson.”
“Keep me posted. I’ll send a deputy by to secure the scene until the medical examiner arrives.”
Gideon strode across the blackened debris, and when he stepped out onto the curb and ducked under the crime scene tape, his chest was tight. He drew in a deep breath, expanding the compressed muscles banding his rib cage. He reached for his phone and dialed Detective Becca Sullivan’s number.
She picked up on the second ring. “I knew three consecutive hours of sleep was too much to hope for.”
“I wish I could let you sleep,” he said. “I’m going to need you at the fire scene. We just found the body of the woman I spotted during the fire.”
In the background, he heard a light click on. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I’ve put out a few queries about Lana Long. Can you also see if there’ve been any hits?”
“She connected to the fire?”
“Maybe.”
“Will do, boss.”
“Appreciate it. I’m going home for a few hours to check on Kyle and talk to Ann. She might have a few insights about this fire.”
“Solid police work and forensics is going to solve this, not psychology,” Becca said.
“I’ll take all the help I can get.”
They made promises to touch base by noon before he ended the call. As he tucked his phone in his pocket, a blue pickup truck splashed with dried mud parked behind Gideon’s car. A tall man with a thick waist and broad shoulders climbed out. He wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and old work boots. Dark hair was brushed off a square face.
Gideon recognized the man instantly. His name was Dan Tucker Jr. Like his father before him, Dan owned Tucker’s Diner, a fairly successful eatery that was popular with the college kids. But his real claim to fame was the creation of a local citizens’ action committee dedicated to keeping Elijah Weston out of Missoula. Dan and his followers had made it clear during parole hearings that the ex-con was not welcome, and Gideon would bet money they were behind the faint remains of the sidewalk graffiti in front of the boardinghouse.
“Mr. Tucker.” Gideon moved to cut Tucker off as he strode toward the gutted structure. “I’m going to have to ask you to stand back. This is an active crime scene.”
Tucker stopped, clenched fists at his sides as his gaze remained rooted on the former beauty shop. “I knew this was going to happen. I been telling you since the day his release was approved that it was a matter of time. I’m only surprised he did it so quickly.”
“We don’t know how this fire was set,” Gideon said. “It’s going to take days, perhaps weeks, to determine that.”
“I can save the taxpayers a lot of money,” he said, turning to Gideon. “Elijah Weston set the fire. He can’t help himself.”
“We don’t know that.” Gideon took a step closer to Tucker. “And I want you to stay away from him. No vandalizing and no threats, or I will put you in jail.”
Tucker’s anger turned sullen. “How many buildings and people does this guy torch before something is done?”
Gideon ignored the comment. “If I end up with a case against Elijah, I don’t want a defense attorney getting my charges thrown out because some vigilante compromised the investigation.”
“I haven’t hurt him.”
“Keep it that way. Stay away from him. That includes any more spray-painting stunts. Let me do my job.”
Tucker glanced toward the sun gaining distance above the mountain range. “I respect you, Gideon. You’re good at what you do, but you haven’t been around for months.”
“Your point, Mr. Tucker?” Gideon’s voice was steady enough to pass for calm.
“Must be nice to take the summer off. I just want to make sure you’re with us now that we got a madman living among us.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Tucker.” He was committed to the community and the ranch’s legacy more than ever.
“I’ll leave it to you, then,” Tucker said. “But I’m going to be watching, and if you or the law can’t act, then someone will.”
“What does that mean?”
Tucker shrugged. “Take it any way you want. I care about this town and will do what’s necessary to protect it.”
Gideon stood in the center of the street, his body tense with fatigue and frustration as he watched Tucker storm to his truck and gun the engine.
He reached for his phone and dialed the medical examiner’s office. The situation was going to spiral out of control quickly if this was arson.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Missoula, Montana
Sunday, September 6, 2020
9:55 a.m.
Joan did not understand the concept of a sleepover. Nate and Kyle had barely slept last night, and both still possessed boundless energy.
After pouring a fresh, extra-strong cup of coffee, she took a long sip as Nate and Kyle sat at the kitchen table laughing at another stupid joke. Ann was serving them a second batch of pancakes after they had devoured the first.
Joan used to have that kind of energy. She could go and go like the Energizer Bunny. These days, her idea of pure pleasure was rising on a Sunday, having a coffee, getting back into bed, pulling the covers up over her head, and sleeping. If only she had such a luxury today.
“Joan, can you pull my finger?” Kyle asked, giggling.
“No thanks,” Joan said.
“Auntie Joan has not had a full cup of coffee,” Ann offered. “Let her
