the angle was wrong. From the occasional smile on the face of the cop manning the opening, Durrie got the sense the cop and the driver knew each other.
“Detective, what I’m about to tell you is off the record,” Durrie said, making it up on the fly.
“Of course.”
“I’m working in a special unit focusing on domestic terrorism.”
“Domestic terrorism,” Kearns said, surprise in his voice. “Did the fire last night have something to do with…”
Durrie followed the car as it headed toward the barn.
“I’m not saying whether your fire has something to do with what we’re working on or not, but after Oklahoma City last year, we’re being cautious.”
“Oklahoma City? Jesus. Is something like that going to happen here?”
“Relax, Detective,” Durrie said. “Most likely not, but we have a list of things we look for. When a case ticks something on that list, we like to check it out. Quietly, of course, so that we don’t cause a lot of unnecessary excitement. Understand? That’s why we’re talking to you.”
“Oh,” the detective said, relief evident in his voice. “I get it.”
“Good. Then can you give me an update on the investigation’s progress?”
“Absolutely,” Kearns said. “The current theory is that it’s gang-related. Probably a drug runner or something like that. They don’t have any proof, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I figured it might be something like that.” At the barn, the car had parked near the others. Durrie aimed the binoculars so he could get a good look at the driver when he got out. “If that’s the case, then I’m sure this will have nothing to do with us.”
The car door opened, and a man exited. He was at least a year or two south of twenty-five, and close to six feet tall, though that was hard to tell without an accurate reference. Durrie hadn’t seen him before, and figured he must be another crime scene tech — or ID tech, as they called it in Phoenix — because he looked too young to be a detective.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Kearns said.
“You still have that number I gave you?” Durrie asked, no longer giving his full attention to the new arrival at the barn.
“Of course.”
“Then call me if something new comes up.”
“I will.”
“Take care, Detective. I’ll be in touch.” Durrie hung up.
The number he’d given the detective was a temporary relay that would send the detective’s calls directly to Durrie’s cell phone. In three days, the relay would reroute any future calls to the Office, where a brief summary would appear on an operator’s computer screen so he or she would know how to respond to the detective. In all likelihood, though, the detective would never call the number.
Focusing back on the barn, Durrie noted that the new arrival was talking to one of the detectives. As they finished, the cleaner expected the man to walk over to the remains of the building and join his friends, but instead, the man headed toward the water tank.
Durrie followed the man with the binoculars, his interest growing. About thirty feet out from the barn, the man paused and looked at the dirt. It was as if he were searching for something specific. What, Durrie had no idea.
After a moment, the man straightened up, and headed over to the tank. Again, he was looking at the ground. When he reached the tank, he moved around back. Since Durrie could only see the portion that faced the building, he couldn’t see what the guy was doing back there.
The fact that the man had headed directly for an area where Durrie had been the night before made the cleaner a bit antsy, but the man’s interest could be logically explained. The tank would have been a natural hiding place from where an arsonist could observe his fiery creation.
After several seconds, the man reappeared from the other side, then started moving around the back of the barn. For the most part, he was looking at the ground, but every ten to fifteen seconds he’d take a quick look at the crime scene. What Durrie saw in the man’s eyes at those moments was unexpected. The guy looked wary, like he was making sure no one was paying attention to him.
The man kept coming around the building, slow but steady. When he reached the near side, he glanced over at an old, dead tree off to the side of the lot, then altered his path and walked toward it.
At the tree, he looked around, then crouched down. After a moment, he reached into one of the bushes. When he pulled his hand back out, he was holding something in it.
Durrie tried to focus on the object, but it was half hidden by the man’s hand. The only thing he could make out was that it was dark blue.
He watched as the man examined the object, turning it over, then flipping it…open.
And not just any matchbook — one that looked brand new.
Now that Durrie knew what it was, he recognized something else.
Details, that was the backbone of good cleaner work. The better you were at noticing them, the better you were at your job. Miss an important detail, and your career — perhaps even your life — would end quickly.
Durrie had seen this matchbook before, or at least several just like it. Not at the job scene, though. It had been at the hotel the Office put them up in. Matchbooks with the place’s logo on it.
Timmons? He was the only one positioned outside the barn who had been staying at the Lawrence Hotel. It must have been him, because the only others staying at the hotel had been Durrie and—
Larson. He’d gone outside to bring Timmons back. Could it have been him? Durrie frowned. In truth, it didn’t matter who had dropped it. It was there, and now the police had it. A crime scene like this, they’d follow it up for sure.
Then Durrie witnessed his biggest surprise of all.
Instead of putting the matchbook in an evidence bag and carrying it over to his friends, the man slipped it in his pocket.
The guy then circled back around to the front, and climbed into his car. Durrie got a good look at the vehicle’s license plate number as the Civic pulled away, then he removed his gaze from the binoculars and stared blankly at the sky as his mind ran through everything.
Who was this guy and what was he up to?
He could find the answer to the first part easily enough. The second would take a little more effort.
So much for leaving town in a couple of hours.
Annoyed all over again, he picked up his phone, scrolled through his contact list, then punched the desired number.
“Steiner? I need you to run a plate for me.”
7
The Lawrence Hotel was an upscale establishment in the neighboring city of Mesa. It no doubt sold itself as the refined alternative to the traditional business hotel. The guests who stayed there wouldn’t be mid-level employees, though. The Lawrence was for the upper tiers. Well-appointed and expensive, it catered to its guests’ every need.
Jake had never stayed in a hotel like it before. In his meager travels, he tended to go on the cheap. Youth hostels on his four-week trip to Europe three years earlier, and bargain motels pretty much anywhere he’d gone in the States.
On the drive over to the Lawrence, he thought about what he was going to do when he got there. The
