Cutting Edge

position seemed odd to Nora. She’d investigated only one domestic terrorism case that had resulted in fire deaths: in that case, the fourteen victims had been trapped in a burning building and all had died of smoke inhalation. The bodies had been either in fetal positions or prone.

Payne had second- and third-degree burns over all exposed areas of his body. His hair was gone, and the metal from his glasses had melted into his charred skin. His shirt was completely gone, but he’d been wearing jeans, she noted, and while they were black they appeared intact. Denim could withstand fire longer than many other natural-fiber materials. They’d need to put together all these details to figure out exactly what happened to Payne and whether his death was intentional or accidental.

Fire fatalities were among the most difficult crimes to investigate. Much of the damage to the body came from necessary fire-suppression activities, but when firefighters discovered a victim, they did everything they could to preserve evidence while also putting out the flames. Unless there was a bullet in the body, severe blunt-force trauma, or another obvious external force, determining cause of death was extremely difficult.

The man inspecting the body glanced up. “Chief.”

“Keith, this is Special Agent Nora English with the FBI’s domestic terrorism unit.”

“Don’t come in,” he ordered.

“Nora, have you met our M.E., Keith Coffey?”

“No,” she said. “Dr. Coffey, does it seem odd to you that the victim is on his back?”

He stopped his inspection and looked at her. “Yes, it is very odd. But I don’t want to jump to conclusions before the fire inspector gets here.”

“She’s on her way,” Nora said. “She was out of town and-”

A raspy voice behind her bellowed, “She? Last I checked I’m still a man, sugar.”

Nora bristled and turned. The smoker’s voice belonged to a man who looked old enough to be her grandfather. He wore black pants and a red plaid shirt on which was clipped a fire marshal’s badge.

The man grinned at her and winked. “Yep, still a man.”

“Ulysses, this is Special Agent Nora English with the FBI. I told you about the task force-”

Ulysses waved away the chief’s introduction. “Task force,” he said with derision. “All talk, no action.”

“We should discuss this, Mr-” Nora began.

“Ulysses.”

“I’ve brought in a consultant from the state fire inspector’s office, who’s been on the task force since the first fire twenty months ago-”

“This is my jurisdiction, or are you going to flex your federal muscles and screw everything up?”

Nora didn’t want friction with the locals, but she would “flex her federal muscles” if she had to. Domestic terrorism fell squarely on the FBI’s shoulders. She was about to say that when her sister Quin bounced into the room, the polar opposite of the craggy fire marshal.

“Ulysses!” Quin exclaimed, all petite blond ball of energy fawning over the graying man. She gave him a hug that was longer than it needed to be and Nora watched, bemused, as Ulysses turned to putty.

“If I’d known you were coming, sweetheart, I’d have put out the red carpet.”

Quin laughed. “Nora is my sister. Cut her cute federal ass some slack, okay?”

“Anything for you, sugar.”

Quin caught Nora’s eye with a happy smugness that had Nora twisting her mouth to avoid smirking back. At least the victim was in good hands. Her sister didn’t take anything but her job seriously, which had been a bone of contention between them for years, and there was no one Nora trusted more than Quin with this case. Quin would catch Ulysses up on the previous arsons, freeing Nora to focus on interviewing Payne’s partner and staff. While there was little doubt that this arson was connected to the others, she needed all documentation of threats either in person or writing, a list of any known trespassers over the last few weeks, and information on current Butcher- Payne projects.

Dr. Coffey turned to Nora. “To answer your question, Agent English, I’ve never seen a case where the victim was on his back except if he was dead or unconscious when the fire started.”

Quin crossed over to where Nora stood by the entry and said under her breath, “Sheriff Sanger is here, and he’s on a rampage about Professor Cole, yada yada. That slimy reporter Buttface is here-”

“Belham-”

“Right, Buttface. He’s hanging around Sanger, who’s giving this hot, tall, and sexy hunk an earful. Don’t know if he’s Payne’s partner, but-” She gave Nora the I think he’s stirring up shit sideways glance.

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“I’ll take care of Ulysses-he’s ornery, but he’s one of the smartest in the business.”

Nora excused herself after one final look at Jonah Payne’s remains.

Unconscious or dead before the fire. That would mean his death wasn’t an accident-he’d been intentionally murdered. Had he caught the arsonists red-handed? Why not hit the panic button? She assumed he would have a method to alert security quickly, but she’d need to double-check with the security company. What happened to the alarm system? Why hadn’t he called the police? Was he unable to? Maybe he had confronted the arsonists and been killed. Or he might have known the perps. Payne’s murder could have been premeditated, and the arson merely a way to cover up the crime and destroy evidence. That would make this crime far more personal, and the culprit more likely to be someone who’d benefit from his death: a partner, wife, or relative. But the M.O. matched the other BLF arsons, which made the personal scenario unlikely.

Quin took command of the crime scene the way she commanded everything in her life-fast and completely, with a sugar coating so no one knew what hit them.

Now Nora had to control whatever damage Sheriff Sanger had done by his public vendetta against Professor Leif Cole. This investigation was already sliding down the slippery slope of legal posturing and games, the press circling like vultures because the biotech industry was controversial, and high-ranking politicians were calling Washington wanting to know what was being done in Sacramento and why they didn’t have an arrest. Shit runs downhill fast.

Sanger was going to jeopardize the entire case if he didn’t keep his big mouth shut.

CHAPTER TWO

Duke Rogan had watched friends die during his tour in the Marines; he had seen and touched the dying, moved and buried the dead. But he’d never felt so damn helpless. At least, not since his parents were killed in a plane crash more than a decade ago. Worse, guilt nipped at the edges of his mind, gaining traction. His security system had failed, and a good man had paid the ultimate price.

“Are you certain the victim is Jonah Payne?” he asked Sheriff Lance Sanger. They stood near the front entrance of the burned-out research lab in the unnatural illumination of spotlights attached to the fire trucks. Fire trucks and police cars littered the small parking lot like a child’s forgotten game; the fire was out and aftermath activities were methodical, without the controlled urgency necessary while the fire raged.

“Near one-hundred-percent positive,” Sanger said. “His car is in the lot-”

“Where?” Duke hadn’t seen Jonah’s red four-wheel-drive Jeep when he’d driven up a few minutes before.

“Behind the building.”

“Is that usual?”

“I wouldn’t know. I called Jim Butcher, his partner, then you. Jim’s in L.A. He’s flying back on the first available flight.”

Duke wished Jim hadn’t heard about Jonah’s death over the phone. Jim and Jonah had been friends since college, starting Butcher-Payne Biotech right after graduate school. They’d been deemed by some as young upstarts not putting in their time or paying their dues, but they nevertheless managed to grow their business into a successful enterprise, moving into these larger facilities five years ago after selling a popular patent. Duke had known Jim even longer, since they had lived on the same street growing up, gone to the same high school, even played football together, though Jim was a couple years older.