Chapter One
The fire had been alive; it had left its signature in the
coiled, twisted wood, the bent metal, the heavy ash. It
was a tamed beast, but still here, ready to come back to
life with a nudge. Lisa O'Malley walked with great respect
up the stairs following her brother Jack into the heart of
the fire damage. The heavy boots he had insisted she wear
were welcome as she realized it was glass crunching
beneath her feet. Lightbulbs and picture frames had
shattered in the heat.
The fire coat was harder to get accustomed to. The Nomex
cloth was rough and it felt like thirty pounds on her back
as she struggled to keep her balance. When Jack worked a
fire he ran stairs wearing the coat and an air tank,
carrying another forty pounds of gear. She didn't know how
he did it. The man rarely showed a serious side, but it
was there when he was doing the job he excelled at.
Reaching the upstairs landing, she turned her flashlight
to inspect the hallway ceiling and walls. The superheated
gas created by the fire had reached down five feet from
the ceiling, burning into the paint and wood, marking a
suicide line. Two or three feet down indicated a severe
fire; five was explosive. The firemen confronting this
fire had been taking their lives in their hands in facing
it head-on.
"Watch your step, I don't trustthis hallway. Stay close to
the north wall."
Lisa returned her flashlight to the floor to pick her next
steps. Jack had hesitated before letting her come up. The
house was safe for now, but with the weight of walls and
joists shifting to beams not designed to handle the
weight, every day brought the structure closer to
collapse. It had rained yesterday, making the damaged wood
swell and further stressing the structure.
She was careful not to get snagged by a nail or by exposed
wiring. The fire crews had pulled down part of the hallway
ceiling and torn portions of the walls back to the studs
in order to locate dangerous pockets of lingering heat.
Six days ago this had been a two-alarm fire. In the
smoldering remains, still in his bed, the body of Egan
Hampton had been recovered.
She reached the back bedroom and stopped.
"An accident-" She could only shake her head in disbelief.
The furniture was charred, the mattress burned down to the
springs; books on the shelf were now warped spines
enfolding wrinkled pages of ash; the alarm clock was a
chunk of deformed plastic adhered to the bedside table;
the television tube had cracked and buckled in.
The only items not burned or blackened in the room were a
portion of the bedding that had been protected by Egan's
body and a section of the floor rug that had been under
the bed frame. The bedroom door was still on its hinges
but it had burned on both sides to a fraction of its
normal width.
"Like I said, it was a hot fire."
She stepped with caution inside the room, instinctively
looking up to make sure she wasn't going to get hit with
something. The ceiling was open in sections, revealing
part of the attic, and in one place she could see all the
way through to the sky.
Through the destroyed window she could see the orchard and
nursery, the buildings and commercial greenhouses that
comprised Nakomi Nurseries, the business Egan had built up
over the years and recently passed to his nephew Walter to
manage.
Jack dealt with fire every day; he knew how it moved and
breathed and burned. She'd learned enough from him to
understand the patterns. This looked like a flashover-
everything in the room heating up, reaching burn point,
and suddenly bursting into flames en masse. "Did the room
smolder and smoke before flashover or was it a steady
fire? In the police report Walter said he saw the smoke
and then a flash and called 911."
"It began as a smoldering fire." Jack knelt and picked up
large shards of glass from the shattered window. "Look at
the smoke stain that burned into the pane of window glass."
He used the crowbar to pull off the bottom piece of the
window frame casing and turned it over to show her the
details. "You can tell it started as a floor fire burning
upward because the fire swept across this wood and out the
window. Had it initially been flames at the ceiling coming
down the wall and out the window, the burning would be
pitting on the top of the wood, not this charring
underneath."
Daniel had done the autopsy on Egan Hampton. While smoke
had killed the man-carbon monoxide had been found in his
lungs indicating he'd been alive when the fire started-
there was also a puzzle. He had suffered a contusion on
the left temple coincident to death. It wasn't severe; the
bruising had just begun to seep into the deep tissue.
The explanation could be as simple as something falling on
him when the fire began, but it needed to be explained.
And there was the fact he had taken what had been
determined to be two sleeping pills. Within the doctor's
prescribed dosage, but still a factor to be looked at. For
now the autopsy results were inconclusive.
As with all cases that could go either way, it had come
back to the central staff at the state crime lab for
another look at the autopsy results in light of the case
circumstances. Her boss had dropped the case in her lap
Friday afternoon.
As a forensic pathologist the question she asked was
simple to state and often maddeningly hard to answer: Was
the death suspicious, warranting a murder investigation,
or accidental?
Lisa loved a good puzzle, but not one that arrived to ruin
a weekend. She'd read the reports yesterday, concluded
only that she needed more information. "It would help if
you could tell me this was an arson fire."
"It was a hot fire, but then it's been a hot, dry summer.
The house has no air-conditioning, and the furniture and
flooring had absorbed the afternoon heat. We found a lot
of dry rot in the roof, and with this being a small back
bedroom the fire was able to flashover within minutes."
"The fire started at the base of this wall?"
"As best we can tell, he fell asleep and dropped his
cigar. We found the remains of one there." Jack
pointed. "It hit what appears to have been a burlap bag of
laundry. The fire moved across the floor, you can see the
distinct burn line-" he traced it with his hand-"and
eventually reached into the closet where it had an
unlimited fuel load. It built in intensity and then moved
back into the bedroom along the ceiling-see the bubbling
in the wood? By then it was moving hot and fast."
"How long before the smoke blanket dropped low enough to
kill him?"
"The fire probably took four to six minutes to get a
footing. From then to a killing blanket of toxic smoke,
you're talking maybe two minutes at the outside. The
window was open, and the door, an unfortunate reality for
him. The airflow would cause a natural eddy of smoke into
that corner of the room over the bed."
She looked at the damage, now more able to understand why
Mr. Hampton had not awakened. The fire Jack described
would not be loud enough to wake a man sleeping heavily
under the influence of two sleeping pills and building
carbon monoxide. By the time the fire surged from the
closet back into the room, the smoke would have been thick
enough to kill.
She looked again for what might have caused the
bruise. "The heat weakened and collapsed the plaster?"
"The house is old construction, they used a plaster paste
over wood, and you can tell that most of it broke away.
Directly above this room in the attic were cardboard boxes
storing his wife's things, including clothes." "Another
fuel load."
"Yes. Once in the attic, the fire was burning on both
sides of these joists."
"So falling plaster could account for the blow." Lisa
walked to the remains of the bed frame and started
searching the area. "Is there any evidence of a picture on
the wall? Something else that might have fallen on him?"
Jack started tugging back debris.
They searched for ten minutes and found the remains of two
picture frames and a shelf. The shelf would have been
heavy enough, or an item on it. She felt herself
relax. "One of these items is probably what caused the
bruise."
"Agreed. The cat was found there." Jack pointed to the far
corner of the room.
"Cat? What cat?"
"It wasn't in the notes? There should be an addendum to
the fire report. Craig found it during the fire mop-up. We
figured the cat was on the bed, got a face full of the
smoke, retreated to escape the fire, then got trapped."
"A cat losing all of its nine lives? I thought the door
was open."
"It was open when we came up the stairs fighting the fire.
I suppose it's possible the force of the water pushed it
open, but that would be apparent in the burn patterns."
Jack crossed over to the door and carefully swung it to
take a look. "The door was open during the fire. If it
were closed, this door edge around the knob and the edge
back by the hinges would have been protected by the door
frame, but both show serious burning."
"Then why didn't the cat bolt from the room?"
"It's hard to tell a burned cat's age, but it looked
young. And a cat is not going to jump through fire at the
window or past fire in the doorway. It tried to hide and
the smoke eventually overcame it. We've seen it before."
"Jack?"
"Up here, Ford."
Footsteps sounded on the stairs as the detective assigned
to the case came upstairs. He had been talking with Egan's
nephew Walter. The house was going to have to be
demolished in the next few days. Walter was in the process
of recovering what essential papers he could from the
downstairs office.
"Ford, do you know what happened to the cat?" Lisa asked
before she realized Walter had also come upstairs with the
detective.
Walter was the one to answer. "I'm sorry, I buried the cat
this morning. I didn't realize it would be a problem. The
crows had been attracted by the death; I found them in
here." He swallowed hard. "Listen, it's in a shoe box
buried at the end of the garden. It will take only a
minute to get it for you."
"No," Lisa replied, stopping his retreat. "It's okay. Jack
just told me it had also been killed."
"Egan liked that cat. It was from a neighbor cat's spring
litter. I guess the house was lonely at night since
Patricia was taken to the nursing home. He never liked
pets before."
Lisa saw Walter look again toward the bed and knew it was
best that they leave. She could see how hard this was on
him. He was in his forties, lean, a landscaper by
profession with an appearance that fit it, his jeans and
gray T-shirt sweaty in the heat. At close range, the
ravages of the last six days-the healing burns, the
stress, the grief, and the lack of sleep-were all there to
be seen on his face. He'd tried to reach his uncle but had
been unable to get past the flames.
"I've got everything I need to finish up my report. We
were just coming down." She was comfortable with the
assessment that this had been a tragic accident. The dead
cat disturbed her, but Jack was right, pets died in fires.
She'd think it through again tonight, look one last time
at the autopsy results, and if she didn't see anything
else, she'd recommend to her boss that they sign it off as
an accidental death.
Lisa was relieved. The last thing she needed was another
murder investigation.
U.S. Marshal Quinn Diamond walked through the concourse at
O'Hare, carrying a briefcase he hated, his cowboy boots
leaving an echo behind him. His face was weathered by the
sun and wind, the lines around his eyes deep. He was not a
man to enjoy the crush of people, but at least Chicago was
better than New York or Washington.
He had planned to take a direct flight from Washington,
D.C., to Montana, spend his month of vacation at his
ranch, let the physical hard work wipe away the
aftereffects of two months spent tracking down who had
murdered a federal judge.
Instead, he was in Chicago on very short notice. The
folded newsclip in his billfold was from yesterday's
Chicago Tribune. There was a book signing Tuesday night
for a Sierra Club book entitled A Photographic Guide to
Birds in the Midwest. The author's name-Amy Ireland Nugan.
Quinn had been checking out of the hotel in Washington
when the news alert service tracked him down. It had been
so long since the last lead. Was it her? Was it the Amy
Ireland he had sought for so long?
He'd been able to get a few answers. She was married to a
Paul Nugan. She was the right age, thirty-seven. Amy had
been seventeen when she disappeared from Justin, Montana,
twenty years ago.
The same day Amy had disappeared, his father had been shot
in the back out on the southern range of the ranch near
the bluffs.
After twenty years of searching he had finally accepted
that Amy must have also died that day, but if she had
instead fled and appeared sometime later in Chicago-he
didn't think she would have pulled the trigger, but she
might have been with someone who had.
If he could solve what had happened to Amy Ireland, maybe
he could get a lead on who had killed his father.
He had almost given up hope of ever finding a trace of
her. He'd eliminated dozens of Amy Irelands over the
years, but this one ... the sense of hope was back. It
fit. Amy had been a high-school photographer with a
passion for what her camera could reveal. She'd had real
talent even in her teens. Quinn could easily see her
making it a future career.
He had to know if this was the right Amy Ireland. And if
it was, he had to be very careful not to send her running
again. Practicing patience was not going to be easy.
His partner, Marcus O'Malley, would have joined him if
Quinn had alerted him to the hit on the name; he was that
kind of friend. But Quinn hadn't wanted to interrupt
Marcus's chance to spend time with his sister who was
undergoing cancer treatment at Johns Hopkins and his new
fiancée, Shari. Instead, Quinn had called an old friend.
Quinn found Lincoln Beaumont waiting in the United
Airlines' business lounge. If he hadn't known better, on
first impression he would have assumed lawyer or
investment banker, not retired U.S. Marshal and now
private investigator. "Thanks for coming, Lincoln." He
tipped his cowboy hat to the lady with the retired
marshal. "Ma'am."
"Emily Randall; I handle Lincoln's research." She was a
nice-looking lady, businesslike in her handshake, feminine
in her dress, and confident in her gaze. "It's nice to
meet you, Mr. Diamond."
"The pleasure's mine," Quinn replied with a smile. Lincoln
had been right; she'd be perfect if it became necessary to
have someone approach Amy.
The smile directed at him showed curiosity. He was
accustomed to it; he made no attempt to disguise the fact
he was a misplaced man in the city. Why that should draw
women was a phenomenon he accepted but didn't really
understand.
It didn't attract the attention of the one lady he wanted
to notice him. No, he changed that. Lisa O'Malley noticed;
she just found his interest uncomfortable to deal with and
more often than not scowled rather than smiled when she
saw him.
He was determined to get Marcus's sister to accept a
dinner invitation on this trip through Chicago. She'd been
ducking him long enough. He wasn't after something
profound; he just wanted to change her rather mixed
reaction to him and replace it with a solid friendship. He
visited Chicago on a regular basis; he wanted to be able
to call Lisa when he was in town and have her actually be
pleased to hear from him.
Eating alone was a waste of time, so was spending his
downtime at a hotel watching TV. He spent enough time with
strangers. Lisa he knew, and she was the kind of friend he
wanted: loyal, fun, and smart, with a stubborn streak he
liked to ruffle. It was a bit like rubbing a cat's fur the
wrong way. She was cute when annoyed, and calling her
ma'am always got a reaction. One thing was certain: Lisa's
life was never boring.
He smiled as he thought of the excuses she was likely to
throw up to the invitation to dinner and unfortunately
misled Ms. Randall into assuming his smile was in response
to hers. Before she could say something that would put
them both in a fix, he calmly turned the
conversation. "Tell me what you've found out about Amy
Ireland."