“Is that the kind of crap you have to put up with all the time?” He’d been surprised by the protective instincts that had arisen when he realized she’d been the victim of a mean joke. And then he’d been impressed by the cool, controlled way she’d handled the situation.
“It used to be worse.” She took the chair opposite. “I wasn’t very popular when I was first assigned here. None of us were, because we were taking over for the three men who died. And, let’s face it, it’s pretty hard to fill the shoes of a martyr.”
“I can imagine.”
“But we all just kept our mouths shut and did our jobs, and gradually the others began to accept us. Except maybe for Bing Tate.”
“The guy’s an ass.” Roark had seen how hard Priscilla was trying, how much she was hoping the guys would like her lasagna. When he’d realized what Tate had done, he’d wanted to wring the scrawny jerk’s neck.
Priscilla shrugged. “I’ll get him back in some passive-aggressive way. Maybe I’ll short-sheet his bed.”
Roark didn’t think she would. She wouldn’t stoop to Bing’s level. He liked that about her. She wasn’t vengeful or petty. He’d seen her take a lot of crap during training, and she’d always been a good sport.
He suspected sometimes the taunting had hurt more than she let on. She wouldn’t show any weakness, though. Not Priscilla.
“So what’s going on?” she asked. “Why do you want to talk to me?”
Truthfully, he would have invented any excuse to get her alone for a few minutes. Unfortunately he did have a legitimate reason. “I think the serial arsonist is someone connected to the fire service.”
Priscilla’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. I really hope you’re wrong.”
It was a sad fact that many arsonists turned out to be firefighters or former firefighters. A person might be drawn to the fire service because he wanted to serve his community or save property or because the lifestyle appealed to him or his father and grandfather were firefighters. But it might just as easily be an unhealthy fascination with fire.
Clearly this particular perpetrator wasn’t your average firebug—a teenage mischief maker or someone out to collect on insurance. This guy knew a lot about fires—and how not to get caught setting them.
“We don’t know for sure, but the evidence is leaning that way,” Roark said. “The fires aren’t set just to watch something burn. The guy is deliberately trying to injure or kill firefighters, which indicates he has some emotional connection. I’ve been investigating every firefighter who’s left the department under less-than-favorable circumstances in the past ten years, but so far none of them look good as a suspect. I’m wondering now if it’s someone still currently employed, maybe someone who got passed over for promotion.”
“But surely no one from this shift. I mean, they were all here when the warehouse fire started. They couldn’t have started it.”
Roark lowered his voice. “This isn’t common knowledge, but there was a timer on the ignition device. The whole thing could have been set up several hours before.”
“I don’t want to believe this. It can’t be any of the guys here.”
“What about Tate?”
“Not even him. Every one of those guys out there has grieved for the men who died. I’ve watched them.”
“It’s only a possibility at this point. It could be anybody, from any shift, any station.”
“So why are you talking to me about this? How could I possibly help?”
“Maybe you weren’t here for the warehouse fire, but you’ve been around for several months now. You could see or hear something as easily as anyone. For instance, if there’s anyone with an ax to grind with the department—any scuttlebutt going around—that’s the kind of information I need.”
“You want me to rat on my brothers?”
“To stop this guy from killing more firefighters? Yeah. And he will kill again. If he goes unchecked, it’s only a matter of time.” The arsonist often left a little surprise for the firefighters. Once, it was a vicious dog that had bitten Murph McCrae when he’d tried to rescue it. Another time, the serial arsonist had left a homemade bomb, though fortunately the thing hadn’t detonated.
Priscilla sagged a little in her chair. “I know he’s got to be stopped.”
“Anything you tell me is confidential,” Roark continued. “I’m asking everyone the same thing. If there’s anyone I should look at more closely…”
“I wish I could help. But I’m the last person anyone would trust or confide in,” she said a little testily.
“Just keep your eyes and ears open.”
“I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”
“Believe me, I don’t like it either. And I hope I’m wrong. But it’s my responsibility to catch this guy, and I’ll do whatever it takes. Even if it ticks people off.” He would not allow another person to die on his watch.
“Is that all?” She stood, preparing to make her escape.
He stood, too, and stepped around the desk. He didn’t want to end their meeting on such a negative note. “Have you told your mother all about me?”
She nodded, inching away from him, putting more distance between them. “Mother is thrilled. She got on the Internet so she could read all the newspaper articles you’ve been quoted in. She printed them off to show my aunt Clara.”
“Aunt Clara being…the mother of the bride?”
“Good guess. She and my mom are sisters and they’re intensely competitive. It’s killing Mother that Clara’s daughter is getting married before hers, especially since…”
“Since what?”
“Well, since last year Mother thought she heard wedding bells. Turned out to be a funeral dirge.”
“The guy you were rebounding from?”
She nodded. “When we broke up, Mother was more disappointed than I was, I think.”
“And now she has something to pin her hopes on again.”
Priscilla nodded, wincing. “I hadn’t realized it was going to get this complicated. I thought this plan would buy me some peace, at least for a few months. Maybe I should claim we broke up at the last minute.”
Roark smiled. “I wouldn’t do that to your mother. But I do have one question for you.”
“Yes?”
“How is anyone going to believe I’m your boyfriend when you look like a scared rabbit every time I get within two feet of you?”
“I’ll do better,” she promised hastily.
“Maybe we should rehearse. You know, practice looking fondly at each other. Hold hands.” With every suggestion, her eyes got a little wider.
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “We’ll do fine.” Then she did escape. But Roark wasn’t too discouraged—if anything, her skittishness raised the bar. Would he even want a woman if she was a pushover? He enjoyed the challenge.
ROARK HAD BEEN LOOKING forward to this day like a kid counting the days to Christmas. The wedding of two people he’d never met. He could devote the whole evening to Priscilla. She would be his captive, stuck at