The only people Hale observed nearby were a couple of gardeners mowing and doing edging across the street. Before getting out of the car, he collected a few fliers concerning burglaries in the area, which he’d brought as an excuse in case he ran into Ben. The burglary suspect’s description—young and thin, trendy clothes—indicated a possible high-school student.
Since most burglaries involved dopers, that raised the possibility their guy might be none other than Ben himself. One witness had mentioned a spider tattoo on the forearm, which the chief’s son lacked, but a crafty crook might have applied a temporary one to confuse the description.
As Hale emerged, he noticed a flickering light through the curtains of the downstairs apartment on the left. Just as he put that together with the sharp scent in the air, a smoke alarm shrilled inside the building.
Fire!
First act: dial 911. As Hale conveyed the details, he remembered that the fire engines from the main station had rolled to the warehouse blaze. A delay of even a few minutes could spell the difference between life and death for occupants.
“I’m going to check if anyone’s inside,” he informed the dispatcher.
“Hang on.” A beat later, she returned to the line. “The owner just called. We told her to vacate and that you’re at the location. She doesn’t believe anyone else is home.”
“I’ll bang on doors just in case.” He’d better move fast, because a fire could rage out of control in minutes. Older structures provided plenty of fuel, including furniture that failed to meet current safety standards.
“Use caution, Detective,” the dispatcher advised. “Can you stay on the line?”
“Sorry, no.” Holding a phone would slow him. “I’ll call when I’m done.”
He was flipping the device shut when down the steps hurried Mrs. Rios, arms around a fuzzy dog, her graying hair mussed and her glasses askew. “Hale! I’m glad you happened by!”
“I have to make sure everyone’s out,” he informed her.
“Vince’s at his office. Ben left for class half an hour ago. That’s his apartment.” She indicated the flames consuming the curtains. “I saw Paula go out a while ago.” She stopped and gazed upward. “Oh, no!”
In the window directly above the burning unit appeared a boy’s face. With a shock, Hale recognized Skip. “She left him alone?”
“I’m afraid so.” Yolanda sounded as dismayed as he felt.
“Skip!” Hale yelled. “Come down!” If the boy moved fast, he could descend the stairs before the fire reached them.
The child didn’t move.
The flames were going to climb the curtains and flash over the ceiling. Once they broke through the floor or mounted the hall staircase, they’d cut off escape. Wherever the firefighters had been sent from, Hale didn’t even hear a siren yet. He couldn’t wait for them to arrive.
Fear must have frozen the boy. “I’m going in,” he told Yolanda. “Key?”
She handed him one. “This opens all the doors.”
“Thanks.” Taking a deep breath, he ran toward the entrance.
Chapter Three
The building had a straightforward layout, Hale discovered as he dashed into the main hallway: one unit on each side and stairs straight ahead. Eyes smarting and ears ringing from the smoke alarms, he raced to the second floor.
Fires spread fast. Before flames shot into the hall and blocked their escape, he had to reach Skip.
First he banged on Vince’s door in case Yolanda had been mistaken, although it was hard to imagine anyone ignoring the noise. Then he unlocked the Laytons’ apartment and, feeling no heat from the door and knob, entered.
In the living room, smoke seeped through vents and the heat from directly below made Hale sweat beneath his jacket. When he shouted the boy’s name, an acrid lungful stirred a cough.
“Help!” The plaintive cry confirmed the boy’s presence in a bedroom down the hall.
Hale ran in that direction. He stopped at the first door and went in. Obviously the master bedroom. No kid by the window.
Back in the hall, it was getting darker and hotter. Tougher to breathe, too. Hale darted into the next room, a bathroom, where he grabbed a towel, soaked it and, holding it over his nose and mouth, lunged into the hallway again.
Entering the last room, he felt a draft. Open window, blocked by a screen. Skip was huddled on the floor, a little ball of terror. He sprang up when he saw Hale and flung himself at him.
Hale transferred the towel to the boy’s face. “Hold this!” he commanded, and the boy obeyed.
Split-second decision: to retreat the way he’d come or risk a two-story drop. One of Hale’s firefighter pals had said people frequently died heading for a door when they could easily have gone through a window. The awareness that the fire lay directly beneath their path, and the memory of the smoky staircase that by now must be ten times worse, simplified the choice.
“Stand here!” He positioned the child away from the window, against the wall. Balancing on one leg, Hale smashed his heel into the screen. The bloody thing held. Why did this always look so easy on television? Grumbling, he seized a chair and swung. The jolt as it hit the frame reverberated through his elbows and shoulders, but mercifully, the screen went flying.
Skip remained in place. Calling a few words of encouragement, Hale seized the twin-size mattress and heaved it outside. When it landed, Yolanda directed a couple of male volunteers to position it as a landing cushion. The woman exuded a natural air of authority.
Hale crouched by Skip. In the light from the window, the boy’s freckles stood out in a face white with fear. Keep steady and calm, and he’ll follow suit.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Hale explained. “I’ll lower you outside as far as I can, then let you fall. Mrs. Rios is there. You’ll land on the mattress, okay?”
“Okay.” Skip clutched the towel.
“You’ll be fine.” Kids were supposed to be resilient.
Trusting blue eyes met his dark ones. “You’ll jump, too, right?”
“Absolutely.” For a fraction of a second, he felt as if he were staring into the depths of the kid’s soul. Glimpsing a whole, complicated person whose future depended utterly on him. “Ready?”
The youngster straightened. “Yeah.”
More and more of a struggle to suck in air, let alone talk. “Sit on the sill.” Hale assisted the boy into place, facing outward. “I’m going to ease you down.”
The child tensed almost to the point of rigidity. The mattress must seem far below, but if he didn’t relax, he’d be more likely to suffer injury.
“Pretend this is a game. This is a playground and you’re playing superhero, okay? You can do it!”
“Yeah. Okay, Hale.” He sounded shaky but determined.
From far off, Hale heard a siren, but the crackle of flames was much closer and the smoke reeked of whatever combustibles were feeding the blaze. They didn’t dare delay.
The boy’s weight pulled Hale forward and, with his hands occupied, he had to brace his thighs against the sill. “One, two, three.” A slow stretch as far as he could, and then, as he let go, he shouted, “Bombs away!”
An unexpected noise floated to him. Skip’s laughter.
Below,