Fire Triangle

Chapter 1: Miles-2

They decided to go straight to the scene of the fire, even before checking into their hotel. The fire had happened two days before in a small town four hours from San Antonio. The report had come into the office the previous day, and Blake and Miles had left first thing this morning. There had been a strong suspicion of arson and a loss of lives. It was Miles’ second major case as a lead investigator in the two years since he’d joined the squad. The report, especially the mention of the victims, troubled him a great deal.

Back at the office, he and Blake had studied the photos of the fire scene. Some of them showed moments when flames were still engulfing the mansion-sized house in the Crescent Hill area. Thick black smoke billowed into the sky from several windows and a chimney, its menacing shadow clear against the night sky. Another picture showed how a window had been broken from inside. The conclusion was made easier by a perfect shot of broken glass sprinkled on the ground outside the house. Miles saw Blake jotting some notes in his casebook.

Miles liked and admired Blake. The guy was seven years his senior and he’d been Miles’ mentor the first three months after Miles joined the division. Blake was serious about his job. Accuracy was his middle name. Nevertheless, he was a jovial guy and they had fun together over the weekends and at the local bar where they and their colleagues hung out. Miles was elated when he found out Blake had been assigned as his partner at the end of his probation period.

When they arrived at the scene, Miles grabbed his camera and the duffel bag containing all he needed to process the scene. No one else was around, but then again, it had been two days, and the police line around the scene had kept curious kids and looters away. Miles was glad to see they had also put roadblocks at the entrance to the driveway.

Miles could see how the house could easily be classified as a manor before it burned down. The “before” photos showed a white, two-story building with Spanish architecture. There were oak hardwood floors, double-paneled doors, and a lot of antique furnishings in teak and mahogany. The house itself covered about four thousand square feet, sitting in the middle of two hundred acres of land that was forested on three sides, thereby isolating it from its nearest neighbors.

There wasn’t much left of the house now but blackened high pillars, parts of the white walls, and collapsed roof beams. Miles nodded when Blake suggested he investigate the front part.

Miles crossed over to what had been the front doorway to the wide hall. He looked at the section of wall containing the remains of the window where the broken glass had been discovered outside. So, someone had managed to escape before the flames reached that part of the house. According to the report, the first telephone call had been received by the operator a little after midnight. Fifteen minutes later, the fire had spread over the whole house.

The caller, a neighbor behind the estate, had reported seeing flames at the rear of the house. It made sense that it gave someone time to escape through the front window, Miles mused, as he carefully removed the ash and dust from what was left of the windowsill with his soft brush, looking for fingerprints. After some brushing, he realized it was going to take a more thorough investigation, as he couldn’t gather a single fingerprint. Miles returned the brush to its slot in his bag and prepared his camera to take shots of the scene.

Done with the spot, Miles straightened up. The evidence of the rapid spread of the fire told him that the arsonist had used accelerants. Now it was his and Blake’s job to find the points where those accelerants had been strategically placed.

Miles met Blake halfway into the house, in what had probably been a dining room.

“The caller was right, it started from the back—probably from the basement,” Blake said. “And—” he checked his notes, “—the local police said that was where they found the last victim.”

“Yeah.” Miles had learned that the victim was a man, about mid-thirties, with a dent at the back of his head that had been discernible despite his charred body. Miles’ stomach churned when he recalled where and how the other bodies had been found. Two small ones had been discovered inside a scorched wardrobe and another, a woman, most probably the mother, was in the left wing of the house. It was one thing to read about all those things from the report when you were sitting at your desk, but it was another thing completely when you were standing where the crime had been committed and the smell of burning bodies lingered in the air—even when the latter was only in your imagination.

“Hey, Miles?”

Miles jumped when Blake’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, and, half sheepishly, he turned to him, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Huh. Yeah. Those…those kids, how did they die? They didn’t seem to be that badly burned.” Miles blinked away moisture that was suddenly blurring his sight.

Blake nodded and Miles noted that his partner also had difficulty talking about the victims. Swallowing, Blake flipped through the pages of his notes. “Yes, the cops think they died before the fire reached them. You saw the wardrobe.”

Miles didn’t know whether he should feel relieved by that information. One thing was certain, the murderer would be hunted down and punished as severely as the law allowed. He would make sure of that. Miles rubbed his eyes before consulting his own notebook.

“A note about the sprinkler system. All the outlets were damaged and not by the fires,” he said.

“Someone must have sabotaged them.”

“Exactly, but sabotaged by whom? The owner is dead, so it’s not for insurance.”

“How do you know?” Blake looked pensive.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, whoever did this might stand to inherit the insurance money, right?”

“Okay, so, what’s next?”

* * * *

After the interviews, they met back at their hotel. Miles had stripped to a T-shirt and sweatpants. He hunched over his laptop on his bed while Blake took the place at the desk next to the window. The room was a basic hotel room, with beds and lamps and a dresser, but it was enough for them. They were here to work and all they needed was a place to sleep and shower.

Blake and Miles began to compare notes after a takeout dinner of burgers and colas. Blake had interviewed the fire chief and one of his men, while Miles talked to a detective in the precinct and the neighbor who’d called 911. The firefighters had confirmed what Miles and Blake had deduced from the scene about the gas and accelerants used by the arsonist. The fire had been started with a simple device, nothing complicated. They’d also provided Blake with photographs, maps, and the blueprints of the building.

Miles hadn’t got similar cooperation from the cops. They seemed convinced that Miles had come to snatch their case away and only grudgingly agreed to share what they knew about the family with Miles. The deceased was Andrew Davis, thirty-seven, a successful architect with old family money backing him up. His wife, Deirdre, was a budding novelist with a best seller under her belt. Their sons had been seven and two.

“Still a toddler,” Blake said, his voice betraying his grief.

“Yeah.” Miles was lost in his own thoughts. “And they verified their report about how the kids died.”

“And it’s the entire family—any other members left?”

Miles flipped his notes. “Davis was an only child. He inherited the house.”

“Who’s the next of kin?”

“None from his side of the family. But there is a Luke Martin, Mrs. Davis’s brother. He lives up in New Jersey.”

“Has someone told him about his sister’s death?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s in town now, according to the police. He broke down when the cops called him and again when he arrived at the house.”

“He could be faking, don’t you think?” Blake asked.

“Police said Martin told them that he had nothing to do with the Davis family and their money. He’s definitely not on their list of beneficiaries.”

“We still need to talk to him though.”

“Okay.”

“All right. What else? I think we can cross out the insurance as a motive, though the insurance investigators might want to look deeper into it. We have to look for suspects outside the family.”

“Sure. There’s some good news, actually. I got to talk to the neighbor who called 911 and she gave me some valuable information.”

“Shoot.”

“It wasn’t only the family. There was someone else in the house.”

“Who?”

“The neighbor, Mrs. Aitken, said Davis had a housekeeper and a pool boy.”

“A pool boy.” Blake’s eyes flickered. “Very interesting.”

“The housekeeper is about fifty and the pool boy is fifteen or sixteen according to Mrs. Aitken. But—”

“But,” interrupted Blake, “neither of them was at home that night.”

“Exactly. Or we’d have found their bodies, too.”

“Did Mrs. Aitken know for sure that they weren’t there?” asked Blake.

“No, she didn’t. She went into shock herself when she learned that the entire family was wiped out.”

“We’ll ask around about the housekeeper and the pool boy. We’ll get our murderer, Miles, we will.”

* * * *

That night, looking at the dark shadow of a sleeping Blake lined by the faint light from the window, Miles couldn’t help feeling envious. He was thinking of calling Erica. He missed her and missed their little habit of telling each other about their days the way they used to do. He didn’t understand what had changed for her. He’d been in the squad when he met her. Why would she mind it now? He’d always been busy but so far, they had managed. Why would she change?

Unable to stand it anymore, Miles finally made the call. And yet again, Erica wasn’t there to pick it up. Either that or she simply didn’t want to talk to him. Sighing, Miles left a message.

“Hey, Erica. It’s me. I just…I guess I miss you. You’ll be there when I get back, huh? I want to talk to you. We’ll go out to dinner, okay? I’ll take a leave, no work for days. I promise you, really. All right? Call me back, okay?”

It was three in the morning. Miles almost fell asleep when the book about fire and evidence he had been reading slipped from his hand and fell on the floor with a soft thud. But he barely heard it, already half way to slumber land.