Deadly Obsession. Maggie Shayne

with. Marks that appear to have come from a hacksaw were found on the pipe. The killer let the basement fill with gas, then remotely activated a simple detonator to create a spark.”

      “A spark?” I asked. “A single spark?”

      He nodded. “That’s all it took.” He was still skimming. “They found the detonator in the rubble, but what was left wasn’t much to go on.” He read some more, nodded. “Search warrant was executed on Peter Rouse’s place. They found a hacksaw in the back of his pickup. Forensics matched the shards in its teeth to the gas line that was sawed through. Teeth marks matched, too.”

      “Not the brightest murderer on the block, is he? Keeping that stuff in his pickup.” Mason frowned at me. I shrugged. “Not saying I don’t think he’s guilty, just saying he’s also effing stupid.” Then I lifted my brows. “Notice how I abbreviated the cuss word there?”

      “I did notice. Nice job. The boys must be having a good influence on you.”

      “I’m turning into Carol fucking Brady.” I clapped a hand over my mouth, but he just kept grinning at me. I sighed at my own difficulty with habit breaking and tried to steer us both back on topic. “So the almost-ex is not only guilty but stupid,” I said.

      “Not too stupid to figure out how to remotely ignite the fire,” he said softly. “Arson investigator says it’s tricky to know how long to wait to spark one up with a gas leak.”

      I shook my head. “Those poor kids down the hall don’t have a mother anymore, and now they’ve got to deal with the fact that their father killed her.”

      “They’re not down the hall anymore. They were moved to the pediatric hospital last night,” Mason said.

      “That’s good news, isn’t it?” I hoped to God it was.

      “Yeah. Not even in ICU. They put them in a regular room, my nurse said. They’re out of danger. Probably going home—or somewhere—in a day or two.”

      “Have you seen them yet?”

      “No. I haven’t tried.”

      “But you saved their lives, Mason.”

      He shrugged. “And I’m not going to go present myself to them in hopes of receiving their undying gratitude. They’ve got enough to deal with right now.” He sighed and closed the file. “Speaking of kids, how are the boys?”

      “They miss you. I mean, visiting you for a couple of hours every day isn’t the same, you know? They miss their stuff, too, or so they keep saying, though I don’t see how they could. We’ve hauled most of it to my house by now.”

      His face turned serious. I hadn’t meant to wipe his smile away. “They’ve taken over your place. I’m sorry, Rache. I know how much you love your home and value your space. Any damage so far?”

      “Don’t be a dumb-ass. They keep most of the mess to their assigned bedrooms.” And the kitchen and the living room and the dock out by the lake and the bathrooms. Good God, the bathrooms. Still, it’s odd how much I honestly don’t mind. Really odd. I shook the baffling state of my contentment away, because I wasn’t yet ready to talk about it. “Myrtle is happier than a carnivore at a meat market. She’s already figured out their routine. She waddles right over and plunks her ass in front of the door at a quarter to three every weekday and waits for them to get back from school.”

      He smiled at that, because he loved my dog almost as much as I did. “She is one boy-loving bulldog.” Then he opened the file again.

      “Rouse said the hacksaw in the back of his pickup wasn’t his.” He flipped a few pages. “No fingerprints on it. Looked like it had been wiped.”

      I nodded. “They searched his house, too, though, right?”

      “Yeah.”

      “They find anything related to the detonator?”

      His eyes raced over pages, his lips tightening. “Nope.”

      “So all we’ve got is the hacksaw?”

      “His fingerprints were found inside the wife’s house,” he pointed out.

      “Yeah, but his kids lived there. I’m sure he was in and out a lot.”

      “There was a silver Chevy Cruze seen parked a couple of blocks away at the time of the fire. The neighbors say it didn’t belong there,” Mason said. “Another neighbor said Rouse’s truck was seen in the area that night.” Then he shrugged. “But Rosie says it was there every weeknight. He drove the kids home from school. And this neighbor’s sighting was several hours before the fire.” He looked at me—waiting, I knew, for my feedback. He counted on me for it. And since I was an official police consultant now, I was happy to give it.

      “Sounds like they must’ve been getting along, then. She’d have picked up the kids herself if she thought he was dangerous, right?”

      “Women seldom think their spouses are dangerous until it’s too late. But when a woman is murdered, it’s almost always the spouse,” he pointed out.

      “Says a lot for the state of marriage, doesn’t it?”

      He peered up at me, but when I looked back he turned back to the report and flipped a page. “He admitted during questioning that he didn’t want the divorce. He didn’t want to lose custody of his kids.”

      “So why try to burn the place with them inside?”

      He met my eyes again, and his were brighter than they’d been since the fire. He loved his work, and this was the first chance he’d had to really sink his teeth into a case since nearly getting his gorgeous ass killed.

      “Lots of men would rather see the kids dead than lose custody.”

      “I refuse to believe it’s ‘lots of men.’ Granted, we see it in the news, but it has to be rare or it wouldn’t be news.”

      “That sounded dangerously positive, Rache.”

      “I know, right? Having the boys around, I just can’t imagine how a parent could hurt their own kid.” I heaved a sigh. “I suppose it’s possible he did it. But still, all we really have is the hacksaw.” I finished my doughnut, sipped my coffee, leaned back in my chair.

      “You have an idea, don’t you?” he asked.

      “How can you tell?”

      “If I look deep into your eyes I can see a bunch of gears turning in your brain.”

      I nodded. “Get me in to see him. I mean, he’s still in custody, isn’t he?”

      “No. He made bail. Probably because our evidence is so freaking weak.”

      I shrugged. “Even better. I can talk to him more easily that way.”

      “Uh-uh. No way. That’s a very bad idea.”

      “Oh, come on, Mason.” He hadn’t touched his breakfast sandwich, so I picked it up and took a bite, then put it back. After some yummy caffeine, I went on. “You know I can tell if he’s the guy with a single conversation.”

      “He could be dangerous.”

      “So am I.”

      “This guy probably killed his own wife, almost killed his two kids and damn near took me out with them. I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

      “You’re worried he’ll turn his focus to me?”

      “That too. Mainly I was thinking about your temper.”

      I smiled sweetly and batted my eyes. “What temper?” But he was right. If this man was guilty, he had almost killed my detective. It might not be safe for me to be in the same room with him surrounded by armed guards, much less all alone.

      Mason sent me a look that spoke louder than words, but it