Burning Love. Debra Cowan

box at the foot of the bed and realized she must’ve dropped it upon first seeing Harris.

      Jerry French picked it up and handed it to her. “You okay?”

      “Yes, thanks. I just needed a little time.”

      He nodded, his smoke-reddened hazel eyes sympathetic. “The guys from Four and One are waiting to begin overhaul. That way, you can move them away from where you think the fire started.”

      “Great. That will save a lot of investigation time.”

      “The walk-around’s finished. The structure appears sound enough for you to begin.”

      “Your guys were first on the scene, right?”

      Jerry nodded. “We had some trouble putting out the blaze. It took a small spray pattern to finally do the trick.”

      Terra noted that in her tape recorder. If the typical wide or “fog pattern” spray was inefficient in putting out the fire, that was a clue to the type of accelerant used. “Thanks, Jerry. I’ll come out in just a minute to talk to your crew, walk through overhaul with them. Right now, I need to check for accelerants before they evaporate.”

      “Gotcha.”

      Still off balance and slightly disoriented, she set her tackle box down on the soggy, debris-covered carpet.

      Soot streaked Jerry’s weathered, leather face. Concern darkened his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

      She nodded, giving him a small smile. “I can do this.”

      “I’ll see you outside.” He squeezed her shoulder and motioned to the two firefighters she’d barely noticed earlier. One woman, one man, both pale and wide-eyed. Probies. Had she ever been that green?

      The cop who’d kept her from planting her face in the floor watched her coolly from a few feet away. Uneasy with the knowing steadiness in his eyes, her gaze slid away. She opened her tackle box and took out the small, boxlike “sniffer.” The wooden footboard for the queen-size bed was still intact, but the headboard was a crumbling screen of ash. Charred mattress. Closed, scorched closet door.

      Rubbing her temple where a headache had started, Terra walked to the far side of the bed. Bedroom fires were typically caused by three things: frayed lamp circuits, electric blankets or smokers. Harris had never smoked so she dismissed the possibility that he could’ve started the fire that way. Though fires due to frayed lamp circuits and electric blankets were rare, Terra checked anyway. There was no electric blanket on this bed. At the bedside table, she noticed a blackened brass lamp and knelt to check the electrical cord. No frayed lamp circuit here.

      Intent on checking the same things on the opposite side, Terra edged around the foot of the bed. An identical bedside table held another brass lamp, now soot-black. This lamp’s electrical cord wasn’t frayed either. The fire hadn’t been caused by faulty electric wiring. Glass fragments sprinkled the sodden carpet. The shattered base of a bulb still screwed into the lamp testified that at least some of the shards belonged to an exploding lightbulb.

      “You the fire investigator?”

      She remembered the rough velvet voice. Standing up, she had to tilt her head a bit to look him in the eye, something she didn’t have to do with very many men. “Yes.”

      “Detective Jack Spencer. I’ll be the primary on this case.”

      His gaze scoured her face. What was he looking for? She wasn’t going to faint. In the harsh flood of the portable fluorescent lights, Terra noted fine lines fanning out from Detective Spencer’s eyes. Very blue eyes. Hard blue eyes.

      He stuck out his hand.

      She shook it and released it quickly. “Terra August.”

      “I apologize for my comment earlier. I didn’t know he was a friend of yours.”

      She tamped down the slash of pain. Presley was still small enough that all police, including the detectives, worked solo rather than with a partner. Except in fire death cases like this. Procedure between Presley’s police and fire departments stated that when P.F.D. found a dead body in a fire, they worked to contain the blaze, then stopped and called Homicide. “I guess we’ll be working together.”

      “Yes. Looks like murder.”

      Struggling to keep a rein on the emotions swirling inside her, she pressed her lips together and nodded. “The bound hands and feet of the victim also indicate the fire as a probable arson. But why?”

      “That’s what I intend to find out,” Spencer said. “Do you have any ideas?”

      “No. I’ll concentrate first on confirming or eliminating arson. Then we’ll have a solid starting place.” She’d have to work with the detective until one of them proved the death was an accident, suicide or murder. If Harris’s death was an accident, Terra would turn over her part of the investigation to the insurance company. Otherwise, she and Jack Spencer were in this together. She could interview and interrogate, but she couldn’t arrest or serve warrants. Spencer could.

      He glanced around the sooty, soggy room. “Can’t you already tell if it’s arson?”

      “I approach all fires as if they are, but I need proof.”

      “Well, something’s fishy. Why else would he have been tied?”

      She curled her shaking hands into fists around the instrument she held. Her voice cracked as she asked, “Was he dead before the fire?”

      “I don’t know.” Sympathy and an unidentifiable emotion flashed through his blue eyes before he turned toward the M.E. “Mason?”

      “You know it’s too soon for me to have anything for you yet, Jack.”

      Numb and still reeling, a part of her noted the cop’s clean soap-and-water scent she caught beneath lingering smoke. Someone had tied up Harris, but why? So he couldn’t escape the fire? Or for another reason?

      This was too much. She couldn’t process it all right now. She needed to test for accelerants and the firefighters from Stations Four and One were waiting. If she wanted to unravel this puzzle, she had to start somewhere. She turned to scan her instrument across the most burned part of the wall above the nightstand.

      Jack Spencer snagged her elbow; she looked sharply at him.

      He released her, but his gaze lasered into her. “Since the victim was a friend of yours, I’ll need to interview you before I leave here.”

      The victim had a name. Terra bit off the sharp words, resisting the urge to rub the place where he’d touched her. The cop was doing what she should be doing—putting his emotions aside so he could do his job.

      His features were just as exacting as his eyes. The stubborn chin, rough-hewn cheekbones and shadow of whiskers did nothing to soften a jaw that looked as if it could take a few blows.

      “I’ll also be conducting an investigation,” she said.

      “I’ll notify the family, talk to the firefighter who found the body.” He scribbled in the small notebook he held.

      “That should give you time to do some things you need to do, then you and I can talk.”

      “Harris had only an ex-wife.” Thinking about Cecily Vaughn unsettled Terra’s stomach again. “His parents passed on some years ago.”

      “Thanks. That confirms what I learned from his neighbor.” Jack Spencer tucked his notebook into the inside pocket of his lightweight tweed blazer. “Anything else you can tell me? Had he made anyone mad recently?”

      She frowned. “He’s retired.”

      Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug.

      She shook her head. “I had dinner with him tonight. He was fine.”

      Spencer’s gaze sharpened. “We can talk more about that when I see you again.”

      “All