Bree Noble sat at her desk the next morning, staring at the evidence board in front of her. The pictures, newspaper clippings, and strings connecting them all seemed to blur together as she tried to make sense of it all. She glanced over at Mike, who was busy typing away on his computer, trying to find any connections between the Mendez case and the Harper fire.
Bree sighed, her frustration palpable. They needed a breakthrough, something that would give them a lead to follow. But they were no closer now than they were last night, and they were running out of time.
“What about the neighbor?” Mike said suddenly.
“What neighbor?” Bree asked.
“In our initial canvass after the Mendez case. There was that one neighbor who was out of town, so we couldn’t interview him. It’s been a bit. Maybe he’s back,” Mike suggested. “And if he is—”
“We should talk to him,” Bree added, finishing Mike’s sentence. “He might know something we could use.”
“Exactly,” Mike said, rising to his feet as Bree pushed back her chair. Together, they headed out, driving back to the trailer park where Carl Mendez had died.
The sun was already high in the sky, warming the cracked pavement as they approached the disheveled trailer at the end of the block. The unkempt lawn bristled with overgrown weeds, and a rusted-out car sat like a monument to neglect in the driveway.
"Looks like he's home this time," Mike observed, nodding towards the flickering blue light that seeped around the edges of drawn curtains.
Bree nodded, feeling a familiar tightness in her chest as they drew nearer. This could be a pivotal moment in their investigation, a new thread to unravel in the woven tapestry of tragedy and arson that had become her life's work. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides as she steeled herself for the encounter.
Reaching the front door, Bree raised her hand and knocked firmly. There were a few beats of silence before heavy footsteps thudded from within, growing louder until the door swung open with a creak of protest. A man stood in the doorway, his face shadowed and unshaven. His eyes, bloodshot and wary, flicked between the two investigators as if deciding whether to flee or fight.
"Steve?" Bree asked, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
"Yeah?" He grunted, his stance guarded.
"I'm Bree Noble, and this is my partner, Mike Hanley. We're with the Los Angeles Fire Department." She flashed her badge briefly, watching his reaction closely. "We need to ask you a few questions about Carl Mendez."
"Fine," Steve muttered after a tense pause. He stepped aside, allowing them entrance with evident reluctance, his gaze never quite meeting theirs.
The living room into which they stepped was dim, the only illumination coming from a television screen displaying some forgotten game show. Stale air clung to every surface, mingling with the scent of old beer and unwashed laundry. Bottles cluttered the coffee table, some still half-full, their amber contents catching the sunlight. It wasn't just a room; it was a tableau of desolation, a perfect reflection of the man who lived there.
"Have a seat," Steve mumbled, gesturing vaguely toward the couch before slumping into an armchair opposite. The fabric of the sofa felt gritty under Bree's hands as she sat, keenly aware of the debris that crunched beneath her.
As she settled, Bree took stock of Steve once more. His demeanor spoke volumes, the disinterest in his posture, the way his fingers toyed with the ring of condensation left by his beer can. But behind the drunken haze that clouded his expression, there was something else—a flicker of something raw and perhaps even fearful. It was a look Bree had seen before in the eyes of those touched by fire, by loss. It was a look that kept her on edge, made her senses sharpen.
"Thank you for letting us in, Steve," she began, her voice cutting through the sound of canned applause from the TV. "We won't take up much of your time."
He responded with a noncommittal grunt, taking a long swig from his can, his throat working as he swallowed. Then, with the can resting against his thigh, he finally turned to face them fully, the light from the television playing across his features, giving him a ghastly appearance that belied the mundane setting.
Bree folded her hands in her lap, the weight of her badge and the responsibility it carried pressing against her as she considered the man slouched before them. The room was dimly lit by a single lamp teetering on an end table cluttered with empty beer cans and stained coasters. Steve's eyes, bloodshot and wandering, had all the warmth of a winter's frost, and his reluctance to engage hung between them like smoke in a closed room.
"Steve," Bree began, leaning forward slightly, her voice a calm contrast to the erratic flicker of shadows cast across the room from the muted television. "We understand this is difficult, but anything you can tell us could be vital."
Mike sat silently beside her, his presence a steady anchor in the choppy sea of Steve's alcohol-laden breaths. His patience was as much a strategy as it was a part of his nature, giving Bree the space to work her way through Steve’s defenses.
"Look, I don't know nothing," Steve muttered, his words slurring together as he picked at the label of his beer can. "Why should I help you anyway?"
"Because you knew Carl," Bree said softly, invoking the name of the deceased as if it were a sacred incantation that might unlock the gates of Steve's memory.
“Yeah, but he was no friend of mine.” A scoff escaped Steve's lips, a bitter sound that scratched at the walls. “I mean, sure, we grabbed a beer at the bar from time to time, but not because I liked him. Just ‘cause I like beer.”
"Okay," Bree acknowledged, her eyes never leaving his face, searching for the shift in his expression, the telltale crack in his facade. “So you weren’t friends. But he was your neighbor. And he died a horrible death at the hands of someone who is using fires to kill people, Steve. Someone dangerous who needs to be stopped."
“People, plural?” Steve asked.
“There was another fire yesterday morning,” Mike offered. “We think the cases are connected.”
Minutes stretched long and thin, filled only with the mechanical hum of the refrigerator and the distant wail of a siren somewhere outside. Then, almost imperceptibly, Steve's shoulders sagged, the fight seeping out of him as if Bree's words had finally reached something human beneath the layers of indifference.
"Alright," he sighed, shaking his head as though dislodging the last of his resistance. "I'll tell ya what I know, but it ain't much. I barely knew nothing about the guy. Dodgers fan. Had a family once – I think - step-kids anyway. Big drinker.”
"Anything helps," Bree encouraged, feeling the slight shift in the room's atmosphere, like the release of pressure before a storm.
"Did you see anyone hanging around the park in the days leading up to the fire? Anyone who didn’t belong?" Mike interjected, his voice firm but not unkind.
"Park?" Steve's gaze drifted to a spot just beyond the window where the skeletal branches of a leafless tree scratched at the sun-drenched sky. "Nah, nothing like that. Just kids playin', joggers. The usual crowd. No one sticks out."
Bree exhaled silently; it wasn't the break they hoped for, but every detail painted a clearer picture of the landscape they navigated—a landscape that seemed increasingly desolate with each dead-end lead.
The air in Steve’s living room was stale, heavy with the scent of old beer and cigarette smoke. Her gaze settled on a row of empty bottles lined up like soldiers on the mantlepiece, each a testament to the day's liquid marathon. She turned back to Steve, who’d sunk deeper into his worn recliner, the leather creaking under his weight. This felt like a lost cause, but she had to keep pushing. There had to be something here— anything— that could get her closer to catching their killer. Because if there wasn’t— well, this was the only lead they had. The alternative was too awful to think about.
"Steve," Bree ventured, her tone softer now, yet carrying an edge of determination, "before we go, did Carl ever mention anyone he was having trouble with?"
Steve's eyes, bloodshot and weary, narrowed as if the question pierced through the fog of alcohol. He took a long swig from his current bottle before setting it down with a clink that seemed overly loud in the quiet room.
"Trouble?" he echoed, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw, contemplative. "There was this guy. Garret something. Granite or— Stone! That’s it. Garret Stone."
"Garret Stone?" Mike leaned forward, interest piquing in his voice.
"Local mechanic," Steve continued, his words slurring slightly but gaining coherence. "Carl used to rant about him constantly. Said they had some major beef over car parts or somethin'."
Bree felt the shift in the room’s energy, like a crackle of static before lightning strikes. "How heated are we talking about?"
“They got in a fight at the bar once," Steve said, his gaze unfocused, as if visualizing the scene. “Got real heated."
“Heated how?" Bree pressed, her pulse quickening.
"Garrett was pissed," Steve muttered, staring down at his hands. "He said if Carl didn't back off, he'd kill him. Everyone thought it was just big talk, you know? Empty threats. But now…"
Bree knew better than to dismiss the gravity of such words. In their line of work, 'empty' threats had a way of echoing until they found a corner to fill—often with irreversible consequences. She shared a look with Mike, reading the same thought mirrored in his eyes: Garret Stone had just become a very viable suspect.
"Thank you, Steve," she said earnestly. "This is important information."
"Whatever," Steve mumbled, already reaching for another beer, his cooperation seemingly exhausted. But the seed of suspicion had been planted, and Bree knew this was just the beginning of what could be a treacherous path.