Sarah woke not knowing what had become of Fake Bryce—that was how she now thought of him. She’d surprisingly fallen asleep last night—had there actually been Ambien in the tea?—and hours later, she’d stirred to find herself alone.
This morning was a mystery, utter silence downstairs.
It finally got the better of her. She sashed herself into her bathrobe and went downstairs, taking the steps soft as a cat. She expected to find him splayed out on the recliner. It was empty. No sign of life in the kitchen. Then she realized his suitcase was gone. Near where it had been, she saw a handwritten note on the dining room table. She lifted it by the edges, as though it might be infectious.
Hope you’re feeling better, Sar. Got called out for an earlier flight.
Home next week. Best til then and a hug to Alyssa.
Love, Bryce
Her first thought was derisory. It’s a kiss, you imbecile, not a hug.
Next came relief. He was gone.
That was followed by an impulse to crumple the note, burn it, and flush it down the toilet. Nothing accomplished, but eminently satisfying in concept.
With all that out of her system, her thoughts began to organize. She pulled her phone from her robe pocket and called Claire.
She picked up on the third ring, sounding sleepy.
Sarah didn’t bother to apologize. “We need to talk.”
Burke was up and running early. His anniversary dinner had gone well: good steak, better wine, and all the attendant romance one could expect after twenty-five years of bliss.
Twenty-five. He’d done the math and gotten it right.
They’d turned in by eleven, and Burke slept like a baby until waking at four a.m.—which, as he recalled, was also what babies did. He’d tossed and turned after that, eventually going downstairs to brew a cup of coffee. As he nursed his first cup at the kitchen table, the message from last night played in his head. Then it stuck there.
A distressed Sarah Ridgeway.
An address in Georgetown.
He finally retrieved his phone and woke it up. The screen seemed painfully bright. He tapped on the map and saw the address still dialed in. The red destination flag beckoned like a finish line.
… critically important information. You need to see what’s inside …
“Crap,” he muttered.
Washington D.C.’s motto is Justitia Omnibus—Justice for All. Burke had always thought Gridlock for All would have been more fitting, but he doubted the ancient Romans had devised such a word.
The drive to Georgetown took twice as long as it should have, even with traffic at its weekend morning best. Burke wasn’t scheduled to work, but he knew Sarah Ridgeway’s message would haunt him until he followed up. She had promised to explain herself today, so he settled on a drive-by of the address, followed by a stop at the office for an electronic search before getting in touch. He still couldn’t fathom why a seemingly balanced woman would send such an acutely unbalanced text.
The rain had ended, a sullen sky taking its place. The wind had picked up considerably, and the forecast was for falling temperatures throughout the day. Burke made the final turn onto P Street, the last straggling sodden leaves of fall spiraling down from above. He referenced his phone and saw that he was two blocks away.
As it turned out, he didn’t need the map again.
The first thing he noticed was a glow, pulsing waves of orange reflecting off the gunmetal overcast. That was followed by the telltale reflections of first responder lights—so many, it looked like a red-and-blue disco ball was strobing the neighborhood. Burke’s internal radar went to high-rate scan. When the bigger picture appeared, it was sudden and frenzied, a money-shot from a horror movie—everything but the scream.
A fourplex of row houses was engulfed in flames. Fire leaped into the sky, liquid-orange fingers clutching to escape the inferno. The southern end of the complex was getting the worst of it, the front wall having already collapsed. The back and side walls were partially intact, giving the aura of an overwhelmed barbeque grill. Burke guessed the residence taking the brunt of the damage had once had a second floor—the three adjoining units did. He checked the map on his phone, pinching and pulling, if only to verify what he already knew: the address at the epicenter of the blaze was the one Sarah Ridgeway had provided.
Burke counted three fire trucks, their crews working feverishly. An arcing stream of water suggested another truck in back. The northernmost of the four residences hadn’t yet been touched, and the firemen were concentrating on the third in line, its southern wall the battleground.
The police had cordoned off the street a block short of the blaze. Burke parked as close as he could, pulling parallel to a Metro Police squad car. He got out and made his way toward a uniformed cop who was holding the perimeter.
The officer, a jowly fireplug, held up a hand as Burke approached. Burke showed his credentials.
“FBI?” the cop said. “Since when do the feds respond to house fires?”
“Since the house burning down is part of an investigation.”
The patrolman seemed to think about it.
“Who’s in charge?” Burke asked.
The cop pointed to three men huddled near an SUV behind one of the ladder trucks. Burke bypassed another squad car, this one parked to blockade the road, and stepped over a pulsing fire hose connected to a hydrant. As he got closer he could feel the heat, and he noticed air being pulled in from behind by some kind of chimney effect.
The fire chief was obvious enough: a weathered guy with a handheld radio, short iron-gray hair. Burke heard him give orders to two men in full gear, and they dashed off toward the trucks. A crew nearby was attacking the blaze with a standard 2 ½-inch line, and light from the flames dancing mockingly across their hard-set faces. Sensing a pause in the action, Burke was ready with his credentials when the chief turned his way.
“Who the hell are you?”
Burke held out his cred holder. “Special Agent Burke, FBI.”
“And you’re here because?”
“The unit on the right was a location of interest in an investigation.”
“Well, right now, Agent Burke, it’s my location of interest.”
“Yeah, I get it. Looks like maybe that’s where the fire originated?”
“Won’t know for sure until the forensic guys have a look, but probably, yeah. What kind of investigation you running?”
“Sorry, but I can’t get into it.”
The chief got a call on his radio and began a back-and-forth with the crew manning the backyard truck. Burke stood watching the fire, flames curling and clawing upward. He heard the firecracker snapping of wood cooking off, and waves of acrid black smoke swirled into the air.
When the chief was done talking, Burke said, “Look, I know you’re busy. Could you just tell me one thing—do you know if there was anybody inside?”
“When we got here the end unit was too far gone—we couldn’t get in. One of my guys pulled an old woman and her cat out of the next place—got her out just in time. The other two units we evacuated.” He pointed to a group of people in bathrobes and slippers on the far side of the street. Burke counted ten, although some were certainly neighbors.
“Okay, thanks. Before I go—a little cross-pollination might do both our departments some good. When you figure out who’s going to handle the forensics, can you have them give me a call. I’m really curious as to whether this was arson.” Burke held out a business card.
The chief took it, and said, “No way to tell from here, but in my experience—when they go up this fast and hot, there’s usually some help. Somebody will get in touch.”
“Thanks,” Burke said, backing away to let the man work. He was halfway to his car when a section of wall collapsed on the end unit. It sounded like a crack of thunder.