Smitty drank a mug of warm milk before bed. His father taught him how good it was for sleep many years ago. Now, whenever he felt stressed as the evening wore on, he heated a cup. It was probably hokum, but in case it actually helped, Smitty kept it up. He’d been raiding the fridge for the white stuff to heat more often ever since the Canadian girl dropped her damn Boxster off at his shop.
The more he thought about it, he realized the added stress began when Jake went on the run. Men soon came calling for him. Smitty didn’t have a way out of the situation until John Tyler wandered into his shop looking for a job. He never knew he was hiring Rambo, but Jake came back safe and sound. Since then, Tyler proved himself to be a good and knowledgeable worker.
Smitty took a sip and tried to relax with deep breaths. For his many attributes, Tyler couldn’t let things go. When the girl turned up dead, he’d taken offense. He couldn’t have been sweet on her—she was barely older than his daughter. For whatever reason, Tyler couldn’t abide her death, and he made it his job to get revenge for her against the cartel. Which was all well and good. Smitty didn’t like criminals. He also didn’t like getting caught in the crossfire, a place he increasingly imagined himself as the cartel sent men to case the shop.
With thoughts roiling, the breathing didn’t do much. Smitty rinsed his cup out and settled in to bed. As he drifted off, he thought the warm milk probably helped. His phone trilling on the nightstand shocked him out of a slumber some time later. He looked at the device as he picked it up—1:33 AM. What the hell could be going on at this hour?
When he put his glasses on and read the alert, his heart sank.
A fire alarm went off in the shop. The system was new. It shouldn’t produce a false positive. Smitty opened the app allowing him to view the security feeds. Flames blazed in the office area of the building. “Shit,” Smitty said. The camera cut out before he set his phone down. The alarm would also alert the fire department. They might be able to save the shop. He’d owned it for years, and nausea gripped his stomach at the thought of losing it now.
Smitty got dressed faster than ever before in his life and hustled out the door.
The proprietor saw the flashing lights from a block away as he sped toward his shop. Two fire engines sat in the lot behind the service bays, which were still on fire. Orange flames spilled out of what used to be windows. “The chemicals,” Smitty said to his empty car. All sorts of flammable liquids were clustered on shelves waiting to be poured. A few other FD vehicles dotted the lot, along with the police cars whose swirling red-and-blues he saw on the approach.
After turning onto a side street and curbing his car, Smitty watched. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. Everything he’d worked for now lay in ruin. He’d toiled for years as a mechanic under other men. Some imparted useful lessons, and others taught him things he should avoid. Twenty-four years ago, he took everything he’d learned and opened the shop. A business owner before he turned forty. Smitty’s parents would’ve been proud. He certainly was. So many of his friends worked jobs they hated. Smitty loved what he did, and he liked to tell people he had the best boss in the world.
Now, he felt numb as he watched his hard work burn. The building itself remained intact. It was solid stone. The interior would be a total loss, though. Some of the equipment in the service area might survive. The combined smoke and water damage, however, would make it unusable. Smitty wiped at his eyes as he climbed out of the car and trudged toward the shop. He explained to a cop in the lot he was the owner. A plainclothes detective invited him inside the yellow tape perimeter a minute later.
The man looked Hispanic, and Smitty immediately thought of the cartel. They did this. There was always a tiny chance some electrical fault would turn the place into a conflagration, but no. The cartel torched his shop, and they did it because of the girl with the Boxster and Tyler. “Did you hear me, sir?” the detective asked, jolting Smitty from his thoughts.
“Sorry, no.”
“I said I’m Sergeant González, Baltimore County Homicide.” He showed a badge. Smitty frowned.
“Homicide? Was someone inside?”
“No. I was close, and a lot of the guys in our arson unit are investigating something across the county. They’ll be here when they can.” González wore a sharp suit and looked alert despite the hour. His spiky black hair showed a few spots of gray. Smitty guessed him for forty. His voice only held the hint of an accent. “Were you here at your shop today?”
Smitty nodded. “Everything was fine. We closed up around the usual time.”
“When is that?”
“Anywhere from five to six,” Smitty said. “Depends on how much work we have. Today was probably closer to five.”
“You said ‘we?’” González asked.
“Me and another guy work here. He left a few minutes before I did.”
“What’s his name?”
Smitty told González as calmly as he could. “John Tyler.”
“You and Mister Tyler get along?”
“Sure. If you want to know if I think Tyler would do this . . . absolutely not.”
González nodded and flipped a page in his small notebook. “All right. Can you think of anyone who would?”
Flames licked the exterior of the building. The stone would survive, but the paint wouldn’t. Something else to be fixed or replaced. Smitty hoped his old insurance policy would cover everything. “Mister Smith?” González prompted.
“I’m here. Not every day you watch something you built for twenty-four years go up.”
“I’m sorry,” González said. “Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to set your business on fire?”
He couldn’t tell González about the cartel. It would be a jurisdictional issue for one thing, and he didn’t think the cops would be able to do much about them. Besides, if they did all this before the police got involved, what would their playbook look like after? “No.” Smitty shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone. Are you looking at this as arson?”
“Too early to say. Our fire inspectors should be here soon. They’ll be able to tell you more. I just like to cover all the bases. How’s the wiring?”
“Solid,” Smitty said. “Got it upgraded a few years ago when I put in new lifts. Everything runs like it should. No shorts, no faults.”
“All right.” González jotted a few notes. He handed Smitty a business card. “I might not end up as the investigator, but in case I do, there’s my number. You call me if you think of anything.”
Did González believe him? Maybe this was something he told everyone at a crime scene. Smitty’s hand shook a little as he accepted the card and stuffed it in his pocket. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
“The arson guys should be here soon. I’m sorry about your business.”
Smitty nodded and watched as the fire department gained control of the blaze at the rear. Flames receded into the building. About fifteen minutes later, they were out completely. The area smelled of carbon and chemicals, and Smitty’s nose burned when he took a deep breath. Two more county types showed up a short while later. They were both middle-aged white guys. Smitty told them much of what he’d said to González. They also asked about the electrical work. Once they finished their questions, they promised Smitty a full investigation into the blaze. He nodded his gratitude, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and walked back to his car.
Once inside, he took out his phone and dialed John Tyler. A sleepy voice picked up on the third ring. “Smitty?”
It took him a few seconds to find the words. “They got to me, Tyler.”
“Who?” His tone sounded louder and more alert.
“Who do you think? I’m sitting outside my shop. The fire department and police are still here. It’s a total loss.”
“Smitty, I—“
“Twenty-four years and no problems. Jake got caught up in that crap with his old CO a few months back, and I’m grateful you got him out of it. Always will be, but this is payback for the Porsche, the men you shot here, and whatever else you’ve done since.”
“Let me—“
“No. You’ve done more than enough. I have to hope I can rebuild after this.” Smitty covered his voice cracking with a deep breath. “I’ll be going it alone. You’re fired.” Before Tyler could respond, Smitty hung up. He started his car and drove back home.