The cold December night air smelled of burned rubber and the lingering acrid odor of consuming flames. If not for the quick response of the Billings, Montana, fire department, the downtown tire store would have been a total loss.
Agent Tim Ramsey, a junior member of the FBI Tactical K-9 Unit headquartered in Billings, sat back on his haunches next to his canine partner. The three-year-old German shepherd, named Frodo, specialized in accelerant detection. They both had on booties to protect the scene and themselves.
This was the third fire in as many weeks. The first two were residential properties on the outskirts of town. A knot of frustration formed in Tim’s chest. With Christmas just a few days away, the last thing anyone needed was a firebug on the loose.
Frodo kept his intense gaze on the floor, using his primary alert of sitting at attention. This was the dog’s way of letting Tim know he smelled something of interest in the ash-covered area at the back corner of the store. It was the same area the firefighters suspected was the point of origin. Frodo and Tim’s job was to root out the cause.
Tim trusted Frodo’s keen sense of smell with his life. The dog’s ability to detect odors and differentiate them with accuracy was what made Frodo and other canines so valuable in law enforcement.
With gloved hands, Tim gently sifted through the rubble, looking for clues. He lifted a piece of burned rubber. His stomach sank. Beneath lay the remnants of what he suspected was the cause of the fire. He knew what the forensic team would find upon analysis of the debris: cigarette ash, fibers from pillow stuffing and fragments of a generic matchbook. And trace elements of gasoline, just like in the other two fires. All indicators of arson.
Tim tagged the evidence with yellow markers, rose and addressed the Billings fire chief. “Sir, I believe our serial arsonist has struck again.”
He could only hope and pray they caught the fiend before more fires were set, or the holiday season would go up in smoke and lives could be in jeopardy.
Christmas music drifted into the kitchen of the Billings Homeless Shelter. Trying to relax and enjoy this special time of year, Vickie Petrov hummed along to the upbeat tune as she rolled out more dough for her family’s famous biscuits.
As was their tradition, she and her parents were serving the homeless on Christmas Eve. Because they owned a bakery, they made biscuits and pies, while other eateries in town provided turkeys and all the side dishes for the meal.
Vickie preferred to stay behind the scenes, where no one paid any attention to her. Wiping her brow with the sleeve of her thermal shirt, she glanced out the small window above the sink. Fat snowflakes fell from the sky. An involuntary tremor of dread worked over her limbs. Another white Christmas.
Having grown up in Billings, she was accustomed to the cold winters. Though she enjoyed bundling up, hiding beneath layers of sweaters, scarves and big jackets that kept her warm and safe, she preferred the bluebell sky of summer, where there were no nightmares lurking in the shadows.
Winter always brought back memories of...things she’d rather forget.
Another shiver chased over her skin. She shoved it away. She was safe here. No need to let the past intrude on such a festive night. Still, she couldn’t shake the strange sense of dread that had camped out in her chest for months now. There was no reason to believe she was being watched or followed, yet everywhere she went, the small hairs at the base of her neck would quiver with fear.
More than once, she thought she’d glimpsed Ken’s face in the crowd. But then she’d look again and he wouldn’t be there. It was just her imagination run amok. Ken was most likely in California, living the dream he professed to deserve.
Forcing him and the simmering anger clogged with fear from her mind, she used the round cutter mold and cut out two dozen biscuits, then set them on a baking sheet and popped them in the oven.
The double doors of the kitchen swung open and her mother strode through, with two plastic bags of garbage in tow.
Affection filled Vickie. “Here, Mom, let me take care of that.”
Irena Petrov relinquished her hold on the bags. Beneath her white baker’s apron, she wore a sweater with a Christmas motif of reindeer romping in a meadow, strands of colored lights adorning their antlers. Her silver hair was twisted into a fancy bun at the nape of her neck.
Her clear blue-gray eyes danced with joy. “I wish you’d come out and join the festivities. Your father and Pastor John are setting up a karaoke machine so they can sing Christmas carols.”
Vickie laughed. “I’ll come watch when the singing starts.”
“Okay, then.” Irena checked on the pies. “These look wonderful, Vic. You do us proud with your baking.” A shadow crossed her mother’s face. “I wish you’d reconsider going back to college to get your business degree. I want you to be fully ready to take over the bakery one day.”
Vickie forced herself not to flinch at the reminder of her broken dreams of graduating from the prestigious college that had granted her a scholarship. “I will be ready, Mom. The online courses I’m taking will prepare me just fine.”
“You’re alone too much,” Irena chided gently. “It’s been three years since you came home. Don’t you think it’s time to try again? You’ll never find a nice young man to marry working behind the counter at the bakery.”
“You never know, Mom,” Vickie teased. “Daddy was behind the counter in his family’s bakery when you met him.”
Irena’s face softened with love. “True. But that was in the old country.” Her parents had immigrated to America from the Ukraine shortly after they married. “The world has changed so much since then. Why don’t you try one of those online dating sites?”
Vickie sighed. “Mom, I’m not ready to date.”
She feared she’d never be. Of course, her mom and dad didn’t know the whole truth. She’d wanted to protect them from the depth of her pain. After the assault by her date, Ken, during her third year at the prestigious college in Boston, she doubted she’d ever be ready to let a man close again.
Yanking open the back door, she stepped outside with the two bags of garbage. Caution whispered across her flesh, raising goose bumps everywhere. She glanced around. She was alone. Safe.
Refusing to give in to the old fear, she set the bags on the ground so she could use both hands to lift the heavy lid of the Dumpster. Her skin prickled from the frigid temperature. The cold metal against her palms nearly made her lose her grip.
The smell of burning cigarettes close by mingled with the stench of trash. Vickie wrinkled her nose, feeling the hairs at the back of her neck rising in alarm. Unease twisted in her stomach. Anxious to get back inside, she quickly hefted the two bags into the container and then let the lid fall back in place with a noisy clank.
Before she could return to the safety of the kitchen, two strong bands of steel wrapped around her middle, trapping her forearms at her sides. Terror jolted through her brain like electricity. Her heart slammed into her ribs.
A scream built in her chest.
Her brain fought through the stunned panic. She’d taken self-defense classes at the local community center, determined to never again let anyone hurt her.
She bent her elbows, cupped her left hand over her right fist and used her right elbow as a battering ram into her attacker’s rib cage as she twisted to face him where she’d be able to use her knees, feet and hands to strike out, to disable him.
Her assailant grunted, released her and bolted, running away into the dark.
Thrown off balance, Vickie stumbled, catching herself so she didn’t take a header into the snow. She covered her heart with a hand and sent up a prayer of gratitude for her safety even as her mind grappled with what had just happened. Who was the man? Why had he grabbed her?
For a fleeting moment, an image of Ken’s face reared up in her mind. That wasn’t possible. She was mixing up the past with the present.
Trembling, she hurried toward the shelter’s back door. She had to call the police. They had to catch the guy so he didn’t attack someone else. She prayed the cops would believe her. The last time she’d dealt with law enforcement hadn’t gone well.
A soft popping sound froze her in place with her hand on the doorknob. Fire ignited in the debris near the Dumpster. Flames shot up the side of the building, consuming the shelter’s back wall in seconds.
Adrenaline spiking, she yanked open the back door and ran inside, screaming, “Fire!”
Tim secured a weather and bulletproof vest around Frodo’s torso and attached the lead to the loop on his collar before releasing the dog from his special compartment in the black FBI-issued SUV. Keeping the dog at his side, he headed to the latest fire scene.
Cold air seeped beneath the collar of his thick black jacket emblazoned with the FBI Tactical K-9 Unit on the breast pocket. He was thankful he’d pulled on a black knit beanie to protect his head and ears from the icy temperature.
With a nod at the police officers stationed around the perimeter, he and Frodo walked past the barriers keeping the horde of people congregating on the sidewalk out of the firefighters’ way and headed into the action. Heat emanated from the homeless shelter as the firefighters worked to put out the inferno.
Assessing the situation, he noted the amount of damage to the back side of the building. The flames had traveled up to the second floor. Black smoked curled into the night sky.
Fire Chief Ed Clark waved Tim over to where he stood. “I’m glad you’re here. The fire burned hot and fast. We got to the blaze quickly. It seems our arsonist has struck again. We have a witness,” Chief Clark stated and walked toward a group of civilians huddled together apart from the rest of the crowd.
Tim and Frodo followed the chief. If the witness could identify the firebug, that would be an appreciated Christmas gift, indeed.
“Miss Petrov,” Chief Clark said. “This is Agent Ramsey from the FBI. He and his partner help with our fire investigations. Can you please tell him what you told me?”
Tim halted beside the chief, and Frodo sat at his side. Surprise washed over Tim. He recognized Irena and Sasha Petrov. The Petrov Bakery was a favorite with the FBI Tactical K-9 Unit.
Then his gaze landed on the pretty ash-blond woman sandwiched between her parents. Tim had tried on several occasions to engage in conversation with her, but she hadn’t reciprocated the effort.
Not that he was interested in pursuing anything. He was a confirmed bachelor. He’d learned the painful lesson of what happened when he let his heart get attached. Giving away a part of himself only to have it flung back in his face wasn’t something he ever intended to repeat.
“Mr. and Mrs. Petrov.” He smiled encouragingly at Vickie, hoping to assuage her usual skittishness. She stared at him with big blue eyes from beneath the brim of her snow parka’s hood. “Miss Petrov. You all were here at the shelter tonight?”
“Yes, we help feed the homeless on Christmas,” Sasha explained. He was a tall, slender man with a graying goatee and silver hair slicked back from his high forehead. “It’s tradition.”
“A nice one.” The church Tim went to collected coats for the homeless. He’d donated several new ones. Every act of kindness helped those in need.
“Go on, Vic,” Irena urged. She was several inches shorter than her husband and her daughter. She wore a red wool coat with a matching felt hat covering her head. “Tell the agent what happened.”
Vickie lifted her chin as if steeling herself to talk to him. There was apprehension in her gaze. “I was taking out the garbage when I smelled cigarette smoke.”
“Did you smell gasoline, too?” Anticipation revved in Tim’s veins. “So you saw the person?”
She frowned. “No gasoline. It all happened so fast. I only caught a glimpse of his face in the shadows.”
“Maybe with the help of a forensic artist, you’d be able to describe him enough for us to get an ID.” This could be the break in the case they needed.
“I could try.” Her tone suggested she doubted her success.
Tim had seen the FBI forensic artist work wonders with witnesses who were convinced they had nothing to offer. “You saw the guy start the fire?”
He glanced at the shelter. The flames had rapidly crawled up the building. Not the same modus operandi as the previous fires. But he wouldn’t know for sure until the fire chief gave him the all clear to work the scene, which might not be until tomorrow.
“No. I only heard it after...”
Tim focused back on her. “After?”
“Maybe he dropped the cigarette when he grabbed me.”
Her softly spoken words clanged through Tim’s brain like a fire alarm. “He grabbed you? Why didn’t you lead with that?” This took things to a whole new level.
Irena gasped. “You didn’t tell us. Are you okay?”
Sasha put a protective arm around his daughter. “Did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine.” Vickie leaned into her father. “I jabbed him with my elbow and he ran off.”
“Impressive.” Tim was relieved she was unharmed. “Good for you. Not many people would keep their head enough to react appropriately. Did the man say anything?”
“No, nothing. Like I said, he ran off. The fire started seconds later.”
“She came inside yelling there was a fire, and got everyone out safely,” Irena said, pride lacing her words.
Tim met Vickie’s gaze. Respect for her grew tenfold. “You’re a hero.”
Her chin dipped in a shy way that Tim found endearing. “No. I did what anyone would have done.”
“All the same, you saved lives tonight,” Tim said. He admired how genuinely self-effacing she was, not at all trying to gain the limelight for acting quickly.
She gave him a soft smile. He could tell she was pleased by his words and for some odd reason that made him happy.
“Sir! You must stay back,” A patrol officer restrained a tall man with a bald head who was trying to push his way past the barrier.
Vickie sucked in a breath and shrank back, practically hiding behind her parents.
Tim’s heart rate picked up. “Is that the man who attacked you?”
Could this be the firebug?