Michael smiled grimly. The torch had miscalculated there—he hadn't foreseen Kaz's determination. If she'd shown up a few minutes later, they'd be matching dental records, or DNA from bone marrow, to ID Lundquist. She was also damn lucky to be alive, and the thought of what could've happened if Michael had arrived only a few minutes later was still giving him waking nightmares.
The torch had also poured streamers down the stairs and through the engine room to the galley, breaching two locked doors. Lundquist's wife had verified that no one except Kaz and her brother had keys to those doors. Both locks showed signs of having been tampered with recently, which might be a point in Gary Jorgensen's favor.
Tipping the scales in the other direction, however, were the records on Jorgensen's military training, which had finally arrived a few hours ago via email. Although most of the material had been deleted for security purposes, the type of training he'd received had been clearly documented. Jorgensen could've set that fire in his sleep, with very little forethought or planning. And if he'd had quick access to a space heater, then Michael could no longer argue that the method of ignition required advanced planning. Jorgensen could've simply killed in a rage and then covered it up.
But at this point, Michael had more inconsistencies and unknowns than he had evidence. Like the fact that Lundquist's body had been moved after he'd been killed, possibly from a location that wouldn't have given Jorgensen the time to do the crime. Like those two scratched locks. And it was those inconsistencies that were giving Michael heartburn.
Then again, maybe his heartburn was caused by Kaz. The more time he spent around her, the more he was starting to care about her. Okay, certainly the way she looked invited him to indulge in a few fantasies. But the way her mind worked—that was the real turn-on, and that was scary. She was smart, savvy, and…not boring, he realized. Kaz was…fascinating. Challenging. Hell. The woman was part of the investigation. End of story.
She knew more than she was letting on—she'd seen something in one of the photos. And if McGuire had seen what Kaz had, she wasn't letting on. He'd gone over and over the snapshots, but he couldn't figure out what—or who—had caught Kaz's attention. Dammit, he didn't trust her. And what had him truly worried was that he wasn't sure his libido cared.
He sighed, leaning back in his chair. What was it about moving to a new town that made a person think about new possibilities? Possibilities that he'd never let himself consider in recent years? Ever since Jessica's death, he'd avoided long-term relationships. Anyone close to him could become a target, and that was reason enough, to his way of thinking, to steer clear of commitment. If his actions on this investigation ended up putting Kaz at risk, he'd never be able to live with himself.
He knew his buddies back East thought he'd crossed the line the night he'd finally run to ground his fiancée's killer. Michael would never be able to prove that he'd acted honorably. Going into the warehouse alone had been a mistake, because there'd been no witness to corroborate his version of what had really gone down inside that burning building. The guy had had a death wish—he'd had no intention of going back to jail. Michael would have to live with the rumors for the rest of his life.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and picked up his cell phone, speed-dialing, then waiting for the pick-up on the other end. "Hey, Mac. Still playing politics?"
His long-time friend and police captain in Boston snorted. "Every chance I get. You know how I love kissing ass. Especially your surrogate papa's."
David Waltham, Boston's Police Commissioner, hadn't been happy when Michael had informed him of his plans to move to Astoria. After trying unsuccessfully to change Michael's mind, he'd started targeting Mac, his theory evidently being that Mac could convince Michael to come back home.
"So when are you moving back, pal?" Mac asked, breaking into Michael's thoughts. "We've got a pool going on how long you're gonna last out there in the boonies, and I need some insider information here—I could use the cash."
Michael smiled. The guys hadn't changed—if nothing else came to mind, they'd bet on when the first raindrop hit the sidewalk outside. "You're gonna lose this one, Mac. I'm not coming back."
"Oh, man, do not tell me that. I'll have to quit my job or else get myself fired."
"You want me to tell him to lay off?"
"Hell, no. I'm getting a kick out of it. For once, the commissioner isn't getting his way. It's about damn time."
Michael couldn't argue with that. He'd be forever grateful that David had stepped into the void left by his parents' deaths, but that didn't mean that the years he'd lived in David's house had been easy ones. Waltham was smart and powerful, and he had one of the most forceful personalities Michael had ever come up against. It wouldn't hurt David to lose a few battles now and again.
"I need a favor, Mac."
He heard his friend sit up in his chair, probably taking his feet off the jumble of papers that always littered his desk. Michael envisioned the serious, all-business expression that had transformed Mac's easy-going looks. When Mac took notice, no one could beat his laser-like concentration. "Name it."
"I need you to check around quietly, see if you can find out who's been checking into my background."
Mac let out a low whistle. "What the hell's going on, buddy?"
"Just a little arson and murder, timed a little too conveniently." He waited while Mac swore, then continued. "It could be nothing—I'm just being cautious."
Mac harrumphed. "Like your instincts on this crap are ever wrong." There was a moment of silence. "You all right?"
"Yeah."
"Maybe the commissioner is right—maybe you should come home."
"Quit worrying," he reassured his friend. "I'm up against someone who's clever, that's all. Just get me that info, and I'll be fine."
"If you say so." Mac sounded dubious. "Hey. Maybe I should take a trip out there, check the place out."
"And here I was thinking the commissioner was the only one acting over-protective."
"Okay, okay, I can take a hint." Mac sighed. "You got a name you want me to run through the computers?"
"Not yet. But send me some coffee beans."
"You're shitting me."
"Two pounds of my special blend, from the shop in Faneuil Hall."
"Christ. Do I need to send them by overnight messenger?"
"I'm not made of money. Send it priority mail—I can wait that long." Just. Michael already planned to dip into Kaz's stash whenever he could until his own arrived. But he didn't mention that to Mac—he didn't want his friend getting curious. The next thing he'd hear was that they were betting back in Boston on how soon he'd be getting laid.
He talked to Mac for a few more minutes, catching up on some of the gossip back home, then ended the call with a promise to check back in a day or two.
He leaned back in his chair, thinking about how badly he needed the break he'd counted on but wasn't getting because of this case. When it was over, he promised himself, he'd use some power tools. Knock out a wall or three. Then he'd be back to normal. That is, if he could figure out what constituted 'normal' these days.
He heard a car door slam outside. The chief of police, Jim Sykes, loomed on the other side of the glass door. Michael waved him in, and the police chief opened the door, walking into Michael's office.
"Working late only a few days into the job, eh?" he asked Michael.
"No choice in the matter." Michael gestured to an empty chair beside his desk. "Have a seat." Zeke lifted his head and moaned low in his throat, and Michael gave him a soft command. The dog subsided but didn't go back to sleep.