“That’s why I’m here,” Mick said. “We have to stop whoever’s setting them before someone gets killed.”
Though he was no longer arrogant enough to consider himself a worthy opponent of the flames, he hadn’t been able to resist that call for help. Even if he could never atone for those he’d failed to save six months before, maybe, just maybe, protecting a few lives here would give him a start toward redemption.
“It’s not just the fires.” Peter lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “The police have also opened another investigation, looking at former Fire Chief Hoffman.”
“I know it’s been tough.” He’d been briefed about that and the other cause for his predecessor’s removal—he’d shown up drunk on the job—but Mick didn’t say more. Though none of the village leaders he’d spoken with had suggested a connection between the string of arsons and the embezzlement investigation involving the former chief, Mick found the timing suspicious. He didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Doesn’t anyone work around here?” He gestured to the five deserted bays.
“You know what time it is, don’t you?”
He peeked at his watch, only then noticing that the time had updated. “Right. Eastern Time Zone. Did the dinner bell already ring?”
Come to think of it, the aroma of something spicy and delicious had melded with the scents of wax and wheel cleaners in the room.
“Long past,” Peter said.
“Pans already licked clean?”
“Since Ingram cooked tonight, that’s a likely guess. Scott’s the Emeril Lagasse of the firehouse.”
“Glad I picked something up on the way, then.” He hoped his stomach wouldn’t growl and prove him a liar. “Any interesting calls on the log this week?”
“Just property-damage accidents, a couple of unintentional, false alarms from our frequent flyers and not one buttwocats stuck in trees. We’ve had no structure fires in five days. And not one fatality traffic accident. We’re definitely due.”
At Mick’s hard look, Peter shifted his sneakers on the floor. “Sorry, boss. I just—”
“I know what you meant.”
Out of the public eye, first responders often referred to life-and-death situations in crass terms, which they believed helped them keep their distance and their edge. But the way his friend kept glancing over his shoulder, his hands jammed in his pockets, made Mick wonder whether Peter had lost both. With questions swirling about the former chief’s misconduct compounding the already tense situation involving the fires, the whole crew had to be wound tighter than a broken music box.
“Like I said in the email, I’m really sorry about the guys back at the old station.” Peter stopped and cleared his throat. “It must have been awful—”
“Thanks,” Mick rushed to say, as he dodged the slideshow of images that played on repeat in his thoughts. More so since he’d accepted the new position. “Sounds like we all could use a fresh start.”
“You can say that again.”
Mick took another look around the apparatus bay, not surprised that Peter had been the only crew member who’d made the effort to greet him. None of them could be happy that the village council had brought in an outsider—and expedited his hiring process—rather than promote from within. Just like thirteen years earlier, when he’d shown up at his former station as a probie hose jockey, he would have to prove himself to his crew and himself at the same time.
“I’ll just get a soda and introduce myself to the guys before I pick up the keys to my apartment.” He pressed his lips together, hating that he’d misspoken. “I mean the menandwomen.”
“Your slip’s safe with me,” Peter said. “Only two females in the whole crew, Felicia Lucas and Emily Garritt. Lucas is on Rotation 3, and Garritt is paid-on-call, mostly weekends. Word to the wise, never accept if Lucas challenges you to an arm wrestling match.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” He also needed to be more careful with his words. Crew members with connections, criminal or otherwise, to the former chief might be watchinghim. As much as he hated to consider it, that could also include Peter.
“About the job, don’t thank me too soon.”
“What do you mean?”
Peter gestured with a tilt of his head to a half-glass door beneath the staircase. “Some guests have been waiting for you in your office.”
“Guests?”
“Rachel Hoffman.” Peter nodded when Mick lifted a brow. “Yeah, one ofthoseHoffmans. Sister to the most recent chief, Riley, and daughter of former chief, Stan. I mean thelateformer—”
“I get it.” Even if firefighters were statistically more likely to die by suicide than in the line of duty, they usually avoided discussing that dark truth. “Why’s the sister here now?”
“Guess you’ll have to ask her that. Well, them. She’s here with her kids.”
