Page 70 of Burning Justice

That he wanted her, wanted to see where things might go with them. But again, it wouldn’t be fair. Unintentionally hurting people—the women in his life—was what he did. With Gemma, the only thing worse than that would be if she couldn’t stand to look at him again, like most of his exes couldn’t.

“We don’t have a search warrant for the truck.” He slipped Blaze’s leash from the rearview mirror. “That doesn’t mean I can’t run Blaze around it.”

After locking up the Expedition, he let Blaze take care of business on a sidewalk fire hydrant, then led him to the pickup, pointing at the different areas of the vehicle for Blaze to focus on. “Seek.”

Blaze’s tail whipped back and forth as he sniffed the asphalt by the driver’s side door, then rounded the hood and did the same by the passenger door. The back of the pickup was open, but with a tarp covering what appeared to be, based on the size and shape, several fifty-five-gallon drums.

At the tailgate, Blaze’s sniffing grew louder, and he swung his head back and forth, taking in whatever scents were coming from under the tarp. Blaze sat in front of the tailgate.

“Is he hitting on something?” Gemma asked.

“Accelerants.” Brett leaned over the bed of the pickup. Even he could smell what Blaze had picked up on. “Contractors have legitimate reasons for handling all kinds of chemicals that could constitute an accelerant.”

Her brows rose. “Like MEK?”

“Among others.” As much as he wanted to whip off the tarp to uncover whatever was beneath it, he didn’t have a warrant. “Good boy.” He patted Blaze on his side, then tugged a treat from his pants pocket and held it out to his dog.

Again, Brett leaned over the rail, being careful not to actually touch the truck. A set of contractor’s gloves sat on top of the tarp near the edge. Not the Shamrock brand.

The glass door leading to the office squeaked as it opened. A man about five-ten, wearing jeans, and a T-shirt that said ‘Hawkin Construction’ on the front, held the door open. “Can I help you?”

The man’s gaze took in the embroidered badge on Brett’s shirt, then dipped to the badge and gun. He easily recognized Michael Hawkin from the photo in the ATF’s file. “Michael Hawkin?” Hawkin nodded. “I’m Special Agent Tanner with the ATF. This is my partner, Agent Gemma Scott with the National Insurance Crime Bureau. May we come in and speak with you for a few minutes?”

He waited a beat, gauging the man’s reaction. Usually, a guilty or concerned person would exhibit some form of facial gesture or body language at being approached by a federal agent. Hawkin, however, exhibited nothing. If he remembered Brett was the agent injured during the Torrance Lane house fire, he kept it to himself. The man was either innocent and with nothing to hide, or he was one cool customer. Brett’s instincts were firing on all cylinders, and he was betting on the latter.

“I guess so.” Hawkin looked at his watch. “I don’t have much time, though. My wife and I have an appointment.”

“This won’t take long.” The key was getting their feet in the door and to get Hawkin talking. “Mind if I bring my dog inside? It’s hot in my vehicle.” A partial truth.

Hawkin didn’t have to know Brett regularly left Blaze in the SUV with the engine running and the AC blasting. Without waiting for a response, Brett headed for the door, with Blaze trotting at his side. Before passing Hawkin, Blaze sniffed the man’s boots, then sat, his body as rigid as a stone.

“What’s he doing?” Hawkin took a step back. “He looks like he wants to take a chunk out of my leg.”

Brett and Gemma exchanged knowing looks. “Nah,” Brett said. “He likes you.” The guy’s boots must stink of accelerant.

“If you say so.” Hawkin looked skeptical but held the door open.

As they went inside, Brett slipped Blaze another treat.

Through the open door at the end of a short hallway, a woman was visible sitting at a desk with a cell phone glued to her ear. As she caught sight of them, her brows drew together, and she didn’t look happy.

“Have a seat.” Hawkin indicated two chairs in the hallway. “I need to talk to my wife for a minute.”

Hawkin went into the back office and shut the door. Rather than sit, Brett and Gemma examined the framed photos and certificates hanging on the dark, wood-paneled wall behind the chairs.

“He’s quite the pillar of society, isn’t he?” Gemma pointed to a Rotary Club service plaque and an award from the Denver Chamber of Commerce.

Brett snorted. Some of the worst serial killers in history hid their inner demon behind a strategically constructed facade, allowing them to wreak havoc without anyone being the wiser.

The next two frames were a college diploma from Prescott College in Arizona and a photo of Hawkin and two other men standing in front of a small airplane inside a hangar. A sign on the wall behind the plane said “Front Range Airport Hangar 8.” One of the men had similar features to Hawkin but was several inches taller and wore a visor. Brett recalled from the ATF file that Hawkin had a younger brother, David.

“Do any of these men look familiar to you?” Brett asked quietly. “Could one of them have been the man who attacked you?”

Gemma shook her head. “I don’t know. One of them could be the right height. Hawkin and the other man probably aren’t tall enough.”

Raised voices came from behind the closed door. The door opened, and Hawkin came out, reclosing the door, none too quietly. “We can talk in here.” He led them into another office and went around the desk to sit in a large leather armchair. “Have a seat.” He indicated the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk. “Please excuse my wife. She’s not happy with me today. You know how it is. Can’t love ’em, can’t leave ’em.” He grinned at Brett, as if the two of them shared a secret where women were concerned.

Asshole.