Page 56
He glanced over her shoulder at the ruined office. “My money says whoever’s angriest about the developer deal. There’s been talk, rumors that the co-op was holding out for a higher bid, but after the fire, it’s basically a parking lot. Easier to buy up.”
She took a quick note. “Names?”
He ticked off three, four, five on his fingers, listing them quickly: “Clara Green, the former secretary—she lost her pension. The Greely brothers, because their dad built the place by hand. Or maybe someone working for one of the city council types, hoping to curry favor with the new developer. Small town, big secrets.”
She kept writing, then clicked her pen shut. “You can tell your crew to start cleanup once I sign off. Shouldn’t take more than an hour to finish the exterior.”
He nodded but didn’t move. “You ever get tired of all the red tape? The paperwork, the procedure? Doesn’t it ever slow you down?”
She blinked, surprised. “It’s what makes the difference between a solved case and a dismissed one. You think the courts care what your nose tells you?”
“Sometimes the courts don’t care about the truth,” he said, more bitter than he’d meant. “They just want the box checked.”
She smiled, a quick flash that didn’t reach her eyes. “Which is why I never give them an opening to find one missed.”
Brandon watched Desiree pack up the last of her evidence kits, her motions economical and precise. The site was cold enough now that his breath fogged the air. He took a last glance at the warehouse, then at her, and decided there wasn’t a way to get her to talk without resorting to food or caffeine. Probably caffeine.
“Want to grab a real cup of coffee?” he called out, hands in his pockets. “I promise, I won’t even try to convince you it’s better than whatever they have in Austin.”
Desiree zipped her vest and stood, squinting in his direction. “Only if it’s not that swill from the station you brought me.”
He pretended to be offended. “It’s actually from the local coffee shop, The Cozy Cup, but your point stands. We can head out now, if you’re done here.”
She looked down at the flagged floor, then back at him, skepticism plain as daylight. “And why, exactly, do you want to have coffee with the county’s lead arson investigator, Chief?”
He shrugged. “Figure if we’re stuck together on this, you might as well know the lay of the land. Or you can just grill me for details about the local drama while you finish up your notes. Either way, beats freezing your tail off out here.”
Her lips pressed, but she didn’t say no. “Fine. Let’s see what passes for coffee in Sweet Bloom.”
They walked to his truck. She moved fast, like she was daring him to keep pace. He liked that. He liked it even more when he unlocked the passenger door, and she got in without hesitation.
The drive from the old warehouse to the town circle took less than five minutes. Long enough for a silence to settle, but not long enough for it to become awkward. Brandon kept the radio low, local station, a lady with a smooth drawl reading out livestock prices and the weather. He risked a sidelong look at Desiree as she scanned the landscape, her eyes darting to every detail—the garland wrapped telephone poles, the Christmas banners stretched across the street, even the freshly painted playground in the park across from city hall.
He wanted to ask what she thought about his hometown, but figured she’d tell him if she cared to. Instead, he simply said, “Most outsiders think Sweet Bloom is just a fancy roundabout and a bunch of stubborn old-timers. The real action is in the details.”
Desiree glanced over, eyebrow up. “Meaning?”
He gestured ahead as they rounded the bend. “Meaning, you can learn more from an hour in the Cozy Cup than from three weeks of town council minutes. People here are creatures of habit. They show you who they are; you just have to know how to watch.”
She made a small sound, not quite a laugh, but not dismissive either. “You take all your arson investigators on guided tours?”
“Only the ones who insist on taking over my fire,” he shot back. That got the ghost of a smile.
The circle was fully decked out for Christmas. Every lamppost wore a red and gold ribbon, the main park was crisscrossed with strings of white lights, and a fifteen-foot cedar loomed in the center, its branches loaded down with baubles and handmade ornaments. The bakery’s windows were painted with holly and candy canes, and a chalkboard easel out front read PEPPERMINT KOLACHES—FRESH NOW.
Brandon parked out front. Desiree studied the display, then pointed at the sign. “You’re not going to tell me those are any good.”
He grinned. “Becker’s pride and joy. Cops and firefighters have literally fought at Christmas bake sales over them.”
Desiree rolled her eyes. “I’ll have to keep that in mind for next time.” She followed him up the steps and into the Cozy Cup, where the scent of coffee hit like a wave.
Ruth Schmidt was working at the counter as always, her hair in tight white curls, and a reindeer brooch pinned to her apron. “Well, if it isn’t Brandon Holloway, in broad daylight for once,” Ruth sang out. She fixed her eyes on Desiree, sized her up, then beamed. “And you brought a friend. How nice.”
Desiree stepped forward. “Investigator Garcia. County fire.”
Ruth’s smile never wavered. “Well, you can call me Ruth. Coffee’s fresh, have a seat, I’ll bring it over.”
Brandon led Desiree to a corner table, out of earshot but with a view of the whole place. She sat with her back to the wall, field notes already out, pen poised.
