Cold Case Connection. Dana Mentink
a monarch, his brain finally supplied.
A flame.
The cottage was burning. His leather boots hit the ground with a smack as he barreled out of the SUV and shoved through the front door.
“Hey,” he yelled. “Anybody in here?”
No answer. The curtains in the shabby front room were on fire, a lighter still lit on the floor, one of those fancy numbers that kept burning until it was switched off. The flames had not yet started to devour the rest of the room. Smoke filtered through the air, mingling with the darkness, so he did not notice at first.
As he lurched toward the curtains to pull them down and stomp out the flames, his boot impacted something soft. No, not something...someone!
Helen’s senses flooded her brain with disconnected impressions: heat, smoke, pain and the sensation of someone reaching for her, grabbing her arms. Her brother Liam? Returned early from his honeymoon to help her? No, someone else, a stranger, there in the shadows of the burning house. Her consciousness returned with a mighty rush of adrenaline. She sprang up and shoved the hands away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Easy,” said a voice through the smoke in a raspy baritone. “Just trying to help.”
Helen shimmied backward until her shoulders hit the wall. The burning curtains backlit a towering man wearing a leather jacket and boots, mussed black hair that needed a trim. There was something familiar about him, the set of his square jaw, the wide brace of shoulders, five-o’clock shadow. Smoke tickled her throat and she coughed. “What...what happened?”
“That’s my question. First thing’s first. We’ll talk outside.”
When she didn’t move, he took her arm and guided her toward the front door and out into the wind-tossed night. She stumbled on the grass made uneven by tunneling rodents, sinking to one knee. As he bent over to assist, she felt the ground vibrating. A horse and rider wheeled to a stop, sending bits of mud whirling into the air.
Chad slid off the horse, rifle at his shoulder, trained on the other man. “Get away from her or you’re dead.”
Her rescuer raised his palms. “Look, John Wayne, no need to shoot me. I’m a Good Samaritan. Cottage is burning. She needed help getting out.”
“You’re trespassing. This is private property.” Chad had not lowered the gun.
The man lifted a careless shoulder. “I missed the signs, or you need better ones.”
Helen realized her skull was pounding with pain. She fingered a bump on her forehead.
“You okay, Helen?” Chad said.
She heard the man next to her release a bitter sigh. “Helen,” he said softly. “Figures.”
“And you are?” Chad snapped.
“Sergio Ross.” There was a hard-edged challenge in his voice. “Maybe you knew my sister, Fiona. She was murdered here in your quaint little town. She stayed right in this cottage, as a matter of fact.”
Helen’s insides twisted. Sergio Ross. She flashed back to the funeral, Sergio’s face stark with pain, two little babies cradled in his arms as he bid goodbye to his sister, their mother, her best friend.
She gulped in a breath and fought for calm. “It’s all right, Chad,” she said. “I’m okay. He’s...he’s not here to hurt me.” But he did, just with his presence, the blame that emanated from him in silent waves.
Chad finally lowered the rifle, putting it aside to ease next to Helen.
Sergio strode back toward the burning cabin.
“Where are you going?” she called.
“To put out the fire. Not too big yet. I can rip down the curtains and smother it before it gets a real foothold.”
“Place is slated for demolition,” Chad said to his back, tone still hostile. “Not worth getting hurt over.”
“It’s no bother.” Sergio climbed the porch step. “Police are gonna need to photograph and such.”
Police. The word cinched something tight inside her.
“Police?” Chad looked from Sergio to Helen. “Someone set the fire?”
Helen tried and failed to put the confused pieces into place. “I’m not sure.”
“I am,” Sergio said. “The lighter on the floor was a dead giveaway.” He paused. “Unless you’ve taken up cigarette smoking, Helen?”
His words were acid. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep straight against his disdain. “No.”
Sergio bobbed a chin. “Fine then. Maybe Cowboy Chad here can call the cops while I put out the fire.” He vanished into the smoky interior.
Chad raised an eyebrow, his normally impassive face troubled as he pulled out his cell phone. “So that’s Sergio Ross?”
She nodded.
“What’s he doing here?”
It was the very same question making painful circles in her mind.
Sergio Ross.
The last man on earth she wanted to see.
Sergio wondered if the tension he was picking up was from the cop, the cowboy clan who were seemingly coming out of the woodwork or his own angst at returning to the town that had claimed his sister’s life. Probably all of the above, he decided.
Property owners Gus and Ginny Knightly were cordial to him and comforting to Helen, inviting the cop and participants back to the warmth of their beautiful Spanish-style ranch house to finish the questioning. Helen sat across the room on an armchair, being fussed over by Ginny. He could see she was developing a decent-sized bruise on her forehead. She’d shared what facts she knew. The branch that came through the window was a ruse, he suspected, to urge her out of the cottage, probably an attempt to get her to leave. The person then circled around and hid in the closet, perhaps not expecting her to fetch the broom. When she awoke the place was on fire.
The cop waiting patiently for his statement looked to Sergio to be in his late sixties, face wide, head shaved, tanned from time out in the sun, pretty fit from the looks of him. “I’m Mark Farraday, acting chief of the Driftwood Police Department.”
“Where’s the real chief?” Sergio asked mildly, earning himself a sharp look which he deserved.
“Danny Patron is on leave,” Farraday said. “His youngest just had a liver transplant.”
Sergio’s heart thudded considering what that must feel like, to watch your child struggle for their life. He jammed his hands in his pockets, regretting his gibe.
Farraday shoved a stick of gum into his mouth and chewed for a moment. “You’re a commercial diver?”
The cop had done a little checking. “I was.”
“What kind?”
“Deadhead logger.” He caught the blank look. “I work for a company that salvages sinker logs.”
Surprisingly it was Chad who spoke up. “Some of those logs were cut way back in the 1800s. The water keeps them pristine. They’re worth big money.” Chad cocked his chin. “Risky job.”
“Can be.” He thought he detected a glimmer of respect in the younger man’s eyes, which vanished in an instant.
Farraday continued.