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  “Did you find a body inside?” she finally asked.

  The question caught the fireman off guard. He glanced at where his men were dragging out the rubble. “Uh, no. No, we haven’t. Do you think someone was in the house last night?”

  “I hope not,” she said, this time, a tear escaping to run down her cheek.

  Frank took a step closer, letting her know he was there to support her. “Her brother had been staying in the house while she was out of town. We can’t reach him by phone, and just wanted to be sure.”

  That seemed to relax Weller. “As far as I know, the house was completely empty, ma’am.”

  Sydney simply nodded, raised her camera again, and moved down the sidewalk.

  “Do you have any idea how it started?” Frank asked, not taking his eyes off Sydney as she slowly circled, taking more pictures of the surrounding area. “Or what caused the explosion?”

  “See him?” Weller waved at a man bent low near the debris at the back of the house. The man rose and started towards them along the edge of the property. “That’s Mike Feeny, the state arson investigator. He’ll be the one determining all that. Don’t know how long it will take. Could be days or even weeks.”

  Weller introduced them before leaving to join his men.

  Frank shook hands with the arson investigator. “Any chance a gas leak caused the explosion?”

  Feeny shook his head. “That’s the one thing I have ruled out.” He nodded towards Sydney. “That’s the home owner?”

  “Yes. How’d you know?” The hairs on Frank’s neck stood up. Neither he nor the fire lieutenant had told Feeny who Sydney was.

  “The camera,” the other man said. “Got a report a darkroom was on the premises. It’d make my job a little easier if I knew exactly what chemicals she had stored there.”

  Frank called Sydney over and introduced her to the arson investigator.

  “Do you have any idea what started this?” she asked. Direct. To the point. She didn’t steer clear of the hard questions.

  A flicker of yes-I-have-an-idea-but-I’m-not-telling-you flew across Feeny’s face and if Frank hadn’t been watching he’d have missed it.

  “Not at this time,” the other man said with all the emotion of a stone wall. “I do have a question for you. Do you know exactly which chemicals you stored in your darkroom?”

  “Just the three basics—developer, stop bath, and fixer. Don’t really know the chemical compounds of each.” Sydney gave a slight shrug.

  “That’s okay. I can find the information, if I know which brands you used.”

  “Not off the top of my head. I’d say I’ll look up the receipts on my computer, but…” This time, Sydney did look flustered. The need to rescue her from the reality of the situation settled hard on Frank.

  “If you saw the bottles again would you recognize the ones you bought?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I doubt any of them survived—” she waved her hand at the massive mess “—this.”

  “I agree, but if we take some time to look online back at my place—”

  “Yes. I could put together a list.”

  She gave him a smile almost like yesterday before the fire. Then she flashed it to Feeny, making Frank want to punch the man.

  “Would that work for you?” she said.

  “Sure would.” Feeny reached into the back of his uniform, pulled out his wallet and fished out a white business card, handing it to Sydney. “This is my cell number. If you get the list together, please feel free to call me.”

  They said their goodbyes and headed for Frank’s SUV. Once inside, Frank paused before starting the engine. “You doing okay?”

  “Yes. At least I have something to focus on that might help someone.” She held up the card, then her camera. “And who knows, some of the pictures I took might tell us something.”

  “You were taking pictures of the street around the site, too. Why?” he asked, as he started the truck and pulled out.

  “I don’t really know. It’s something Abby asked me to do. She said, sometimes the person you’re looking for is in the crowd, watching the chaos they started.”

  “Very smart woman, Abigail.”

  * * * * *

  Geist pulled out after the SUV in front of him, giving it a few car lengths so as not to appear to be following.

  Where were the pair headed now?

  Arriving just after dawn, he’d parked down the street from the burned down house, in the shade of two large trees to keep his presence in the car hidden. He’d been close enough to watch the activity and see the pair pull up, but not too close to draw anyone’s curiosity. When the girl started taking pictures of the surrounding buildings, he’d had a moment’s concern, but unless she had a long distance lens on that camera, she wasn’t going to get a good look at him.

  He’d hoped she’d come by herself today, but the guy with her was the same one who whisked her away last night.

  Was he her boyfriend? Was he in on the blackmail scheme of hers?

  Didn’t matter to him. The old man made it perfectly clear last night—clean up the loose ends, or become one.

  Now he had two targets.

  * * * * *

  Walking from the attached rear garage into the kitchen of the townhome, Sydney laughed to see it was as neat and orderly as Frank’s house in Victorian Village. She bet if she opened the fridge she’d find the exact same pops and condiments in the same order as the other fridge.

  “What?” Castello asked from behind her.

  She turned to answer him and slammed into the hard wall of his body. He grabbed her by both arms to keep her from falling onto the hardwood floor. Tilting back her head, she stared into the dark depths of his brown eyes. The humor at his quirky neatness gone. Replacing it was the odd desire to move in closer to all that heat and strength.

  “You okay?” he asked, his voice a little huskier than usual.

  She swallowed and managed a nod. “Yes. I…I just wasn’t expecting you so close. You’re awfully quiet for a big man.”

  A slow smile slide over his usually stern features, stealing her breath for a moment. “What had you laughing when you came in?”

  It took her a second to register his question. That damn smile of his muddled her brain. “Your house.”

  Now it was his turn to look puzzled. “My house?” he asked, the smile a whisper of a memory and one of his brows arched all Mr. Spock-like. He released his grip on her, looking around as if he’d missed an assailant in the corner. “What’s wrong with it?”

  Taking a step back, she tried to shove aside the feeling of loss. “Nothing. It’s just like the other one.”

  He set her laptop bag on the granite countertop, shaking his head. “No, it’s not. The Victorian Village is a restored Craftsman. This is a cookie-cutter townhome built less than ten years ago in an up-and-coming social market. Very little character.”

  She laughed at his haughty appraisal of his own property. “I didn’t mean it was the same style house. I meant it was just as neat and everything-in-its-place tidy as the other one.” She pointed at the wall behind him. “Coffee maker, a toaster, and an electric wine bottle. The only things out and in the exact spots as the other house. And I’ll just bet…” she said, going to the fridge and opening the door. “Yep. Every kind of pop—diet and regular—in the bottom section of the door.” Snagging one, she popped it open and took a long drink, then grinned at him. “You, Marshal Castello, are an obsessive neat freak.”

  “Just because I believe there’s a place for everything, and that putting a thing in that place will make finding it easier the next time, does not make me obsessive.”

  He actually appeared affronted that she’d called him a neat freak. Something about teasing the big, seriously serious man tickled her. But since the man was armed—she’d seen him put on his gun and holster beneath his lightweight windbreaker-type jacket before they left this morning—dropping the subject was probably in her best interest.

 
“Okay. If you say so.” She set her camera and case on the counter. “So, Mr. OCD—” okay, one more little dig “—where can I hook up my computer?”

  “Not OCD,” he muttered as he walked by her, into the living room area of the two story townhouse.

  She couldn’t help the little giggle as she followed him with her computer bag and camera. Again, nothing out of place. On the console behind the leather couch—very similar to the one in the Craftsman house—he had a docking station for phones and computers.

  He reached into the wooden box sitting next to the phone docking station and handed her a slip of paper. “The Wi-Fi code for this house. You can hook up here to work while we wait for the detectives to show up.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, as she set up her work on the coffee table and plugged in the charger to her computer.

  “I have some calls to make,” he said, before heading up the stairs.

  She watched him for a moment, admiring the way his jeans fit his backside, then she noticed he seemed to be moving slowly and with a decided limp. Odd. She hadn’t noticed it yesterday or earlier today. Had he always had one or had he been injured last night?

  Before she could ask him, she heard the door upstairs close.

  Dismissed.

  Her feelings shouldn’t be hurt. Hell, he hardly knew her, but if felt odd to have him shut her out of his conversation.

  You’re being a stupid goose, Sydney. The man had a life before you, he’ll have one once you’ve found Ian and settled somewhere else. Giving herself a mental shake, she focused on what she needed to get done.

  First things first, make a list of the chemicals she had in her darkroom for that handsome arson inspector. She opened up her computer, typed in the Wi-Fi code Frank had given her, and got to work. Once she had the list sent to Mr. Feeny, she’d upload all those pictures she’d taken today. Who knew what clues they might have in them?

  CHAPTER NINE

  “What do you have for me, Doyle?” Frank asked, as he stared out the window of the front bedroom.

  Not much traffic on the street below. It’s why he’d chosen the area. Even for new construction, the subdivision was secluded in decades-old trees the builder had taken great care not to decimate. The town home was an end unit with the front door, the garage door and the back bedroom window opening out over the roof of the garage as three points of egress if needed—something he required in every safe house he owned.

  Right now three cars were parked outside. Two mid-sized cars to the right. To the left sat what appeared to be a sedan, but the elms two houses down blocked his view of it. He’d have to walk outside to get a good look later.

  “Sydney Peele is as squeaky clean deep down as her surface information claimed,” the gravelly voice of the private detective said on the other end of the phone. “Father died in nine-eleven. Mother moved back to Columbus and brought her two teenagers with her. Remarried a year later. Your girl graduated from Ohio State with a dual degree in photography and business. After an internship in New York and some time in Paris, she returned to Columbus to open her own freelance fashion photography business. Has a pretty good name in the industry.”

  Frank wasn’t worried about taking notes. The app on his phone would record the conversation, in case there was anything he needed to access later. “Yeah. Abigail and Luke trust her. I wasn’t expecting anything to sneak out of her past.”

  “The brother is a different story.”

  That didn’t surprise him, either. “What’s he been up to?”

  “After high school Ian Peele left town—”

  “To be a war photographer,” Frank said, interrupting Doyle. “Sydney told me that much.”

  “Well, the kid was a little free in his freelancing. Got himself into a few predicaments that had the Army having to move in to rescue his ass. Got the reputation of being a time-bomb. Trouble was, he always came out with a good story and photos that no other journalist could get. At least two soldiers were injured, and one killed, on rescue missions for the guy.”

  “Sounds like trouble for the military.”

  “Not just them. Peele got in the middle of a DEA investigation down in South America a few years back. Nearly blew the whole thing up. Luckily, the feds were able to close down the cartel, extract the troublemaking photographer, and use his photos as evidence for extradition of the cartel leaders.”

  “Sounds like Ian can walk through a pile of manure and come out smelling like a rose.” Frank already didn’t like the fact the guy was ignoring his sister, since he was apparently still alive, but all these Lone Ranger antics really made him hate the guy. “Anything else?”

  “There is one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Word on the street is the elder Peele has a gambling problem.”

  “Of course he does.” Frank moved the curtain to watch a blue sedan turn onto the street, headed their way. “How bad?”

  “He’s gone as deep as twenty grand at any given time.”

  “Would that time be now?”

  “Locally? No. But given his job, he’s been to many cities around the world with big casinos. It’ll take me a little longer to find out that information.”

  The sedan pulled up on the street outside the town house. The police detective had arrived. Frank glanced at his watch. Three exactly. The detective was punctual. “Let me know what you find out,” he said, then pocketed his phone, dropping the curtain and heading for the bedroom door.

  Sydney, sitting sideways on the couch, legs crossed yoga style in front of her and her laptop on top of them, her hair pulled up into that ponytail-bun thing she seemed to prefer, resembled a teenager doing homework. She focused on him as he came down the stairs. “Finished?”

  “Yeah. We’ve got company,” he said as the doorbell rang.

  Ever cautious, he motioned for her to remain where she was, drew his weapon and stepped to the door. “Who’s there?”

  “Detective Abrams, Columbus Police,” the man on the other side of the door said, holding up credentials to the peep hole.

  Satisfied, Frank holstered his gun and opened the door. “Deputy U. S. Marshal, Frank Castello,” he said when the detective eyed the weapon and arm holster.

  They shook hands and Frank closed the door behind him, turning the deadbolt out of habit.

  “Ms. Peele?” Abrams said, shaking the hand she offered. She’d slid the closed laptop onto the coffee table and stood beside the couch. “I’m very sorry for the loss of your home.”

  “Please have a seat,” she said, taking her seat once more and the detective sat in one of the side chairs. Frank took the other chair, closest to Sydney and flanking the coffee table.

  “Have you any idea what happened at my house?” Sydney asked.

  “Not at this time, ma’am,” Abrams said, pulling out a notebook and pen. “I was hoping you could answer a few questions. First, let me explain, anytime there’s a fire of this magnitude, and in this instance, an explosion, we’re required to do an investigation. We’re waiting on the report from the arson investigator—”

  “Mike Feeny,” Frank interrupted him. “We spoke with him this morning.”

  Abrams cocked his head slightly to the side. “Is there a reason the Marshals’ service is involved in this case?”

  “They aren’t.” Frank fixed his you’re-going-to-tell-me-more-than-I’m-telling-you look on the other man. “I’m here unofficially, as Sydney’s friend.”

  “Then you know the arson investigator will determine the actual cause. Once we have his report we’ll know if we need to take the investigation further. I’m just looking for some basic information and perhaps your timeline for yesterday at this time, Ms. Peele.” Abrams fixed a much friendlier look on Sydney.

  Frank clenched one hand into a fist. He forced himself to relax it. The man was just doing his job. Besides, it wasn’t like he had any real connection to Sydney.

  “I’ll do what I can to help,” she said and flashed
the other man a smile.

  Watch it, Syd. He’s not here as your friend.

  “How long have you lived on Hamlett Street?”

  “I bought the house a little over three years ago. It is…” She hesitated, blinked, and swallowed hard before continuing. “It was the first house I’ve ever owned.”

  “You’re a photographer?” Abrams asked.

  Man had done his homework getting background information on her.

  “Yes. Mostly fashion photography.”

  “Did you keep a darkroom on the premises?”

  “Yes,” Sydney said, this time a little crispy. Good girl. “I told the firemen last night and Mr. Feeny this morning that the chemicals I use in my darkroom are non-flammable.”

  “I understand. These are just questions I’m required to ask,” the detective said marking in his notebook and giving her an I-assure-you-I’m-not-looking-to-find-a-reason-to-arrest-you look Frank was sure he’d honed with years of practice interrogating suspects.

  “Okay,” Sydney said, looking a little contrite. Don’t buy it, Syd, he’s as harmless as rattlesnake sunning in the desert.

  “Do you ever store flammable chemicals in the house or garage? Gasoline, propane, turpentine?”

  “No.”

  Abrams made another checkmark in his notebook.

  “Any kind of space heater?”

  “No. It had central heating. I wouldn’t need one.” The crispness was back in Sydney’s voice and Frank found himself relaxing.

  “Okay, let’s talk about yesterday. When did you know your property was on fire?”

  “When Frank brought me home.”

  “No one called you to let you know there was a fire?”

  She shook her head. “No, I only have one neighbor on the left side that I really didn’t know well. The other house had just been sold and no one had moved in before I left town.”

  “So you were out of town yesterday?”

  “Yes. I’d been on a photo shoot in Vermont for the past week.”

  “What time did your plane get in?”