Sleeping Beauty Suspect

“The floor’s going to go,” Lew shouted.

Flynn felt the give of hot wood under his feet. With a firm grip under Carey’s arm, he started back. Frenchy appeared on Carey’s other side to help support the stumbling man. They made it to the window where Lew guided Carey out onto the sagging back-porch roof.

Inside, the center of the floor sprouted flames. Part of the floor collapsed under the intense heat. Water spewed into the room from a hose at a side window. Flynn scrambled out through the window over the porch, Frenchy on his heels. The porch roof also felt dangerously soft underfoot.

“Go!” Frenchy yelled.

Flynn bolted forward and plunged through a weakened section. His leg and shoulder took the brunt of his landing as he and that section of roofing came to rest on the back porch. Lew appeared at his side, tugging on his arm.

Dazed, Flynn made it to his feet and staggered off the porch. He managed Frenchy’s name.

“We got him,” Lew assured. “Paul’s taking him down the side.”

Flynn yanked off his mask and sucked in fresh air thankfully as Lew led him to the rescue vehicle. The victim lay on her back in the grass. Paramedics, Arlene and Murray, were working over her. Flynn paused to gaze down at her delicate features covered in thick black soot.

“Pretty little thing,” Lew remarked.

Pretty was an understatement. Beneath the soot she appeared fragile, almost porcelain-doll lovely. She reminded him of a fairy-tale princess on the cover of some book.

A very dirty princess.

“Now what was someone like her doing in there, I’d like to know,” Lew grumbled.

An excellent question.

Flynn watched them work on her, willing her to live while wishing there was something more he could do to help.

“I should have got her out sooner.”

“Man, you guys barely got out at all. Count your blessings.”

“I do. Thanks, Lew.”

He let Lew guide him away. Standing suddenly lost its appeal. His legs complied as Lew pressed him down on the ground.

“I’m okay.”

“Let them be the judge of that.”

The new voice jerked his head up. Flynn tried to focus on the lined features of the battalion chief, who stood over him. It took his groggy head a long moment to process the identification, yet there was no mistaking that craggy face. He let his gaze sweep the scene. They’d called a box alarm and the area was flooded with responders and their vehicles.

The wind gusted steadily, sending sparks drifting in multiple directions. Brush near the side of the house had ignited as the big Victorian swelled with smoke and flames. The house was fully engulfed now. He could feel the intense heat clear over here by the engine.

“Anyone else inside?” the chief demanded.

“We cleared most of the house, sir, but I don’t know for sure.”

The man nodded and turned to speak with the lieutenant.

“You all right?” Lew demanded.

“Yeah. Carey?”

“They think his ankle’s broken.”

Flynn grimaced. “What about the victim?” He indicated the woman being loaded onto a stretcher. Long, soot-coated blondish hair spilled over the side.

“Unconscious, but alive. She took in a lot of smoke.”

The battalion chief turned back to him. “She a victim or the arsonist?”

Flynn shrugged and wished he hadn’t as his shoulder twinged. “I’d say victim. She was unconscious on a mattress when I found her.”

He scowled. “You’ll need to talk to the fire investigator.”

“Figured as much,” Flynn agreed.

The chief moved away and Murray and Arlene shouldered Lew aside. “Let’s have a look at you.”

“I’m fine.”

“We’re taking you to go to Community Hospital to get checked out,” Murray told him.

“No need. I’m fine.”

“Lieutenant’s orders,” they chorused.

“Okay, but I’m not lying on any gurney.”

Murray grinned evilly.

“Who’s your sleeping beauty?” Arlene questioned. “She sure isn’t from this part of town. That was an expensive designer evening gown she was wearing.”

Flynn focused on Arlene’s long face. “Evening gown?”

“Yeah, you know, formal dances, that sort of thing?”

“I didn’t know women still wore evening gowns outside of television.”

“You move in the wrong circles, O’Shay. Now if you were rich or famous—”

“He’ll probably be famous.” Murray grinned. “I saw Dick Scellioli snapping pictures when he passed the woman outside. And I think he got a good one of you falling through the roof.”

Flynn groaned. They all knew Scellioli. The freelance photojournalist was making quite a name for himself following police and fire calls, where he’d snap pictures to sell to the highest bidder. He’d shown up at more than one fire scene recently.

“Can you stand?” Arlene asked.

“Of course I can stand.” But it took a little help as it turned out. He swayed unsteadily.