Up in Flames

Of course, the holiday crowds and tourist season made it easy for a culprit to hide. Restaurants and bars overflowed, catering to the party scene. A ship of sailors had docked and they were combing the streets on their furlough.

If the guy was among them or the tourists, he could disappear tomorrow.

Families had gathered in the squares for picnics and special booths had been set up for the holiday offering cotton candy, sno cones, frozen lemonade and other treats. Face-painting, tarot card readers, clowns, balloon artists and mimes entertained in the square, and a vendor sold voodoo dolls to passersby. The ever-present ghost tours strolled along the graveyards and historic district adding to the atmosphere.

Still, excitement sizzled in the balmy summer air, the sound of children and partiers filling the streets growing louder in anticipation of the upcoming fireworks show.

Hazel’s son Robby had arrived and tried to console his mother while Parker interviewed her.

Bradford listened, then cornered Chief Jackson as the last of the flames died down. Now the ruins, soaked with water, looked like a sludgy mess of charred wood and plastic.

“What do you think?” Bradford asked.

“It’s too early to tell,” Chief Jackson said. “We’ll have to sift through the debris, take samples, run tests…” The tall African-American man shifted, restless himself. “Did you learn anything from the interviews?”

“Afraid not. But three fires in three weeks. Not all accidental.”

“I’ll review the other two scenes,” Jackson said. “See if my men missed anything. Look for a connection.”

Bradford nodded. He’d already talked to the officers himself. In the first two instances, the sites had been vacant. At this one there were people inside. Which meant, if the incidents were related, their perpetrator was taking more chances, growing more confident, more aggressive.

And that he’d just begun his reign of terror. Next time, there might be casualties.

They had to stop him before that happened.

SOMEONE WAS WATCHING her.

Rosanna pivoted in the dark corner of the bar, searching the faces, hunting for someone familiar, or maybe a stranger staring at her. But no one stood out.

Shivering in spite of the heat, she tried to convince herself that the fire and then walking by the graveyard had made her paranoid. After all, for years after her father’s death, she’d had nightmares that he might claw his way from his coffin and try to drag her into hell with him. The fire tonight had reminded her of that nightmare.

The image of that cop helping the café owner to safety returned. He’d been kind and gentle and had consoled the older woman as if he cared.

But when he’d looked at her, she’d seen a coldness that chilled her to the bone.

Determined to put him out of her mind, she studied the dance floor. White lights glittered and popped intermittently across the room, an indoor fireworks show and hopping singles scene. Not one she was accustomed to being a part of.

She sipped a Lemon Drop martini while she watched the hump-and-grind show on the dance floor. Bodies gyrated, sliding against other bodies, men wrapped around women, skin to skin, a game of foreplay in public that made her body tighten with need.

And resurrected images of that detective again.

For a brief second, she pictured the two of them swaying to the music, his big, muscled arms holding her tight, his thigh slipping between her heat, his thick lips skating over hers. Desire shot through her.

A good-looking, blond architect paired up with Natalie and they headed to the dance floor. During the next half hour, Rosanna fended off unwanted advances.

Now she remembered the reason she avoided the clubbing scene.

She’d been alone all her life. And she didn’t mind it. No one to worry about. No one to pry into her secrets.

No one to find out about her past.

And no one pawing at her.

A balding guy wearing a skeleton T-shirt and holey jeans sauntered toward her with a beer in hand. “Wanna dance, baby?”

She gritted her teeth, wondering why she attracted the weirdos. Maybe because she was eccentric herself?

“No, thanks.”

He frowned and cut his eyes over her as if she’d angered him. Uncomfortable with his reaction, she slid off the stool and headed to the ladies’ room. She sensed him following, but refused to turn around.

Near the ladies’ room, another man at the bar made eye contact with her. He was tall, wore a black silk shirt and black dress pants. But instead of approaching her, he removed a lighter, flicked it open and pressed the starter until a small golden flame shot up. Then a slow smile crept over his face.

A smile that did not quite reach his eyes, one that sent a ripple of tension through her.

Anxious to escape his scrutiny, she ducked into the ladies’ room. The line snaked through the cramped bathroom, and it took several minutes to reach a stall. Just as she closed the door, a loud explosion rocked through the room.

Screams filled the air, the sound of panicked scuffling following. She tried to jerk open the door but it was stuck, so she dropped to her knees to look under the stall. Smoke curled through the room and another explosion rocked the floor. Splintered wood crashed from the ceiling, pelting her, and the smoke thickened. She scrambled beneath the opening, pushed to her feet and ran for the door, but when she opened it, a wooden beam crashed down and flames exploded, blocking her exit.

In the bar, chaos had broken out. Flames shot upward, eating the wood and hissing as it danced through the room. People screamed and stampeded to the exit, debris rained down, and bar glasses shattered and spewed glass in all directions. She spotted a couple of people on the floor, blood flowing from one man’s head. Then she saw Natalie trapped beneath a gigantic light fixture.

Oh God, no…she wasn’t moving. She had to get to her friend, save her.

But heat seared her and crackling wood popped near her feet. There was no other way to get out of the bathroom. No window. No back exit.

She was trapped with the flames growing higher all around her.

THE SCENT OF SMOKE and singed fabric permeated Bradford’s clothes as he and Parker left the Savannah square and maneuvered through the crowded streets.

The fireworks were in full swing, but he wanted to go back to the little house he’d rented on Tybee Island, wolf down a pizza and crash.

Parker leaned back in the seat, whistling a blues tune beneath his breath, looking relaxed now that the café excitement had ended. But Bradford’s body felt wired, jittery, as if he was waiting on the other ball to drop. He’d had these same antsy feelings in the military on missions, on missing persons cases in Atlanta. The night his father had died.

The night he’d discovered the extent of his brother’s problems.

The traffic came to a congested halt, and he veered down a side street where two restaurants and a new bar had opened up, then cursed.

Ahead he spotted trouble. More smoke curling toward the sky. Flames shooting from the roof of the Pink Martini.

“Hell, do you see that?” Parker pointed to the nightclub.

“Yeah, call it in.” While Parker called dispatch, Bradford flipped on the siren, gunned the engine and screeched around an illegally parked car. In seconds, both he and Parker jumped out and ran toward the building.

“Fire trucks are on their way!” Parker shouted.

Bradford scanned the street where a panicked mob poured onto the sidewalks. People raced toward cars, the downtown area, some running as if the flames might chase them down, others huddling in shock and hysteria.

“Let’s see if everyone got out!” Bradford shouted over the confusion.