Hazardous Duty (2 page)

I flashed him a smile. I loved Harold.
I’d only hired him a month ago, but he already worried about me like I was his
daughter. Then I thought of my real father and mentally apologized to Harold
for the insult.

“Really. The suspect is behind bars.
It’s ugly, but it’s not dangerous. Besides, I’ll be out of here in fifteen
minutes.”

“If you say so. You’re the boss.”

As soon as Harold left, I wished he
hadn’t. Blessed—or cursed, depending on your outlook—with a vivid imagination,
chills ran up my spine as I pictured the events unfolding.

Too clearly, I could see the couple
sleeping in bed. The husband hears glass breaking downstairs. Grabbing a
baseball bat, he goes down to check it out, only the intruder is hiding,
waiting for just the right moment to sneak upstairs and kill the only witness
to his crime.

The killer plans to escape by the ladder
he left perched at the window, but the husband is too quick. As soon as the
gunshot goes off, the husband is back upstairs, in the bedroom. He sees the
intruder climbing out the window. As he runs toward the man, the intruder takes
another shot and hits Michael’s knee, shattering it.

Shaking my head, I opened the closet
door and sagged against it. Rows of expensive, elegant dresses hung limply.
Taking my glove off, I fingered the silky material, pulling it to my nose. It smelt
of subtle flowers.

The wife should still be wearing her
beautiful dresses and spritzing her expensive perfumes. The woman’s smile
should still light up a room.

The dress slipped out of my hands.

“At least they have your murderer behind
bars,” I mumbled stepping back.

My fingers closed over the door handle,
and I started to push it shut. A spot of red on the carpet made me falter. I
squinted, staring at the stain. How did that get in the closet? There wasn’t
blood anywhere else on this side of the room.

I slipped my gloves back on and pushed a
couple of shoeboxes to the side. Mindful of carpet tacks, I tugged at the
berber shag. It came up with surprising ease.

I dragged the piece of carpet into the
middle of the bedroom and went back to pull up the padding. I checked the
sub-flooring, to see if the stain had soaked through. It looked okay.

Just as I was about to stand, an
abnormality in the wood caught my eye. In the back corner of the closet, the
sub-floor was different from the rest. A small square had been cut out and
replaced.

Could it just have been a leaky pipe
replacement?

I moved toward the spot.

My breath caught.

A speck of blood stained the wood.

There hadn’t been any on the carpet in
that same area. I was sure of it.

Taking a knife from the belt at my
waist, I pried under the wood. The board lifted.

With shaky hands, I pulled it back.
Tucked between the floorboards, I saw a metal box.

I pulled out the container as if it were
a priceless, fragile piece of art. Its contents clanged in the previous
silence.

It was heavy. Too heavy for jewelry and
trinkets.

Leaning down until my face was even with
it, I clicked the latch open. With a squeak, the box opened.

Chapter Two

A gun.

My heart rate quickened. The murder
weapon had never been found. Could this be it?

But why would the intruder stow his gun
inside the Cunningham’s closet? In fact, how would he do it if he shot at the
husband while climbing out the window? It didn’t make sense.

Unless the intruder didn’t shoot the
wife.

Unless there wasn’t an intruder at all.

A minute ago I’d been sweating inside my
haz-mat suit. Now I shivered. The room temperature felt like it had dropped to
sub-zero.

Buying a gun to kill your wife:
$3000.00.

Hiring Trauma Care to clean
afterward: $1500.00.

Having that same cleaner uncover
evidence that frames you: priceless.

I latched the box and stripped out of my
suit. The sweatshirt and jeans I wore underneath were much more comfortable. I
would worry about the rest of this job tomorrow morning. Right now, I had to
get to the police station.

I placed the box into a bag normally
used for waste material. At the last minute, I grabbed the board with the blood
on it. It needed to be tested, to see if the blood was the wife’s. I slid it
into the bag and started toward the door.

The sound of glass shattering stopped me
cold.

What if it was the killer, coming back
for the gun? My heart thudded, vibrating my entire body.

The suspect’s behind bars.

But what if it’s the wrong suspect?

Standing in the brightly lit room, I
felt naked with nowhere to go.

My stomach tightened.

Without carpet on the stairs, surely I
would hear someone coming up.

Wouldn’t I?

There was no sound. No more glass
breaking, no footsteps.

I sniffed.

What was that smell? Was someone burning
leaves outside? Maybe the smell had drifted in through a now broken window.

You have to get out of the house.

My astuteness never failed to astound
me. I didn’t get straight A’s in high school for nothing.

My grip tightened around the bag.

Desperate to be concealed, I flicked off
the light switch. The utter darkness paralyzed me. I decided I’d rather see
trouble coming and fumbled with the switch until the white bulb flared.

Moving quickly, I darted across the room
and found a flashlight in my toolbox. I sprinted back to the door, evidence
still in hand.

Sweat beaded on my forehead. At least I
was getting warmer. My cold chill had dissipated.

After turning on my flashlight, I
flicked off the lights again. A white beam cut through the darkness, calming my
racing heart.

I didn’t want to go downstairs.

Gutless. You want to solve crimes and
you’re scared of your own shadow. It’s probably nothing. A kid who hit his
baseball through the window. Besides, it’s been at least ten minutes since it
happened and you haven’t heard a thing since then.

I hunted around until I found my
backbone then stepped from the room. My gaze swept the hallway along with the
beam of the flashlight.

Nothing.

C’mon, go, move. Don’t just stand
here.

At least ten doorways stood between the
stairway and me in the expansive hallway. Any of them could be a potential
hideout for an intruder. Why did the Cunningham’s bedroom have to be at the
back of the house, so far away from the front door?

I smelled something that reminded me of
a gas station. Could it be . . . ?

A light danced in the recess of the
stairway. Or was it my own shadow?

The flashlight trembled in my hands, but
I forced myself to keep going. My eyes darted from doorway to doorway. I waited
for one to jerk open and a masked intruder to attack me.

An orange finger beckoned from the
stairs.

My throat went dry.

No wonder I wasn’t cold anymore.

The house was on fire.

The flashlight dropped from my hands and
bounced against the carpet. It teetered with a final thud and flickered out.
Eerie, smoldering darkness swallowed me. I had to get out of this house like
the Van Trapps had to get out of Austria.

Flames blocked the stairway in front of
me. A house this size had to have two stairways. It was just a matter of
finding the other one before the fire found me.

Clutching the bag, I raced down the
hall.

I darted up two steps at the end of the
hallway and pushed open the door. This should be the room over the garage. I
dodged a pool table and scrambled across the carpet toward a door on the other
side. I stumbled into it, fumbling with the knob. Finally, I pulled the door
open.

Stairs.

Taking them by twos, I practically flew
to the first floor. My hand covered the door handle. Searing pain caused me to
jerk back.

My hand blistered.

I dropped the bag containing a gun I might
potentially die for. Ignoring the blistering ache of my left hand, I pulled the
sleeve of my sweatshirt over my right hand and twisted.

The door swung open and roaring orange
and yellow flared in my face. I staggered backward, tripping over the stairs as
white hot smoke seared my lungs. I fell, my chest heaving.

The fire greedily reached for me,
consuming anything in its path.

In the distance, a siren squealed, a
mellow, whining cry that underscored the crackling roar of the blaze. Fire
trucks. But would they be too late?

For the first time in years, I wished I
believed in prayer. But I knew better. I only had myself to rely on.

I spotted another door on my left. I
grabbed my evidence and, on my elbows and knees, crawled to my escape hatch and
opened it.

The garage. Flames danced around the
walls, but a pathway straight in front of me was clear.

Taunting, greedy voices mocked from the
raging flames behind me.

“No!” I slammed the door shut. But the
wooden block wouldn’t hold the flames back for long. I had to keep moving.

I stumbled to my feet and, clinging to
the bag, staggered into the garage toward the outside door. Smoke crept inside
and blinded me. I coughed, trying to get a deep breath.

My knees buckled.

I dropped to the ground, coughing.

Only a few more steps.

I pulled my sweatshirt over my mouth and
nose. On my hands and knees, I dragged myself over the rough cement floor. I
lurched forward, inch by inch. Glowing ash sizzled in the reddish glow of the
fire as it devoured the wall beside me.

I glanced over my shoulder to ensure the
bag remained intact. My eyes burned from the gritty air. The plastic started to
melt. The metal box poked through. I swung it around and hugged it to my chest.

Two more steps, Gabby.

The house crackled around me, groaning
with the fire. The devilish, ravenous flames were winning.

My head started to spin. I couldn’t
breathe. The flames around me began to blur.

Chapter Three

No, you can make it, Gabby.
Keep going.

My hand connected with a wall. Clinging
to the box as if it was a lifeline, I reached upward and felt a doorknob. Using
my last ounce of strength, I twisted it, feeling the burned flesh on my palm
rip. I tumbled outside and sprawled face first on the sidewalk along the side
of the house. I gulped in the fresh air.

Keep moving, Gabby. The fire’s
licking your heels.

I pulled myself off the ground and
stumbled onto the lawn. The whole house howled with demonic fury that I’d
gotten away.

Fire trucks. Help. I reeled toward the
sound.

“Someone’s coming out of the house,” a
voice yelled in the distance. Hands grasped my arms, holding me up. “Is there
anyone else inside?”

I coughed, the words smoldering in my
throat. Finally, I shook my head.

“It was just you?”

I nodded.

Paramedics rushed toward me and strapped
an oxygen mask over my face. I was lowered onto a stretcher, still hugging my
bag, and whisked to a waiting ambulance.

***

An hour later, my hand was bandaged and
my breathing had returned to normal. The EMTs had wanted to take me to the
hospital, but I insisted I’d be fine. I climbed out of the ambulance and stared
at the scene.

Firefighters, paramedics, and neighbors
mingled in the front yard. Ash, gritty and sulfurous, rained down like
blackened snow. It filled my senses until I could taste it. The flames were now
out, but orange still glowed in the remains.

A shudder rippled through my body.
Someone had set the house on fire with me inside.

I’d been in some tough scrapes before.
Like in seventh grade, when I was young and naïve, and I got my science
experiments mixed up at a slumber party. I somehow convinced the girls to brush
their teeth with baking soda and to rinse with vinegar. I later heard that was
the solution used to unclog toilets. Needless to say, half of them went to the
emergency room when the concoction started sizzling and exploding like a
volcano inside their mouth. At least their teeth were sparkly white as they
told the doctors what happened.

Okay, so maybe that didn’t compare to
this situation. I’d almost been grilled like a hot dog at a cookout. None of my
past experiences even began to touch the fact that I’d almost died in the line
of duty.

“Are you the woman who came out of the
house?” someone asked behind me.

I turned and sucked in a deep breath.
When had Brad Pitt moved to Virginia
Beach? I swallowed. “Yes, I am.”

“I’m Detective Parker. We heard someone
was inside the residence and since this is a former crime scene, we need to
question you.” His dark eyes looked me over, as if sizing me up. “What were you
doing in the residence?”

I straightened my shoulders. “I’m a
crime-scene cleaner.”

He nodded and lowered his head, but I
saw the slight twitch of his eyebrows. He clicked his pen against his pad of
paper. “Working late?”

I shrugged. “I like to get the job done
right and quickly.”

“You always work alone?”

“No, my assistant left about an hour
earlier.”

“I’ll need his name.”

I gave it to him.

The detective’s eyes traveled to the bag
in my hands. “Souvenirs?”

“Evidence.” My gaze locked with his.

Parker put a hand on his hip and cocked
an eyebrow up in disbelief. “We searched every corner of that house.”

“You sure about that?” I dangled the
bag.

His eyes narrowed and he took my arm,
leading me toward a sedan parked haphazardly on the side of the road. “Let’s
talk in my car. Reporters are already starting to swarm.”