Hazardous Duty (3 page)

I climbed in the passenger’s side, the
smell of smoke assaulting me. It was a different vapor from the scent outside,
but equally as grimy and thick. Cigarettes.

Parker plopped into the driver’s seat
and slammed the door. Reaching into his pockets, he pulled out some gloves and
snapped them on. “Let me see what you found.”

I opened the bag, careful not to touch
my buried treasure. “This board on top has a speck of blood on it. But, there
wasn’t any blood on the carpet above it.”

He dipped his head in a side nod. “It
could be old.”

“It could be new.”

His gaze met mine. “I can’t argue with
that. How do you know so much about this?”

“I went to college. Just because I spend
my life cleaning doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.” I reserved the part about dropping
out only one semester away from graduating, and turning to this job because it
made me feel like the forensic specialist I had studied to be.

His jaw twitched. “Of course.”

He took the board and studied the
bloodstain. “I’ll have it tested to see who it belongs to, though I don’t know
how much it will tell us about the case.”

“That’s not the best part,” I said. Only
touching the metal box with the plastic, I held it up.

The detective raised a brow. “What’s
this?”

“This is what was under the bloodstained
wood in the corner of the closet. There’s a gun inside.”

“A gun?”

“Maybe the murder weapon.”

He shook his head. “That wouldn’t make
sense.”

“Have you found the murder weapon yet?”

“No.”

“Maybe I have.”

He sighed. “Look, Nancy Drew. This isn’t
your case. There’s nothing wrong with a couple hiding a gun in their closet. It
sounds like a safe thing to me.”

“First of all, I’m not Nancy Drew. I’m
Gabby St. Claire, crime-scene cleaner. Second, I believe I’ve stumbled on some
evidence you missed, detective. Even if it is the family gun, your search
should have turned it up, which makes me wonder what else your crime scene unit
missed. And blood splattered near a gun is always suspicious.”

He studied me a moment before nodding. A
grin spread across his face, and I relaxed my shoulders.

“Well, Gabby St. Claire, you’ve
established that you are indeed a professional.” He held out his hand, some of
his earlier formalities gone. “Why don’t you call me Chip?”

After contemplating a moment, I
awkwardly took it with my unbandaged hand and pumped up and down. Gracefully,
of course.

As I pulled away, I dared to ask my next
question. “What kind of gun was the murder weapon?”

He shook his head and clicked his
tongue. “You are not an official part of this investigation.”

“Oh, come on. I’ll find out eventually.”

When he opened the metal box, I had my
answer.

He glanced up at me, his gaze containing
a shadow of hidden emotion. “You’re going to have to tell me exactly where you
found this.” He pulled a note pad out of the breast pocket of his dark suit.

I recounted what had happened, all the
way up until I escaped from the burning house. He nodded and grunted, jotting
quick notes.

“You have any enemies?”

I tilted my head, wondering where he was
going with the question. “Why?”

“Someone tried to kill you tonight,
Gabby.”

I shook my head. “No, someone tried to
burn down a crime scene.”

The detective clicked his pen and
sighed. “Anyone you can think of who might want to hurt you?”

“No. My being there was an accident.
Whoever did this didn’t know I was inside.”

“You’re going to be around in case we
have more questions, right?” the detective more stated than asked.

“Of course.”

He looked me over. “You’re free to go.
I’ll be in touch.”

I nodded, reluctant, for some reason, to
leave the evidence I found. For a moment, I’d felt like part of the
investigation, like I was on the case. Like I was really someone instead of
just a house cleaner.

I climbed out of the car and ambled
across the street, my eyes focused on the scene around me. The flashing lights.
The smoldering flames. Men in uniform milling around, mumbling theories to each
other. Reporters trailed by TV cameras, trying to get the inside scoop. The
smell of smoke, thick and choking.

That house could have been my grave.

Just a couple hours earlier, things had
seemed so normal. I was just doing my job. Now, I was thankful to be alive.

I circled to the back of the house,
toward my white business van. I tried to park it out of sight to give people
privacy. Most people didn’t want to remind others of what had gone on in their
home. Besides, it paid to be discrete.

I halted as my five month-old van came
into sight. It stood on four melted tires and the front windshield was
shattered. It wasn’t going anywhere.

“Everything okay?” A fireman came from
behind, and looked between me and the wrecked vehicle. As soon as I saw the
man, I wanted to duck. I would never forget that face. He looked like someone
had grabbed his nose, pulled it and the rest of his face had molded like play
dough with the action. His teeth were perfectly straight . . .
and yellow, just like a cob of corn. Yep, this was the same firefighter who had
visited my high school that dreadful day after my experiment caught it on fire.

“No, everything’s not okay.” I pointed
toward the remains of my only wheels. “That’s mine.”

“We figured as much. It’s not in any
condition to be driven.”

I made sure I was looking away when I
rolled my eyes. I pulled my arms over my chest. The edges of my sweatshirt were
singed. White ash coated me. I probably looked like death.

What did it matter? At least I was
alive.

Then I realized that all of my equipment
was gone. I would have to start over.

I would deal with that later. Now I had
to find a way home. The detective seemed like a good person to ask. As I went
back toward his car, I saw he was still inside. He didn’t see me approaching,
as he chatted on his cell phone, holding the metal box in his hands.

Without gloves.

I pounded on the window.

He glanced up and closed his cell phone.
His window rolled down. “Everything okay?”

“You shouldn’t be touching that without
gloves.” I pointed to the box.

He looked down at the evidence and
pulled his hand back as if he’d touched fire. He ran his fingers through his
thick light brown hair. “My prints will be ruled out when the crime scene unit
tests it. No big deal.”

He glanced up with a level gaze.

I stared at him, my mouth starting to
gape open. “That’s not proper procedure. Your sloppiness could compromise a
piece of evidence that could change the entire direction of this case.”

He leaned toward me and lowered his
voice. “Things like this happen all the time. I know to a young idealist this
seems like the worst thing that could happen, but believe me, it’s not.”

A young idealist? He didn’t know
anything about me. And if he thought I was going to let this slide, he was
wrong. But it would have to be dealt with later. Now I needed to get home
before I passed out from exhaustion.

“There’s nothing I can do about your
blunder,” I said, silently adding “for now.” “The whole reason I came over here
was because I need a ride home. My van isn’t drivable.”

His shoulders seemed to sag in relief.
“Give me a few minutes here and I’ll take you myself.”

He stepped out of the sedan. “Why don’t
you stay in the car and relax? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Nothing sounded better than shutting out
the world around me and trying to sort out my jumbled thoughts. I nodded and
slid into the passenger’s seat. As soon as the noise from outside muted, I
dropped my head back on the headrest.

My temples throbbed. Maybe a trip to the
hospital wasn’t a bad idea. My body suddenly felt fragile and weary. I closed
my eyes, trying to block out everything that had happened. But with a curiosity
like mine, that would be as impossible as buying oceanfront property in Arizona.

Chapter Four

The sound of the door
opening and a whiff of smoky air jostled me awake. Incessant beeping told me
the keys still hung from the ignition.

“Sorry. That took longer than I
expected.” Parker slammed the door and glanced over at me. “You sleeping?”

I stretched, wishing it was all a
nightmare. My gaze swept over the scene outside. Only two vehicles were parked
near the house now. The orange glow of timbers arched like massive dinosaur
bones against the black sky. Puddles in the ruined lawn reflected the flames
that still clung to life.

I pulled my gaze from the scene. “I
guess I was more exhausted than I realized.”

“I’ll get you home.”

I fought a yawn. “What time is it?”

“Just past midnight.”

A few minutes later we were cruising
down the road. I mumbled out directions to my house, and we pulled out of the
lush Virginia Beach neighborhood, heading into
the neighboring city of Norfolk.

The area had several larger cities all
back to back that made up Hampton Roads. It was mostly suburban, with the
exception of downtown Norfolk,
where I lived. Hampton Roads was the perfect blend of southern hospitality and
Northeastern briskness, a mix of liberal and conservative. People with southern
accents, but quick beats between words.

Only minutes from the hustle of the
business district in Norfolk, Ghent nestled, an artistic, eccentric area
where students and creative bohemians lived. How I’d ended up there, I wasn’t
sure. There was nothing creative about me and heaven knew I’d failed as a student
the day I’d dropped out of college never to return.

Something about the area charmed me, and
one day I found myself looking at an apartment. To most people, the bruised
Victorian would have been nothing special. To me, I felt like I’d found my
home. I signed a contract for one-fifth of the old house. With Ghent’s steady influx of patrons who visited
the antique shops, pubs, and delis, life never got boring.

As Parker came to a quick stop at a
traffic light, I reached for the dashboard to steady myself. My hand ached on
contact, a reminder of my blisters. I leaned back, trying to clear my head.

“Did you think of anyone yet?” Parker
asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Anyone who’s an enemy?”

“I already told you—I don’t have any
enemies. At least none that I know about.” I turned toward him, taking in his
perfectly proportioned profile. A streetlight illuminated his chiseled cheeks
and square jaw line. “You really think this was against me?”

“Can’t rule it out.”

“I heard glass breaking as I was
leaving, like a window got shattered or something.”

He drummed his index fingers against the
steering wheel, nodding to some silent beat. “I guess that’s how they got
inside. The initial opinion is that they poured gasoline all over the
downstairs. That’s why the house went up so quickly.”

Had someone really tried to kill me? My
stomach tightened at the thought. It just didn’t make sense. “Here’s my
apartment building.”

He pulled into the lot, put the car in
park, and turned to face me. “Don’t worry, Gabby. I’ll track down whoever did
this. You can count on me.”

I thought of Parker touching that box
and decided I’d be better off counting on only myself. I got out of the car,
watched him drive away and then sank onto the steps outside my apartment
building. The air had finally cooled and the breeze felt like a balm on my
face.

What a night.

I closed my eyes and imagined myself as
a forensic specialist. Things would have been different tonight if I was.
Parker would have respected my opinion instead of looking at me like a janitor.
I would be at the lab right now, testing the evidence for fingerprints and
trace particles.

If I had finished that last semester of
college, I would have the career I wanted. I wouldn’t have to worry about
getting enough jobs to pay the bills, or about getting all the blood out of the
carpet. But sometimes responsibilities dictated your life, and you just had to
make the best of what you had.

I’d become quite an expert in that area,
if you asked me. Maybe I should just give up cleaning all together and start
enrichment seminars all over the country. I could see it now—turning lemons
into lemonade. Remembering that the sun will come out tomorrow. Climbing every
mountain and fording every stream. Okay, so kill the musical references, I
know. But I did have to constantly remind myself to look on the bright side.
Otherwise, I might just turn to the bottle like my dad.

When mom died, my father hadn’t been
able to function. I’d quit college to support him, and since then I barely had
time to breathe, let alone go back to school. Work had become a necessity and
college a luxury I couldn’t afford. Sometimes, it was just a hard knock life.

So maybe pondering a career change
wasn’t such a good idea. Look, you can be just like me. Picking bones out of
walls. Almost getting killed. Being laughed at by detectives. But hey, I could
still smile. After all, you’re not fully dressed without one, to quote one of
my favorite musicals of all times.

Growing up, I bore an uncanny
resemblance to little orphan Annie, from my curly red hair to the dash of
freckles across my nose to my penchant for trouble. My mom didn’t make things
any better when she bought sewing patterns for the actual outfits that Annie
wore. She proudly made the dresses for me and I unknowingly wore them. Up until
sixth grade, classmates had called me LOA—Little Orphan Annie. Luckily, I’d
gotten older and learned to control my curls, my freckles had disappeared, and
I’d developed better fashion taste. Well, the fashion taste was questionable,
but I thought T-shirts, jeans, and flip flops made a statement.