Heaven's Fire (25 page)

"You didn’t take it from me, I volunteered it. And
that
, Gwen, is the true hell of it."

*****

Simon still sat in the Explorer, and the Explorer still sat in the driveway.

Somebody had torched his house.

But why?

Was Collins right? Did it have something to do with an old case? Someone Simon might have put away while undercover? Someone who had seen him on TV yesterday and now, thanks to Martha Malone, had a name to go with the face?

Fifteen years ago, Simon's next question would have been, "How would they know where I lived?" With the Internet, that information was no more than a couple of clicks away for anyone with half a brain.

Or was the arson tied to something more immediate, like Simon's investigation of the Firenze explosion?

Simon looked at the pile of melted plastic on the seat next to him, wishing he had a plastic bag big enough to seal it in until he turned the mess over to the experts. Maybe someone had wanted to destroy the tapes. If so, they‘d done a good job of it. Still, maybe something could be salvaged.

So who knew Simon had the tapes?

More importantly, who knew he'd left them at his house?

More importantly even, who knew there was a small part of one tape--the close-up of Pasquale--that couldn't be replaced?

Jake.

But she'd given him the tapes in the first place.

Irrationally, the thought of Jake--even as an unlikely suspect in a fire that could have killed her, as well as Simon--cheered him. At least enough to enable him to start the car and back the Explorer down the driveway and away from what was left of his house.

He tried again to focus on what he had to do next. Report to Collins. Drop off the tapes. Call his insurance guy. Pick up some clothes. That should get him back to the house by dinner.

He wondered if Jake liked Chinese.

*****

Jake, for her part, was wondering if Simon had lost his mind. Chinese?

"I won't be home for dinner tonight, Simon," she said patiently. "Actually, I'm never home for dinner. I work until eleven. Now, if you and Irish want Chinese..."

Hanging up the phone after assuring Simon she'd be home by eleven-thirty, she put her head in her hands. Be careful what you wish for, she thought. And the truth was that Simon was pretty much everything Jake had wished for since she was...oh, say, five. But even so, things were moving unnaturally fast. Last night Simon seemed undecided about even inviting her to stay over, and tonight he was ordering in Chinese for the two of them. At "their" house.

Nice of him, of course, and he
had
likely saved her life last night. But Jake had this weird feeling he was imprinting on her after the disaster, like a bird emerging from its shell and forming an attachment to the first thing it sees.

Poor Simon. Just his luck to stumble across someone who was a bit of a lame duck herself.

*****

"
Hey, Kath--want to go to lunch?
"

"It's three o'clock in the afternoon, Tex," Kathy told Simon. "On this planet, we try to hit McDonald’s or Burger King around noon, give or take an hour or two."

"Hmmm. Guess that explains why I’ve always felt a little disenfranchised.
"
Simon settled on the corner of her desk.

A fast-food pun. Now
that
was more like her Simon. Kathy slid the Internet print-outs on male depression under a stack of papers.
"
Haven’t you eaten today?
"

"
Didn‘t feel much like it earlier. Besides, I’m having a late dinner, so eating now will work out fine.
"

"
Who’s the late dinner with?
"
If he was feeling better, he was going to pay for it with information. And maybe this woman, whoever she was, was the reason he was feeling better.

But Simon just smiled.

"
Okay, out with it!
"
she demanded.
"
Who is she?
"

"
That’s for me to know, and for you to find out,
"
he said, still grinning.

"
Now that’s mature of you, Aamot,
"
she said, poking him in the shoulder with a finger.
"
And, I might add, it’s a dare, and you
don’t
want to dare me.
"

"
Ooh, I’m scared.
"
Simon said, picking up the framed photo of Ned she kept on her desk.
"
Speaking of mature, when are you going to do the adult thing and marry this guy?
"

She ignored the question.
"
I have to go down to the first floor. Want me to pick you up something?"

A convenience store on the street level of their building sold packaged sandwiches. But even Simon usually drew the line at bologna and processed cheese on gummy white bread. The offer--or threat--should be enough to divert him, though.

"Nah, I’m going run out to Harry's. Maybe get a cup of mushroom barley and a bagel."

He was
so
easy. "Then go next door to Connelly's and buy some clothes. Much as I love what you have on, I'd really hate to see it again tomorrow."

Simon set Ned’s picture down. "You realize I can spend five hundred bucks on clothes and still come in tomorrow wearing jeans and a rugby shirt."

"Yeah, but they'll be different jeans and a different rugby shirt. Or maybe you'll get really adventurous, and splurge on a golf shirt or even..." she lowered her voice, "a Henley."

Simon gasped. "Go
collarless
??"

"If anyone can pull it off, Tex, you can." She sat back in her chair. "Seriously,
"
she said, "I’m glad to see you smiling. I’ve been a little worried about you."

"My house did just burn down," Simon pointed out.

If his mood was that recent, Kathy wouldn’t have been worried. But she’d noticed a gradual slide over weeks, not days.

"
Don't I get a grace period,
"
he was asking,
"
or make that an
ill
-grace period?" He grinned at her. "Do I always have to be Mr. Happy?"

Kathy cocked her head suspiciously. "That's one of those sex toys from your dirty book collection isn't it? Which one?
Tons of Lust
?
Nympho-Bavarian
?"

"Please," Simon said, getting off the corner of her desk, "some respect for the dearly departed, please. It's
Tongues
of Lust
and
Nympho-
Librarian
, though I have to say I think your sequels have real possibilities."

Kathy stood up and gave him a hug. "Now that's my old Simon. Go get yourself something to eat. I'll call you if we get results on the financial records or the piles of plastic formerly known as videotapes."

Simon laughed and started out the door, and she sat back down to sort through the stack of reports on her desk.

"
Kath?
"

She looked up.
"
Forget something, Tex?
"

He pointed at the picture on her desk.
"
I know you changed the subject, but if you ever
do
want to talk about the doc, just let me know.
"

Kathy blinked and looked back down.

*****

Harry’s was around the corner and down the block. A neighborhood institution, the deli had great soups and the city's best corned beef sandwiches served on slabs of primo rye bread.

Simon had Dianne, his ex-wife, to thank for introducing him to the place. It had been the lunchtime hangout for her colleagues at her first law firm, where she'd worked before she landed the partnership with Lancaster and Franks. He doubted anyone at L&F would be caught dead there.

That's why he was so surprised to see Dianne.

He'd picked up his bowl of soup--real china bowls, none of that Styrofoam crap--and bagel and turned around to find a seat, when he saw her at a table dead in front of him.

Dianne was tall, almost as tall as Simon himself, and full-figured. Zaftig, one of Simon’s friends had called her once, and it was a compliment. Long blonde hair, near-sighted baby blue eyes, full breasts and hips, tiny waist. She was all curves and wore clothes that accentuated her figure in colors like lemon yellow, lilac, peach and sea foam green. Everything about Dianne was soft and pastel and slightly out of focus, like a Monet painting.

Until she opened her mouth.

"
Simon! Over here!
"

She'd gotten the attention of everyone in the place with three words. And she hadn’t even had to stand up or wave. That was the way she was in court, too. Magnetic. Dramatic. Electric. All those other -ics.

God, how he’d loved her.

And hated her.

Now he was drawn to her table. He'd say like a moth drawn to a flame, but it was such a cliché.

No, he was drawn to Dianne more like a fly drawn to a Venus Fly Trap. Talk about a metaphor that rises to mythical and pornographic proportions, he thought. Jake would like the word-play. Dianne would think it was juvenile.

He set his tray down on Dianne's table in order to give her a hug.
"
Are you alone?
"
he asked, because Dianne was seldom alone.

"
Yes!
"
she said brightly. Because she was always bright. Except with him, usually.
"
Why don’t you join me?
"

Simon sat down, taking his soup, bagel and Mountain Dew off the tray to save space. As he set the tray on an adjacent empty table, he noticed his hand was shaking.

Dianne must have seen it, too.
"
Are you okay?
"
Her eyes were like a heat-hazy summer sky.

Simon stashed his hand in his lap.
"
Just tired,
"
he said,
"
and I haven‘t eaten today."

Dianne took a bite of her Chicken Caesar Salad.
"
Busy?
"
She was doing that bright thing again.

He’d take care of that.
"
The house burned down last night.
"

She was pulling her roll apart and stopped mid-roll.
"
What house?
"

"
Our house.
"
Then he corrected himself.
"
My
house.
"
He started to reach for his Mountain Dew, but his hand was still shaking. He buried it back under the table.

But he’d gotten her attention.
"
Our...your house burned down? How?
"

"
Arson.
"

"
Who? Why?
"

"What" and "when" were coming next.
"
Don’t know.
"

"
It’s one of those perverts you put away. You know that, don’t you?
"
Her voice was rising to the pitch it had sustained during what he thought of as My Marriage: The Later Years. Or
"
Year," actually. Bright had been replaced by brittle. Not that it was any excuse for what he'd done.
"
I don’t know why you--
"

"
Can it, Dianne,
"
he said quietly. "Please."

"
There are so many other things you could do.
"
She had that look on her face, the one that said scared and repulsed all at the same time.
"
You have such a good mind, Simon, but I worry about you.
"

"
I like what I do,
"
he said firmly, "and I'm doing fine."

"Are you seeing anyone?"

Ahh, the relationship question. It sounded patronizing no matter who asked it, but even more so coming from your ex-wife. Especially when that ex-wife was beautiful and successful. Simon balanced his desire for privacy with his desire to wipe the pitying look off her face. Wiping won. "In fact, yes."

Dianne looked up pertly. She did "pert" nearly as well as
"
bright.
"
Sometimes she even combined them. "Really! What does she do?"

A lot of things, Simon thought, and most of them better than you. "She's at TV8."