Chasing Fire
Page 59
Should she have kept her mouth shut? Rowan wondered. Would this be done if she’d kept her speculations to herself?
Too late now, she reminded herself.
“I said what it looked like. I’ve been jumping fires for five years, and I worked with a hotshot crew for two before that. I’m not an arson expert, but I know when a fire looks suspicious. I’m not a doctor, but I know when a head’s twisted wrong on a neck.”
And now, damn it, damn it, that image carved in her brain again. “I acted on what I observed so the proper authorities could be contacted. Is that a problem?”
“I’m gathering facts, Ms. Tripp.” DiCicco’s tone made a mild counterpoint to Rowan’s snap. “The medical examiner’s preliminary findings indicate the victim’s neck had been broken.”
“She was murdered.” Better or worse? Rowan wondered.
“The ME will determine if this is homicide, accidental, whether the neck injury was cause of death or postmortem.”
“Have you checked with the campground? Lolo Campground isn’t far from where I found her, not for a day hike.”
“We’re working on identifying her. You had some trouble here recently?”
“What?” Rowan pulled her mind back from speculating on just how much force it took to break a neck. “The vandalism?”
“That’s plural, isn’t it?” DiCicco kept unreadable eyes on Rowan’s face. “According to my information, one Dolly Brakeman, employed at that time as a cook here, vandalized your room. You caught her in the act and had to be physically restrained from assaulting her.”
Temper burned through fatigue like a brushfire. “You walk into your quarters, DiCicco, and find somebody pouring animal blood on your bed. See how you react. If you want to call my reaction ‘attempted assault,’ you go right ahead.”
“Ms. Brakeman was also questioned by the police regarding the vandalism of the ready room here on base.”
“That’s right. That little number cost us hours of time and could have cost more if we’d gotten a call out before we’d repaired the damage.”
“You and Ms. Brakeman have a history.”
“Since you already know that, I’m not going over the ground again. She’s a pain in the ass, a vindictive one, and an unstable one. If the locals turned over the vandalism here to your agency, good. I hope it scares the shit out of her. Now look, I’m tired, I’m hungry and I want a goddamn shower.”
“Nearly done. When did you last see Dolly Brakeman?”
“Jesus, when she trashed my room.”
“You haven’t seen or spoken with her since?”
“No, I haven’t, and I’d be thrilled if I can keep that record. What the hell does Dolly have to do with me finding a dead woman burned to a crisp in Lolo?”
“We’ll need to wait for confirmation of identification, but as Dolly Brakeman failed to return home last night—a home she shares with her parents and her infant daughter—as the victim and Ms. Brakeman are the same height, and thus far the investigation has turned up no other female missing, it’s a strong possibility the victim is Dolly Brakeman.”
“That’s...” Rowan felt her belly drop, the blood just drain out of her head while those unreadable eyes never shifted off her face. “A lot of women are Dolly’s height.”
“But none of them has been reported missing in this area.”
“She’s probably hooked up with some guy. Take a look at that part of her history.” But she had a baby now, Rowan thought. Jim’s baby. “Dolly wouldn’t be on the trail, in the forest. She likes town.”
“Can you tell me your whereabouts last night, from eight P.M. until you reported to the ready room this morning?”
“I’m a suspect?” Anger and shock warred—a short, bloody battle before anger won. “You actually think I snapped her neck, hauled her into the forest, then started a fire? A fire men and women I work with, live with, eat with every day would have to jump. Would have to risk their lives, their lives, to beat down?”
“You tried to assault her. Threatened to kill her.”
“Fucking A right I did. I was pissed. Who wouldn’t be pissed? I wish I’d gotten a punch in, and that’s a hell of a long way from killing somebody.”
“It’d be easier if you could tell me where you were last night between—”
“I’ll make it real easy,” Rowan interrupted. “I had dinner in the cookhouse about seven, maybe seven-thirty. About thirty of the crew were in there at the same time, and the kitchen staff. We hung out, bullshitting until close to ten. Then I went to my quarters, where I stayed until the siren went off this morning. Squeezed into bed with the hottie you saw toss me this Coke.”
“And his name?” DiCicco asked without a blink of reaction.
“Gulliver Curry. He’s probably in the cookhouse by now. Go ask him. I’m getting a goddamn shower.”
She stormed off, outrage burning a storm in her belly, slammed into the barracks.
Trigger had the misfortune of getting in her way. “Hey, Ro, are you—”
“Shut up and move.” She shoved him aside, then slammed into her quarters. She kicked the door, then the dresser, causing the little dish she tossed loose change into to jump off and crash onto the floor.
Her boots stamped the shards.
“Stiff-necked, tight-assed bitch! And it wasn’t Dolly!” Fuming, she tore at the laces of her jump boots, then hurled them.
Dolly was the type who just kept rolling, she thought as she yanked off her clothes, balled them up and threw them. She made people feel sorry for her, or—if they were men—sweetened the pot with sex or the promise of it. She was the type who did whatever the hell she wanted, then blamed somebody else if it didn’t work out.
Her mother’s type, Rowan decided, and maybe that was just one more reason she’d never liked Dolly Brakeman. Selfish, scheming, whining...
Her mother’s type, she thought again. Her mother had died bleeding on the floor. Murdered.
Not the same, she told herself firmly. Absolutely not the same.
In the shower, she turned the water on full, braced her hands on the wall and let it run over her. Watched it run black, then sooty gray.
She’d had enough of this shit, enough of the sucker punches.
Too late now, she reminded herself.
“I said what it looked like. I’ve been jumping fires for five years, and I worked with a hotshot crew for two before that. I’m not an arson expert, but I know when a fire looks suspicious. I’m not a doctor, but I know when a head’s twisted wrong on a neck.”
And now, damn it, damn it, that image carved in her brain again. “I acted on what I observed so the proper authorities could be contacted. Is that a problem?”
“I’m gathering facts, Ms. Tripp.” DiCicco’s tone made a mild counterpoint to Rowan’s snap. “The medical examiner’s preliminary findings indicate the victim’s neck had been broken.”
“She was murdered.” Better or worse? Rowan wondered.
“The ME will determine if this is homicide, accidental, whether the neck injury was cause of death or postmortem.”
“Have you checked with the campground? Lolo Campground isn’t far from where I found her, not for a day hike.”
“We’re working on identifying her. You had some trouble here recently?”
“What?” Rowan pulled her mind back from speculating on just how much force it took to break a neck. “The vandalism?”
“That’s plural, isn’t it?” DiCicco kept unreadable eyes on Rowan’s face. “According to my information, one Dolly Brakeman, employed at that time as a cook here, vandalized your room. You caught her in the act and had to be physically restrained from assaulting her.”
Temper burned through fatigue like a brushfire. “You walk into your quarters, DiCicco, and find somebody pouring animal blood on your bed. See how you react. If you want to call my reaction ‘attempted assault,’ you go right ahead.”
“Ms. Brakeman was also questioned by the police regarding the vandalism of the ready room here on base.”
“That’s right. That little number cost us hours of time and could have cost more if we’d gotten a call out before we’d repaired the damage.”
“You and Ms. Brakeman have a history.”
“Since you already know that, I’m not going over the ground again. She’s a pain in the ass, a vindictive one, and an unstable one. If the locals turned over the vandalism here to your agency, good. I hope it scares the shit out of her. Now look, I’m tired, I’m hungry and I want a goddamn shower.”
“Nearly done. When did you last see Dolly Brakeman?”
“Jesus, when she trashed my room.”
“You haven’t seen or spoken with her since?”
“No, I haven’t, and I’d be thrilled if I can keep that record. What the hell does Dolly have to do with me finding a dead woman burned to a crisp in Lolo?”
“We’ll need to wait for confirmation of identification, but as Dolly Brakeman failed to return home last night—a home she shares with her parents and her infant daughter—as the victim and Ms. Brakeman are the same height, and thus far the investigation has turned up no other female missing, it’s a strong possibility the victim is Dolly Brakeman.”
“That’s...” Rowan felt her belly drop, the blood just drain out of her head while those unreadable eyes never shifted off her face. “A lot of women are Dolly’s height.”
“But none of them has been reported missing in this area.”
“She’s probably hooked up with some guy. Take a look at that part of her history.” But she had a baby now, Rowan thought. Jim’s baby. “Dolly wouldn’t be on the trail, in the forest. She likes town.”
“Can you tell me your whereabouts last night, from eight P.M. until you reported to the ready room this morning?”
“I’m a suspect?” Anger and shock warred—a short, bloody battle before anger won. “You actually think I snapped her neck, hauled her into the forest, then started a fire? A fire men and women I work with, live with, eat with every day would have to jump. Would have to risk their lives, their lives, to beat down?”
“You tried to assault her. Threatened to kill her.”
“Fucking A right I did. I was pissed. Who wouldn’t be pissed? I wish I’d gotten a punch in, and that’s a hell of a long way from killing somebody.”
“It’d be easier if you could tell me where you were last night between—”
“I’ll make it real easy,” Rowan interrupted. “I had dinner in the cookhouse about seven, maybe seven-thirty. About thirty of the crew were in there at the same time, and the kitchen staff. We hung out, bullshitting until close to ten. Then I went to my quarters, where I stayed until the siren went off this morning. Squeezed into bed with the hottie you saw toss me this Coke.”
“And his name?” DiCicco asked without a blink of reaction.
“Gulliver Curry. He’s probably in the cookhouse by now. Go ask him. I’m getting a goddamn shower.”
She stormed off, outrage burning a storm in her belly, slammed into the barracks.
Trigger had the misfortune of getting in her way. “Hey, Ro, are you—”
“Shut up and move.” She shoved him aside, then slammed into her quarters. She kicked the door, then the dresser, causing the little dish she tossed loose change into to jump off and crash onto the floor.
Her boots stamped the shards.
“Stiff-necked, tight-assed bitch! And it wasn’t Dolly!” Fuming, she tore at the laces of her jump boots, then hurled them.
Dolly was the type who just kept rolling, she thought as she yanked off her clothes, balled them up and threw them. She made people feel sorry for her, or—if they were men—sweetened the pot with sex or the promise of it. She was the type who did whatever the hell she wanted, then blamed somebody else if it didn’t work out.
Her mother’s type, Rowan decided, and maybe that was just one more reason she’d never liked Dolly Brakeman. Selfish, scheming, whining...
Her mother’s type, she thought again. Her mother had died bleeding on the floor. Murdered.
Not the same, she told herself firmly. Absolutely not the same.
In the shower, she turned the water on full, braced her hands on the wall and let it run over her. Watched it run black, then sooty gray.
She’d had enough of this shit, enough of the sucker punches.
