Page 80 of Slow Burn

“What makes them burn?”

Mrs. Womack looked over at Agent Mendoza, who sat impassive and still in his chair. Without any visible signal, he stood up and left the room.

“Body heat,” she said, and went back to her knitting. “Most of the early chemicals used for dry cleaning were unstable and flammable, you know—boiling points of as low as ninety degrees. Up to the turn of the century, they were still using kerosene and gasoline to fume clothes. I think our Mr. Marshall stumbled onto what he thought was a new dry cleaning process—but it turned out to have a low boiling threshhold. And once it’s combined with salt from sweat—”

She shrugged. One of her knitting needles slipped and fell with a clatter to the floor.

“Whoosh,” Martin said.

“Naturally, not a market for that kind of thing in commercial applications. As a weapon, though—”

“Good god. Do we know what dry cleaners—”

Mrs. Womack went back to her knitting, serene as Whistler’s mother.

“Elegance Dry Cleaners, Mr. Grady, right here in Dallas. Isn’t that funny? It was right under your nose the whole time. Did you ever get your clothes cleaned there?”

His mind went blank, and for a second he couldn’t honestly remember whether he had or not. His suit coat itched over his shoulders.

“Agent Mendoza believes that the surviving partner, Edward Julian, is the one responsible for the burnings. Whether he’s targeting people he doesn’t like, or people who might have caused trouble, or just likes the thrill of it, we don’t know.”

“What about this terrorist—el Haddiz?”

“Ah.” Mrs. Womack found this serious enough to put her knitting in her lap, fold her hands, and give him her full attention. “Mr. el Haddiz is quite probably making a deal to buy the formula, or at least some garments treated with the product. You can imagine how effective those might be in some of the warmer climates notorious for political unrest.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say. Carling’s monitors beeped a steady gentle rhythm. He saw her eyes twitch under the fragile lids and hoped she was dreaming.

“Did she know any of that?”

“Some. Not all.” Mrs. Womack picked up her knitting again and adjusted the angle of her glasses on her nose. “I imagine Mr. Marshall’s establishment does a lot of business in uniform cleaning. Police uniforms, for instance. Girl scout uniforms. Marching band uniforms.”

The scope of it made him dizzy. He shrugged his jacket off and piled it in a heap on the floor, loosened his tie, and put his head down on the cool sheets of Carling’s bed, next to her loose empty hand.

“My god,” he whispered. Mrs. Womack made a dry sound of agreement. Her knitting needles clacked.

Chapter Thirty-five

Velvet

Velvet was three-quarters of the way through a fifth of Scotch by the time she heard the front door rattle. All those damn locks. Fire hazard, that’s what it was.

Fire hazard.That was so funny it was sick. The Scotch went down warm on her tongue, scorched her throat, added fuel to the bonfire in her stomach. Nice and warm now. In a minute or two she’d forget all about it, all about the dead man in the garden with his dimples all shot off. She’d forget the look on that rich man’s face as he cried.

Robby got the door open and slammed it, jammed the locks shut as fast as she could. Velvet watched her with unfocused eyes and smiled.

“Hey. Saw the hockey game. Hell of a game, ’cept for that guy melting the ice.” She was trying to be snide, but it all came out sad instead. She drained the last sip of whisky from her glass and poured out another splash from the bottle on the coffee table.

Robby slapped the glass out of her hand. Velvet watched it spin off through the air, pinwheeling Scotch. She licked the drops off her fingers.

“Hey,” she said. “Hey, I was drinkin’ that.”

Robby pulled her to her feet, or tried to; Velvet couldn’t seem to stand up. Robby finally let her drop back to the couch. Velvet tried to focus both eyes on her, but it was way too much effort; she closed her right eye and focused her left. Something wrong with Robby’s face. Tears. Tears in her eyes, on her cheeks.

Velvet got the bottle and tried to hand it to her. “Have a drink.”

“No more, Velvet.”Na morrh.Robby’s Irish brogue had taken over, and so had her temper. She reached for Velvet’s shoulder and grabbed a handful of hair, too. Velvet batted feebly at her, makingowwsounds. “You’ve got to stop lying to me, Velvet, you’ve got to, understand? We’re in trouble, both of us! Why did you do it? Why?”

Every time Robby got to the end of a question, Velvet got shaken. In between the shakes, the room spun around, a neon technicolor whirl like a kaleidoscope, only Velvet was one of the little glass beads tumbling around.

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