Page 25 of Roark
“Smell that?” She inhaled deeply.
Pierce nodded, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in air and released it. “Yeah.”
“Gasoline.” Roark said the word with such finality, it seemed to reverberate throughout the room. “Did the doctor mention finding any drugs in your mother’s system?” he asked her as they stared at each other across the bed.
“No. And I didn’t think to ask. There was so much going through my mind last night, I never even thought of it.” Shaking her head was the equivalent of Tamika mentally kicking herself for not thinking to ask that very important question. They’d found the succinylcholine when they’d performed her father’s autopsy. For her mother, she’d need to request a tox screen, and then the doctor still might not do it based solely on her suspicions.
She looked down at the nightstand, which was barely burned, but the spot on the floor just three feet from it was scorched the worst of any other spot she’d seen so far. The char pattern pointed here. “He poured the gasoline right here. Not enough to be a puddle, but enough to get it going.” She stepped closer to the bed, or what was left of it. The frame was still intact, the mattress, sheets and pillows burned to a crisp. “My mother always laid on this side of the bed. It was closest to the door. She took a fluid pill every day for high blood pressure, so frequent trips to the bathroom to pee throughout the night were common. He started this fire while she lay in this bed watching him.”
“How do you know she wasn’t asleep?” Pierce asked.
“It was too early. And I wasn’t back yet. As long as I lived under my mother’s roof, she could never get into bed and go to sleep until she knew I was home. It didn’t bother her when I lived on my own, but if I was expected to sleep under the same roof as her, she wouldn’t let her head hit the pillow until I was settled in my own bed, or at the very least in the house behind a locked front door.” That habit of Sandra’s had created some very tense teenage years for Tamika.
“There’re lots of different ways to classify an arsonist,” Pierce began.
“We’re looking for a killer,” Tamika corrected him.
She turned to see both men staring at her.
“You think whoever killed your father in that fire at his office a year ago came here to try and kill your mother last night?” Pierce’s head was tilted, his gaze inquisitive. As if she’d taken too long to answer, Pierce switched his focus to Roark, who was still standing by the window. “In between her parents, he stopped off in London to kill your mother. Why?”
That was the billion-dollar question.
When neither of them spoke, Pierce continued. “Cade sent me the letter your mother wrote to her father.”
Roark lifted a hand to run a finger over his clean-shaved chin. “And what’d you think?”
Pierce shrugged. “They were definitely familiar, and this didn’t seem like the first correspondence they’d shared.”
“So old friends?” Roark asked.
“Your mother was born here,” Tamika added. “My father was born in Virginia.”
This time Roark focused on her. “Do you have something against long-distance relationships?”
Tamika had something against this guy’s voice, the way he stared at her—dammit, everything about him arousing her until she wanted to rip both their clothes off and mount him. She swallowed, trying to ease her now very dry throat before replying. “I already told you I don’t think they were having an affair.”
Pierce had moved from where he was standing, staring down at the bed and then over to the windows. “Cade sent me pictures of the scene from the Hyde Park house. Fire started in the bedroom there too. That says this is personal for him. He wants these women at their most vulnerable, undressed and in their bed for the night. It’s also their most comfortable location.”
She listened to his assessment but still had questions. “My father was at work, and why do you think it’s a man doing this?”
Pierce nodded. “Right. It doesn’t fit. And most arsonists are men. Socially isolated and lacking coping skills to deal with whatever it is that’s really pissed him off.” This last comment was said in a way that made it seem as if she should’ve known that as a fire investigator. Part of it she did know, but she’d wanted to know specifically what he was thinking in this case. When she’d been investigating her father’s case, she’d presumed the arsonist was someone with a mental defect, perhaps a disgruntled employee that was now dealing with depression. She hadn’t ruled out that being a man or a woman. He walked over to the window now and looked out. “Did your mother normally pull down the shades at night?”
“No.” Tamika walked around the bed but stopped short of going closer to the window for fear of whatever Pierce was seeing as he stared out onto the street. “Why?”
“These shades are still up. She could see out the window directly across the street.”
“What does that mean?” Roark asked. “She wasn’t sitting at the window when the fire started?”
“No. But what if he was? What if he starts the fire and then sticks around to watch? Witnessing his handiwork and getting off from it.” When nobody responded, Pierce turned away from the window. “I need to study those photos from Hyde Park again. And I’m gonna take a few pics before I leave here today, which we need to get ready to do before we’re caught.”
“Caught? This is my mother’s house. I have a right to be here,” she snapped.
“Not if you’re gonna be considered a suspect,” Pierce pointed out.
She paused, recalling Roark saying the police in London thought he and his siblings were suspects in their mother’s murder.
“You wanted to get your clothes.” Roark was standing right beside her now. Tamika wasn’t sure when he’d moved, but his hand softly touching her elbow was as odd as it was comforting. “We can do that while he’s taking pictures and then we’ll leave. Do you want to go to the hospital to see how your mother’s doing?” He was talking softly, in a gentler way than was normal for him, and damn her, she liked it.
