Shattered Glass(131)
He jerked a nod. “I’ll go with you. You won’t recognize anything.”
“No can do,” I said. “You’re a civilian, that’s a crime scene, and I’m in enough shit without having a beam fall on your head and the Department getting sued.”
“You’re not going to know what to look for.”
He was right. How was I going to recognize anything in Cai’s room if the safe wasn’t out in the open? Which it wouldn’t be, because Cai wasn’t an idiot. I tossed Darryl my cell phone. “I’ll video it. Sync our phones. That’s as close as you’re getting.” He rolled his eyes, typed into my phone, and threw it back at me. I smiled brightly at Luis as I tucked the phone into my pocket. “Kiss me goodbye?” He whacked me in the back of the head.
“Get out, and don’t get dead.”
“Ditto,” I replied, climbing out of the car and jerking a thumb to Darryl. “And give him to one of the uniforms when CSU gets here or he’ll follow you.” I remembered what Peter told me about Darryl. “Actually make it two uniforms. With Tasers.” I started to shut the door.
“Austin,” Darryl said. I stuck my head back in, expecting to be told to get bent. “Don’t let a beam fall on your head or nothin’.”
“Worried about your meal ticket?”
“And that would top the list of reasons no one likes you.” He glared.
“Sorry. Listen, if you promise not to double back and do something stupid, we can have someone drive you to the hospital.”
“Nah. I’ll stay.”
I nodded, then slammed the door.
I understood Darryl wanting to stay. At the hospital he’d be climbing the walls, pestering nurses, taking care of Rosa and…the other one. I knew that was how I’d be. Focusing on work gave me a brief reprieve from my worry. Peter’s name alone brought the image of him looking at his bloody hand in confusion and Leila’s gun pressed against his head. Better to not think about him at all. Better to not wonder if later, when all was said and done, I might never again feel him lying against me.
If I thought about that. If I believed that. Would I try very hard to avoid a bullet?
True Irony Is Lost on the Idiots
I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Peter’s life reduced to piles of black dust. Just outside the door, I paused and took a breath. The fire marshal jogged up to greet me. I flashed both my badge and a forced smile at her. Her serious eyes were framed by a surgical mask and a bright yellow hard hat. She carried an extra of each in her weathered hands. “They told you not to go upstairs?”
I nodded, and she held out the mask and helmet to me. “Can I see something in a red? Yellow isn’t my best color.” My joke fell as flat as my smile.
“Can’t let you in there without them.”
“Are you coming in with me?”
“I’ll be inspecting next door if you need me. The homeowners are anxious to check for recoverable items.” She nodded to the townhome on the right.
“What about here? Are there recoverable items?”
“Nothing salvageable in the main room. Further to the back of the house, soot, ash and water damage are the most concerning. Upstairs it’s mostly water damage. Fortunately, the firehouse was close.” She gave me a quick rundown of safety measures and turned to leave. Her sneakers squeaked as she crossed the lawn. The sound faded as I stepped inside Joe’s front door.
The smell hit me first. A mixture of chemicals and the acrid stench of smoke. The air was also moist and more than a little suffocating. My mouth opened to draw in sufficient air where my nostrils failed. It only grew worse from the living room to the back bedrooms.
Along the hallway the drywall had burned, leaving exposed wires, cross beams and pipes. The remaining walls and furniture were black with soot. What wasn’t black was grey with ash. All of the painted memories were gone. The loss of those missing portraits and murals weighed on my soul. Images of Peter in his youth gone forever. It was heartbreaking.
I turned away from the walls and took a step past Peter’s room, only to backtrack and push open what was left of the door. Maybe something was salvageable in this disaster.
The carpet squished under my shoes, but the water wasn’t deep enough to wash Peter’s blood off the tips. It was just deep enough to make me grimace. Light from the broken window gave me more information about the destruction of Peter’s life than I could ever want. My grimace expanded.
His bookshelf had imploded like a well-timed demolition. The bed’s wire frame survived, but the mattress was basically carbon. The computer desk had split; it and the monitor were now propped by what was left of a cat carrier that had been sitting underneath. Books, papers, bits of ceiling were strewn across the floor. Everything was wet and reeked. I turned my back on it all and prayed that behind the blackened closet doors, something was left.