Burn You Twice - Mary Burton Page 0,40

Do you know how hard it is to find stylists?”

“I’ve spoken to or left messages with everyone who worked here,” Gideon said. “But there will be follow-up interviews.”

“Of course.” Jessica laid a hand on his forearm, a move that was as decidedly feminine as it was controlling.

The trio watched as Jessica Halpern walked away and slid behind the wheel of her car. When she started the engine, her phone was already pressed to her ear.

Clarke stared after Jessica and then shifted back to Gideon. “We just found the delivery device. One of my men unearthed traces of a plastic milk jug melted by the back door. It was buried under rubble,” Clarke said.

“Fill a jug with gasoline and stuff a sock in the top, and you’ve got a wick and a bomb ready to go off,” Gideon said. “Evidence gets consumed by the fire. Leaves no traces, if done correctly.”

“Money, revenge, and thrills always top the list of motives for arson.”

“Tell me more about that plastic jug,” Gideon said.

“Follow me.” Clarke guided them around the building’s footprint to the alley. “It all happened as I said. Gasoline trail down the alley to the milk jug filled with accelerant and then into the shop.”

Gideon’s phone rang, and one glance at the display sent him walking a few steps away, head ducked as he listened. Finally nodding, he ended the call and returned. “That was Dr. Christopher. He called the forensic lab and asked if Lana Long had any insurance or medical cards in her purse. We got lucky. She had an old appointment card from a dentist here in Missoula. The doc called Dr. Bischoff, explained his situation, and got the dental X-rays.”

Joan was impressed. “And?”

“Dr. Bischoff recognized his work. He compared both sets of X-rays and determined they both belonged to Lana Long.”

“Why would a gal who worked in a salon want to burn it down?” Clarke asked.

“Who says she did it?” Joan asked. “Maybe she caught the person who did.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Missoula, Montana

Monday, September 7, 2020

11:00 a.m.

Joan knew the trail to this arsonist might very well be through Lana Long, but for now, she was leaving that to Gideon, who had been on the phone requesting a search warrant for Lana Long’s apartment when she left the arson scene.

Joan decided to take a different angle. She drove toward the edge of Missoula down Bitterroot Road until she reached a blue-and-white sign for the mobile home park. She turned onto the dirt road and drove down the narrow lane past the collection of twenty or so battered homes arranged along a cul-de-sac. The development backed up to the railroad tracks and Hayes Creek. Most of the trailers had fences posted with NO TRESPASSING or NO PARKING signs and were surrounded by corralled spare car parts, grills, unused propane tanks, and patches of scrub grass.

She checked the address on her phone and followed the occasional posted address numbers until she located the trailer she was looking for in the back. There were three cars parked out front, but the Chevrolet was on blocks, and the muddied white Wrangler beside it had flat tires. The black Ford truck appeared to be the only operational vehicle.

Parking, she realized how vulnerable she was without her sidearm. Domestic calls always made the hair on the back of her neck rise because emotions were high. Serving a warrant, conducting a wellness check, or asking basic questions could turn deadly in a heartbeat. Many cops had been killed by simply knocking on a door.

A dog barked behind the fence as she climbed the three wooden steps to the small porch by the front door. Before she knocked, she took a moment to look around. In the trailer next door, yellow-and-white curtains flickered.

She knocked on the door. Inside she heard canned laughter from a television but saw no signs of movement. She knocked harder and stepped to the side, one foot on the lower step.

Finally, the television silenced, and footsteps vibrated in the trailer, moving with what sounded like annoyed, clipped foot strikes. The door opened to a slim woman in her midfifties. She had long gray hair that draped over narrow shoulders. Wiry hair coupled with sharp brown eyes conjured images of witches and spirits. A black cat strolled near the woman’s feet, weaving its scrawny body around worn jeans.

Joan wondered how many trick-or-treaters dared visit this place on Halloween. “Mrs. Weston?”

“Who wants to know?”

She avoided giving her name, fearing the woman would recognize it. “I came to