Burn You Twice - Mary Burton Page 0,60

it had sure felt like it when Ann had told Joan they’d married.

He shot a glance her way, and, though dark glasses concealed his eyes, his deepening frown suggested her comment had hit its mark.

“Sorry,” she said. “That was petty.”

“I begged you not to leave, Joan. I called you a dozen times. You shut me out completely.”

“I was running scared,” she said.

“I wanted to help you.”

“I know. But I didn’t have a solid foundation like you and Ann. You two could weather storms. I couldn’t. Maybe still can’t.”

“We all wanted to be there for you.”

“Believe it or not, I came to my senses within two months of leaving. I called Ann, and she told me you had gotten married.”

“She never told me.”

“Because I asked her not to. I couldn’t face knowing I’d screwed up the best thing in my life.”

A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “We always had shitty timing.”

“Tell me about it.”

She switched on the radio and found a station with clear-enough reception so that the silence would not be so awkward.

When they arrived in Helena half an hour later, she was anxious to be out of the SUV and back in her own head.

Gideon parked in front of the highway patrol headquarters, and the two made their way inside. They were met by Sergeant Bryce McCabe, a tall, lean man with a thick shock of black hair. In his late thirties, he wore the dark suit, white shirt, and blue tie that seemed to come with all state and federal jobs. Gideon made the introductions, and they all shook hands.

McCabe led them to a conference room and closed the door. Once they were all sitting at the round table, he threaded his fingers together. “I couldn’t sleep after we talked last night. I’ve been thinking about the fires. We never connected the urban and rural events.”

“I’m not sure I would have, either,” Gideon said. “But we had a similar cluster of fires in the spring near Missoula. The patterns tell me there’s nothing random about the buildup to the fires. But I can’t speak to the motive yet. That will likely take financial records.”

“I’ll warn you now,” McCabe said. “Pollock is connected in the area. He’s donated heavily to the local fire department’s fund and is a real personable guy, with a solid alibi.”

“You have described the couple in Missoula who just lost their business to arson,” Gideon said.

Joan’s temper rose. Whether it was Philadelphia or the Wild West, connections always mattered. “Did you ever get a look at Pollock’s finances?”

“According to his insurance filing, he’s heavily invested in all types of properties around the state. Land rich, cash poor.”

“There’s no law against that,” Gideon said.

“Half the state would be in jail if it were,” McCabe replied.

“Did Pollock have any kind of an arrest record?” Gideon asked.

“No. Neither did his wife or his oldest son,” McCabe said.

“What would be the motive for the arson?” Joan asked.

“Other than the million-dollar payout?” McCabe asked. “I can’t think of one.”

“Land rich and cash poor,” Joan said. “Now he’s flush.”

“Detective Mason and I are headed out to talk to Pollock,” Gideon said.

“Keep me posted.”

After the trio shook hands, Joan and Gideon exited the building to his car. They drove to the site that had been Pollock’s former warehouse. It had been cleared, construction crews were on-site, and a new foundation had been laid. There was a large flatbed carrying steel structural beams.

“Mr. Pollock is wasting no time rebuilding.”

“There’s money to be made.”

Joan and Gideon crossed the street to one of the crewmen. He asked about Pollock and was instructed to visit the construction trailer.

Gideon banged his fist on the trailer door, and a man shouted for him to come inside. Joan went first and found herself facing down a trio of men gathered around blueprints spread out on a long, wide table.

“I’m looking for Mr. Pollock,” she said.

The men looked at each other and then back at her, grinning.

“Who wants to know, doll?” the oldest of the three asked.

“Detective Joan Mason.”

“And Detective Bailey.” Gideon’s voice reverberated directly behind her.

She had seen Pollock’s kind before on the streets of Philadelphia. They were quick to underestimate a female, especially one with a small frame. Almost all had shit-eating grins on their faces right up until the moment she clicked handcuffs on their wrists.

“We’re here to talk to you about the fire,” Gideon said.

The older of the men stepped away from the trio and came around the table. He moved past Joan toward Gideon. “The