Chapter 6
Twenty minutes later, Vance sat on the aluminum bumper of Engine Four, a woolen rescue blanket draped over his soot-streaked shoulders. A paramedic was shining a penlight into his eyes, checking for signs of carbon monoxide poisoning, but Vance pushed the light away with a weary wave of his hand.
“I’m fine, Diaz. Just get some saline in my eyes and leave me be,” Vance muttered, staring blankly at the steaming ruins of the mill across the narrow street.
Chief Harrelson walked up, his boots crunching on the wet gravel. He held a clear plastic evidence bag containing a blackened brass badge and a singed leather wallet.
“We pulled these out from under the collapsed floorboards near the drainage sump,” Harrelson said quietly, holding the bag out. “They were tucked inside the pocket of Miller’s bunker liner.”
Vance took the bag, his thumb tracing the embossed seal of the department on the metal badge. Badge number 442. Tom’s badge. But if Tom had left his coat, his helmet with his daughter, and his wallet inside the wreckage, where in God’s name was Tom?
“Maya gave me the helmet before any of this was reported on the public dispatch,” Vance said, looking up slowly. “She said her dad gave it to her. Not yesterday. Not last week. She acted like it was a handoff. Like he knew he wasn't coming back to that house.”
Harrelson frowned, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. “That doesn’t track. Tom was home-stationed at Seven all morning. Shift change was at six a.m. His wife passed two years ago; Maya has been staying with an aunt over on Elm Street while Tom pulls double shifts to cover the medical debt.”
“People under crushing weight do strange things, Harrelson,” Vance said softly, standing up and letting the blanket pool around his boots. “Or maybe someone else put that helmet in her hands.”
“Who?”
May you like
Vance didn’t answer. He turned and walked toward his command SUV, his mind flashing back to the last conversation he’d had with Tom in the station breakroom three days ago. Tom hadn’t been talking about fires or equipment budgets. He’d been talking about a safety inspection report—a routine audit of the Industrial Avenue storage complexes that had suddenly been classified by the city council as restricted municipal property.
“Drive me back to Station Four,” Vance told the young driver waiting by the open door. “We have a little girl waiting in the back office who deserves some answers we haven't given her yet.”
