Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

of feelings would those be, Ms. Donovan?”
    “Bad. You might as well tell me the rest of it.”
    “Nothing to tell.” And he hoped there wouldn’t be.
    “Bullshit.”
    He blinked, then smiled slowly, his first real smile since he’d half carried, half dragged a smoky, hollow-eyed Lacey into Susa’s suite an hour ago, dumped her in Susa’s arms, and gone back for the paintings he’d left in the lobby.
    “Okay,” Ian said, “but I don’t know how my speculations are going to make anyone feel any better.”
    “Did I ask to feel better?”
    He whistled very softly between his teeth. “Lawe told me you were a rapier, but I didn’t really believe it until now.”
    “You can wiggle like a worm on a hook and try to change the subject, but it won’t work.”
    Ian had already figured that out. “Something that looked a lot like burning chunks of sawdust log lay in an arc from the trash can to Lacey’s shop. I thought I caught a whiff of gasoline, too, but nothing I could take an oath on. But I just flat out don’t like how it adds up.”
    “Anybody ever tell you that you’re paranoid?”
    “Occupational hazard.”
    “Unfortunately, I’ve got a gut feeling you’re right.”
    It took a moment for Susa’s calm words to sink in. “Damn, I was hoping you’d disagree.”
    “So was I. What are we going to do about it?”
    “You aren’t going to do anything,” he said, “except what you came here for, and that doesn’t include messing with arson.”
    She lifted her eyebrows. “You and my husband have something in common—arrogance.”
    “Good thing you like that particular trait,” Ian said easily, smiling.
    “I think it’s time to call my new friend Dana Gaynor of Rarities Unlimited. Your boss, I believe.”
    “Dana might send me out at your say-so for some slap-and-tickle thatshe thinks is long overdue, but there’s no way she’s going to put your artistic tush in danger.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched a speed-dial number. “Ask her yourself.”
    “And while you’re doing that,” Lacey said from the bedroom door, “Ian can tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”

Newport Beach
    Friday morning
31
    R ory shifted the weight of his side arm as he waited at a table in a cafe overlooking the ocean. Coffee steamed in front of him, black as hell but a lot better tasting. The weather outside was the other half of January in southern California—sunny, with a warm Santa Ana wind from the desert, and blue sky forever, or until the smog crept back over the land as soon as the inland wind stopped blowing.
    He drank more coffee, glanced up, and saw Dick Merle approaching. He looked like a vampire in need of a quart of blood, and was the chief arson investigator for Newport Beach Fire Department.
    Rory stood and held out his hand. “Morning, Dick. I want to thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule for me.”
    Merle shook hands and grinned wearily. “Man’s gotta eat,” he said. “Since Moreno County is buying, I’m one hungry son of a bitch. I’ve been working most of the last three weeks.”
    “Yeah, we’ve been watching the string of arsons you’ve had in Orange County. Bad news. Hope you catch him soon.”
    Merle sat down with a heaviness that told its own story of too much work and not enough sleep. “So do I. Until then, I’m living on coffee.”
    The server appeared, watched Merle inhale a cup of coffee, poured him another, and set the pot on the table, ensuring her tip. After the server took their orders and left, both men drank in silence for a moment, watching ocean waves flattened by wind blowing from the land.
    “Now that your arsonist is up for murder after last night’s fire,” Rory said, “you might get more manpower.”
    Merle drained the second cup of coffee, poured more, and sighed. “I’m kind of iffy about last night.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Different MO entirely. If you can even call it a MO.”
    Rory picked up his coffee cup and settled in to listen.
    “Our serial arsonist likes empty buildings, cigarettes, matches, birthday candles, and kerosene,” Merle said. “A real slow fuse leading to kerosene-soaked rags. He gets off waiting for the party to begin, see?”
    Rory nodded.
    “Then he gets off all over again watching it burn and seeing us run around like ants with our feet on fire,” Merle said.
    “But not last night?” Rory asked.
    “Dunno.” Merle yawned until his jaw cracked. Then he yawned again and