Second Skin Part 33

"With the Supernatural Crimes Squad," I elaborated, and waited for the inevitable wisecrack, sigh, or meltdown that followed with most city personnel.

The big fire chief just grunted again. "We don't need you."

That tone carried so much more than the words would imply. We don't need the freak squad reminding the plain humans that there are things in Nocturne City that will bite their faces off. We don't need the freak squad reminding the plain humans that there are things in Nocturne City that will bite their faces off.

"Someone paged us," I said. "You mind filling me in, since I left a perfectly good lunch for you?"

"No," Egan said. "In case you hadn't noticed, we got a situation here."

A month or two ago I probably would have grabbed him by his polyester tie and made him do what I wanted, but instead I shielded my eyes from the smoke and stepped back. Letting Egan know he was in control, that his manly manliness was secure. "When you've got the fire under control, Chief, you and I will talk again." And when we do, it will be for a royal dressing-down on your part, Mister. And when we do, it will be for a royal dressing-down on your part, Mister.

He didn't pick up on my nuances. Men are like that.

I recrossed the street to find Bryson scooping the last of my key lime pie out of the box with his fingers. "Dammit, David!" I yelled. "What happened to your diet?"

"Hey, I got job stress," he shrugged. "My nutritionist said I'm a emotional eater."

I turned my back on him and leaned on the hood of the car, watching the blaze. The house wasn't a McMansion-it was one of the old ones, an old timber-frame place with too much scrollwork, now a nightmare of gingerbread and burning shingles that made me cough.

Egan strode around looking important until he realized he wasn't doing any more good than Bryson and I, and stomped over to us. "Guy that lives here is named Howard Corley," he snapped, like he was giving me an order. "Deals in antiques. Works from home."

He paused to let that sink it. I winced as I looked at the smoke and the flames, which had started to recede, barely. "You think he was in there."

"Car's in the garage," said Egan. "Gas tank blew, almost took the scalps off a couple of my men. No reason to think he's not."

I wasn't any closer to understanding why Annemarie had paged me, but I smiled at Egan anyway. "I appreciate it, Chief."

"Yeah, well. Keep your spook squad out of the way if it comes to that."

Then again . . . I sighed and kicked at the concrete, forgetting for a moment I was wearing cla.s.sy Prada flats instead of my usual combat boots. "s.h.i.t," I sighed. The wardrobe that went with being lieutenant of the most-hated task force in the Nocturne PD was ma.s.sively expensive, the headaches even larger.

"I have better things to do than stand around a crime scene that isn't even ours. Or a crime scene, yet," I complained loudly to Bryson, hoping Egan heard me.

"Well, here comes Hotlanta. Why don't you ask her?"

Hotlanta was Bryson's personal nickname for Annemarie Marceaux, a firecracker-redhead who hailed from Louisiana . . . one of the northern parts, with some tongue-twister French name. She was tiny and slender and efficient, a near-constant Bless her heart Bless her heart smile in place. A new hire in the department, she'd been shunted to the SCS and taken the news pretty well, at least outwardly. smile in place. A new hire in the department, she'd been shunted to the SCS and taken the news pretty well, at least outwardly.

"Sorry I'm late, ma'am," she hollered at me. "d.a.m.n traffic cops wouldn't let me through!"

She was also profane, funny, and a h.e.l.l of a lot nicer than an ex-special victims detective had a right to be. I liked Annemarie. Bryson snorted, low. "Here she is, Scarlett O'Hara."

"h.e.l.lo there, David," she said brightly. "You're looking slender today."

Bryson turned about eight shades of red, and wiped the sweat away from his forehead. "Hiya, Annie."

"Lieutenant," she said breathlessly. "I'm sorry for the cryptic message, but I was in the area and I saw the blaze start. There's something here for us, believe me."

"Okay," I said. "Spill it." The firefighters had finally gotten the flames under control, and new smells were creeping in-char. Cooked electrical circuits. Burnt meat.

Egan had been right about someone being at home.

"I saw the fire start, ma'am," Annemarie said. I focused on her, and tried to block out the smell.

"You don't say."

"Yes," said Annemarie, stepping out into the street and gesturing at the traffic cameras at the intersection. "I think those picked it up, too. It wasn't like anything I've ever seen, Lieutenant. It caught all at once, from all points. An inferno."

"And you just happened to be driving by?" I c.o.c.ked my hip and glared at Annemarie. Her cheeks were flushed from the fire, and she seemed almost happy. I don't know too many people who get happy about fire and death, except weirdos, and I had enough of those in my life already.

"Oh, I was visiting a friend who lives on the other side of the hill," she said. "Going to clock in when I saw the fire. I called it in and paged you, ma'am."

"Detective Marceaux, if you don't stop calling me 'ma'am' I'm going to slap you right in the head, got it?"

She nodded, going even redder. "Sorry ma' . . . Lieutenant."

" 'Luna' would be just fine, Annemarie. Go find out when we can walk the scene, and call the rest of the squad."

After she walked back to her own car, Bryson snorted. "Time was, I only had to put up with you. Now there's another one running around, like some kind of tiny, evil doppelganger."

"David, did you actually just use the word doppelganger doppelganger ?" ?"

He spread his hands. "I watch a lot of horror movies. So what?"

I shook my head, hiding a smile. "Never mind."