Page 61 of Fire and Bones
“Sorry?” Doyle tilted a questioning palm. Pointless. The caller couldn’t see her.
“The bird. They got him out.”
Two minutes after disconnecting, a trio of photos landed on Doyle’s phone.
The three of us drew close to view them. Zanetti smelled of something probably costing a thousand bucks an ounce and produced in only one village in France.
The first image was time stamped 19:40:03 EDT. Centered in it was a two-story white townhome with a bay window on the left and a red door on the right. An extension ladder leaned high up against the front-facing wall. Brick steps led from the sidewalk to a walkway bisecting a tiny front yard. Hoses crisscrossed the trampled grass like eels on a riverbank.
The structure’s lower level looked largely intact. Not so the upper. Orange flames licked from shattered windows. Dense smoke billowed out around them.
The second shot, a view up the block, showed contiguous row houses, some frame, some brick, each painted a kitschy rainbow shade. Window boxes, shutters, doors, and trim were done in harmonizing HOA-approved tones.
The third pic was taken with the lens pointed a full one-eighty away from the fire. It captured a narrow, cobbled street hectic with equipment and personnel. Gawkers. Patrol units. Yellow police tape.
“This address isn’t far from 26th and K,” Doyle said.
“Geographically speaking.” I referred to the vibe I was getting from the photos, one of Persian rugs, Waterford goblets, and Italian espresso makers. Not seedy lodgings leased out at rock-bottom rates.
Doyle caught my meaning and nodded.
“Thank God no fried foreigners this go-around,” Zanetti said.
I cocked a brow at Doyle. She hitched one shoulder, acknowledging that she had, indeed, shared details of last week’s blaze with her boyfriend.
“So what?” Her tone was mildly defensive. “It was breaking news anyway.”
I said nothing.
“The proximity of the two fires is probably coincidence,” Zanetti said. “Much of Foggy Bottom is old. I’m sure houses go up all the time.”
“Your CI said this is a rental.” I indicated Doyle’s screen. “Did he say who owns the property?”
“He didn’t know. But I intend to find out.”
“And she definitely will.” Using one finger, Zanetti looped an errant curl behind Doyle’s left ear. “This gal’s a tiger.”
I couldn’t disagree.
“Can you forward those pics on to me?” I asked, not sure my reason for wanting them.
“Sure.”
“I’ll probably hit the road tomorrow,” I said.
“Aw.” Sad faces. “Ben and I will be sorry to see you go.”
Seriously? Zanetti and I had hardly met.
On that note, we headed to our respective rooms.
Sleep came easily.
Understanding the drama it brought along did not.
I’m standing on a beach watching the ocean swell and recede. A low-hanging moon spreads a narrow cone of light across the roiling water.
A sound distracts me and I turn, straining to understand the source.