Page 2 of Burning Caine
“My neighbor had his shed roof replaced after the storm.” He pointed to his right, likely to his neighbor’s house. This response was relatively common under the circumstances, and the suspicious voice in my head always questioned the person’s motives.He was either the guilty party, thought I was accusing him, or disappointed I’d snatched away his windfall. He was confused, not angry, so number three was my guess.
“Mr. Clark, the decision is out of my hands. Our SIU will be in touch with you about the next steps.”
I held out my card again, and he stared at me for another moment, searching for a way around this. Then he slammed the door, almost taking my hand off in the process.
I shrugged it off and stuck the card in the door, then headed back to my truck, my giant F-150 Raptor. I opened the door and climbed up on the running boards before sliding into the driver’s seat. The beautiful behemoth was an effort to get into, but the size was valuable when navigating over debris or washed out roads after a big storm. The engine roared to life as I hit the ignition.
I drove a half-mile down the road, so I wasn’t working in Mr. Clark’s driveway, until my curiosity got the better of me and I pulled over. As I shifted into my backseat mobile office, my laptop sprang to life, and I called up the claim details. Skimming through the policy document until I got to the correct section, my breath caught.
Cliff had assigned me to a claim for Marc Chagall’sLes amoureux dans le ciel.I knew this painting. It had been twenty years since I’d last stood in front of it with its owner, Bobby Scott. Twenty years since he set me on a life path I ended up abandoning.
And now, according to the claim details, Bobby was dead and the painting was destroyed.
I ran a shaky hand over my face. This wasn’t the kind of interesting I’d been expecting.
Chapter 2
Samantha
OakStreetwasina quiet residential neighborhood in Brenton, Michigan, which had probably never seen so much activity. Firetrucks, ambulance, police cars, and unmarked vehicles clogged the street, not to mention the gawkers and a departing news truck.
“Fire team’s all done and we’ve finished our sweep for evidence collection.” Officer Jimmy Slater walked up the driveway with me, casual as always, as though we weren’t approaching the scene of a recent death. An old friend from college I hadn’t seen in a decade, he was a lanky man who wore his cap high on his forehead, emphasizing the size of his nose and the early gray in his sideburns. “M.E. already took Mr. Scott’s body out, too.”
My throat tightened at the reminder. The only time I’d met Bobby Scott, I was ten and visiting with my mother who was here with legal paperwork for his business. He’d made such an impression, I never forgot him. Now he was gone, and I was climbing his driveway, coming for the painting he’d introduced me to all those years ago.
A tent was erected on the front lawn, just before the driveway curved to the left. It shaded a working table, where six people remained deep in conversation. Brenton Police officers mingled with firefighters and a few people in white Tyvek jumpsuits to match my own.
The closer we got, the stronger the memories became. The sprawling ranch house, its red brick, and gardens. It was a private residence on a crowded street, a unique property along this part of Oak Street. It stretched two lots deep, all the way to the road along the river.
But the broken front window, overturned urns, and trampled flowers told a different story. As did the black smoke streak staining the front and roof.
An ebony-skinned female officer with buzz-cut hair stood by the door, speaking with a firefighter. When she turned around, my instincts told me to run.
Janelle Williams. Another face I hadn’t seen in forever. My best friend growing up, turned—in her mind, at least—bitter enemy.
She was a hair taller than me and, even in her formless white coveralls, carried herself like she had enough muscle on her five-foot-ten frame she could have thrown me across the property. Her skin glistened with sweat from having to wear the extra layers over her uniform, but she seemed unphased.
“You remember Janelle from school, right?” Jimmy smiled, but it slipped when he looked from me to her. “Sorry, Sammy, I forgot about—”
“You’re the insurance adjuster?” The corner of her lip curled.
“I am.” I clenched my jaw and took a calming breath. We could be professional after all these years. “There was a painting hanging in the living room. I need to find it and evaluate its condition.”
She stared, then yanked her hood up and did an abrupt about-face without a word. Words failed me, too. There were so many I wanted to say to her, despite the irritation bubbling inside.Sorry. Forgive me. I miss you.
I gave Jimmy a tight smile and followed Janelle, a few paces behind her.
Work. This was work. Calculate the damage. Brickwork to repair. Window replaced. Need to check the roof. But no, that was Mike’s job. I had to find the painting and get out.
As we entered through the smashed front double doors, the scent of smoke hit me first, chased by the pungent odor of burned flesh. I zipped up my jumpsuit and pulled on my respirator and goggles, which blunted the stench and stemmed the stinging in my eyes.
Ahead of me, Janelle did the same, not sparing a second to glance in my direction.
I scanned the foyer. Other than the darkened ceiling, it was the same. Twenty years had passed and the grandfather clock was still in the corner. The small chandelier, bench, and the Tiffany lamps were no different, other than a wing missing from one of the dragonflies. It was once a gleaming wood-paneled room which smelled of lemon oil. Now, covered in a combination of dust and ash, it smelled of death.
Janelle gestured down the short hallway to the right. “Fire was over that way, in the living room.”
The door to the home office was open in the hallway. A quick peek as we passed showed the same desk, same shelving, same floor and walls. I’d expected changes after all this time—new furniture, new rugs, new paint, something—but everything was the same.