Dead Man District Read online

  “I’m big far away, too.” He parroted the phrase his petite grandmother had often teased him with.

  Corie snickered at the joke. She snorted a laugh through her nose, then quickly slapped her hand over her mouth. She looked more embarrassed than he was by her noisy amusement. Whether it was for his sake or hers, she quickly hustled her son toward the hall tree by the front door. “Evan, get your coat on. It’s going to get cold in here.”

  Matt recalled one elevator ride together where Evan had announced it was his eighth birthday before his mother had shushed him and ended any conversation before it got started. Like any self-respecting young man, he groaned at being told what to do, even as he tromped through the living room and pulled on an insulated jacket that had sleeves that were too short for his arms and that clung to his small frame as he zipped it up.

  But his demeanor changed when he looked into the hallway and saw the ruined skillet on Matt’s door mat. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to make a mess. I tried to put the fire out.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Corie ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head, ushering him back inside. “I should have ended my phone call with Professor Nelms and fixed you a snack myself so you didn’t have to turn on that old oven.”

  “But I made the frozen pizza just the way you showed me.”

  “Then maybe there’s something wrong with the oven. I’m just glad you weren’t hurt.”

  He nodded. Then tipped his chin up to Matt. “I’m sorry we bothered you, Mr. Taylor.” Evan glanced over at his mom. “Isn’t that right?”

  Matt glimpsed the sadness and regret that tightened her features before she forced a smile onto her lips that wasn’t quite as pretty as the natural smile she’d shared in the kitchen. What made a child apologize for a simple, albeit potentially dangerous, mistake, and a mother regret that he felt he needed to apologize?

  Matt had never been a parent, but he’d been raised by the two finest people he’d ever known. He remembered how his adoptive father, Gideon Taylor, had coaxed him out of his silence and fear as a traumatized orphan. He’d given Matt jobs to do, small responsibilities that he could succeed at and grow his self-confidence. Gideon Taylor had worked side by side with each of his sons, showing them what it took to be a good man, how to be part of a family, how to live in the world with a sense of purpose and not be afraid of doing the wrong thing. Again.

  Emulating the lesson of his own dad, Matt unhooked the multidialed utility watch from his wrist and held it out to Evan. “Can you tell time?”

  Evan scoffed a little snort through his nose, reminding Matt of the adorable sound his mother had made a few minutes earlier. “Of course I can. We learned that in first grade. I’m a second grader now.”

  “Good man. Take this.” Evan’s eyes widened as he looked at all the numbers for time, temperature and barometric pressure readings. His mouth dropped open before he took it from Matt’s outstretched hand. “When thirty minutes have passed, I want you to turn this thermostat back up to seventy degrees and remind your mom to close the kitchen window. Can you do that?”

  Evan danced with excitement. “Is that okay, Mom?”

  “You’ll have to give Mr. Taylor his watch back,” she reminded him.

  “Not for thirty minutes,” Evan protested.

  “It’s not a gift.”

  “Please?”

  Matt wasn’t sure he’d be able to withstand the enthusiastic energy pouring off the boy. Corie smiled the good smile again. “All right. Homework done?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Then you can use that same half hour to play your game before bedtime.”

  Corie combed her fingers through his hair and cupped his cheek. When she started to kiss him again, he glanced up at Matt and pulled away, perhaps embarrassed by the PDA, perhaps trying to be more like the man he believed being trusted with Matt’s watch made him. “Did I tell you I earned a ronin to fight with my dwarf? Now I can shoot arrows at the bad guys.”

  “That’s great.” She smiled again at her son’s delight over the video game Matt was familiar with. “Do you even know what a ronin is?”

  But Evan was already dashing down the hallway past Matt into his room. “’Bye, Mr. Taylor. See you in thirty...twenty-nine minutes.”

  The furnace clicked off with a noisy jerk. Matt hadn’t had this much conversation outside of work for a long time, and the urge to stay a little longer and keep talking with this tiny family felt odd. Didn’t stop him, though. “Sounds like something my younger cousins have played. I’ve played it with my brothers, too, a few times. If I remember correctly, a shapeshifter and sorcerer are next to join the team.”

  “You play Bomba’s Quest?”

  Matt wondered if his cheeks were heating with a blush or if he was succumbing to some weird kind of hypothermia. “My uncle Brett wanted to know if it was appropriate for his kids to play. My brothers and I volunteered to test it.”

  “I wondered if it was appropriate for an eight-year-old, too. He likes figuring out the puzzles and solving the riddles. But the characters are all cartoons, and no one dies when they go to battle. Not like real violence where people get hurt.” She stopped abruptly, as though she was surprised to hear herself say those words out loud. “I’m sorry. I’m rambling. I’ll be sure to get your watch back to you. That was a nice gesture.”

  Matt was as curious about the shadow that crossed her features as he’d been about the things he’d said that had made her smile.

  Get back to being a firefighter and get out of here.

  “You make pizza in a skillet?” he asked, picking up on something her son had said.

  “The cast iron heats up and works like a pizza stone. The handles should have made it easier for Evan to manage.” When she headed back to the kitchen, Matt followed. “Usually, his go-to snack is popcorn in the microwave, but for some reason, my microwave isn’t working tonight.” She pushed a couple of buttons beside the handle, but nothing lit up. “I don’t know if it’s the microwave or the socket it’s plugged into.”

  If her apartment was wired like his, there should be a circuit breaker on the microwave outlet. Possibly, it had tripped and neither Corie nor her son knew to push the button back in to reconnect the circuit. But an oven fire and a faulty microwave in one evening? That seemed to be an unusual amount of bad luck for anyone, especially a woman who seemed as competent and careful as Corie. Matt pushed the circuit breaker button, but nothing reengaged.

  “I tried that already.”

  Good. So, she knew that safety measure. Either the microwave itself was broken or there was a problem with the wiring. Matt unplugged the appliance and moved it to the opposite counter where there was another plug.

  “You don’t have to do that. I’ll call Mr. Stinson tomorrow to look at it. I’m sure you were busy doing something important.”

  The moment he plugged it in to the new socket, all the lights came on. “It’s not the microwave. Looks like a wiring issue.” He glanced over his shoulder to see Corie frowning at the now-empty socket. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  On a hunch, he asked her for a flashlight and then knelt in front of the oven again. After testing to make sure it wasn’t hot to the touch, he rubbed his fingers along the heating elements at the top and bottom of the oven. A sticky, charred residue like what he’d seen in the skillet came off in his hands. He’d fought enough fires to know there was something unnatural about this one.

  He tried not to jerk when he felt Corie’s hand on his shoulder, balancing herself as she knelt beside him. “What’s that?”

  “I’m not sure.” He could easily understand food overflowing its pan and spilling onto the heating element at the bottom of the oven. But something needed to be spraying oil or grease—and a lot of it—for it to coat the top heating element like this. And nothing about
pizza sprayed when it baked. “Did you squirt anything on the fire to put it out?”

  “Evan threw some flour on it.”

  “Flour burns.”

  “I know that. He knows that, too, now.” She pulled her hand away and stood, opening the cupboard above the stove. “I keep a can of baking soda mixed with salt in here to put out small fires.”

  An old-school solution that worked as well as a chemical extinguisher. “It snuffs out the oxygen.”

  She nodded. “I showed Evan where I keep it and taught him how to use it. I was in my bedroom, on the phone with my professor about a project for my college class. I didn’t realize there was a fire until the smoke detector went off. I ran out here, saw the flames, grabbed the can...” She opened the lid and handed him the can. There was only a dusting of powder at the bottom. “It’s empty. That’s why he went for the flour instead. The only time we’ve used the baking soda mixture was when I was teaching him how to put out a fire. I lit a match in a pan and had him put it out so he could practice. This should still be full. I don’t know how...” A dimple formed between her eyebrows as she frowned. “I don’t remember emptying it. I don’t know why I would.”

  Maybe she hadn’t.

  Curious. And a little disturbing to think that all the safeguards she’d had in place to protect her son from a fire had failed.

  Matt needed some time to ponder on that. Evan seemed to be a precocious little boy. And God knew Matt understood a child’s fascination in playing with fire. But would an eight-year-old know how to sabotage an electrical outlet to make his story about using the oven plausible? Or was there something else going on here? For now, Matt simply wanted to complete his due diligence as a firefighter, and as a good neighbor. If there was anything he could do to help Corie feel safer in her own apartment—even if that meant him leaving—he would do it.

  “My microwave works,” he offered. “I’m at home on Tuesday nights. If he wants a snack, and you’re busy with schoolwork, he could come over.”

  “Usually, he can safely occupy himself when I’m studying. And he knows he can interrupt me if he needs something.” She placed the empty can back in its cupboard. Then she pasted a tight smile on her face and headed to the front door. Did she suspect her son of setting the fire, too? “I’ll show you out.”

  This time, he didn’t follow. “You want me to move the microwave back, or leave it here?”

  “Leave it. You’ve done enough.”

  He was beginning to think he hadn’t done nearly enough. “Talk to the super. He needs to replace that stove and the microwave outlet before you use either one again.”

  “I will.” She was waiting by the front door.

  “Do you have a safe place to cook your meals in the meantime?”

  “Afraid we’re going to start another fire?”

  He didn’t joke about stuff like that. And judging by the frown dimple that had reappeared on her forehead, she wasn’t trying to be funny, either.

  What was going on here? Just a series of unfortunate coincidences that had taken their toll on a tired, hardworking single mom? Or did she share any of the same suspicion he did that something was deliberately off in this apartment tonight?

  Finally, he forced his feet to move to the door. “I’ll leave the fire extinguisher here until you get your baking soda solution restocked. I have another one in my truck.” When he moved past her into the hallway, he picked up the torched pan and handed her the oven mitt. “I’ll take this down to the dumpster for you.”

  Her fingers brushed against his as she tried to take the skillet from him. “You don’t have to do that.”

  No way could she muscle the ruined pan away from him, but another unexpected touch like that, sending ribbons of unfamiliar heat skittering beneath the skin she’d made contact with, and she could probably ask him for anything she wanted. What kind of sorry, solitary soul was he to be so attuned to a woman he hadn’t said ten words to before tonight? He pointed back toward the kitchen. “When I’m done, I’ll come back to reset the smoke alarm. Evan’s thirty minutes should be up by then.”

  “Okay.” She hugged the door frame, her shoulders lifting with a sigh that made him think she was either too tired to argue with him, or just agreeing to whatever he said that would make him leave. “I’ll lock the door behind you. Knock when you get back.”

  Matt carried the pan to the first floor and braved the cold air without a coat to set it on the dumpster behind their building. He spared a few minutes to pull his pocketknife from his sweats and scrape some of the residue from the bottom and handle of the pan. Although there were definitely bits of cheese and hamburger that had turned to ash, there was also more of that same sticky substance he’d found on the oven’s heating element. He cut a swath of plastic from a trash bag inside the dumpster and wrapped the sample inside before stuffing both the knife and the sample into his pocket. This hadn’t been a big enough fire, nor an official KCFD investigation, to warrant sending the substance to the state fire lab, but he could ask his firehouse captain and some of the other more experienced firefighters at the station house if they’d run across anything like it before. A bracing wind whipped through the alley, chilling him from his speculation.

  On the way back inside, he paused in front of Wally Stinson’s door and thought about asking the super if he’d worked on any of Corie’s appliances or electrical outlets recently, or if she’d filed a complaint about any of them needing repairs. He’d like to ask if there had been any other small fires in the apartment, too—anything that might indicate a boy playing with matches or other flammable materials. But there was no sound coming from within the apartment, and there was no light shining from beneath the super’s door, so the man had either gone to bed or was out for the evening. He’d make a point to stop by the next morning on his way to work.

  Matt walked past the elevator and took the stairs, needing time to think. One strange thing in Corie’s apartment he could dismiss as an accident. Two made him curious. But three missteps, all leading to a potentially dangerous fire and no way to fight it, told him something was wrong. Now whether Corie was really good at hiding irresponsible behavior, or something more sinister was happening behind the walls across the hallway, he couldn’t say. In the meantime, Matt would do whatever he could tonight to ensure that Corie and Evan McGuire had nothing more to worry about and could get a good night’s sleep.

  By the time he’d reached the seventh floor, Corie was waiting outside her door, holding his watch and a small plate wrapped in plastic. “I went ahead and put the battery back in the smoke alarm myself. All I had to do was pull out a chair to reach it.”

  “You tested it?”

  She nodded. “It beeped.” In other words, stop butting in, already. She handed him the watch. “Evan says thank-you. I appreciate the way you eased his concern and made him feel useful. Although I didn’t know what half the bells and whistles on this watch are for. And trust me, he asked about every one of them.” After he’d strapped the watch back onto his wrist, she handed him the plate. “And here. It’s not much. But thank you.”

  Matt didn’t need a thank-you, and he certainly hadn’t expected a gift. He lifted the plate to inspect the thick slice of cherry pie. He hadn’t grown to 250 pounds of muscle by turning his nose up at a free dessert. But he felt awkward taking anything from this woman who wore a coat with a frayed collar, and whose son clearly needed some bigger clothes—and possibly some counseling on the dangers of playing with fire.

  Misreading his hesitancy, Corie quickly apologized. “Don’t worry. I didn’t bake it in that rattrap of an oven. I work at Pearl’s Diner evenings after school. Except on nights like this when I have class. Sometimes I bake, but mostly I wait tables.”

  He knew Pearl’s. Classic diner food that filled your belly and made you feel at home. He’d eaten there with his family many times over the years. He knew the original owne
r, Pearl Jenkins, had retired and sold the restaurant to Melissa Kincaid, the wife of one of the detectives his older brothers, Alex and Pike, worked with at KCPD. But other than adding some lighter fare to the menu, he hadn’t noticed any changes in the quality of the food. And the pie from Pearl’s was legendary. “My boss lets me bring home any extra since we bake it fresh every day.”

  “You made this?”

  Corie nodded.

  He finally remembered his manners. “Thank you. Cherry’s my favorite.”

  “I’m glad.” She opened her door. “Well, thank you again. Good night, Mr. Taylor.”

  “Good night, Mrs. McGuire. Ms.? Miss?”

  There was a drawn look to her features that spoke of fatigue. “I’m divorced from Evan’s father. Corie will do just fine.”

  “Matt will do, too. For me. I’m Matt. Not married. Never have been. Never baked a pie.”

  She smiled in that way that made him feel like he hadn’t just stuck his foot in his mouth and made an awkward conversation downright uncomfortable. “Good to know. Good night, Matt.”

  He waited in the hallway, hearing the dead bolt, a chain and the doorknob engage. He liked that she was cautious about her safety. Even though the City Market district was being reclaimed by Millennials and real estate investors, the transformation hadn’t taken hold everywhere. The McGuires were still a lone woman and a little boy alone in the city.

  And Matt was the scary dude across the hall who’d come out of his solitary refuge just long enough to save the day...and scare her back behind her tightly locked door.

  Dragging his door mat back across the hall, he stepped inside his apartment and locked the door behind him. He’d return to his weights later. For now, he turned the TV on the late news, leaned back on the couch and stretched his feet out onto the table beside the takeout wrappers from tonight’s dinner. He unwrapped the pie and inhaled its heady scent. Sweet and delectable, just like Corie.