Page 22 of Burning Justice

MEK. Methyl ethyl ketone.

Sweat dripped down Brett’s face and between his shoulder blades. “Good boy.” He tugged another treat from his pocket and gave it to Blaze for a job well done. His dog chewed happily, then cracked a smile, panting.

Gemma jogged over. “Oh, wow,” she said between breaths. “The missing can—the one he took with him. That’s amazing. Good boy, Blaze.”

A sense of pride washed over Brett. He imagined this was how his dad felt right after Brett had hit a home run in Little League. “He can scent a drop of gasoline on a golf tee in the middle of a football field.”

“Absolutely amazing.” She pulled out her phone and took a couple of shots. “But we know he wore gloves, so we probably won’t get any prints.”

Huffing and puffing, Jose joined them, sweat pouring off him and soaking his shirt.

Something else caught Brett’s eye.

Stomped into the ground was a mostly empty pack of cigarettes. Like Gemma had pointed out, they probably wouldn’t pull any prints from that, either. That wasn’t what had his heart thumping faster.

Next to the pack of cigarettes was a cigarette butt. As dry as things were this time of year, it was a wonder the entire field hadn’t caught fire.

“Can you take a shot of that?” He pointed to the butt.

“A shot of wh—” She peered closer. “Oh my god. You were right. He was here.”

“Watching the whole time,” Jose wheezed between breaths.

“He probably thought he was safe out here until Blaze and I raced after Gavin Aldrich. I think he got spooked and ran off.”

After Gemma had snapped some shots, Brett tugged an evidence bag from his pocket and collected the butt and the empty cigarette pack, holding them up to the light. “DNA. Johnny Nash has a criminal record for burglary. That’s a Class 3 Felony, which means he would have been swabbed for DNA. Those records will be in CODIS.” If they were lucky, the Combined DNA Index System maintained by the FBI would spit out a hit.

Adrenaline shot through his system faster than water from a fire hose. If Nash—not Aldrich—really set the warehouse fires, then they were one step closer to nailing him. Once Nash was in custody, Brett would grill him about the Torrance Lane fire. If Nash had set that one, too, not even God could save him.

Chapter Six

Gemma frowned at the pathetic excuse for a closet she’d erected in the corner of her bedroom. Not that it was a closet, really, just a thick piece of wire she’d wound around two nails pounded in the wall. Sometimes she wondered if she even needed a closet at all.

Aside from the occasional slacks, her wardrobe du jour normally consisted of exactly three things: jeans, work boots, and a T-shirt. Not the most flattering attire, but it did the job and saved beaucoup on dry cleaning.

“What do you think, Jaws?” Jaws swam to the surface, his body wriggling, as always, from the effort.

“Yeah, you’re right.” She tugged the sleeveless blue silk shirt off the hanger and put it on. Next came the beige slacks she’d worn yesterday.

Between interviewing Gavin Aldrich, then going to court, jeans and a T-shirt weren’t going to cut it. When Brett had dropped her off last night, even he’d grumbled something about having to wear a suit today.

Gemma slipped into a pair of brown flats, which did absolutely nothing to help her vertically or make her legs look any longer—yeah, that was a pipedream—then went into the bathroom to brush her hair and tie it up in its usual ponytail. She’d bet a case of fish food that the women Brett dated wouldn’t dare be caught in public with a ponytail.

Who gives a schmear? When she was little, that was what her dad—the bagel king of Brooklyn—had taught her to say instead of shit. She really needed to get back to that. Since the day she’d left for college, her vocab had taken a nosedive.

On a whim, she tugged out the elastic tie and let her hair fall freely around her shoulders. Not that she was trying to impress Brett or anything. He was just turning out to be a pleasant surprise. Brett Tanner was not only competent but smart. He knew people, and he knew the job. And he appreciated her. That might very well be the best part of their partnership.

She dug deep into the back of a drawer and pulled out a tube of mascara. As she twisted off the cap, bits of black stuff fell into the sink. The brush was completely dry.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Makeup? Really? She twisted the cap back on and threw it in the paint bucket that served as a trash can. “I haven’t worn makeup in years.” So why had she been about to now?

Vanity? Doubtful. When she left the house, she didn’t give a crap what she wore or what she looked like. Her mother had always chastised her for that unfeminine transgression.

Pride? Maybe. She didn’t want to look like a slob in front of all those fancy attorneys, like that federal prosecutor with her chic designer clothes and jewelry.

Jewelry. Ugh. She didn’t own much bling to begin with. Gemma yanked open another drawer and grabbed the tiny gold box in the back. Inside were sapphire studs and the matching pendant her parents had given her as a college graduation gift. Like the suit, she hadn’t worn them in years. The last time she’d put them on had been the disastrous blind date her parents had set her up on with one of their customers.

After putting on the jewelry, she glanced at her watch. If she didn’t get her butt in gear, she’d be late for her appointment with Brett at the Bagel Deli for coffee and to go over their game plan.