“You definitely know the drill.”
“Ought to; I been doing it my whole life. You want, I can give you a couple names. You can say you interviewed ’em, take a quick peek at the scene, snap a few shots, and be back in Bloomington by dinner time.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “I’ll have to interview one or two neighbors, though.” He nodded, and I handed him the pen and spiral notebook I’d bought for the occasion. I’d also bought the camera sitting on the front seat of the rental car in case one of the firemen wanted to accompany me to the scene. Chief Blaunert wrote some names in the notebook.
“Three enough?”
“That should do it.”
He tore out a clean sheet from the notebook and wrote down my name. “Got a cell number?”
I gave it to him and thought about Sal’s warning. I could see where this was going.
“Need an escort over there?”
“Naw, it’s only a few blocks,” I said. “I’ll get out of here and let you get on with your inspection.” I stood up, reached over to shake his hand. He hesitated, deciding whether to say something else.
“As to the neighbors,” he said, “my guys were on the scene in four minutes twenty after the call was logged. You can check it out: four twenty.” He stared at me through serious eyes.
“That’s really quick,” I said, just to fill the silence.
“It was after midnight,” he said, “darker than a closet in a coal mine. We set up a perimeter, pushed the neighbors back pretty far. They won’t be able to tell you anything different that’s reliable.”
“Chief, no worries. We’re going to pay this claim. That little girl’s been through enough. Meanwhile, you’ve saved me some time and trouble, and I appreciate it.” I smiled, and this time he shook my hand. “See you in Seattle, chief!”
“That’s where I’ll be,” he said. “Up by Portage Bay.”
“Drinking coffee with the wife,” I said.
He smiled and gave me another thumbs-up. “You got it.”
Greg and Melanie’s burnt-out home was one neighborhood removed from the posh Upper Montclair Country Club. These were two-story, upper-middle-class homes with basements, brick exteriors, and asphalt shingle roofs. I’m no expert, but I’d price them around seven fifty, maybe eight hundred thousand.
I got out of the car and locked it with the remote. Before heading to the house and without staring at anything in particular, I scanned the area and didn’t like what I saw out of the corner of my eye: a 2006 Metallic Blue Honda Civic Coupe parked where one hadn’t been parked a few seconds earlier. I suddenly spun around, pretending to have forgotten something in the trunk. This didn’t require an Oscar-winning performance on my part, since I had a small-frame Smith amp; Wesson 642 hidden in the wheel well.
