“Just you. And Glenn.” She followed him up the stairs. “And the new mothers in 2A.”

“The Gorski sisters in 1B planted a garden. Kept me in tomatoes all summer.”

“Then we shall feed them as well. But aren’t you going out tonight?”

His front door had closed again, and he nudged it with his hip. “Yep. But Glenn has a yen for Italian, don’t you, Glenn?”

She smiled when she saw Glenn. “I make a fantastic carbonara. You’ll love it.”

David shook his head, and Glenn cleared his throat. “Can’t cook in the boy’s kitchen. He just laid that medallion on the floor. But we could go to Martino’s.”

David put the grocery bags on his table and dropped a kiss on his mother’s cheek. “They have tablecloths,” he said, then grabbed his laptop. “Don’t stay out past eleven. You need any mad money in case the old goat gets fresh?”

She swatted at him, laughing and blushing prettily. “Get out of here.”

Monday, September 20, 6:10 p.m.

Abbott’s afternoon meeting had been mostly a rehash of what Olivia had already known. The only new information was that Ian had found smoke in Henry Weems’s lungs, but not that much, indicating Weems was probably not in the building while it was burning. Still, that negated the theory that the gunman had shot him, then set the fire.

Which meant they had at least three arsonists. Barlow had background checks on the Rankin construction company employees. Six had felony records, none for arson, and eight in ten appeared to be teetering on the verge of bankruptcy.

So much for narrowing down the motive. Barlow had asked for help processing the employees and Abbott said he’d free up Noah Webster. That made Olivia happy. Noah was a damn good homicide detective and easy to work with.

Abbott told them Special Agent Crawford of the FBI had finally returned his call. Crawford was up north, on reservation land, but would be back and in their office by oh-eight tomorrow. Crawford had been extremely excited to hear about the glass ball.

Now she sat next to Kane in Ian’s office in the morgue. Tracey Mullen’s father had arrived, but their sign language interpreter had not. They’d wait to start the ID until they could clearly communicate with the girl’s father.

“Whose turn is it?” Kane asked.

“Yours. I told Mrs. Weems, and we each told one of the Mullens this morning. So it’s your turn to take the lead with the dad.”

“I figured as much,” Kane said glumly. “What do you have going on tonight?”

“I’m getting your field glasses back,” Olivia said dryly and Kane’s brows went up.

“Good,” was all he said and Olivia was relieved.

“I heard from Mr. Oaks at the school for the deaf,” Olivia said. “Apparently he was using one of those videophones Brie told us about, because the conversation went a lot faster. Oaks said that he’d be glad to work with us in asking the kids what they knew. Offhand he couldn’t think of anyone we should be looking at, though.”

“It’s possible Tracey’s partner doesn’t go to the school,” Kane said.

“True, but it’s a place to start.”

“Just like the Gators nail art,” Kane said. “That was nicely done, by the way.”

She smiled. “You’re just trying to butter me up so I’ll take the lead, aren’t you?”

“Did it work?”

“No.” They came to their feet when a woman knocked on Ian’s office door.

“Hi, I’m Val Lehigh. I’m looking for Detective Kane.”

“That’s me,” Kane said. “You’re our interpreter?”

She had a few streaks of gray in her hair and was firmly built, comfortably capable, and dressed completely in black. “I am. Have you ever worked with an interpreter before?”

“I have,” Olivia said.

“Yes, but a long time ago,” Kane said.

“Good. Then I’ll cover the bases quickly. I’m here in an official capacity and have taken an oath of confidentiality. Nothing I hear or see will be repeated. I will voice everything the deaf individual signs, even if it is an aside, meant only for me. I will sign everything you two voice, even if you mean it only for each other. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” Olivia said. “Have you done a corpse identification before?”

“Yes. Didn’t like it, but we don’t get to pick where we go, any more than you do.”

“Tracey Mullen’s body is in pretty good shape,” Olivia said and watched some of the tension leave the woman’s shoulders. “Except of course, that she’s dead at sixteen.”

Mr. Mullen jumped to his feet as soon as the three of them entered the waiting room. His face was haggard, his eyes red from weeping. His signing seemed frantic, but Val didn’t seem fazed.

“I’m John Mullen. I’m here to see my daughter. Where is she?”

“I’m Detective Kane and this is my partner, Detective Sutherland,” Kane said, glancing from the corner of his eye at the interpreter, then returning his gaze to the grieving father. “We are very sorry for your loss.”

“What happened?” he signed. “I need to know what happened to my child.”

“She was in a condo when it caught on fire,” Kane said. “We’re not sure why she was there. She was trapped inside and did not survive.”

“She didn’t burn,” Olivia added and Mullen’s shoulders sagged, as close to relief as one could expect under the circumstances. “She died of smoke inhalation.”

“She was alone at the time of her death,” Kane said gently, “but not before. We’re wondering if you might know of any boyfriends, anyone she knew living in this area.”

Bewildered, his signing slowed. “No, no one. She lived in Florida. She was supposed to be safe in Florida. Who was she with?”

“We’re trying to find that out, sir,” Kane said. “Can you tell us if your daughter wore a hearing aid, in addition to her cochlear implant?”

Still bewildered, he shook his head again.

Then the hearing aid belonged to the male she’d been with. “When was the last time you physically saw your daughter, sir?” Olivia asked.

“This summer for four weeks. I get…” He clenched his fists, then relaxed them to begin signing again. “I got every other Christmas, Thanksgiving, spring break, and six weeks in the summer.”

“But she stayed only four weeks?” Kane asked.

Mullen hesitated. “She went to camp for the other two weeks.”

Okay. “Which camp, sir?” Olivia asked.

“ Camp Longfellow, in Maryland.” His face crumpled as his steady stream of tears became sobs. “Please, please, let me see my daughter.”

Kane glanced at Olivia and she nodded. She had no more questions for now. They’d definitely check Camp Longfellow as soon as this ID was done. Olivia touched Mullen’s shoulder and led him to the family viewing room. The green light was on in the room’s uppermost right corner, the sign that the ME was ready on the other side.

Kane pulled the curtain, and it took only seconds for Mr. Mullen to numbly nod. Then he closed his eyes and cried, silently rocking himself. All alone.

Kane pulled the curtain closed while Olivia swallowed hard. There had been no viewings with Pit-Guy’s victims. There hadn’t been enough left of the victims’ bodies and DNA had been used for identification instead. Now, standing with Tracey’s father, she realized that had been the one positive in the entire nightmare. She hadn’t had to watch the impotent grief of the families as they gazed on their loved ones through a sterile window.

She touched Mr. Mullen’s arm again, gently, as she’d learned to do when Brie wasn’t wearing her processors. He struggled for control, then met her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she signed. It was one of the few signs she knew, a tightened fist rubbing over her heart, as if to soothe the pain. She signaled to Val. “I have a message from the firefighter who brought her out. He wants you to know that they’re very sorry. They tried to save her, but by the time they arrived, it was too late.”

“How long before they arrived?” Mr. Mullen signed, his chin lifted. Olivia would have taken it for belligerence if she hadn’t seen it before, on too many grieving parents. It was the rush of anger, the need to blame. It was human.