PROLOGUE

He took out a book of matches and tore two loose. The small print below a local bar’s slogan said, Close Cover Before Striking. He complied.

From his position in the entryway, the crystal chandelier reflected in his eyes. A deep sigh escaped as he blinked rapidly, fighting tears. His attention turned upward, up the winding staircase to the second floor balcony and he frowned with narrowed eyes. His head slowly rotated toward the study as his face evidenced sadness and regret.

He stared at the matches. It had to be done, and it had to be done now. But still he hesitated as he studied the lines of dampness running from him into the study, up the stairs, and over the sofa and the drapes. The room reeked with gasoline fumes causing his eyes to tear. With a shrug and a half-grimace, he struck the matches and tossed them onto the wet Persian rug, an original.

He turned, picked up the cans, and was startled by the whoosh and the tongues of flame from behind him. The fumes rising from the rug had fired almost instantly. As he spun, his heart raced in panic. The flames leapt upward, grabbing at the furniture, the drapes, the walls, everything in its path.

Spurred by the fierce heat, he ran from the house, intent only on escape. A tree root snaked upward in the darkness and grabbed him, sending him into a forward sprawl, the cans flying free in different directions.

An explosion nearly sent him down again as he scrambled to his feet. He caught himself, then whirled to stare at the blazing inferno he had created. The flames curled from the second floor windows greedily reaching for the third. Glass tinkled to the ground as windows exploded. He saw the shrubbery wither then burst into flame from the intense heat, and glare from the fire seemed bright enough to alert all of Eastland County.

Gotta get out of here. That primary thought dominated the top layer of his consciousness. Fear, fear of the fire and fear of retribution occupied the second level. There was no third level. The cans were forgotten.

His pickup truck loomed large before him and he yanked the door and jumped in. A second later, he sped down the long driveway into the night, attempting simultaneously to latch his seatbelt and maintain control of the vehicle.

Only when he reached the outskirts of Cisco without having seen another vehicle did he relax and breathe normally. He slowed and looked over his shoulder. The glow from the burning house atop the distant hill filled his mind.

CHAPTER ONE

I may have embellished that first part a little. But it’s the way I imagined it as I worked the case I named, Jake’s Burn.

Actually, my first hint that anything untoward had occurred came when my ears screamed that a phone was ringing while my brain refused to acknowledge it. I turned my head and squinted at the clock as my subconscious yelled, "I don’t want to be called at three in the morning." I rolled toward the lamp but a heavy lump in the middle of my chest slowed me. It was Striker, staring at me. Anytime I sleep on my back, he thinks I’m a kitty-bed.

My ears alerted me again and Striker hissed quietly and plunged his claws through the blanket into my chest. That sped my waking process. Who the hell could that be, I thought, rubbing my chest, and where’s Sweeper? My mind cleared enough for me to curse and vow not to answer.

On the next ring, other senses yelled at me to do something to stop that nerve-scraping sound. Was it my imagination or were the rings longer and louder? Although it could cost me, I decided to let the answering machine get it. Besides, most of my business calls came during the morning after the wife found lipstick on her husband’s collar.

I grabbed my blanket and rolled to my right, away from the phone. That’s when I discovered Sweeper. How can a twelve-pound cat be so heavy and fill so much space when he’s asleep? One of those quirks of nature, I suppose. I gave up on the blanket and rolled without it. Striker rode with me and ended the move sitting on my side, firmly anchored to the bed covers.

Finally the fourth ring. Now the answering machine would kick in. In spite of my desire to sleep, I wondered who it was. Figured I’d listen to see if he, or maybe she, left a message. Nope, not much chance of a she. I was between shes and didn’t know any that would call me any time, certainly not in the wee hours of morning. Well, maybe my ex-wife, but I sure didn’t need to hear anything she had to say.

The answering machine kicked on with the cute message I’d recorded. It started with the theme from Dragnet.

It had seemed humorous when I recorded it, but at three in the morning, it sounded stupid. Ah, the beep. Now the mystery would be solved.

"Arty, wake up. I know you’re there."

That finished waking me. Arty! Only one guy called me that, and he only did it to get my goat. I reached over, dislodging the cats, and switched on the bedside lamp.

Striker complained, "Meoooowww."

Sweeper woke and scowled at me as he stretched. I suppose his curiosity overcame his natural inclination to sleep through anything. He’d probably been faking anyway. Well, if curiosity killed the cat, I’d have lost him long ago.

"Okay, you’re ignoring me," I heard through the answering machine. "Won’t work, I know you’re there. Here’s some blue grass for your machine to record until it runs out of tape or microchips or whatever."

He wouldn’t do that, would he? Yes, he would. I heard somebody begin sawing on a fiddle in an up-tempo number that raked across my nerve endings. Sweeper and Striker jumped down and ran under the bed. They shared my tastes in music, and that definitely did not include fiddle mutilation.

I snatched up the phone. "Jake, you son-of-a-bitch, what do you want?"

"Why Arty, is that any way to talk to your old buddy? I was just sitting here watching my house smoke, so naturally, I thought of you."

"Don’t call me Arty." I was set to give him hell when I realized what he’d said. "What do you mean, watching your house smoke?"

"Just what I said. I got a call from the Eastland County Sheriff’s office about two hours ago that my house was on fire." He hesitated, then continued in a softer voice. "By the time I got here, it was gone. Nothing left but the chimneys, and some smoking ashes."

I heard a passion in his voice and hoped he wasn’t going to cry. That I could not handle at three in the morning.

"Wait a minute. Are you telling me your house burned?"

"That’s why I like you, Arty," he said smugly. "You’re really quick."

I resisted the impulse to pull the cord from the wall and throw the phone across the room. "Jake," I growled through clenched teeth, "it’s three o’clock. Start over and tell me what happened. And cut off that damn blue grass. It’s stunting my cats’ growth."

He started to say something but I interrupted. "House? What house? Last I heard, you lived in a penthouse in Fort Worth."

Jake let out something between a laugh and a sob, but the music stopped. "I’ll keep it simple," he said. "One, my house—the one that Sheila took from me. Like I said, the sheriff’s department called and told me it was burning. Two, I drove over here. Three, it’s burned to the ground. Four, I’m sitting here watching it smoke. Five, I need an investigator. Six, you have a license and I’ve hired you. Is that simple enough?"

"Yeah, that was simple enough even for me. What about Sheila? Is she okay?"

"Don’t know, haven’t seen her, don’t give a damn. She’s probably out with her latest shack job. Hell, she might have torched the place herself just to spite me. But if you’re so hot to know, you can find out while you’re investigating."

Jake was one of my oldest friends, although friend might be too strong a word. We came from different neighborhoods. You might even say, different sides of the tracks. Not that I grew up poor, his family was just so damned rich.

We met in school, but became friends on the football field where he was the star quarterback and I was a substitute running back. Glory washed over him while my body collected bruises on the back-up team in practice and splinters during games, except for a few carries coach gave me occasionally. Coach said I was too little to beat out the first string running back, a six-foot tall, fat guy named Harold. I was only five four then. The last time I saw Coach, I reminded him my per carry average was almost four yards. Harold never broke three.

Jake contacted me three years ago, before he went to court for his divorce. He hired me to find out everything I could about Sheila, his ex-wife. What I found out wasn’t pretty, and Jake’s lawyer used it in the court proceedings. Based on her proven poor character, the judge cut her share to only forty percent of everything Jake had. Of course, that was enough to finance a coup in a Third World country.

That was the last time I’d talked to him, and now he was on the phone at three in the morning acting like we’d spoken yesterday.

"Hey, Arty. You still there?"

I snapped out of my reverie. "Yeah, I’m here. Just remembering when we were in high school, and how much I loved playing defense during football practice, how much I enjoyed knocking you on your butt."

"Yeah, in your dreams." Jake’s chuckle filled me with memories of his racing past as I snatched air.

"What do you mean, when I start my investigation?" The fog of sleep had almost lifted, and I didn’t know whether I liked what I’d heard.

"Oh, I thought you understood, Arty. I hired you to find out who torched my house."

He said it as if he were talking about washing his car, not that he ever had. He’d always had too damn much money to get wet himself.

"Whoa, Jake. Hold on there. You’re galloping off like a half-broke mustang. First, don’t call me Arty. Second, you haven’t hired me. I might not want the job. Third, it’s not your house, it’s Sheila’s. You just get to pay for it. And fourth, what makes you think someone torched the house? What makes you think I even want your case?"

"Hmmm. Haven’t had a chance to think you might not take the case. Like I said, I’m watching what’s left of my house smoke." He paused. "Not take the case? Nah, you’re hired at twice your daily rate. I’m not going to let you out of it. No matter how hard I try to spend Dad’s money, it keeps multiplying. Hell, it’s almost recovered from the big chunk Sheila cut out. I’ll use you as another tax dodge. A fresh one’s always nice."

I had no doubts he’d do just that.

"Now, what was second? Oh yes, the house." Jake kept talking without breathing, or so it seemed. "It’ll always be my house. I was gonna wait a while and buy it back from Sheila. She’d have sold for the amount I was willing to offer. Third, oh shit, what was third?"

I don’t know if all rich guys are so blasé about money, but Jake had always been this way—not arrogant, mind you, just blasé. "Third was what makes you think someone torched your house?"

"One of the firemen said arson. He said he’d be back at first light to investigate. I told him I knew the best, and I’d hire him."

"Oh, thanks a lot," I replied, picturing the greeting I’d get from the firemen.

"They’re expecting you at daybreak. Check in at the fire station, and they’ll take you out to the house. You’d better get moving. They start early in the country. Is a thousand a day enough?"

I almost choked. "A thou a day?" Four hundred a day was the best I’d ever made, and that was from Jake.

Striker and Sweeper came from under the bed and stared at me, their green eyes slitted as if daring me to turn the money down.

"Sorry, Arty, that’s probably not enough. I know you have other cases, but I need priority. Tell you what. Get on the phone and cancel your other commitments for the next two weeks."

I could do that with one phone call. On Friday, I had an appointment to have the oil changed in my Chrysler convertible. I didn’t tell Jake that.

He prattled on, "Let me see. I don’t want you losing money so I’ll go to fifteen hundred a day if you promise me exclusivity for at least two weeks."

At this point, my memory gets a little foggy. I don’t remember what I said but I hope it was something intelligent. I was too busy trying to digest fifteen hundred bucks a day to remember anything. Fifteen hundred times fourteen days was . . . was . . . Hell, it was too much for me to figure although I remembered from some dark recess in my mind that fifteen squared was two-twenty-five. Did that mean Jake was talking almost twenty thousand dollars for two weeks’ work? I quickly decided I’d put the math off until I found my calculator.

Whatever I said attracted the cats’ attention. Both jumped onto my lap and stared into my face, pleading with me to accept Jake’s offer, or so it seemed.

Sweeper rubbed his back underneath my chin with his purring volume cranked to about fifty decibels. Obviously, he thought the rate was adequate. I heard myself saying, "Yeah, fifteen will do it—plus expenses."

"Of course, Arty."

I didn’t even tell him not to call me Arty. "What happened to your house?"

"Don’t know any more than I told you. I think somebody torched it and Sam agrees. Said he’d be here at first light to get started. You’d better get some rest so you can be on the road by five. You remember where the fire station is, don’t you?"

"Yeah, Jake, I remember. You didn’t really tell them I’m an expert, did you? And who’s Sam?"

"Sure did. Said you’re a high-priced private eye now, but you used to be the backbone of the Dallas Police Department. Sam’s looking forward to meeting you."

"I’ll just bet he is," I said as he hung up the phone.

I sat for a moment stroking the cats and staring into the mirror. The clock’s reflection read three-thirty. "Guess I’d better hit the shower, boys. Wanna join me?"

"Meow," Sweeper answered.

"Meow," Striker echoed.

As I stepped into the shower, I remembered. Who the hell was Sam?