He reached automatically into his breast pocket for his cell phone. It wasn’t there, or on the bedside table, or in the drawer. That’s when he remembered Durvan showing him a text message he’d supposedly sent. Had Durvan confiscated his phone? He knew Durvan well enough to know he’d been holding back on what information he did have.
Or was his phone still in the hands of the man who’d tried to burn him alive?
Anger surged through him, setting his heart to pumping heavy strokes. Someone had gotten the drop on him and almost succeeded in killing him. Who hated him that much?
Burning was one of the more terrible ways to die. He had scars from burns gotten during his years fighting fires. The pain was memorable. This was personal. Someone wanted him to suffer. And then die.
He shoved the creeping sense of vulnerability away. Wouldn’t help. He was alive. A major plus. What else?
He opened his eyes and, without really seeing, focused on the chart on the wall that named his nurse and doctor. He was a detective. His memory wasn’t a total wipe. What did he know for certain?
He hadn’t been drinking.
Yet Durvan said emergency had pumped a stomach full of alcohol and other stuff out of him.
Therefore, he’d been drugged and force-fed alcohol. Perhaps together. Then he’d been left to die with his dog
Harley!
CHAPTER THREE
It wasn’t in the papers. Or on the local news channels. He’d bought the paper, which he rarely did, and recorded all the local channels at the same time to make certain he didn’t miss it. The fire hadn’t made the paper at all. It had gotten fourth lead, after the weather report, on only two channels. No mention of a body. No mention of anything of importance but the loss, due to water damage, of a women’s boutique scheduled to open soon. That couldn’t be right.
Unless he’d fucked up.
No, he’d seen the fire catch from a block away before self-preservation told him to leave the vicinity. That fire should have taken all but the evidence he’d deliberately left behind. He knew how to cover his tracks. He was an expert at what arson investigators looked for. He’d also had lots of practice. He’d left a trail pointing to the victim as perpetrator that a blind man could follow. Something had gone wrong.
No way to ask. Not yet, anyway. For the rest of Fort Worth, it was just another ordinary day.
Someone would have to pay for that.
CHAPTER FOUR
“What’s the matter, fella?”
Carly looked from the dish full of dog food into the shining dark amber eyes of the shepherd standing nearby. As she did so, his ears pricked forward and his long thick tail began to swish. “You’re a handsome devil. Why won’t you eat? Did you get too much smoke?”
As if he understood her he barked twice, the light happy sounds of a healthy animal. He was a beauty with tall ears that were velvet soft inside, and a strong nonslanting back with a small black saddle on his otherwise golden body. A black streak down his tail finished off the details. That, and a tendency to smile with his tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth.
She’d gotten up with the sun to make phone calls cancelling the activities planned for Flawless’s grand opening scheduled for next week. Then she’d done a dog food run, grabbing several kinds from the shelves because she wasn’t certain what her canine guest would eat. Surely she would hit on a favorite. But, not so much.
“I wish I could understand you. You don’t seem to like dry or wet food.” She’d heaped a serving of each kind into the bowl. He’d drained the water bowl twice, but the food remained untouched.
Her canine guest sniffed politely at each kind but then looked up at her, his head canted to one side, as if expecting something more.
“Have you tried making him work for it?”
Carly looked up to find her cousin Jarius Wiley standing in her aunt’s kitchen doorway. He was still in his police uniform of navy blue shirt and pants with black tactical boots. His black felt cowboy hat sat low over his eyes, a position at once jaunty and intimidating. That hat also drew attention to his green eyes set in a medium brown face. But that wasn’t the only reason why women looked at Jarius Wiley with open-mouth admiration. Jarius was gorgeous, from his close-cropped hair and chiseled features to the ripped physique he kept toned by a daily workout at the gym—which was a necessity, since this thirty-three-year-old man ate like a teenager with a tapeworm. No food was safe around him.
“Hey, Jarius. What are you doing here?”
“I’m just off duty. Moms likes to feed me when I’ve worked the night shift.” He came into the kitchen, shedding his tactical equipment, which he piled safely on top of the refrigerator. “What are you doing here?”