7th Heaven - James Patterson [42]
At the bottom of the last article was a quote from the arson investigator, who had told the reporter, “A candle tipped over, papers caught fire, the curtains went up, and so went the house. I haven’t found any trace of fire accelerant, so right now I can’t say if the fire was accidental or intentional.”
Cindy typed, clicked, followed the links, found the medical examiner’s report on the Christiansens. The ME had given the cause of death as smoke inhalation and the manner of death “undetermined based upon the fire marshal’s report.”
“Hey, Peaches. What about the missing jewels? Hmmmm?”
“Kill the bitch. Kill the bitch.”
Cindy’s mind churned with questions. The Christiansens had been robbed, so why, she wondered, had the arson investigator said he didn’t know if the fire was accidental or intentional? And here was a thought: Was it a coincidence that the arson investigator who worked the Christiansen fire was also working on both the Malone and Meacham homicides?
Cindy knew the investigator’s name because Lindsay had talked about him. His name was Chuck Hanni.
She put Peaches back into his cage and covered it. Then she got busy on the phone. First she called her editor.
Then she called Lindsay.
Chapter 55
THE GIRL WAS HEAVY.
She was sitting at the picnic table on campus, right outside the Jamba Juice Bar, facing White Plaza, sipping her Strawberry Whirl through a straw. She was wearing tent clothes: a long prairie skirt and a big red sweatshirt. Her skin was rough and her hair was mousy, and she was, in fact, perfect.
Hawk lifted an eyebrow in her direction. Pidge nodded. They walked over to the picnic table and took seats, Hawk sitting next to the girl, Pidge sitting opposite.
Hawk made a phone with his thumb and pinkie.
“Ba-rinnng,” he said, making a telephone ring tone.
“Hal-lo,” Pidge said, answering the call with his own thumb-and-pinkie phone.
“Pidge. You get outta here, man. I saw her first.”
“But I like her better, dude. I told you how much I like this woman.”
The girl looked up, puzzled by the conversation going on around her. She looked at Hawk, sitting to her left, turned her head, and looked at Pidge. Then she dropped her gaze back to her laptop, where she was blogging an entry in MySpace.
“I don’t think she likes either of us, dude,” Hawk said into his phone. “You think she’s a snob?”
“Let me talk to her,” Pidge said. He put his “receiver” down on the table, said to the girl, “Hi. I’m Pidge. I’m a senior. Computer sciences.” He pointed to the Gates Building. “My buddy wants to ask you out, but I was telling him that even though he saw you first, I like you better.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the girl said. “I’m sure you’re not just playing me. Some kind of goof you’re doing with each other.”
Hawk reached out, touched the girl’s forearm. “Ow, that really hurts. You’ve got us wrong,” Hawk said. “I saw you in the library, don’t you remember? I’m not that good at meeting a girl by myself.”
“That’s the truth,” Pidge said. “Hawk’s shy. I’m just helping out as his wingman. But when I saw you just now, I thought — and this is the truth now — you’re more my type than his.”
“What kind of type is that?” the girl asked, warming now to the attention. Herds of bikes whizzed by. The smell of bread baking at Subway floated over the plaza. The sun warmed the top of her head. It was a beautiful day, and now it had gotten better.
“You’re creative, right? I have a feeling that you must be creative. You’re a writer, I’ll bet.”
“I’m in hum bio.”
“Human biology? Cool,” said Hawk. “Actually, I’m a writer. What’s your name?”
“Kara. Kara Lynch.”
“I’m Hawk, Kara Lynch. This is my friend Pidge.”
“What do you write?” she asked Hawk.
“Pidge and I are working together on a novel,” said Hawk. “May I get you another one of those?” he asked. “Strawberry Whirl?”
“Yes. Thanks, Hawk,” Kara said, smiling.
When Hawk left, Pidge leaned across the table, said to the girl, “Seriously,