Read Best Place to Die for Free Online Page B

computer, positioned to catch light through the windows.
    â€˜You’ve got to be kidding.’ Sam pulled a partially melted yellow plastic lid off a coffee can, one of several that lined the back of the table and identical to ones in the kitchen. He stuck in a finger, smelled it.
    â€˜What is it?’ Hank asked.
    â€˜Cause of the fire . . . but where . . .’ Turning slowly in place, the Fire Marshall scanned the floor and the stacks of charred and drenched clutter. His gaze landed on mounds of garbage behind the workbench so blackened it was impossible to tell what they’d been, other than fuel for a fire.
    â€˜Hank, give me a hand. I think we just found ground zero.’
    They both took pictures and then gingerly edged the table back a few inches so Sam could squeeze his ample gut through.
    As Hank stood back, he caught himself in a kind of prayer:
Please God let this be an accident, just one God-awful fucked-up accident.
    â€˜From the burn,’ Sam said, ‘I’d say this is it . . . rags in solvent. We’ll get it analyzed but I’m willing to bet it’s turpentine and some other crap this geezer was using.’ The Marshall dropped what might have been a clump of rags into a plastic evidence bag.
    Hank, who’d been around at more than his share of Grenville fires, felt something lighten in his gut, as Sam vented, ‘Can’t people read the friggin’ labels? They say right on ‘em, dispose of the rags in a sealed container. Danger of spontaneous combustion.’
    Hank caught himself about to defend the resident; if this was really Norman Trask’s place the guy knew the risk. For God’s sakes, he was a doctor. That’s why all the sealed coffee cans were filled with water-soaked rags.
So what happened?
Knowing their time alone at the scene –
of the accident, not crime . . . at least not yet
– was limited. ‘Sam, I want to check the bedrooms.’
    And that’s when they found him. The firefighters – or evidence eradication unit – as he’d come to think of them, hadn’t made it back here. If they had, they’d have taken Norman Trask – who was quite obviously dead in bed – hauled him out, tried to resuscitate and then pack him in an ambulance. At the hospital they’d have pulled him out, all the while doing CPR, shooting drugs into his veins, and zapping him with a defibrillator. They’d put him in an emergency-room cubicle and finally have a nurse and then an ER doctor state the obvious – DOA. The room had been untouched, the door shut. The densely packed clutter, long hall and closed door had deprived the fire of oxygen. Cause of death was going to be smoke inhalation, which from all reports wasn’t the worst way to go. The guy looked peaceful, eyes closed, head neatly centered on his pillow, covered in a sheet up to his bare shoulders, glass of something evaporated by the heat, by the bedside. Went to bed, forgot about an oily rag, few hours later . . . nothing, just one hell of a nightmare for the living.
    â€˜Hey, Hank.’
    He grunted at the sound of a deep female voice. ‘Was wondering when you guys would get here,’ he said. ‘So Grenville’s yours now?’ He turned and nodded, noting Detective Mattie Perez in black pants, turtle neck and state-issue blazer. Her dark curly hair shot through with strands of silver, her deep brown eyes, on him and then back to the body in bed. Beside her was a tall young woman in navy slacks, dark shirt and a vest covered with pockets. Her face eager and intent, her glossy auburn hair tied back in a ponytail. Clipped over her right breast was a state police picture ID with large letters at the bottom – DETECTIVE JAMIE PLANK.
    â€˜We were working the overnight,’ Mattie explained. ‘Heard it called in and figured, what the hell? Seems I’ve got a soft spot for this town.’
    â€˜Yeah, right . . . murder