“Morning,” the guy said. “You folks new to the neighborhood?”
Reacher said, “What happened here?”
“There was a fire.”
Reacher caught an echo of his mother’s voice. Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer. He said, “Really? When?”
“Last Saturday. Early in the morning.”
“How did it start?”
“The guy who owned the place was smoking a cigarette. That’s what I heard. He woke up, lit his first of the day, then fell back to sleep.”
“Was his name Danny Peel, the owner?”
The guy nodded.
Reacher said, “Where is he now?”
“We cremated him, Wednesday. Kind of ironic, given the way he went, but those were his wishes. There wasn’t much of a crowd. Just me and a couple of people from his work.”
“From the prison?”
The guy nodded again.
“Did people he worked with come by his house often?”
“There was one woman. Don’t know her name.”
“Anyone else?”
“He was a quiet kind of a guy. Didn’t seem to socialize much. Not at home, anyway.”
“Was anyone at his house on Saturday? Before the fire?”
“I doubt it. Like I said, it was early. And if anyone had been staying overnight, wouldn’t they have found more bodies?”
“Did you see anyone in the neighborhood? Anyone who isn’t normally here. Or any unusual vehicles?”
“No.”
“Did you notice if any of his windows were open that morning?”
“No. I went out to get the mail. Then I heard the sirens. I didn’t see anything. Why all the questions? You’re not a cop. Are you from the insurance company?”
“Me? No. I’m just naturally curious.”
Chapter 39
Hannah crossed the street without saying a word. She climbed back into the VW, rested her elbows on the steering wheel, and held her head in her hands. Reacher decided to take a look around. He didn’t expect to find much. The fire hadn’t left much trace of anything, but old habits die hard. He was curious. And he wanted to give Hannah some time to herself.
There had been a lawn between the house and the street but the grass had been torn up by the firefighters’ boots and jagged channels had been cut through the dirt by runoff from the water they’d used to extinguish the flames. They couldn’t have gotten there very quickly, Reacher thought. There was so little of the structure left. It was like someone had judged things very carefully. Too late to save any of Danny Peel’s house. But in time to stop the flames from spreading to anyone else’s. He picked his way across the rough ground until he was close to what would have been the outer wall. He wondered where the door had been. The kitchen. The bedroom. He could believe the fire had started there. And maybe that a cigarette had been involved. But not that it was an accident. He’d been around the block too many times to swallow that kind of a story.
Reacher looked inside the mailbox. There were four envelopes. All junk. Presumably delivered before the fire. Then he moved on to the garage. It had two roll-up vehicle doors leading to the side street and a personnel door that would have faced the house. He tried the handle. It was locked. The door didn’t seem too stout so he leaned his shoulder against it and shoved. The tongue of the lock gouged a little strip out of the frame and it opened easily. Reacher stepped inside. There was a car in each bay. Both were Chevrolets. The closer one was a sedan, probably less than five years old. It was small and white and practical. The other was a Corvette, maybe from the 1960s. It was long and green and—presumably, if you were a car guy—fun. A wooden workbench stretched the whole width of the garage, against the far wall. Above it there were Peg-Boards that were covered with tools. Domestic ones to the left, like chisels and mallets and saws. Things for working on cars to the right, like spanners and wrenches and hammers. There was also a journal hanging from a hook, and a pen on a chain like they used to have in banks. Reacher looked in the journal. It was full of entries going back five years, neatly written in blue ink, giving details of all the jobs Danny had completed on the Stingray. He had done work on the brakes. Rust in the subframe. Water leaks. Electrical problems. A whole bunch of things, some large, some small, all faithfully recorded. He had been a meticulous guy. That was clear.
* * *
—
Reacher got back into the VW’s passenger seat. Hannah lifted her head and looked at him. Her eyes were red.
She said, “So, what now?”