J.A. Jance's Ali Reynolds Mysteries 3-Book Boxed Set, Volume 2: Trial by Fire, Fatal Error, Left for Dead by J.A. Jance Page A
Authors: J.A. Jance
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no idea.”
“What’s her condition, and where are they taking her?” Ali asked. When reporters arrived on the scene, those were some of the details they would want to know. Ali would need to have answers at the ready.
“She’s evidently badly hurt,” Dave answered, “but I have no idea where they’re taking her.”
“Do you know the name of the firefighter who rescued her?”
“Nope,” Dave said. “Sorry. For that you’ll need to check with the Camp Verde Fire Department.”
Someone summoned Dave and he was gone, disappearing into the smoke-filled night.
Squaring her shoulders, Ali followed Dave’s lead and set off to gather as much information as possible. She knew that in an hour or so, when she found herself standing in front of an assembled group of reporters for the very first time, they’d be looking to her for all available information—for answers to those pesky who, what, where, and why questions that were the news media’s real bread and butter.
One bit at a time Ali gathered the necessary information. The first 9-1-1 call had come in at eight twenty-nine. Arriving on the scene, the Camp Verde Volunteer Fire Department had assessed the situation and had radioed to request additional help, some of which had arrived at almost the same time Ali did.
Following the chain of command upward, she finally located Captain Carlos Figueroa of the Camp Verde Fire Department, who was directing the action from a vehicle parked across the street. He wasn’t thrilled when Ali introduced herself, but he grudgingly agreed to answer her questions.
“Lieutenant Caleb Moore is the guy who dragged her out of there,” Figueroa said. “He never should have gone in—toodangerous—but he did. I’ll have some serious words with him about that once we get him back from the hospital.”
“He’s hurt then, too?” Ali asked.
Figueroa nodded. “Not too bad, I hope, but he swallowed enough smoke that we need to have him checked out.”
“What about the woman?” Ali asked.
Captain Figueroa shrugged. “Who knows?” he returned. “Maybe she’ll make it; maybe she won’t.”
Just then a firefighter raced up to the car, dragged along by an immense German shepherd. “We got a hit, Captain,” he said. “Out here on the street, between the two houses.”
“What kind of hit?” Ali asked.
“You didn’t hear that,” Figueroa said. “But the dog is Sparks, our accelerant-sniffing dog. The guy with him is his handler. Sparks doesn’t need to wait for the fire to cool down to investigate if the perp was dumb enough to leave tracks for him outside on the street.”
“So it is arson, then?” Ali asked.
“Most likely,” Figueroa said, “but don’t quote me on that. It’s not for public consumption at this time.”
Ali’s cell phone rang at ten forty-five. “I understand there’s a whole slew of reporters waiting just inside the entrance to Verde View Estates,” Frances Lawless from Dispatch told her. “Any idea when you’ll be there to brief them?”
“Give me a couple of minutes,” Ali said.
She went back to the Cayenne, grabbed her computer, and spent the next ten minutes typing up a brief summary of everything she had learned. She’d be able to cover more ground if she started with a prepared statement before opening up for questions. Finally she closed her computer and headed back down the hill.
Don’t be nervous, she told herself on the way. They’re doing their jobs. All you have to do is yours.
When she reached the first van-cam, she stuck the Cayenne in park, turned it off, and then went to face the milling group of reporters, who immediately clustered around her, shouting questions at her and vying for her attention. She felt a momentary glitch in her gut. Once she had been one of the yellers. Now she was their target.
“All right,” she said, fixing a steady smile on her face and shouting back in order to be heard over the din. “Good evening, everyone. Could I have
“What’s her condition, and where are they taking her?” Ali asked. When reporters arrived on the scene, those were some of the details they would want to know. Ali would need to have answers at the ready.
“She’s evidently badly hurt,” Dave answered, “but I have no idea where they’re taking her.”
“Do you know the name of the firefighter who rescued her?”
“Nope,” Dave said. “Sorry. For that you’ll need to check with the Camp Verde Fire Department.”
Someone summoned Dave and he was gone, disappearing into the smoke-filled night.
Squaring her shoulders, Ali followed Dave’s lead and set off to gather as much information as possible. She knew that in an hour or so, when she found herself standing in front of an assembled group of reporters for the very first time, they’d be looking to her for all available information—for answers to those pesky who, what, where, and why questions that were the news media’s real bread and butter.
One bit at a time Ali gathered the necessary information. The first 9-1-1 call had come in at eight twenty-nine. Arriving on the scene, the Camp Verde Volunteer Fire Department had assessed the situation and had radioed to request additional help, some of which had arrived at almost the same time Ali did.
Following the chain of command upward, she finally located Captain Carlos Figueroa of the Camp Verde Fire Department, who was directing the action from a vehicle parked across the street. He wasn’t thrilled when Ali introduced herself, but he grudgingly agreed to answer her questions.
“Lieutenant Caleb Moore is the guy who dragged her out of there,” Figueroa said. “He never should have gone in—toodangerous—but he did. I’ll have some serious words with him about that once we get him back from the hospital.”
“He’s hurt then, too?” Ali asked.
Figueroa nodded. “Not too bad, I hope, but he swallowed enough smoke that we need to have him checked out.”
“What about the woman?” Ali asked.
Captain Figueroa shrugged. “Who knows?” he returned. “Maybe she’ll make it; maybe she won’t.”
Just then a firefighter raced up to the car, dragged along by an immense German shepherd. “We got a hit, Captain,” he said. “Out here on the street, between the two houses.”
“What kind of hit?” Ali asked.
“You didn’t hear that,” Figueroa said. “But the dog is Sparks, our accelerant-sniffing dog. The guy with him is his handler. Sparks doesn’t need to wait for the fire to cool down to investigate if the perp was dumb enough to leave tracks for him outside on the street.”
“So it is arson, then?” Ali asked.
“Most likely,” Figueroa said, “but don’t quote me on that. It’s not for public consumption at this time.”
Ali’s cell phone rang at ten forty-five. “I understand there’s a whole slew of reporters waiting just inside the entrance to Verde View Estates,” Frances Lawless from Dispatch told her. “Any idea when you’ll be there to brief them?”
“Give me a couple of minutes,” Ali said.
She went back to the Cayenne, grabbed her computer, and spent the next ten minutes typing up a brief summary of everything she had learned. She’d be able to cover more ground if she started with a prepared statement before opening up for questions. Finally she closed her computer and headed back down the hill.
Don’t be nervous, she told herself on the way. They’re doing their jobs. All you have to do is yours.
When she reached the first van-cam, she stuck the Cayenne in park, turned it off, and then went to face the milling group of reporters, who immediately clustered around her, shouting questions at her and vying for her attention. She felt a momentary glitch in her gut. Once she had been one of the yellers. Now she was their target.
“All right,” she said, fixing a steady smile on her face and shouting back in order to be heard over the din. “Good evening, everyone. Could I have
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