Page 36 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

At the sound of Marsden at the door, she turned her back on Fred. Even though fury still raced through her veins like acid, it turned out that she didn’t want to actually witness Fred being dragged from her apartment.

“Time to go, kid,” she heard Marsden say.

“Rachel!” Fred said in an urgent tone. “What the hell’s going on?”

The sound of a scuffle followed, but since Marsden was a highly decorated former Marine she had no doubt how it would turn out.

She was wrong.

“The least you could do is tell me you want me to leave,” came Fred’s furious voice. She spun around. Astonishingly, he had Marsden in a headlock, and didn’t even seem to be breathing hard. “You invited me here, Rachel Kessler. Don’t you think it’s a little rude to throw me out?”

She clutched her hands together. “Stop it! You’re hurting him.”

“I’m not hurting him.” He released Marsden, who stumbled forward, his hand at his throat. Rachel rushed to help him.

“I’ll be leaving now,” Fred announced to them both, then glanced around the room. “I’m leaving now,” he repeated, more loudly. “In case anyone at the other end of a hidden camera wants to know.”

And he stalked out of her apartment.

Rachel helped Marsden onto the suede loveseat, where he sat, taking in deep, wheezing breaths. “Are you okay?”

“Humiliated. But okay.”

“Oh, that jerk! I can’t believe he did that to you!”

Marsden gave a dry chuckle. “Child, I started it. Took him about half a second to get the best of me. Kid’s got some moves.”

“Well, it seems very rude to me. Stay right here, let me get you some water.” Moves, she thought indignantly as she hurried to the kitchen. He had moves all right. I was one step from boning you right there on the couch. Shivers raced through her at the memory of that statement. Is that really what would have happened if Ella Joy hadn’t appeared? Spontaneous, hot sex—that was the kind of thing Liza did. And hadn’t Cindy had sex in the kitchen the first time she and Bean had gotten together?

As she filled a glass from the filtered water spigot on the front of the fridge, another thought struck her. Fred hadn’t coddled her the way many did. He’d shown her his honest reaction, whether she liked it or not. For better or worse, he hadn’t held back. A secret sense of astonishment curled through her. Whatever else that exchange had been—surprising, distressing—it was real. So few things in her life, aside from the dogs she worked with, ever felt real. Even the Refuge was a carefully guarded bubble.

And in thanks, she’d kicked him out of her apartment. Well, tried to kick him out. Even in that, Fred the Fireman had surprised her.

Fred was halfway down the street, completely caught up in his fury at Rachel’s actions, when he noticed the black sedan cruising next to him. It had black-tinted windows and a German name he didn’t recognize. It looked like the sort of car the CIA might use, or some international assassin. When the rear passenger side window rolled down, he half expected a revolver with a silencer to come next. Except that this was sunny San Gabriel, California, not some spy movie. Instead of a gun, two very intense dark eyes aimed virtual bullets at him.

“Frederick Lancaster Breen. Let’s talk.” The man in the sedan had a deep voice, and sounded like he was in a big hurry.

Fred kept walking. “I don’t talk to strangers. Especially anonymous ones who know my middle name.”

After a brief silence, the man said, “I’m Rob Kessler. Please, this won’t take long. I’ll drive you home.”

“That would be counterproductive, since my truck’s right over there.”

“Then we’ll take a short drive. We’ll be done in fifteen minutes. That’s all I can spare.”

Now that made Fred want to laugh. God forbid he take up too much time during a conversation he hadn’t asked for. After amusement came curiosity. Given how he’d just left things with Rachel, he couldn’t imagine many fond feelings would be coming his way from her father. But maybe he didn’t know about the scene in her apartment. Or maybe he did, and wanted to yell at him about it. Since there was only one way to find out, he got in the car, circling around to slide onto the rear driver side seat.

The black leather interior welcomed him like some kind of exclusive men’s club. He caught the scent of smoky green tea. Steam curled from the stainless steel mug in Rob Kessler’s gloved hand. The man was long and lean, almost emaciated, and sat tailor-style on the backseat. He had dark slanting eyebrows—much like Rachel’s—and a chin studded with dark stubble. He wore a black turtleneck and wire-rimmed glasses.

Fred had read a few things about Rob Kessler over the years, but in his advanced state of exhaustion, he couldn’t remember any of them. Not that it really mattered at the moment.

“What do you want?” he asked bluntly. “I’m late for my nap.”

“I don’t sleep much myself,” said Kessler, taking a sip from his mug. “Rarely more than two hours at a time.”

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