Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

of her partner, Trent Stenson, who Malone had told her would meet her on scene. She did see her friend, Becky Tulson, who worked with the Dumfries PD, though.

The same age as Amanda at thirty-five, Becky had her shoulder-length brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, which accentuated her heart-shaped face.

Amanda parked and got out of the car. The smell of smoke clung heavy in the air and tickled her throat.

She looked down the street at the mangle of emergency response vehicles. There were a few fire engines with the Dumfries Triangle Volunteer Fire Department, a medic’s truck, an ambulance, and a police cruiser. They were all parked haphazardly in front of a two-story house that didn’t look like it was in too bad of shape, considering it had been on fire.

She approached Becky, who was guarding this end of the scene. There would be another officer posted at the other side.

“Hey,” Becky said, “how did everything go?” Amanda had told her about the planned meeting with Hannah this morning to discuss her mother’s defense strategy.

Amanda let out a deep sigh. “Honestly? It’s a long road ahead, and there are no guarantees.”

Becky put a hand on Amanda’s forearm. “I’m here. You know that?”

“Always.” Amanda smiled. “You haven’t seen Trent, have you?” She looked around again, but it was possible that Trent had parked at the opposite end of the scene.

“Not yet.”

As if on cue, a PWCPD department car pulled up near Becky’s cruiser, and Trent shut off the engine and got out.

“Ladies.” He smiled at them both. He was a couple of years younger than Amanda, with blond hair and blue eyes. She imagined he might be a charmer when off the clock, but she had no romantic interest in him. One, having a partner on the job was complicated enough without making it personal; and two, she was seeing someone else. Logan Hunter. Their relationship was rather new, sometimes awkward, and entirely casual. Probably all because he was the first man she’d dated since her husband died in a tragic car accident almost six years ago, along with their six-year-old daughter.

“About time you got here,” Amanda said. “I came from Washington and still beat you.”

“Hey.” Trent shrugged. “Got here as soon as I could.”

“Primping takes time?” she teased.

“Well, I can’t be showing up looking like riffraff.”

She waved goodbye to Becky and started down the sidewalk with Trent toward 532, looking at the neighboring houses as she went. Most of them were in need of maintenance with sagging porches, chipped and peeling paint, and curled shingles. This part of town was where dreams came to die.

Two doors down from the scene, they ran into Officer Deacon with the Dumfries PD.

“I got the call,” Amanda said, holding up her detective badge more out of habit than necessity. Both she and Trent had met Deacon before. He simply gestured for them to carry on.

Amanda took in 532 Bill Drive in more detail. A two-story century-old clapboard home. It was pretty much intact from what she could see from the outside, but the windows were boarded. She’d guess that was the case before the fire. The front door appeared to be lying on the grass, leaving a gaping hole in the structure where it used to be.

“Whoa, whoa. Hold up there.” A man in dress shirt, tie, and slacks approached. He reminded Amanda of an old dog with his hooded eyes. He had a ruddy complexion but was trim and had an obvious exercise regimen, given the lay of his shirt across his chest and his thick arms. His hair was mostly gray with some cracked pepper.

Amanda held up her badge, and Trent followed suit. “Prince William County PD, Homicide Unit,” she said. “And you are?”

“Fire Marshal Craig Sullivan. I’m in charge of this scene, ma’am.”

He was older than she was, but she didn’t take offense to the term ma’am like some women. It did sting a little today, though, with her thirty-sixth birthday only five days away.

Fire marshals were essentially arson investigators, but they were also a bit law enforcement. Some even carried guns, but they focused on their area of expertise—the cause of fires and gathering all pertinent evidence to that end. Amanda and Trent’s relationship with Sullivan would be somewhat of a unified command structure. He’d stick to matters pertaining to the fire, and she and Trent would focus on the victim.

She shouldn’t have to point all this out to Sullivan, though. “We’re here about the dead girl,” she countered, not about to get into any battle over jurisdiction, and her stomach souring at the word girl. It brought back her more recent encounter with a local sex-trafficking ring.

“She’s in there.” Sullivan pointed toward the medic’s vehicle. “Firefighters found her when clearing and hauled her out for medical attention. The medic attempted CPR but was given permission to call time of death by the attending doctor at the hospital. Hence, the body’s still here—and now an ME is on his or her way from Manassas.”

Manassas, about thirty minutes north of Dumfries, was where the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner was located.

Amanda nodded and stepped toward the vehicle but turned back to Sullivan. “When did the fire start?”

“I’d estimate around five thirty, give or take. It was called into nine-one-one at five fifty by a neighbor a few doors down and across the street. We had it out by six twenty.”

It was going on eleven now, but it would have taken time for the fire marshal to do his thing and for the death to be called. Then she and Trent had to arrive, along with the ME—who still hadn’t shown up. Two things stood out to her. “You guys have a fast response time.”

“On the high end, we can be on scene within five minutes. We strive to get out of the firehouse within forty-five to sixty seconds from the time of alarm. When it’s residential, well, our drivers might press a little heavier on the gas. We know