Page 8 of On Fire

Finn states, “If there’s a problem, I’m a co-founder.”

“No. No problem. I’m just curious how your partner here knew exactly where to toss a bomb. You must be familiar with the building.” This is not a question but a statement.

But it’s easy to turn it into a question. “This building was built in 1924 as a bank, closed in 1992 and reopened as a restaurant. It’s incarnation as a bar—well that was five years ago. I knew it had a vault.” I shrug. “I like architecture.”

Detective Remos nods, taking some mental notes. “And you?” he asks Jackson.

Jackson shivers under scrutiny and probably a little from shock. I want to give him my jacket, but it’s the wrong move right now. Luckily the paramedic is also on alert and hands him a lightweight white blanket. He wraps it across his shoulders.

“Never been here before. Jamal’s my roommate from a few years ago, and I heard this was a fun place. Great drinks. I thought I’d take him out.”

Finn waves me over so the detective can speak with the two of them together.

“That’s an old friend then?”

I nod. “Roommate.”

“Jackson never talks to me much about what happened before he joined us.” He pauses for a moment. “Did you know this guy? His friend?”

I shake my head. “Never seen him before. But I don’t come here often.”

“Hey,” Finn says pulling me closer to him. Finn’s gray eyes are dark. “This is Henry Holt’s bar, right?”

I nod.

“Is he here?”

I shake my head. “He doesn't usually close.”

“Have you seen him tonight?”

A small alarm goes off in my head. What if this wasn't what I thought it was? What if this was personal? What if Henry was the target?

That thought immediately flies out of my head when I hear a voice behind me.

“What the fuck? What the fuck?”

Officer Remos says, “You the owner?”

“You detective Remos?”

Henry Holt is tall, blond, and handsome and one glance at him screams surfer. He needs to be back in California holding tight to that red Castor surfboard I hated. Not here on a Boston street, looking at his tattered bar surrounded by flashing lights and scores of people. His partner, Stephan, is not with him. He’s an analyst and works evenings and nights to be with Henry.

It takes a beat before Henry sees me. Distracted, he’s speaking to Remos, but his look is locked on me while he asks a question. “Was anybody killed?”

Remos shakes his head. “No. Thanks to Jackson Dawes.” A officer steps up to Remos and they share a quick conversation. “I’m needed inside, but I’ll be back.”

Henry’s voice is almost shrill. “Can I at least go inside?”

The detective holds up a finger while he speaks into a mic attached to his collar. When the finger lowers, he explains, “as soon as the building is cleared.”

“Cleared?”

“From the threat of more explosives.”

Henry has nothing to say, which in my experience, is rare. He looks at me and then grabs both shoulders. “What the fuck happened? That was a bomb?”

Shaking him off, I quickly relayed the story, pointing to Jackson, who manages a weak smile and a wave. He’s still working his jaw and rubbing his neck on both sides, trying to clear his eustachian tubes.