“Miranda certainly didn’t spend it on a fancy car. That Volvo was new in the late eighties.”

“She didn’t buy a lot of clothes, either. I helped her pack. She had a few nice things, but nothing extravagant.”

“Do you know how long she lived in my uncle’s cottage?”

“About two years. We talked at Christmas and birthdays so I knew when she moved from her little apartment in Mission Bay. The cottage came rent-free if she took care of Jasper when your uncle was away.” Whitney was silent for a moment, thinking. “You know, Miranda was always the frugal type. It wasn’t like her to have squandered the insurance money.”

Sirens behind them interrupted their conversation. Adam pulled to the curb, and the dogs who’d fallen asleep jumped up to see the fire engines whiz by.

After the last fire trucks passed, Adam asked, “Was Miranda the type to work as a stripper?”

“No way.” Whitney released an audible sigh. “I guess I didn’t know her as well as I thought. Anything’s possible. She could have spent the insurance money.”

Adam drove away from the curb. “Tomorrow I’ll go to see Cabral. He may be able to shed light on Miranda’s disappearance.”

They rode toward their street in silence. Ahead, Whitney saw an orange glow above the trees, lighting the dark sky.

“Looks like there’s a house on fire.” Adam sounded concerned.

Whitney knew fire was a real danger in San Diego. In the last several years, fires that started in the brush-filled hillsides had rampaged out of control and destroyed many homes. It was early summer and the hills were still green. It seemed to be too soon for a brush fire, but anything was possible.

Adam braked suddenly as they rounded the corner. Fire engines and police cars blocked their way, red and blue lights flashing. Smoke filled the air and made it difficult to see exactly what was on fire. It was too close to be the hills. If it wasn’t their place, it had to be a home nearby.

A police officer held up his hand to stop them. Adam rolled down the window. Warm smoke billowed into the car.

“Do you live on this street, sir?”

“Yes. We’re at number 265.”

“The small house behind yours is burning. Do you know if anyone was in there?”

Was? Her heart slammed against her rib cage in painful thuds. Suddenly it became difficult to breathe, and she could barely think. Thank heavens, they’d taken the dogs with them. Things could be replaced, she reminded herself, living beings could not.

“No one’s in the cottage.” Adam cocked his head toward Whitney. “She lives there alone.”

“Park your car,” the officer told him.

“I can’t believe this,” Whitney cried. “Thank God I have the dogs with me.”

They parked, jumped out of the car and followed the officer up the street. Murky, acrid-smelling smoke curdled the air. Firefighters in neon-yellow suits blocked her line of vision. She couldn’t see up the driveway to the small cottage. Adam’s hand was on her arm, and he guided her forward.

“Hunter,” called a man in slacks and a sports jacket. Apparently he was with the police and knew Adam.

“What’s going on?”

The man in a sports jacket and a polo shirt walked up to them. “This is your place?”

“Yes,” Adam replied. “Why are you here?”

Whitney registered the subtle change in Adam’s voice. His expression was different, too. What was there about this man that disturbed him?

“Neighbors reported the blast.”

“Blast?” Whitney choked out the word, her mind reeling at the scene before her.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Wh-Whitney Marshall. I live in the cottage.”

“I’m Dudley Romberg with homicide.” He studied her for a moment, then asked, “Do you know anyone who would want to kill you?”

“No. Of course not,” she managed to say, her stomach roiling.

“Someone threw a pipe bomb through the bedroom window. It caused the fire.”

“Ohmygod! Why would they do that?” She caught Adam’s eye. In a heartbeat the answer hit her. Miranda. The bomb had been intended for her cousin. This news, coupled with the earlier revelation that Miranda had been a stripper, crippled Whitney’s ability to think clearly.

“What makes you say it was a pipe bomb?” Adam asked.

“The broken window. The first fire unit to respond called Reserve Officer Wells. He’s with the Naval Explosive Ordnance Disposal Center at Miramar Air Station. He’s right over there.”

“Let’s talk to him,” Adam said to her.

Adam guided her up to a tall, gaunt man with pewter-gray hair in a military brush cut. He had his back to them, watching the fire. The flames weren’t as high as they had been when they’d driven up, but the cottage was still burning.

“Officer Wells,” Adam said, and the man turned to them. His face was ruddy from the heat of the fire. “I’m Adam Hunter. This is my home. I understand that you think a pipe bomb caused the fire.”

“There’ll have to be a post-blast investigation to confirm my analysis. The first responders took Polaroids of the scene.” He handed three pictures to Adam.

Whitney looked over Adam’s shoulder at them. When the photos had been taken, the fire was burning at the rear of the cottage. The front, now a smoldering ruin, hadn’t been burning. The black-and-white photo clearly showed the shattered window.

“See-” Wells pointed to the picture “-no glass on the outside.” He motioned for Adam to look at the next photograph. “Notice the mailbox?”

Whitney saw that the mailbox at the path leading up to the cottage was buckled in two.

“Pipe bombs are simple to make,” explained Wells. “Instructions are all over the Internet. You just need a length of pipe, blasting powder, a power source-usually a nine-volt battery-and end caps for the pipe. The end caps fly off when the bomb detonates. They shoot out like they’d been fired from a rifle. A cap hit the mailbox. One of the firefighters was alert enough to spot it and notice there wasn’t any glass on the ground the way there would have been if heat from the fire inside had caused the window to explode.”

Dudley Romberg walked up to them again. The detective asked her, “Where were you when the fire started?”

“At the airport,” she said.

He shook his head slowly. “Lucky you. If you’d been in the house, you’d be dead. Seems the pipe bomb was full of shrapnel. If the explosion didn’t get you, flying shrapnel would have.”

“Like the bombs in Iraq that kill so many people.”

“Exactly.” Adam’s expression was more than grim.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Romberg said. “I’m going to need to talk to you.”

He walked away. Adam waited a moment, then said, “Now we know why Miranda hightailed it out of town. She was mixed up in some serious shit. Someone wanted her dead.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Fear sent hot blood pumping through her veins. “At least the dogs were with us. No life was lost. That’s what really matters, isn’t it?”

He slid his arm around her shoulders. “You bet. That’s what matters, but we need to find out what’s going on before anything else happens. Don’t tell Romberg that Miranda was working at Saffron Blue.”

“Why not?”

“I want to talk to Jared Cabral first.”

“Won’t Romberg know? All your friend had to do was ask around the station.”

“True, but Romberg’s a few beans shy of a full burrito. Around the station they call him Dudley ‘the dud’ Romberg. It’ll take him a while to ask if the beat cops know your cousin. Meanwhile, I’ll get first crack at Cabral.”