“It is. And that would be after she’d poured it, tossed it, splattered it over the walls, the floor, my clothes and other assorted items. After she wrote on my wall with it. ‘Burn in hell,’ to be precise.”

“Yes, I’ve got the photographs of the damage Mr. Little Bear took before the area was cleaned and repainted.”

“Oh.” That set her back a moment. She hadn’t realized L.B. had documented with photos. Should have figured he would, she thought now. That’s why he was in charge.

“And what happened when you found her in your quarters?”

“What? Oh, I tried to kick her ass, but several of my colleagues stopped me. Which, given the current situation, is even more of a damn shame.”

“You didn’t notify the police.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Partially because I was too pissed off, and partially because she got fired and kicked off the base. That seemed enough, considering.”

“Considering?”

“Considering, at that time, I figured she was just sublimely stupid, that her stupidity was aimed solely at me—and she’s got a baby. Plus, within an hour we caught a fire, so she wasn’t a top priority for me after that.”

“You and your unit had a long, hard couple of days.”

“It’s what we do.”

“What you do is appreciated.” He sipped his coffee as he scanned his notes. “The baby you mentioned is purported to have been fathered by James Brayner, a Missoula smoke jumper who died in an accident last August.”

“That’s right.”

“Miss Brakeman blames you.”

It hurt still; she supposed it always would. “I was his jump partner. She blames the whole unit, and me in particular.”

“Just for my own edification, what does ‘jump partner’ mean?”

“We jump in two-man teams. One after the other once we get the go from the spotter. The first one out, that would’ve been me in this case, checks the location and status of the second man. You might want to make adjustments in direction, trajectory, give the second man a clear stream. If one of you has any problems, the other should be able to spot it. You look out for each other, as much as you can, in the air, on landing.”

“And Brayner’s accident was ruled, after investigation, as his error.”

Her throat burned, making it impossible to keep the emotion out of her voice. “He didn’t steer away. We hit some bad air, but he just rode on it. He pulled the wrong toggle, steered toward instead of away. There was nothing I could do. His chute deployed; I gave him space, but he didn’t come around. He overshot the jump site, kept riding, and went down into the fire.”

“It’s difficult to lose a partner.”

“Yeah. Difficult.”

“At that time Miss Brakeman was employed as a cook on base.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you and she have any problems prior to the accident?”

“She cooked. I ate. That’s pretty much it.”

“I’m under the impression the two of you knew each other for quite some time. That you went to school together.”

“We didn’t run in the same circle. We knew each other. For some reason she was always jealous of me. I know a lot of people. I know Jamie and Barry, down doing their cop thing in the ready room; went to school with them, too. Neither one of them ever pulled a Carrie-at-the-prom on my quarters.”

He watched her over that long, narrow nose. “Were you aware she was pregnant at the time of Brayner’s death?”

“No. As far as I know nobody was aware except, from what she said when she came back, Jim. She took off right after the accident—I don’t know where, and don’t care. As far as I can tell she came back with the baby, got religion and came here looking for work, armed with her mother, her minister and pictures of her chubby-cheeked baby. L.B. hired her.”

To give herself a moment, she took a long drink from her Coke. “I had one conversation with her, figuring we should clear the air, and during which she made it crystal she hated every linear inch of my guts, wished me to hell. She dumped blood all over my room. L.B. fired her. And that brings us up to date.”

She shifted in her chair, tired of sitting, tired of answering questions she suspected he already had the answers to. Focus on what’s important, she remembered. “Look, I know you’ve got ground to cover, but I don’t see why my past history with Dolly applies. She broke into the ready room and damaged equipment. Essential equipment. It’s a lot more than inconvenient and messy. If we’re not ready when we’re called, people can die. Wildlife and the forests they live in are destroyed.”

“Understood. We’ll be talking to Miss Brakeman. At this time, the only possible link between her and the vandalism in your ready room is her confirmed vandalism of your quarters.”

“She said she wanted us all to die. All of us to burn. Just like she wrote on the wall. I guess she couldn’t get her hands on any more pig’s blood, so she used spray paint this time.”

“Without equipment, you can’t jump. If you can’t jump, you’re not in harm’s way.”

“Logical. But then logic isn’t Dolly’s strong suit.”

“If it turns out she’s responsible for this situation, I’d have to agree. Thanks for your time, and your frankness.”

“No problem.” She pushed to her feet, stopped on her way to the door. “I don’t see how there’s any ‘if.’ People around here understand what we do. We’re part of the fabric. Everybody on base is a thread in the fabric, and we do what we do because we want to. We depend on each other. Dolly’s the only odd man out.”

“There are three men who got their asses kicked last month outside Get a Rope who might enjoy fraying those threads.”

She turned fully back into the room. “Do you really think those ass**les came back to Missoula, snuck on base, found the ready room and did that crap?”

Quinniock removed his cheaters, folded them neatly on the desk. “It’s another ‘if.’ It’s my job to consider all the ‘ifs.’”

The interview left Rowan more annoyed than satisfied. Though her appetite barely stirred, she hit the buffet, built herself a breakfast sandwich. She ate on the way back to manufacturing.