I’ve got Zinfandel, Liebfraumilch, or Anchor Steam,” I said to Mimi as I stared into the icebox. “And the Liebfraumilch is my mom’s, so I’d recommend giving that a pass.”
“Beer sounds perfect.”
I grabbed one for each of us. “You want a glass?”
“Bottle’s fine.”
“A woman after my own butch heart,” I said, handing her one. “Pretty sure they’re twist-offs.”
She trailed me back to the living room and we sank into the sofa with happy sighs.
“Any recommendations on getting rid of the smoke smell?” I asked. “I did the lather-rinse-repeat thing three times and my hair still reeks.”
She sniffed the air. “Not so bad. At the scene today, there weren’t any—” Mimi stopped mid-word, eyes to the floor as she took a sip of beer.
“Any what?”
“It’s just, you know, worse if there’s been a fatality. The, uh, composition of the smoke being different.”
I grimaced, sucking a little air inward through my teeth. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
“Sorry,” she said.
“That’s okay. I mean, I admire you guys for dealing, you know? I don’t think I could handle it.”
“Well, that part’s rough,” she said. “Otherwise, I kind of dig it. I like how exacting I have to be, figuring out what happened, piece by piece.”
“You must be incredibly organized.”
“Yeah.” She looked around the still-rather-chaotic room and smiled, then patted the edge of the sofa: the front panel of fabric just under the floral-chintz seat cushions had lots of large holes in it, with cotton batting poking out.
Mimi tried poking it back in. “Interesting, um, decor.”
“Funny story about that,” I said, taking another swallow of beer.
She took one herself. “Hmmm?”
“Well, there was soy sauce and stuff spilled down the front of the sofa, and I thought it looked kind of crappy so I bought this foaming upholstery-cleaner spray, back in New York…”
She nodded.
“Unfortunately,” I continued, “the stuff turned out to be made for car upholstery. The sofa got really clean for about fifteen seconds. Before it melted.”
Mimi started laughing.
“Yeah, go ahead,” I said, “rub it in. Made me cry at the time. First piece of furniture I ever bought new, and I turned it to shit.”
“Look at the bright side,” she said. “It wasn’t on fire.”
“Excellent point,” I replied toasting her with my beer bottle. “Speaking of which, do you have a verdict yet on the place today?”
“Definitely arson.”
“You figure it was set by the same person?”
“I’d say a ninety percent likelihood, but I’m still waiting on lab results.”
“About the accelerant?”
“Exactly,” she said.
“What kind of analysis do you do?” I asked.
“Mostly, we seal activated charcoal into a glass container with whatever sample we’ve got. Then you desorb the charcoal and—”
“Run a little gas chromatography on the sample?”
Mimi squinted at me. “I had you figured for an English major.”
“We didn’t actually have majors, at my college. Or, you know, tests. Or grades.”
She snickered. “Sarah Lawrence or Bennington?”
“Sarah Lawrence,” I said.
“Me too.”
“Dude!” I crowed. “No fucking way!”
“Way,” said Mimi, pleased.
“And here you are, all technologically savvy and shit… what was your concentration?”
“The nineteenth-century French symbolist poets.”
“Perfect. Bet that comes in really handy at crime scenes.”
Another snicker. “You?”
“Fiction writing. Useful for doing my taxes.”
“And yet you’re conversant in gas chromatography?”
I shrugged. “My husband sells scientific instruments. I pretend to know the lingo.”
“Spousal business-dinner osmosis… I know it well.”
“Exactement,” I said. “So if the accelerant matches up, you think this fits as part of the recent serial stuff?”
“The guy’s used cigarette fuses before. And—off the record?”
I nodded, crossing my heart. “Scout’s honor.”
“He’s doused his sites with acetone, exclusively.”
“So arsonists are usually male, I take it?”
“Statistically? White male, aged twenty to forty, with low self-esteem, poor communication skills, probably unemployed. Given the places he’s targeted, he might be motivated by a need for change, or an expression of anger, or possibly revenge. Almost all these guys have a problem with alcohol. And there’s a good chance he lives within a two-mile radius of the fires.”
“The vast majority of profiled arsonists have low IQs. Then again, if they’re profiled, that means we caught them. Maybe the ones who get away with it are all mad geniuses—hate to say. We only clear about seventeen percent of arson cases.”
“Holy shit,” I said.
“Yeah. And if this guy’s graduating to structure fires… He’s going to end up hurting people.”
“That’s got to be stressful for you guys,” I said, thinking about McNally’s end of the phone conversation with his friend, back at the paper.
“Some days it’s awful,” she agreed. “Mostly, I’ve been lucky. And on a good day, it’s the best work there is.”
“What’s the worst thing, on a bad day?” I asked.
She looked down at her beer bottle, picking at one corner of its label. “The ‘pugilistic position.’ ”