“WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT arson?” D.D. asks me ten minutes later. I’m sitting in her car as she navigates through the snarl of downtown traffic. I’m not sure where we’re headed yet but figure she’ll tell me soon enough.
Boston is beautiful at Christmastime. The buildings decked out in huge holiday displays, streets lined with festive trees, poles covered in twinkling white lights. My mom loves this time of year. She’s probably already planned the entire meal down to reserving some organic turkey named Fred who’d grown up free-range and was now completing the farm-to-table cycle of life. She’s hoping Darwin will fly in from London to join us. While I don’t say as much out loud, I hope he does, too. Otherwise it’ll be myself, my mom, Samuel, I guess, and maybe a neighbor or two. Maybe I could ask Keith. Would that be too weird? That’s probably too weird.
“Earth to Flora. Arson?”
I belatedly pull my gaze from the giant tinsel snowflakes hanging from the streetlights. “I don’t know anything about arson.”
“Perfect. Then this will be a growth experience for you. Manila folder tucked next to your seat. Open it.”
“Wait a minute. Is this about the Carters’ house burning down? You want me to investigate their house fire?”
“Yes.”
“This is stupid. I don’t know arson. My time would be better spent chasing down more connections between Jacob and Conrad.”
“I think we’ve already made progress on that front today.”
I stare at her, closed file on my lap. “What the hell is going on here?”
“You’re a CI. I’m giving you a job. Stop whining.”
“I’m not whining, I’m telling you no.”
D.D. takes her eyes off the endless row of brake lights in front of us long enough to arch a brow. “Conrad is connected to Jacob. Meaning whoever torched Conrad’s house, possibly with the intent to cover up that connection or other significant information, might be yet another means of learning more about Jacob.”
“Bullshit. You just want me out of the way.”
“No. I want Jacob out of your head. Personally, I think you’ve given him enough real estate today. Don’t you?”
The sharpness of her tone sets me back. I retreat in the passenger’s seat. Whether I like it or not, I get her point. Ever since turning on the news yesterday morning, I’ve done nothing but obsess about Jacob. D.D. has a point; I could use a break.
Arson it is.
I open the file, peruse the contents.
“That’s the report from the arson investigator, Patricia Di Lucca,” D.D. provides. “Cause of the fire was a homemade ignition system prepped on the stove top, involving cooking oil and cotton, which then set ablaze the copious amounts of gasoline poured all over the house. Real low-end job. Materials all readily available. Cooking oil and cotton could’ve come from the house itself. Gasoline, given the amount used, probably was brought with the arsonist, as we’re talking several gallons.”
“When did this happen?”
“Fire was reported around two in the afternoon. Could’ve been set up earlier, say, one thirty, given the cooking oil needed time to heat up.”
I start flipping through the papers. In addition to a formal write-up and a list of materials, the arson report includes detailed sketches of the home, the path of the fire, all sorts of visual aids. More photos and diagrams show the area of heaviest damage—where the arsonist clearly had poured a small lake of accelerant.
The office. Whoever the arsonist was, he, she, or it definitely had something against the office.
“Is that where Conrad was shot?” I ask D.D., pointing at the photo.
“Yes.”
“You think the wife did it?”
She frowned, worried her lower lip. “I’m not sure. Maybe. Between you and me, detective to CI?”
This is a new conversation for us. I nod eagerly.
“There’s an eight-minute gap. Reports of shots fired, then an eight-minute gap before more shots are fired. The police showed up for round two and discovered Evie holding the gun. She hardly protested when they arrested her, but was that shock from discovering her husband dead, or from pulling the trigger?”
“Clearly, she had the gun.”
“According to her, she shot the laptop. Twelve times, to be precise.”
“Why would she destroy the computer?”
“Wouldn’t I love to know.”
“She’s not saying?”
“Not as long as she keeps hanging out with her lawyer. Damn defense attorneys.”
“You think she was covering something up.”
D.D. glances over. “I think you and I will be chatting with her sooner versus later on that subject.”
“I get to meet her?”
“I think you have to. It may be the only way to get the truth out of her. Now, you tell me: If she shot up the computer, who burned the house?”
“I don’t know.”
“And why burn the house?”
“To cover tracks . . . destroy evidence, like you said.”
“Evidence above and beyond the computer, which was already destroyed?”
“Did the arsonist know that?”
D.D. actually smiles at me. “Now you’re thinking like a real detective. Okay, so you’re looking at the report on burn patterns, right? Most concentrated area of damage was the office?”
“Yes.”
“As of this morning, we know the office held two things: one, the computer; but, two, a metal lockbox filled with Conrad’s fake IDs.”
“You think that’s what the arsonist was trying to destroy.” I pause. “Why not just steal them?”
“Again, good question. My theory, the person couldn’t find them. Remember, an entire forensic team swept through that house Tuesday night after the shooting without ever stumbling across the lockbox. In hindsight, I’m wondering if Conrad had a fake bottom in one of his desk drawers or filing cabinets. Those IDs mattered to him. Keeping that secret mattered to him.”
“But someone else had to know,” I counter immediately. “Otherwise, why burn down that house in an attempt to destroy them?”
Once again, D.D. smiles. “Flora, you just might be good at this. Someone else did have to know. And that person . . .”
“Might be another connection to Jacob Ness.”
“Last page of the report,” she orders now.
“It’s a picture. Some skinny kid.”
“Read.”
“Rocket Langley. Twenty-year-old African American male. Really? Because he looks like he’s fourteen. Okay, he’s a person of interest in several fires in abandoned buildings, the warehouse district of Boston,” I summarize. I skim farther down. All three fires involved gasoline as the accelerant, and the second was started by a cheap camp stove, which had a soup can filled with kerosene and a cotton wick.
“Arsonists are like serial killers,” D.D. explains as she finally eases her car onto Storrow. “They have signatures, preferred methodology. Once they find their identity as firebugs, they don’t deviate. Investigator Di Lucca put the elements of the Carters’ house fire through the arson database and Rocket’s name was what it immediately spit out.”
“So we’re going to arrest him?”
“Based on what? Being a ‘person of interest’ in an arson database? Without a history of prior arrests, an eyewitness report, or physical evidence that directly ties Rocket to the Carters’ home, we have no grounds for an arrest. I could, of course, drag the kid down to HQ for questioning, but Di Lucca has already tried that. Rocket clams up tight, which is probably why he’s never been charged with a crime. Just because he loves fire doesn’t mean he’s stupid.
“I’m going with a different strategy. I’m going to drop you off in his neighborhood. Where you’re going to track him down and talk to him. Shady character to shady character.”
“I’m a shady character?”
“We both know you don’t like to color inside the lines.”
I consider the matter. “I’m going to have to kick his ass, aren’t I?”
“See, you sound happier already.”
D.D. DROPS ME off a few blocks from Rocket’s last known address. It’s dark this early in December, and let’s just say Rocket’s neighborhood is a long way from the dazzling Christmas lights covering the Boston Commons. These row houses appear hunkered down in the winter gloom, half the windows boarded up, the rest covered in security bars. A lot of the poor neighborhoods in Boston have been bought up and renovated in the past few years. Rocket’s isn’t one of them.
D.D.’s right: This is my kind of place.
With my bulky coat over my equally shapeless sweatshirt, I blend right in. It’s tempting to pull on my hood against the chill, but I don’t want to reduce my peripheral gaze or muffle my hearing.
I stroll around the neighborhood for a bit, getting my bearings. There are no lights on at Rocket’s address, which doesn’t surprise me. If I lived here, I certainly wouldn’t hang out any more than I had to. Then again, I doubt the kid’s out holiday shopping, so then what?
I consider my play as I roam from block to block. D.D. already revealed something interesting: no witnesses. If memory serves, the Carters’ neighborhood is mostly white. Meaning some black teen was sniffing around their house and no one noticed it? I doubt that already. At least in his mug shot Rocket had aspiring hoodlum written all over him. Most people living in an urban environment are hardwired to pay attention to such things.
Meaning . . .
I try on various theories and ideas. One appeals to me the most. I tuck it away, just as I notice a neighborhood hardware store. Not many such places left, but this one gives me an idea.
Ten minutes later I’m walking around with a bag in my hand and new, local knowledge courtesy of the checkout clerk. Where do the local teens hang out? Again, in an urban environment, people know these things.
It’s dark. Some ambient lighting here and there from random windows where people are tucked in for the evening. There’s a strange mix of both closeness and isolation in such densely packed areas. So many people, crammed together. And yet each in his or her own little world.
I don’t envy their battles ahead. But I have my own.
I cross to the left, rounding the corner, and a gap appears in the building ahead. An awkward space wedged between two tenement housing buildings, like the hollow left from a lost tooth. Once, it had probably been a basketball court, or some kind of common ground. Now I behold the glow of what appears to be quite the fire roaring away in a centrally placed trash can. Around it, the flash of movement, glint of metal. Kids, on skateboards maybe. Or just hanging out. Way more of them than me.
At the same time, I become aware of a new presence behind me. I’ve picked up a shadow. Maybe D.D., who told me she’d be around, but I doubt I’m that lucky. I’d guess I have a new friend, someone cuing in on a lone white girl stupidly walking around his neighborhood.
I can’t help myself: I smile. D.D. was right. My night is looking up.
I WALK STRAIGHT to the trash can. The kids don’t scatter. Why would they, when there’s at least a dozen of them and only one of me? I don’t make individual eye contact. More like a quick head scan. There, to the left, features hard to make out beneath a gray hoodie, is a long, thin face that matches the photo of my guy.
Perfect.
I don’t speak. I don’t pause. I reach into my bag, pull out the first item, and toss it into the fire.
Boom! The fire roars up, spitting flames and showers of deep red sparks. Now the kids scatter.
“Jesus Christ!”
“She’s fucking crazy!”
But not my guy, of course. My guy remains standing right there, looking at the new and improved fire with total fixation.
“Want one?” I ask. I hold out my bag.
“What is it?”
“Kerosene-dipped pinecones. Basically a fire-starter kit from the hardware store. They come in several colors.”
Rocket curls his lip at me. I can tell he’s tempted, but a premanufactured fire starter? Where’s the fun in that?
“I also have bottles of vegetable oil.”
Now I have his interest.
“Sure,” he says, though I can tell he remains wary. But I’m thinking of the other thing D.D. said: Arsonists are like serial killers. Once they find their true selves, they can’t go back. As Keith Edgar and his true-crime buddies would tell you, there’s no serial killer out there who’s ever been able to quit. What starts as a horrific crime becomes a terrible compulsion. And compulsions can be used against you by law enforcement—and by people like me.
I heft a small bottle of vegetable oil in his direction. He catches it effortlessly.
We both take a small step back. Then he oil-bombs the fire. More boom, now accompanied by a splatter and hiss. Whatever kids stayed earlier officially retreat. Fire might be cool, but hot oil is just plain dangerous.
Rocket smiles. I understand his grin. I’ve worn it enough times on my face.
“I’m trying to figure out how you did it,” I say at last, voice conversational. There’s still a presence behind me. I drift left, trying to get the form into my side view. Meanwhile, I help myself to another kerosene-dipped pinecone and add to the festivities. Rocket holds up a hand. I toss one in his direction.
His flares blue. I like it better than the red. Who needs Christmas lights when you can be doing this?
“I’m thinking pest control,” I continue now, Rocket still staring at the flickering flames. “I mean, you walk into a neighborhood like the Carters’, people are gonna notice. Especially lugging a few gas cans. But a young guy in a pest control uniform, walking the property with spray cans . . . People see what they want to see. Which is good for the likes of you and me.”
My turn. I go with another small bottle of veggie oil. No cool colors, but I like the sizzle sound. This is fun. Maybe I should try for arson next.
Rocket still isn’t speaking.
“You pick the back lock. No one to watch. Easy to do. Set up your stove-top ignition. Spray the ‘pesticide’ all around. Hell, if a neighbor saw you through the window, they wouldn’t think twice. Very clever, I gotta say.”
He holds up a hand. I toss two pinecones. This time, green and blue flames. We’re both impressed.
“Too clever,” I say, “for the likes of you.”
Shadow behind me has drawn closer. I slowly but surely unzip my jacket. I want ease of movement for what comes next. Not to mention, I never leave the house with empty pockets. Even now, I’m pulling out a small canister of my homemade pepper spray. Now, what this stuff could do to that fire . . .
Rocket finally looks at me. He’s clearly reluctant to leave the flames. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You did good work. The burn patterns, total destruction of the second floor, the way it collapsed onto the first . . . a thing of beauty.”
“You a cop?”
“Nope. Just an interested party.”
“Interested in what?”
“Hiring you. That’s how it works, right? Your age, where you live, your world . . .” I gesture to the burning trash can. “This is what you’re about. There’s no way you and Conrad crossed paths—”
“Conrad?”
“The guy whose house you burned down.”
“Who?”
“Exactly. You didn’t care about him or his wife or their unborn baby. You cared about the fire. You were there for the burn, and how much better that someone paid you to do it?”
He frowns for the first time. As if finally seeing the trap. I don’t give him a chance, though. I toss another bottle of vegetable oil in his direction and, of course, he has to catch it. Of course he has to throw it on the blaze.
“I’m not a cop,” I say now. “But I saw a bunch of them pulled up in front of your house. Bet they’re ripping apart your room now. Finding the uniform, the ‘pest control’ cans. Then, wow, you’re going to have some explaining to do.”
But I made a misstep because immediately Rocket shrugs, then returns pointedly to staring at the fire. The uniform, I realize, was probably soaked in gasoline and used to start this blaze, because what kind of self-respecting arsonist wouldn’t burn up the evidence?
“I want to hire you. One grand.”
He frowns, staring at the flames. I find one of the last pinecones, toss it in. Red. We both nod in fascination.
“Five,” he says. “Cash.”
“Don’t got it on me.”
“I’ll tell you where to leave it. You drop off half, with the address. Afterwards, other half.”
“Trusting of you.”
He finally stares at me. In his dark eyes all I can see are the dancing flames. “I like to burn things. All kinds of things. No one messes with that.”
Good point. “It has to be discreet. You come up with the pest-control uniform, or did your last client provide it?”
“What do you care?”
“Has to be discreet,” I repeat, voice steady.
He shrugs. “Depends on what I’m burning. Abandoned is easy access. Residential work, yeah, you can provide the props. Or, I’ve figured out what works over the years. Whatever.”
So maybe his client had provided the pest uniform, or maybe Rocket is that clever. He certainly loves fire, and anyone who loves his job is bound to get better and better at it.
I still don’t think this kid knew Conrad Carter or Jacob Ness. He was strictly the hired help. But he’s also our first link to whoever it was who shot Conrad and then felt compelled to further cover his tracks by totally eradicating the house. My next step is clear:
“Give me the address to the drop site,” I say. “I’ll get you the money.”
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Already got plans for tonight.”
“Which are?”
“Right behind you.”
I don’t turn my head. Rookie move, especially as I’ve been tracking my shadow for the past ten minutes. Instead, I plant my feet wide for better balance, whirl my entire torso, and whip the plastic bag with its remaining two bottles of vegetable oil at my attacker’s head. Solid thwack as I connect.
The form, face hidden in the shadows of another hoodie, staggers back, grabs his head, clearly dazed. I dance forward three steps. I kick to the side of his knee, then snap the heel of my hand straight into his nose. He goes down, clutching his face, moaning.
I step back. I don’t need to do anything more, prove anything more. I turn to Rocket. “I’m not a fucking cop. Now, give me the address.”
Rocket appears stunned. Exactly where I want him.
From my pocket, I pull the burn phone I always carry on me. “Text now.”
I’m not surprised when he produces a matching prepaid cell. His fingers fly across the surface. Buzz as the address is delivered.
I smile. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Then I toss my bag with the two remaining bottles of oil straight into the burning barrel.
Another roar and sizzle. When I walk away, Rocket is still staring at the flames, his friend moaning behind him.
D.D. PICKS ME up four blocks later. I don’t ask where she’s been or how she found me. She has her skills, I have mine.
“Well,” she demands.
“Hired firebug, definitely. Didn’t even respond to Conrad Carter’s name, and frankly, too much of a burn freak to have pulled this off without help. Canvass the Carters’ neighborhood again, except this time ask about pest control. That’s how he did it. Uniform, or what’s left of it, is at the bottom of that burn barrel. If you look around, the pressurized spray canisters he used have to be around somewhere.”
“Who hired him?”
“He wasn’t that forthcoming. But”—I hold up my phone—“I have the address where I’m supposed to leave money for my future transaction. I’m guessing it’s the same drop spot as Rocket used last time, given he appears to be a creature of habit.”
“We can pull videos of the area from Tuesday night, Wednesday morning,” D.D. fills in thoughtfully.
“Which should give you the client, caught on candid camera.”
“Nicely done,” D.D. informs me.
I just smile.