Page 25 of Playing With Fire

Chapter Four

Ricky spread out a large sheet of white paper on his desk and carefully unloaded his plastic bag of treasures. He leaned over and sniffed carefully, nodding to himself.

Unless it was pure coincidence, the pizza box had been a decoy, as he had suspected.

He used a pencil to turn over the black lumps. His professional instincts kicked in as he felt the old, addictive thrill of seeking out the person or persons whom he privately thought of as the scum of the earth—arsonists.

Even a baby arsonist, an angry kid or disgruntled ex-employee, could cause devastation, lifelong injury and even death in the most excruciating of ways.

Smoke. The acrid scent of chemical foam and the misty, snow-like aftermath in the air. Charred plastic and smoldering laminate releasing their poisons. The silence when life has departed.

A surge of panic hit him, a sucker punch to the gut, but he forced it down. Swallowed the nausea, gritted his teeth. Took a deep, calming breath. Focused.

He could do this.

Exhibit A: A wad of newspaper, singed around the edges. Damp, blurred text and the unmistakable smell of copier fluid, which was near enough to paint thinner in flammability. It had the extra benefit of being easily available in most offices.

Exhibit B: The remains of two matchbooks, still wrapped around the twisted butt of a cigarette.

“Aren’t you the clever one,” he muttered. “Your average joe would see a pizza box and a live cigarette butt. A couple of juveniles having fun.”

Maybe.

But only a lazy investigator started with a solution and then worked back to the problem.

Don’t overthink it, Ricky reminded himself. This still could be the work of a kid. After all, the internet was a treasure trove of all things dark and bizarre, particularly when it came to finding out how to kill and maim human beings.

His mind took a wander. A reluctant wander. The rectory. Crowded with adults, teenagers, and children. Everyone happy except for the two foster boys who had landed at this place of sanctuary after surviving a world of pain and abuse.

Smart boys, capable and big for their age.

The question was, just how angry were Judah and Josh?

***

The universe seemed determined to expose Temple Mountain Town Council’s latest recruit to every aspect of crime in town, and on Friday morning Ricky found himself on the trail of yet another local miscreant.

He was enjoying the pale, early winter sunshine as he pulled into the landscaped parking lot of the local retirement village. The first snow had come and gone overnight, and the lowering clouds promised more.

At first glance, Temple Mountain Retirement Village looked to be as advertised on its website; a haven of relaxation and social hub for the elderly and soon-to-be elderly of the district. No high-rise Queens social housing here, but pleasant low-set brick buildings stepped down the slope, framed by sugar maples and a pleasing blend of shrubbery.

Ricky opened the car door, glad of an excuse to get outdoors and away from the office. The crisp temperature reminded him of walking through Central Park in New York City at daybreak after a night shift. Even then, the smell of gas fumes and last week’s trash and a million dusty air conditioning vents lingered in the early morning coolness.

Not here. Ricky inhaled the clean scent of pine trees and soggy pastures and clipped hedges. Perhaps a hint of industrial strength bleach and burned toast.

It would be fair to say that the arson investigation hadn’t progressed much in the past couple of days, beyond confirming that he had been right about the copier fluid—which left almost the entire Temple Mountain office workforce of around five thousand people as suspects.

Ricky had conducted an evening training session with the firefighter volunteers and given a lecture on fire safety to the kindergarten kids.

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