Page 26 of Playing With Fire

There had been no more trash fires. No fires at all, in fact, until a half hour ago when the administrator of the Temple Mountain Retirement Village called to say that a resident had accidentally set fire to their dressing gown while sneaking a cigarette in the garden.

The fire—more of a smolder, according to the perky-sounding female caller—had been quickly quenched by a tepid mug of coffee, but it was felt (and Ricky agreed) that a visit from a representative of the fire department was required, plus a stern word.

He assessed the buildings with a professional eye. Not new, but well-maintained for a facility situated in the snow belt and in a direct line from the icy terrain of Quebec. Ricky reminded himself to check the fire plan, the extinguishers...

But first, to today’s villain. He was priming himself for a brisk inspection of the scene of the crime and a few well-chosen words when he heard a familiar voice.

“Gramps, you need to listen to the doctor. You can’t drive anymore. And no, it’s not a suggestion.”

An older man emerged from a pathway to the left, followed by Jodi Ruskin.

Ricky stared. He felt the oxygen in his lungs escape, and the heightened calm brought about by an early morning run evaporate.

Jodi’s boyfriend-style slightly baggy black jeans emphasized her womanly hips and long, strong legs. She had the slightly pinched look of a woman who wishes she had stuck with sneakers instead of those amazing new black boots with killer toes.

Ricky tried to temper the foolish grin on his face to something more dignified.

Rev. Bob Ruskin had a deep mellifluous voice honed by decades of preaching. He looked older than Ricky remembered, and there was a definite stoop to his narrow shoulders.

“Honey, you know that’s ridiculous. I was driving every day just a few months ago. Find another doctor.”

Jodi’s eyes lit up when she saw Ricky, and there was a brief, shared moment of mutual pleasure before good sense and social decorum interceded.

“Ricky! Hey.” Jodi steered her grandfather, who was still muttering about his years of experience behind the wheel, in Ricky’s direction.

“Gramps, this is Chief Leroy Browning’s new assistant, Ricky Sharp. From the New York City Fire Department. He’s in charge of...” she paused, clearly unsure exactly how to describe the council dogcatcher and trash fire expert.

Ricky stepped up.

“Pleased to meet you, Reverend,” he said smoothly, extending his hand. The old man’s grip was impressive.

Bob frowned. “It’s those old hippies in 12B, isn’t it? I knew those pot plants weren’t exotic ferns.”

Ricky smiled. He shook his head. “This is more of a public safety issue. I’m following up on a minor breach by a resident.”

The old man reeled back. His eyes glittered with interest. “Really? Who?” His voice dropped and he leaned forward. “You can confide in me, son. I’m a minister of religion. And I may be able to ease things if you need to arrest someone.”

Jodi rolled her eyes.

“Not this time,” said Ricky gravely. “We usually give a warning first up. But I will be checking licenses if I need to.”

Bob looked shocked. “You can do that? Oh my.” He turned to his granddaughter and bussed her cheek. “Can’t stop, honey. The bus for the shopping center is leaving in twenty minutes, and I need to get ready.”

He threw Ricky a half-salute. “Keep up the good work officer. Greatest respect for the folks who keep our little town safe.”

His tall figure disappeared with surprising speed.

When he was out of sight Jodi let out a giggle.

“Nice work, officer.” She turned to Ricky, matching him head-to-head in those heels. He inhaled a heady scent which reminded him of soap and flowers with perhaps a hint of felt tip marker.

He shrugged, smiled. After a few seconds he realised he was still grinning and staring into her blue eyes like a lovesick teenager (or in his case, like a faithful brown Labrador).

Ricky rearranged his expression into something more dashing. He wished he had a hat like Chief Browning.

“All in a day’s work, ma’am. As a matter of fact, I am on the trail of a dangerous arsonist right now.”

Her gaze widened. “The firebug? You’ve tracked them down to...” One eyebrow rose. “Temple Mountain Retirement Village? How do they escape the scene of the crime? On their motorized scooter?”

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