Page 23 of Playing With Fire

His collar suddenly felt too tight.

He grinned. “Just don’t do a hatchet job on the department or the town council, or Leroy will fire me and replace me with fifty meters of fire hose. And just so you know, I didn’t get a second cup of coffee or even a first.”

He straightened his cap and tried to look winning. “Being a good son, I drank my mom’s brew this morning without asking her if she was still using instant. So the first person to buy me a decent cup of mocha can have their wicked way with me. I’ll be putty in their hands.”

He was pleased to see Jodi’s perfectly made-up face turn pink.

“Well then Ricky Sharp,” she finally managed. “What can I say, except that the coffee is on me?”

***

The coffee break turned into lunch, and by the time Jodi and Ricky had finished their quinoa and kale salad bowls at Bean & Co, Jodi felt like an expert on spot fires, arson, accelerants, and the number of forest fires that were started by cigarette butts and foolish campers.

Whether Chief Browning liked it or not, there was a major community interest feature here that went beyond the—to be perfectly honest—limited news value of trash can fires. Smoke alarms in schools, nursing homes and disability residences...folks would start wondering whether local authorities had kept up with the county and state fire code.

She made a note to check the date on the tiny fire extinguisher in her apartment. Maybe she’d get a fire blanket too. And have Dougie Moon look through the records and see if anyone had mentioned fires in the past.

Ricky was chasing the last pepita around in his bowl with the expression of a man who wished he had ordered the ham and cheese croissant. His hands were large, well-kept, though the skin was studded with small white scars. One palm had a faint tracery of lines like a spider web.

Burns. Jodi repressed a shudder. Burnt, lacerated skin.

There was a lot more to this man than met the eye.

Ricky caught her gaze. He flashed her a crooked smile.

“So,” Jodi said as sternly as she could manage. “You’ve given me lots of stuff about fires, all great public interest content. But you’ve cleverly avoided the subject of how you plan to catch the people doing this.”

His eyes darkened. He pretended to zip his lips. The empty salad bowls disappeared, replaced by a couple of chocolate brownies.

She narrowed her eyes at the treats. “Attempting to bribe the press is unethical, to say the least.”

Ricky feigned innocence. “It’s all about dietary balance.”

He dug into a brownie with a hum of pleasure. “But yeah, you are correct, Ms. Acting Editor. Short of staking out the trash cans or sniffing random teenagers for accelerants, we’re pretty much stuck. That’s why we need your readers’ help.”

Jodi took a bite of brownie. She almost moaned with pleasure.

Ricky Sharp was a bad, bad influence.

“But please don’t quote me on that.” Ricky’s voice was low and intent. “There are zero CCTV cameras in Temple Mountain—apparently some folks here take the Fourth Amendment very seriously—and the fire department is basically me and Leroy, plus a bunch of volunteers who come running when the siren sounds. And I don’t want to run those volunteers down. They are trained, committed, and most of them have plenty of experience in putting out kitchen fires, the occasional factory malfunction, and untangling a car wreck. But they can’t be expected to do much else.”

Jodi studied the narrow, intelligent face. His eyes were hooded, uneasy.

“But you’re worried, and you don’t want to spread alarm unnecessarily. What are you afraid of?”

Ricky drummed his fingers on the table. Took a breath, and then waited while the waiter re-filled their coffee cups and moved on.

“There’s been a lot of research in this area. Child pyromaniacs—that is, a child with an impulse-control disorder who feels compelled to set fires to somehow relieve the tension—are pretty rare in reality. Most kids, if this is a kid and not some spaced-out adult with a grudge, who light fires have conduct disorders, so the fire-setting occurs along with other socially unacceptable behavior.”

Jodie sipped the fresh coffee. She nodded encouragingly. “So-called cry for help?”

“Exactly. Once or twice is probably curiosity or mischief. But an ongoing pattern suggests someone really disturbed. And clever.” Ricky was leaning close now. Jodie inhaled a pleasing whiff of Old Spice. Probably his dad’s, she thought.

She forced herself back on task. Her brain zinged as the angles came together in her head. The trash bin fires had just jumped to lead story.

Ricky’s face glowed with intensity. “The behavior can be recurring, or periodic. But our firebug...assuming this is a kid, or a couple of kids....” He pulled Jodi’s notepad towards him, and she handed over her pencil. He drew a map with quick deft strokes, and she recognized the main street of Temple Mountain. The drawing grew, taking in side streets and parks. He had a good memory for detail.

“The trash fires are here, here, and here. And now here.” He marked locations across the town with a cross. “And the time window is always between nine and eleven in the morning.” He looked up. “So if that’s a kid, why aren’t they at school, and why doesn’t someone notice them? And where...”

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