Page 52 of Playing With Fire

And like a pebble tossed in a pond, the sorrow would grow to encompass Lottie and Herbie Sharp, and indeed every member of both families who would mourn the lost child.

So be it.

Ricky whipped out his phone.

***

Jodi’s instinct had been right. She had seen the Caitens’ name.

The Monitor was old-fashioned enough to run classifieds, and the townsfolk were old-fashioned enough to read them. And as her grandfather had pointed out, there was a lot more dignity in reading a funeral notice on newsprint than while flicking through social media.

Angela Christine Caitens. Aged twenty-six years. Passed away in a tragic fire in Queens, NYC. Treasured daughter of Tom and Molly. No flowers by request. Private cremation. In God’s hands.

The words leaped off the screen. Jodi sat back. Her somber reflection stared back from the dark window.

Chrissie. A deadly fire. Queens. Ricky, on leave after an undisclosed trauma.

Her fingers flew as she explored the internet, dragging up snippets of news. No mention of his name, but it didn’t take much to put together that Lieutenant Ricky Sharp of the New York City Fire Department Engine Company 264 was the one who had found a body in Hammels, the public housing block in Far Rockaway. Smoke inhalation.

Chrissie, that fair-haired, laughing young woman with whom he had once walked down the main street of Temple Mountain, their arms around each other and their faces bright with expectation.

Jodi closed the file. Ricky hadn’t told her. But why should he?

She stared into space, thoughts whirling until she wrenched them back on track. She pulled up her notes and the photos she’d taken earlier and began writing.

For now, and for the sake of the twins, she’d pull her punches.

A late morning unexplained fire in a shed at the Temple Mountain Retirement Village was quickly dealt with without injury by the Temple Mountain Fire Department. Residents alerted the manager, Ms. Bonnie Browning, and Chief Leroy Browning and volunteer firefighters were on the scene in minutes...

***

There is nothing quite so humbling as the realization that all one’s achievements count for naught in the eyes of your new boss. Lieutenant Ricky Sharp, responsible for a crack firefighting team, was trying hard to accept this truism with as much grace as possible. .

This was his choice.

And if it meant being treated like a slow-learning probationer by a man who probably hadn’t ridden the truck since thermal imaging cameras were introduced and firefighters ditched their classic helmets for high-tech gear straight from NASA—then too bad.

“Now don’t get me wrong.” The Chief leaned back in his leather chair, twirling his pen like a propeller. “Fire safety talks to young moms is a great initiative, and we sure need that increased visibility in the community. It’s great social media content, so the marketing folks tell me.” He stopped twirling and leaned forward. “It’s all about something called click bait.”

Ricky nodded. He could tell by Leroy’s face that the kicker was still to come.

“But our primary business is community safety,” said the Chief. “And right now that doesn’t mean running down pooches or kissing babies. It means taking those crazy juvenile delinquents off the street so they don’t burn down the retirement village or the goddamn library or the veterans’ hall.”

“We don’t have enough evidence,” said Ricky mildly. “And Silas Beecham more or less told me to show him a warrant from a judge before I can even talk to the twins again. He believes they didn’t do it.”

Leroy looked scornful. Ricky shrugged. “The fire at the retirement village was the first time any real damage was done.” He couldn’t help adding, “Though if we’d gotten our equipment there sooner, we would have been able to see if the MO is the same.”

The Chief’s face darkened. Ricky chose his next words carefully.

“It concerns me that the firebug may be accelerating his campaign. Up to now, the arson has been a nuisance without endangering anyone. Every one of the other fires fizzled out in a couple of minutes.”

He glanced out of the window. The front window of The Temple Mountain Monitor was visible further down the street.

Jodi’s online report had contained only the bones of the story, and she’d promised Ricky (and readers) a follow-up piece by Dougie about the dangers of household chemicals, including the nitrates in fertilizer.

Ricky only hoped that the arsonist was a keen follower of The Monitor.

Browning was tapping his pen impatiently on his desk.

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