Page 33 of Arsonist's Match
Flash made a sarcastic face and threw a glance at the ceiling. “I’d have probably jumped over the burning log anyway. I wasn’t going to get burnt up because somebody else made the wrong call.”
“And that’s why you should take the lieutenant’s test.” Athena met Flash’s gaze with confidence after walking her through all the steps. “We’re going to make mistakes sometimes; it’s unavoidable. And, in dangerous careers, we understand someone might die. Surgeons operate on patients every day, knowing one slip of the scalpel could end in disaster. Dispatchers send truck drivers out over icy roads to deliver their loads when one wrong move could cause a major pile-up. Air traffic controllers, directing pilots where to fly, hold hundreds of lives in their hands. And a librarian, driving home from the library, could flick a glance away from the road for a second and hit a child chasing after a ball. We can’t control everything around us, and we’re never entirely safe from a mistake costing someone’s life, whether we’re in charge or not. You have to ask, isn’t it better for someone with undeniable skill to make the big decisions than a mediocre firefighter who wanted a raise and a boost to his ego?”
“Maybe. I guess,” Flash allowed, “but I’m not ready. I’ll try not to get mad about it anymore, though. And that stuff I said … I didn’t mean to hurt you.” A mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and Flash batted her lashes. “You are not too old for me, Athena Bouvier,” she added with a playful smirk. “I love you, and sometimes I worry that I’m not as fine a catch as I pretend to be.”
“Then stop it,” Athena commanded, pinning Flash with her most intimidating stare, “because I love you, and that should settle the matter. But, honestly, we must work on our communication, and both cut out the bravado and hiding of feelings. Deal?”
Flash smiled and moved in to capture Athena’s lips. “Deal.” After a luscious, affirming kiss, Flash pulled away. “Still, I should just go home now after I ruined the mood. You’ve given me some things to think about, and, hopefully, I’ve granted you some assurances. Please don’t worry about me falling prey to some girlfriend-stealing vixen. And if, heaven forbid, we do break up at some point in the distant future, your visitation rights with Snuffles are secure and binding. She loves you too, you know.”
Chapter 15
It had been two days since the wonderful, terrible date night, and Athena hadn’t fully recovered from the heated discourse that had taken her completely by surprise. Flash was back on shift today, and, while they’d talked some more, she hadn’t seen or touched her since. Athena yearned to know if they were OK, if Flash could feel safe to lower her ramparts and be comfortable being honest with her. If this ill-conceived romance failed, Athena was ready to hoist up the drawbridge to her ice castle and return to her pre-Flash existence, living solely for the pleasure of taking down criminals and their organizations. Doing that job was what she must focus on now.
“He’s on his way up,” Shoops called as she peered around the monitor on her desk.
“Do you want us?” asked Agent Ice. Athena deduced he referred to himself and Hernandez. Both eyed her expectantly.
“I want all of you,” she directed, angling toward the conference room. “Paulson, record everything in case our notes or memories fail us. We’ve searched the tri-state area for suspected arsonists without arrests, and those recently released from prison without luck. I hope this profile will give us more to go on.”
“I’ll bring a water pitcher and glasses,” Campbell offered as he navigated to a beverage station boasting coffee, tea, water, and juice.
While her team filed into the conference room, Athena breezed toward the elevators to greet Special Agent Hunter McFadden from the Behavioral Analysis Unit, flown in from Virginia for a face-to-face. She’d already run a brief background on the forensic psychologist. With five years in the BAU, although not a senior-most profiler, he boasted a solid record—and a specialty in pyromania.
A man in his late forties, lean like someone who used to run marathons yet now only paces meeting rooms, stepped off the elevator. Standing about her height in her heels, his polished jet-black shoes echoed across the tile floor as he approached. The profiler dressed slightly too formally for the Texas heat in crisp charcoal slacks and an unnecessary matching vest, a pale-blue shirt buttoned to the collar even without a tie, and a sleek black dress jacket. With features hinting at a mixed Asian-Caucasian heritage, the lined solemnity of his face lent him a kind of sage-like timelessness. In one hand, he clutched a battered leather notebook; in the other, a briefcase.
“Special Agent McFadden, welcome,” Athena greeted him formally, extending a hand. “We’re grateful you could come.”
He tucked the notebook under one arm, shook her hand with a single brisk motion, then retrieved it as quickly as he’d offered it. His gaze, sharp and dark, seemed to study her like a specimen under glass—cool, clinical, not unkind, just measuring.
“I’m Special Agent in Charge Bouvier. My team’s waiting in the conference room. We’re eager for your insights on the case.”
“Indeed,” he replied, inclining his head with a precise nod.
“Right this way.” Athena led her visitor through the expansive situation room, lights blinking and machines humming, into a cozy, quiet, rectangular space equipped with a long, oval mahogany table and ten matching chairs. The blinds were angled three-quarters closed, open enough to permit some light without the heat. Campbell had already distributed the water glasses on coasters, and Shoops had her notebook and pen at the ready. Agent Howard, adopting a relaxed stance as he sipped from his glass, rounded out the team, making eight present for the meeting.
Athena closed the door and motioned to an empty seat beside hers at the head of the table. Her lightweight tailored pewter jacket and raven slacks blended in with the inky attire favored by the bureau, though she’d softened the look with a pastel violet blouse.
“This is BAU consultant Hunter McFadden,” she presented in a formal tone. Rounding the table, she introduced her associates. “Senior Special Agent John Paulson, Field Agents Travis Ice, Samuel Hernandez, Cedric Howard, Sean Campbell, and Special Agent Karen Shoops. Agent McFadden, I presume you’ve read the report I sent you?”
All present focused their attention on the profiler, who met each eye before opening his notebook. He slid a mechanical pencil from his vest pocket, clicked the end a few times, and assumed a posture to take notes.
“I have read your report,” he confirmed in a voice void of any regional accent. “Let me begin by clarifying a few points that people often confuse. Firesetting is a behavior, arson is a crime, and pyromania is a psychiatric diagnosis. Not all firesetters are arsonists, and not all arsonists are pyromaniacs. As you are probably familiar, we define several primary reasons why arsonists set fires,” he explained, as though conducting a lecture in a college hall.
“First is financial gain,” McFadden enumerated, “either as insurance fraud or because they were paid to set the fire. A pyromaniac would be an excellent choice for an arson for hire. The personal satisfaction gained by this individual would offset the need for the employer to pay him or her a large sum. In this case, you are dealing with two perpetrators—the one who lights the match and the one who has the motive and paid him to do it.”
“Considering all four fires we’ve identified thus far have been businesses, we can’t rule out that possibility,” Paulson noted.
McFadden double-clicked his pencil and exchanged a sober glance with John. “Indeed. However, some of the next motives could also fit the scenario. Second, we have revenge or vandalism, the intentional destruction of property to get back at someone whom they feel has wronged them. As these total losses exceed the definition of vandalism and occurred in diverse locations, I’ve ruled it out. However, revenge? Still viable.”
“I’ve researched the four targeted companies at length,” Agent Campbell said, “and can’t find any connection. They are in separate industries, owned by different people, financed by unrelated banks, with no employee history overlaps.”
“Yeah,” Howard interjected, his dusky brow furrowing. “What do a peanut butter cannery, a cooperative warehouse, a steel pipe factory, and a privately owned and operated construction company have in common?”
“I believe that is the puzzle we must solve, Agent Howard,” Athena replied. “There is a connection, even if it only lies in the mind of the arsonist. That’s why we need Agent McFadden’s expertise. Number three?” She angled her chin toward McFadden.
“Crime concealment. Sometimes, a thief or murderer will set a fire to cover up another crime, believing it will destroy all evidence that might lead back to him,” the behaviorist explained. “Unfortunately, they often succeed. I don’t believe that’s the primary motive of your arsonist, however. Only one of the four fires involved a victim, and a fireproof safe at another site still contained all its money and valuables. Neither do these crimes point to social protest or terrorism, two other motives for arson.”
“What else does that leave?” asked Shoops. A worry crease wrinkled her youthful brow as she peered at McFadden.
