Light Her Fire (Private Pleasures 2)

“Oh. Like, dust them for prints?”

The sound of her soft Southern drawl did great things for his mood—a mood that had been foul all week. He blamed Bluelick itself for his irritability, because when he’d left her house Saturday night he’d taken the “see you around” strategy, and counted on the small town to ensure one blasted thing—that he would, in fact, see her around. But no. Not jogging at lunch. Not at the market after work. Not loitering on her front porch like the time he’d taken the scenic way home from the station and driven past her house. This shouldn’t have bothered him, because he could do casual as well as the next guy. Yet his thoughts drifted to her constantly, and he’d been perilously close to calling or texting her in an uncharacteristically compulsive, not-so-casual way.

“Fingerprints wouldn’t prove much, since everybody in town could have touched them at some point. But if they find traces of accelerant in the Dumpsters, and it turns out to be the same accelerant used in the barn fire, then we have a decent probability the same person set the fires.” He looked down at his watch, surprised to see the time closing in on 6:00 p.m., and the end of his shift. Melody was likely still at the office, putting the finishing touches on her Monday. He had a fleeting idea of asking her to dinner, because a spur-of-the-moment invitation qualified as casual, but he quickly dismissed the notion. God only knew how long he’d be stuck here, babysitting Dumpsters while waiting for the sheriff.

“I didn’t know they’d confirmed the cause of the barn fire.”

“They haven’t.” Even he heard the frustration in his voice. For all he knew, the samples he’d provided from the burned-out barn were still sitting in some evidence locker, gathering dust.

“You know who owns the hardware store, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Tom Buchanan.” Josh watched a silver Mercedes S-Class pull into the parking lot. “He just arrived. I better go. I’ll call you later, but yes to Friday.”

He shoved his phone into his pocket and headed over to Rusty. “Did you call this in to the sheriff?” Rusty had been on the way in for his shift when he’d spotted the burning bins and called the station.

He pushed his ball cap back and sc

ratched his forehead. “For a Dumpster fire? No. Why would I?”

Josh ignored the question. “Call it in. Someone set this.”

“Oh, come on, Chief.” Rusty shot a grin at the small group of bystanders. “The sheriff will laugh his ass off if we call this in. Somebody came back here for a smoke, flicked the butt into a Dumpster full of cardboard and paper and what have you, and whoosh…accidentally lit the things up. End of story.”

“One cigarette started fires in two Dumpsters? Find me that cigarette butt, because it’s fucking magic.”

A few people chucked, and Rusty colored. “The fire jumped from one Dumpster to the other.”

Josh shook his head. “No. The degree of burning in each bin suggests two points of origin and two contemporaneously ignited fires.” He turned away to intercept Buchanan, and yelled over his shoulder, “Call the sheriff.”

“Chief?” Buchanan rushed up, needlessly smoothing his gelled-in-place hair. “Why are we calling the sheriff?”

Josh looked at the man who’d hired him. His first impression hadn’t changed. Fifty going on thirty, stylish and self-absorbed. Mayor Buchanan was a slick, small-scale operator, but with a genuine soft spot for his hometown. “Because someone deliberately set fire to these Dumpsters, and I’d like them to do their job and collect evidence to prove it.”

Buchanan frowned. “It’s just a couple of Dumpsters, Chief, most likely lit by kids being careless or mischievous. No need to make a federal case of it.”

Right. That would be Buchanan’s opinion, given that the kid responsible was probably his own. “Hey, Tom, it’s your hardware store and they’re your Dumpsters, so if we find the kids who set the fires and you don’t want to press charges, that’s your business. But prosecutors don’t need you to bring the felony charges.”

“Felony charges? Are you kidding me? No one was hurt. No business interrupted. It was a nuisance, that’s all.”

“If Rusty hadn’t happened by and called it in, you’d be watching the hardware store burn right now. Now that really would be a nuisance, wouldn’t it? But in this jurisdiction, any intentional burning of property not your own is arson, and arson is a felony.”

“Look, Chief.” Buchanan cleared his throat and straightened his tie. “We appreciate having your level of expertise at our disposal, but maybe bringing you down here to run things was a mistake for both of us. Bluelick is not Cincinnati.”

Josh had reached the conclusion months ago, but hearing the mayor say so, for his own self-serving reasons, flat-out pissed him off. “You’re paying for my expertise, which applies no matter where the incident occurs.”

“That is simply not true. We have relationships around here, and things aren’t so cut-and-dried. I need more from a fire chief than a recitation of the elements of a crime. I need someone who understands and appreciates the difference between a few bored teenagers rebelling against whatever the hell they have to rebel against this week, and actual criminal behavior. Maybe—I’m not saying they did—but maybe somebody intentionally set this fire. If so, they did it to fuck up a Dumpster, not burn down the town. They’re kids, Chief.”

“You know what? I never suggested kids did this. You’re the one who keeps accusing the youth of Bluelick.”

“You have another explanation?”

“There are lots of potential scenarios. For instance, you’re the sole owner of the hardware store, right?”

The mayor’s normally conciliatory brown eyes turned marble hard. “Correct. What are you trying to imply.?

“Nothing. Just looking at the facts. The barn that burned down last week…also yours, as I recall.”

“You know it was.”