The Arsonist

Darcy leaned forward. “Remember Nero?”

Paul sat back in his chair. A dollop of ketchup stained the right pocket of his shirt. “Sure. The arsonist that tried to torch D.C. last year. Killed twelve people.”

“Right.”

Paul glanced at the pile of papers on his desk as if the conversation was already losing him. “He died in one of his own fires.”

She spoke softly. “What if he didn’t die?”

He looked up. Interest mingled with doubt in his eyes. “He died. The fire department and police department had mountains of information on the guy … Raymond somebody.”

“Mason. Raymond Mason.” She flipped her notebook open and searched several pages before she found the right reference. “He was a homeless man. Also, a college graduate and Gulf War vet. Volunteer firefighter.”

“Right. I remember now. So why should I care about all this?”

“I got a call from a woman yesterday. She is Raymond’s sister, Sara Highland.”

“Why would she call you?”

A valid question. Until now, all Darcy had covered were city planning and council meetings. “My ex-boyfriend, Stephen.” She hated giving Stephen-the-creep any credit for the tip, but he had been the reason Sara had contacted her. Stephen, a reporter for TV Five News, had made quite a name for himself covering the Nero fires. “He interviewed Sara last year and thinking she might remember something of interest, he had given her his home number—which in fact was my number because he was basically living at my place most of the time. Anyway, she called. When I played back Sara’s message on my answering machine, I knew I had to talk to her.”

Paul’s glazed look was a signal that she was rambling. “Get to the punch line.”

“Sara doesn’t believe that Raymond was Nero. She believes he was set up.”

Paul yawned. “She said this last year. And who could blame her? No one wants to believe their brother is a serial arsonist and murderer.”

“This time she’s got facts to back up her statements.” Darcy flipped through a couple of pages in her notebook. “It took Sara time get over the shock of it all. When she did, she started talking to the men who knew Raymond.”

He lifted a brow. “Homeless men?”

“Yes. There was one man in particular—a Bud Jones. He was a veteran, too. He and Raymond were good friends. I went to talk to him. Bud said a week before the last fire a well-dressed man stopped and talked to Raymond. The two hit it off and the stranger gave Raymond five dollars. The guy came back several more times over the next few days. Finally, he offered big money to Raymond for a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“Raymond never said.” She scooted to the edge of her seat. “But Bud thinks it had to do with Nero’s last fire.”

“Did Sara or you pay this Bud character money for information?” There was no missing his cynicism. Paul believed Bud had simply told Sara what she wanted to hear in exchange for money.

“I tried to give him a twenty but he wouldn’t take it.”

“Where’s Bud been all this time? Why hasn’t anyone else mentioned him?”

“He took off the day before the last fire. Thumbed down to Florida where he stayed until last month.”

Paul steepled his fingers. “Keep talking.”

“Raymond was supposed to meet the stranger at Shield’s warehouse.”

That had Paul’s attention. “The spot of Nero’s last fire.”

“Where Raymond died.” She closed her notebook. “I think Raymond was set up by the real Nero. I think the real Nero knew the police and arson investigators were on to him and that if he didn’t do something quickly, he’d be caught.”

“Great theory, but where’s the proof?”

“I don’t have it, yet, but I intend to get it.”

“Where?”

“Remember Michael Gannon?”

“Sure, chief arson investigator on the case. Dropped off the scene after Nero’s death was confirmed.”

“I talked to a couple of buddies of his in the department. I said I was doing a year anniversary thing on the fires. Anyway, one let it slip that Gannon never really believed Nero was dead. When I questioned him further, he started backpedaling.”

“Where’s Gannon now?”

“He moved down to Preston Springs, Virginia, and opened a motorcycle shop.”

“Aren’t you from Preston Springs?”

Darcy’s stomach tightened. That was the major fly in the ointment. She and her mother didn’t get on so well. And the last time she’d been home had been a year ago for her father’s funeral. “Yeah.”

“So what are you going to do—interview Gannon?”

“If it were only that easy. Gannon hates reporters. Which we can thank Stephen for.”

Paul rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Stephen did harass the hell out of Gannon.”

“Made his life rough. I’m afraid if Gannon knows I had anything to do with Stephen, reporting or Nero he’d shut me down.”

He drummed his fingers on his desk. “So what do you want from me?”

“Like you said, I’m from Preston Springs. I can go home under the guise of visiting my mother and brother. And while I’m there, make contact with Gannon. With any luck, he’ll open up.”

Paul folded his fingers over his chest. “Long shot, if you ask me.”

She rubbed her palms together. “But you’ve got to admit, it’s worth the chance. If we could prove Nero didn’t die, the coverage would be incredible. We’d get picked up all over the country. All I need is two weeks.”

He nodded. “It damn sure would be.” He sighed staring at the stacks of paper on his desk. “I can’t give you two weeks. Only a week.”

Darcy swallowed a smile. She had Paul. Now it was a matter of reeling him in. “Ten days.”

“Eight.”

“Nine.”

He glared at her. “Sold. But this adventure is on your dime until you come up with something hard.”