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been a roof hung suspended like dark feathers in a nest. The street-level windows had been boarded up with plywood, and those had burned quickly. The tentacles of fire hoses reached in and out of the building. The firefighters were, no doubt, trying to keep the ash down and keep the building from flaring again, never mind what other particulates were likely to be in the air: asbestos, burnt plastic, rubber.

    Anya shut off the ignition and opened the trunk of the Dart with her keys. The Dart had no fancy features, except for power steering and a radio. Even the transmission was manual. For Anya, the lower tech, the better. Once upon a time, she’d owned a compact car with a power sunroof and door locks, automatic transmission, even a back window wiper blade. That had lasted all of three months with Sparky’s poking and prodding of the gadgets. She’d bought the Dart, a low-mileage cream puff without a spot of rust, for next to nothing at an auction from a collector who was going bankrupt—not an uncommon occurrence in Detroit these days. With the Dart, Sparky found very little to tear up inside such a battleship of a car. She still had to replace the battery more often than she thought she should, but she rarely caught him under the hood, gnawing at the terminals like a dog with a rawhide. As a bonus, the leather seats wiped clean of fire scene carbon and other nasty debris from her investigations. The only drawback was the gas mileage. That, and the two-door model was called the Swinger, a fact which random car enthusiasts would tell her when she was minding her own business loading groceries in the parking lot.

    Her tools were neatly arranged in a pair of heavy duffel bags in the trunk. She pulled off her coat and shoes, donned protective coveralls, then, balancing against the car bumper, stepped into a white hazmat suit. No matter what size she ordered, the suits were always too big and made her feel like a walking marshmallow. She slipped her firefighters’ boots on over the plastic feet of the hazmat suit, then shrugged into her yellow firefighters’
    coat. The white letters of her name reached from armpit to armpit. For good measure, she slipped a respirator mask over her neck. Parking her firefighter’s helmet on her head, she grabbed her bags and made for the incident command post.

    It had been three years since Anya had ridden on fire trucks in full uniform, feeling the adrenaline jolt of the sirens. That part of the job had its allure, as well as its challenges. There were fewer women in the Department than men and she had worked hard to distinguish herself as a capable and reliable firefighter. She’d been promoted quickly and her superiors relied upon her to work quietly, efficiently, and without drama.

    That lack of drama handicapped her at times with her colleagues. Firefighters were, by nature, a close-knit family. If she was honest with herself, that was part of the reason why Anya had joined—she wanted to feel some of that sense of belonging. In earlier years, she’d spent her share of twenty-four-hour shifts at the station house. Anya had found it difficult to live in a fishbowl. Though she’d had many opportunities, she’d turned down the men who’d tried to date her. She was usually the only woman on shift and had the good fortune to be able to sleep in a room alone, where no one would sense Sparky kicking the covers.

    Sparky had loved the firehouses. There were always things to get into, to root about in, things that smelled of delicious fire. In one firehouse, Sparky had developed an interest in licking the light switches and electrical panels. The captain there had been convinced the station was wired badly enough to warrant entirely new wiring. When Sparky had developed a taste for one of the firemen’s neon beer signs, he’d nearly burned the station down. A bored salamander with nothing to do was a dangerous thing.

    When the investigator position opened, Anya was ready to transfer