Fire Season Read Online Free PDF Page B

pearls—she looked a bit like a young Margaret Thatcher.
    â€œWell,” she said. “What is there to do , exactly?”
    â€œUnfortunately, at the moment, not a whole lot,” Coffin said. “We know that the two Dumpster fires were arson, and probably the shed, but we don’t know who set them, or if they were set by the same person. We’ve contacted the state police and the state fire marshal—the fire marshal’s sending an investigator later today, but the state police can’t spare any detectives right now—apparently they’re working on some big meth factory in Fall River. And we have a witness that Sergeant Winters spoke to.”
    â€œOh, really?” Gault said. “That sounds promising, no?”
    â€œNot so much,” Lola said. “One of the call-ins on the Dumpster at Rossi’s said she saw a white male, age uncertain, wearing jeans, a gray hooded sweatshirt, and a ball cap fleeing the scene—or at least walking very quickly toward a car parked along the road. She wasn’t sure what kind of car it was, but thinks it was black. Or blue. And it might have been an SUV. She was distracted by the fire.”
    â€œThat’s not very useful, is it?”
    It was a clear, sunny day, with a brisk wind blowing off the harbor. Bands of sunlight appeared on Boyle’s desk, vanished, then reappeared as Gault fiddled with the blinds.
    â€œIt corresponds roughly with the store clerk’s description of the guy who first noticed the fire—a customer. He could be our firebug, or he could just be a guy who was in the store to pick up a couple of forties.”
    â€œThen there’s nothing else to be done at the moment,” said Gault. “Is that what you’re saying?”
    â€œRight,” Coffin said. “Except to add on extra patrols, if you’ll okay the overtime. We could also request help from the public—ask people to keep their eyes open, and to secure their homes, sheds, garages and so forth. I’ll call the Banner this afternoon, if you’ll okay it.”
    â€œCall away,” Gault said. “The overtime might be a problem, but I’ll see what I can do. We’re strapped for cash, you know. Strapped!”
    *   *   *
    Later, Coffin and Lola stood outside the charred remains of the shed with Pete Wells, the state fire marshal’s lead investigator for the Cape and Islands. Wells had a mop of dark curls and wore a down vest, a flannel cowboy shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps, jeans with a pair of old work gloves stuffed into the back pocket, and tall rubber boots.
    â€œSure looks like arson,” Wells said, sipping coffee from a tall paperboard cup. The rain had started again, a slow, raw drizzle. It was cold, just above freezing, and everything smelled like smoke. “You break in, slosh some gas around, light it, and run. If you’re not a complete moron, you try real hard not to get it on your clothes—your really dumb arsonists have a tendency to set themselves on fire by mistake.” Wells pointed to a scorched line in the grass leading up to where the shed’s door used to be—the back wall was the only part of the shed that was still standing. “Pour a little trail out the door, hit it with a lighter, and you’re off to the races. Easy—just like you’d imagine doing it yourself, probably.”
    Coffin nodded. The rain dripped from the trees onto on his uniform hat. A few dispirited sparrows flickered back and forth in the bushes. “How much gas would it take, do you think?”
    â€œA shed this size, full of dry wood, sawdust, and such, you could probably torch with less than a pint. But if the owner said he smelled gas real strong, probably your guy used more than that. An amateur would go heavy, just to be on the safe side.”
    â€œAnd this is definitely amateur stuff?” Lola asked. She wore a big, black rain slicker