Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(75)

With my bulky coat over my equally shapeless sweatshirt, I blend right in. It’s tempting to pull on my hood against the chill, but I don’t want to reduce my peripheral gaze or muffle my hearing.

I stroll around the neighborhood for a bit, getting my bearings. There are no lights on at Rocket’s address, which doesn’t surprise me. If I lived here, I certainly wouldn’t hang out any more than I had to. Then again, I doubt the kid’s out holiday shopping, so then what?

I consider my play as I roam from block to block. D.D. already revealed something interesting: no witnesses. If memory serves, the Carters’ neighborhood is mostly white. Meaning some black teen was sniffing around their house and no one noticed it? I doubt that already. At least in his mug shot Rocket had aspiring hoodlum written all over him. Most people living in an urban environment are hardwired to pay attention to such things.

Meaning …

I try on various theories and ideas. One appeals to me the most. I tuck it away, just as I notice a neighborhood hardware store. Not many such places left, but this one gives me an idea.

Ten minutes later I’m walking around with a bag in my hand and new, local knowledge courtesy of the checkout clerk. Where do the local teens hang out? Again, in an urban environment, people know these things.

It’s dark. Some ambient lighting here and there from random windows where people are tucked in for the evening. There’s a strange mix of both closeness and isolation in such densely packed areas. So many people, crammed together. And yet each in his or her own little world.

I don’t envy their battles ahead. But I have my own.

I cross to the left, rounding the corner, and a gap appears in the building ahead. An awkward space wedged between two tenement housing buildings, like the hollow left from a lost tooth. Once, it had probably been a basketball court, or some kind of common ground. Now I behold the glow of what appears to be quite the fire roaring away in a centrally placed trash can. Around it, the flash of movement, glint of metal. Kids, on skateboards maybe. Or just hanging out. Way more of them than me.

At the same time, I become aware of a new presence behind me. I’ve picked up a shadow. Maybe D.D., who told me she’d be around, but I doubt I’m that lucky. I’d guess I have a new friend, someone cuing in on a lone white girl stupidly walking around his neighborhood.

I can’t help myself: I smile. D.D. was right. My night is looking up.

—

I WALK STRAIGHT to the trash can. The kids don’t scatter. Why would they, when there’s at least a dozen of them and only one of me? I don’t make individual eye contact. More like a quick head scan. There, to the left, features hard to make out beneath a gray hoodie, is a long, thin face that matches the photo of my guy.

Perfect.

I don’t speak. I don’t pause. I reach into my bag, pull out the first item, and toss it into the fire.

Boom! The fire roars up, spitting flames and showers of deep red sparks. Now the kids scatter.

“Jesus Christ!”

“She’s fucking crazy!”

But not my guy, of course. My guy remains standing right there, looking at the new and improved fire with total fixation.

“Want one?” I ask. I hold out my bag.

“What is it?”

“Kerosene-dipped pinecones. Basically a fire-starter kit from the hardware store. They come in several colors.”

Rocket curls his lip at me. I can tell he’s tempted, but a premanufactured fire starter? Where’s the fun in that?

“I also have bottles of vegetable oil.”

Now I have his interest.

“Sure,” he says, though I can tell he remains wary. But I’m thinking of the other thing D.D. said: Arsonists are like serial killers. Once they find their true selves, they can’t go back. As Keith Edgar and his true-crime buddies would tell you, there’s no serial killer out there who’s ever been able to quit. What starts as a horrific crime becomes a terrible compulsion. And compulsions can be used against you by law enforcement—and by people like me.

I heft a small bottle of vegetable oil in his direction. He catches it effortlessly.

We both take a small step back. Then he oil-bombs the fire. More boom, now accompanied by a splatter and hiss. Whatever kids stayed earlier officially retreat. Fire might be cool, but hot oil is just plain dangerous.

Rocket smiles. I understand his grin. I’ve worn it enough times on my face.

“I’m trying to figure out how you did it,” I say at last, voice conversational. There’s still a presence behind me. I drift left, trying to get the form into my side view. Meanwhile, I help myself to another kerosene-dipped pinecone and add to the festivities. Rocket holds up a hand. I toss one in his direction.

His flares blue. I like it better than the red. Who needs Christmas lights when you can be doing this?

“I’m thinking pest control,” I continue now, Rocket still staring at the flickering flames. “I mean, you walk into a neighborhood like the Carters’, people are gonna notice. Especially lugging a few gas cans. But a young guy in a pest control uniform, walking the property with spray cans … People see what they want to see. Which is good for the likes of you and me.”

My turn. I go with another small bottle of veggie oil. No cool colors, but I like the sizzle sound. This is fun. Maybe I should try for arson next.

Rocket still isn’t speaking.