Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(76)

“You pick the back lock. No one to watch. Easy to do. Set up your stove-top ignition. Spray the ‘pesticide’ all around. Hell, if a neighbor saw you through the window, they wouldn’t think twice. Very clever, I gotta say.”

He holds up a hand. I toss two pinecones. This time, green and blue flames. We’re both impressed.

“Too clever,” I say, “for the likes of you.”

Shadow behind me has drawn closer. I slowly but surely unzip my jacket. I want ease of movement for what comes next. Not to mention, I never leave the house with empty pockets. Even now, I’m pulling out a small canister of my homemade pepper spray. Now, what this stuff could do to that fire …

Rocket finally looks at me. He’s clearly reluctant to leave the flames. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You did good work. The burn patterns, total destruction of the second floor, the way it collapsed onto the first … a thing of beauty.”

“You a cop?”

“Nope. Just an interested party.”

“Interested in what?”

“Hiring you. That’s how it works, right? Your age, where you live, your world …” I gesture to the burning trash can. “This is what you’re about. There’s no way you and Conrad crossed paths—”

“Conrad?”

“The guy whose house you burned down.”

“Who?”

“Exactly. You didn’t care about him or his wife or their unborn baby. You cared about the fire. You were there for the burn, and how much better that someone paid you to do it?”

He frowns for the first time. As if finally seeing the trap. I don’t give him a chance, though. I toss another bottle of vegetable oil in his direction and of course he has to catch it. Of course he has to throw it on the blaze.

“I’m not a cop,” I say now. “But I saw a bunch of them pulled up in front of your house. Bet they’re ripping apart your room now. Finding the uniform, the ‘pest control’ cans. Then, wow, you’re going to have some explaining to do.”

But I made a misstep, because immediately, Rocket shrugs, then returns pointedly to staring at the fire. The uniform, I realize, probably soaked in gasoline and used to start this blaze, because what kind of self-respecting arsonist wouldn’t burn up the evidence?

“I want to hire you. One grand.”

He frowns, staring at the flames. I find one of the last pinecones, toss it in. Red. We both nod in fascination.

“Five,” he says. “Cash.”

“Don’t got it on me.”

“I’ll tell you where to leave it. You drop off half, with the address. Afterwards, other half.”

“Trusting of you.”

He finally stares at me. In his dark eyes all I can see are the dancing flames. “I like to burn things. All kinds of things. No one messes with that.”

Good point. “It has to be discreet. You come up with the pest-control uniform, or did your last client provide it?”

“What do you care?”

“Has to be discreet,” I repeat, voice steady.

He shrugs. “Depends on what I’m burning. Abandoned is easy access. Residential work, yeah, you can provide the props. Or, I’ve figured out what works over the years. Whatever.”

So maybe his client had provided the pest uniform, or maybe Rocket is that clever. He certainly loves fire, and anyone who loves his job is bound to get better and better at it.

I still don’t think this kid knew Conrad Carter or Jacob Ness. He was strictly the hired help. But he’s also our first link to whoever it was who shot Conrad and then felt compelled to further cover his tracks by totally eradicating the house. My next step is clear:

“Give me the address to the drop site,” I say. “I’ll get you the money.”

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Already got plans for tonight.”

“Which are?”

“Right behind you.”

I don’t turn my head. Rookie move, especially as I’ve been tracking my shadow for the past ten minutes. Instead, I plant my feet wide for better balance, whirl my entire torso, and whip the plastic bag with its remaining two bottles of vegetable oil at my attacker’s head. Solid thwack as I connect.

The form, face hidden in the shadows of another hoodie, staggers back, grabs his head, clearly dazed. I dance forward three steps. I kick to the side of his knee, then snap the heel of my hand straight into his nose. He goes down, clutching his face, moaning.

I step back. I don’t need to do anything more, prove anything more. I turn to Rocket. “I’m not a fucking cop. Now, give me the address.”

Rocket appears stunned. Exactly where I want him.

From my pocket, I pull the burn phone I always carry on me. “Text now.”

I’m not surprised when he produces a matching prepaid cell. His fingers fly across the surface. Buzz as the address is delivered.

I smile. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Then I toss my bag with the two remaining bottles of oil straight into the burning barrel.

Another roar and sizzle. When I walk away, Rocket is still staring at the flames, his friend moaning behind him.

—

D.D. PICKS ME up four blocks later. I don’t ask where she’s been or how she found me. She has her skills, I have mine.