The Arsonist

A graduate of Hollins University, MARY BURTON enjoys a variety of hobbies, including scuba diving, yoga and hiking. She is based in Richmond, Virginia, where she lives with her husband and two children.

The Arsonist

Mary Burton

Special thanks to

David S. “Steve” Parrott, Battalion Chief,

Emergency Operations, Chesterfield Fire

and Emergency Medical Services.

Prologue

Arson investigator Michael Gannon understood the obsession that drove arsonists to set fires. It was what made him good at what he did.

For seven months, he’d been tracking Nero, a monster who had set nine fires in the Washington, D.C. area, killed twelve people and destroyed millions of dollars in property. The metro area had been paralyzed with fear.

Now as Gannon stared down at the charred corpse the police believed was Nero, he couldn’t quite believe the chase was over. He’d not anticipated this outcome. Nero had been his smartest opponent yet, and he’d never made a mistake—until last night.

The body lay curled in a fetal position near the back exit of the burned-out warehouse. The heat from the newly extinguished fire still radiated from the blackened concrete floor. The low, exuberant voices of police and fire crews buzzed around his head like flies. Reporters and curiosity seekers gathered fifty yards away on the other side of the yellow police tape.

As he studied the body’s rigid arms covering an unrecognizable face, relief, anger, and yes, disappointment collided inside Gannon. He’d never get the chance to look the bastard in the eye or see him stand trial and face those he’d hurt.

“There’s not much left of him,” he said mainly to himself. If not for the evidence found in the back alley, he’d not have believed it was Nero.

The medical examiner, a thin woman with short black hair, dressed in a neat navy-blue pants suit, stood as she pulled off her rubber gloves. “Fifth- and sixth-degree burns nearly disintegrated him.”

Gannon’s sharp gaze rose to her angular face.

“Can you ID him?”

She smiled at him and offered her hand. A flicker of attraction sparked in her eyes. “I’ll ID him. Just give me a little time, Gannon.”

He shook her hand, noted it was cold and then released it. He couldn’t remember the woman’s name and didn’t have the energy to pretend he did.

“Any thoughts to height, weight, race or age?”

She sighed, sensing he didn’t notice her as a woman. “Definitely male. Maybe six feet. The rest will come when I do the autopsy.”

“Thanks.”

Folding his arms over his chest, Gannon watched the medical examiner make her final inspection of the corpse before ordering it moved to the body bag lying open on the floor.

Though it was only ten o’clock in the morning, Gannon’s eyes itched with fatigue. He’d slept very little since the restaurant fire.

Fire Chief Jackson McCray, a tall redhead, lifted the crime scene tape and moved beside Gannon. “You look like hell.”

Gannon tore his gaze from the body. “Right.”

“What are you still doing here?” The chief’s slightly round belly strained against the buttons on his white uniform.

“I’m just seeing this through.”

McCray watched as officers lowered the body into the body bag and zipped it closed.

Gannon reached in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. “Not double-checking his escape route was stupid. That kind of mistake wasn’t like Nero.” He hated Nero but he had to respect his intellect and cunning. At first they’d thought the fire had been set by another arsonist because the location was so remote. Nero liked his fires closer to people, where they could generate the most hysteria.

However, the evidence was already piling up. “Did the accelerant found near the body match Nero’s?”

“Sure did. This is our boy.”

“I just can’t believe he’s dead.”

“Believe it.” McCray nodded toward the yellow tape that blocked off the crime scene. Beyond were dozens of television news crews and curiosity seekers. “Go home. Take a few weeks off.”

Gannon felt at loose ends, oddly lost. “I don’t know what to do with myself without Nero to chase.”

“Take that pretty wife of yours out to a fancy dinner.”

Gannon pulled a cigarette out of the pack and then remembered he’d promised himself to give up smoking once Nero had been stopped. He shoved the pack back into his pocket. He’d made a lot of promises to himself these last few grueling months. Not only was he cutting the booze out, but he wasn’t working any more twenty-hour days. He wanted his life back. “Amy left me two months ago.” He spoke about the end of his five-year marriage as if it were the most mundane event. “The divorce will be final in a few months.”

McCray’s smile vanished. “I’m sorry. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Nothing to say.” He and Amy had fought a lot about his job. She’d wanted him to quit the department and sell plumbing supplies for his father.

Gannon watched the officers load the body bag onto the stretcher. They wheeled it over the warehouse floor toward the yellow police tape and the row of officers that kept the press away from the hearse.

TV cameras started rolling. A blond GQ-type stood in front of the Channel Five camera. He checked his hair seconds before his cameraman panned from the hearse to him. “Live from Shield’s warehouse. The bloodthirsty arsonist is allegedly dead thanks to the brave efforts of our fire department’s Michael Gannon who cornered the suspect last night in a final standoff.”

Gannon had grown to despise Glass over the last six months. The reporter had gotten ahold of a sensitive detail of the investigation—Nero always included a pack of Rome matches with his letters. He’d reported it on the six o’clock news. After that, every nut in the city had started sending Gannon Rome matches.

Glass lapped up the extra attention. Ratings were all that mattered to him.

The reporter looked into the camera. “Gannon has worked round the clock for over six months, giving up his nights, weekends and even his marriage.”

Disgust twisted in Gannon’s gut. “He’s painting me to be a hero.”

“Like it or not you are a hero,” McCray said.

“I’m no hero.”

McCray knew Gannon well enough not to argue when he was in a foul mood. “Do you want me to make the statement to the media?”

“No. I’ll wrap this one up.” He glanced at the reporters, grateful this would be the last time he’d have to deal with them. “Chief, I’m also going to announce my retirement.”

McCray froze. “What?”

“I quit. I’m done with this job. I’ve lost my edge.”

“What do you mean? You cracked the Nero case.”

“I didn’t. Nero tripped up. I wonder now if I ever had what it took to catch him.”

McCray rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re being too hard on yourself. Hell, we all knew you were closing in on him. You just need some rest.”

Gannon rubbed the thick stubble on his chin. “My mind is made up.”

“Where are you going to go?”

It had been years since he’d slept the night through or had drawn in a deep breath without the scents of fire. “I don’t have a clue.”

Where he went didn’t matter now as long as he got away from this job, which was killing him by inches.

Nero wasn’t dead.

He sat across town at the breakfast counter of a local diner sipping his coffee and watching the late-breaking news. The reporter was Stephen Glass, one of his favorites, and he was talking about Nero’s unexpected death.

A dark-haired waitress, dressed in a white-and-blue uniform, refilled his cup. Following his line of sight to the television, she said, “So what’s so important they got to break in on my game show?”

He glanced down at his coffee, slightly annoyed that the ratio of cream and coffee was now off. “The cops trapped Nero. He died in his latest fire.”

She popped her gum. “No kidding.”

He glanced at the waitress, annoyed by her loud gum chewing. He was looking forward to getting out of this city. It wasn’t fun anymore. “Gannon closed the case.”

“I knew he would.” She waved over another waitress. “Betty, come look at the tube. The fire babe is on the air.” The waitress winked at him. “Gannon is built like a brick house.”

Betty joined her friend and the two women giggled like schoolgirls as Gannon gave his account of last night’s fire.

Nero poured more cream into his coffee and carefully stirred it. Gannon was also smart. He’d been a worthy opponent, one who had kept him in the game far longer than was prudent.

Five nights ago, Gannon had missed him by seconds in the Adam’s-Morgan restaurant fire. He’d known then that it was a matter of time before Gannon caught him.

The time had come to quit the game. As much as Nero loved the thrill of the chase and the exquisite way his fires danced, spending the rest of his life behind bars didn’t appeal to him.

So, he’d found a homeless man in Lafayette Square, and lured him to the warehouse with the promise of money. He had given the man one hundred bucks and a bottle of MD 20/20. Nero had watched as the bum unscrewed the top and drank liberally from the bottle laced with drugs. Within minutes the bum had passed out.

Nero had dragged the man to the back entrance, doused him with accelerant, set the warehouse on fire and slipped into the shadows.

The cops had dutifully found all the clues he’d left behind including the duffel in the alley that was filled with Nero newspaper clippings.

The plan was perfect.

He was free.

For the first time in months, Nero felt relaxed and more at ease.

The itch to burn and destroy had vanished.

Nero sipped his coffee. It tasted good—the right balance of cream and coffee.

Maybe this time, he could quit setting fires and live a normal life.

Chapter 1

One Year Later

The informant’s tip was explosive.

Excitement sizzled through Darcy Sampson’s body as she stepped off the elevator into the Washington Post’s newsroom. She hurried to her desk. The large open room was full of desks, lined up one behind the other. Only inches separated hers from her colleague’s.

Her computer screen was off. The desk was piled high with papers, reference books and, in the corner, a wilting plant.

Darcy dug her notebook out of her purse and then dumped the bag in the bottom desk drawer. She couldn’t wait to talk to her editor and pitch the story that would propel her byline from page twenty to the front page.

“So where’s the fire?” The familiar raspy voice had Darcy looking up. Barbara Rogers, a fellow reporter, was wafer thin. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut short and her wire-rimmed glasses magnified sharp gray eyes.

Darcy flipped her notebook open. She wanted to be sure of her facts before she talked to her editor. “Just kicking around a story idea.”

Barbara had been in the business for thirty years. She knew all the angles. And she knew everything that went on in the newsroom. “Must be some story. You look like you’re about to start salivating.”

Darcy didn’t dare confirm or deny. “I’ve got to run.”

Barbara wasn’t offended. “Sure, cut your best friend out of the loop.”

Best friend. Barbara had stolen two story ideas from her in the last year. She hurried toward her editor’s office. Visions of a Pulitzer prize and national exposure danced in her head. Through the glass walls of his office, she could see Paul Tyler was on the phone, but she knocked anyway.

What she had was too good to wait.

The phone cradled under his ear, Paul glanced up at her. He looked annoyed but motioned her inside.

Darcy hurried into the cramped office littered with stacks of newspapers, magazines and piles of books on the floor. She moved the books from the chair in front of his desk and sat down. The heavy scent of cigarettes hung in the air. He wasn’t supposed to smoke in the building, but that didn’t stop him from putting duct tape over the smoke detector and sneaking a cigarette once in a while.

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose. A swath of graying hair hung over his tired green eyes. “Right, well, do the best you can. And call me if you find another lead.” Hanging up the receiver, he sighed as he looked up at Darcy. “What is it, Sampson?”

She sucked in a deep, calming breath, willing herself to talk slowly. “I have a story.”

He stared at her blankly. “And?”

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.”

She jumped to her feet. “No problem. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

Standing, he held up his hand to stop her. “I want you to keep me posted. Call me every day or two. Gannon won’t be easy to crack. Can be a real son of a bitch from what I remember.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be.”

Just the idea of this story had her nerves humming. “Michael Gannon will talk to me. I can guarantee it.”

Chapter 2

The perky Surprise, I’m home! Darcy Sampson had practiced on the car ride down Interstate 81 died on her lips when she saw flames shooting out of a frying pan on her family’s restaurant’s industrial kitchen stove.

For a moment, she stood, dumbstruck, her green duffel bag gripped in her hand as flames licked the sides of the stove’s greasy exhaust hood and black smoke filled the restaurant kitchen.

“Fire!” Darcy shouted.

Her mother, a short plump woman with graying hair, whirled around from the sink where she’d been washing dishes. Panicking, she grabbed a full glass of water and raced toward the fire.

Darcy dropped her bags. “No, Mom, don’t!”

Her mother tossed the cold water on the hot grease in the pan. Immediately, the fire exploded higher, spilling over the sides of the stove. Hot oil spattered like a Roman candle. Mrs. Sampson screamed and jumped back as oil peppered her arm.

The smoke detector started to screech through the entire building. Darcy ran down the shotgun style kitchen to the pantry. There she grabbed a large box of flour and rushed toward the blaze. Without hesitating, she dumped the entire box on the flames. The fire died instantly.

Her heart pounding, Darcy set the empty tub down on the island in the center of the kitchen and rubbed a shaking hand to her forehead. “Mom, you know how to put out a grease fire.” White flour coated Darcy’s fingers, the stove and the mud-brown linoleum floor. She looked down at her black silk pants suit now dusted with flour. “I just had this dry-cleaned.”

Her mother glanced impatiently up at the smoke detector that still wailed. She started to wave her apron in the air under the blaring smoke detector. “Help me turn this thing off. I don’t need the fire department knocking on my door.”

Darcy grabbed a stepladder, and in high heeled boots climbed up the steps and disconnected the smoke detector. She pulled the battery out of the back of it. Blessed silence filled the room.

Darcy climbed down and shut off the gas to the burner under the frying pan now covered with a thick coat of flour. She set down the battery and faced her mother. “Did you burn yourself?”

Her mother pursed her lips. “I’m fine.”

The speckled burns on her mother’s arms said otherwise. Darcy went to the sink, turned on the tap and soaked a handful of paper towels in the cool water. She rang out the excess water.

“Let me see your arms.”

“I’m fine,” her mother said, her tone brusque.

Darcy swallowed her frustration and took her mother’s arm in hand. Gently she started to clean her arm.

Her mother winced. “That hurts. Don’t be so rough.”

“You need some antibiotic ointment on that.”

Her mother pulled her arm away. “It’s not that bad.”

She’d been home less than two minutes and already she and her mother were arguing. It had to be a record. “Mom, you wouldn’t admit to third-degree burns even if they covered your body.”

Mrs. Sampson took the towels from Darcy. “I’ve managed to take care of myself all these years while you’ve been up north with your big city job.”

Darcy’s defenses rose. But instead of taking the bait, she went to the swinging doors that led to the dining room so that she could calm the customers.

To her surprise, the row of booths covered in green vinyl and the seats around the mahogany bar were empty.

She checked her watch. Two o’clock. The lunch hour had passed, but normally there’d be a half a dozen folks eating a late lunch.

As she glanced around the deserted room, she realized the place hadn’t changed in twenty years. It still smelled of stale cigarettes and beer and was decorated with her brother’s football memorabilia, including jerseys from his peewee days through his brief time with the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Growing up, Darcy had jokingly called the room The Shrine, though deep inside it hurt knowing her parents’ world revolved solely around her brother. She’d been all but invisible to them.

“Where is everyone?” she asked. She ignored the tightness in her chest and walked back into the kitchen.

“We don’t open for lunch anymore.” Her mother surveyed the mess around the stove as she pushed a trembling hand through her short gray hair. “We open at five now.”

That surprised her. “Why? The lunch crowd was always profitable.”

Her mother got a broom from a small closet by the back door. “Trevor says lunch is more trouble than it is worth. The real money is made at dinner and the bar.”

Her brother, Trevor, had become the tavern manager after their father’s death last year. Trevor had just been cut from the Steelers and was at loose ends. At the time, his managing the restaurant had seemed like a win-win solution for everyone.