The Arsonist (2 page)

Chapter 1

One Year Later

T
he 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

T
he 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.

“Dad never missed an opportunity to make money. He only closed on Christmas Day. Trevor’s decision must have Dad rolling in his grave.”

Jan Sampson shot an annoyed glance her daughter’s way. She wasn’t willing to discuss Trevor’s managerial decisions. But instead of saying so, she diverted the conversation to another topic. “Good Lord, I’ve never seen a fire jump like that.”

Darcy could feel a headache coming on. “I get the hint—Trevor is perfect.” It had been six years since she’d moved away from home, but it surprised her how deep old resentments still ran.

Her mother ignored the comment.

Darcy drew in a calming breath. This visit home was going to work. “What caused the fire, Mom?”

Her mother tugged down the edges of her Steelers yellow T-shirt. “I was frying potatoes when I noticed there were dishes to be put away. I got distracted. The next thing I know, you’re screaming fire.”

“You could have burned the whole place down.”

Anger flashed in her mother’s eyes. “What are you doing here anyway?”

Darcy pushed aside her annoyance. She’d come home for a story—not a tender family reunion. “I was fired.” The lie tumbled over her lips easily. She’d decided on the drive down that honesty wasn’t the best policy if she were going to get Gannon to talk to her. Her mother couldn’t keep a secret.

Mrs. Sampson stopped her sweeping. “Fired?”

Darcy shoved her hands in her pockets. She’d rehearsed this conversation on the drive down. “A week ago.”

“You were always in the center of trouble as a kid.”

“Straight As was how I remember it,” she said, her anger rising. “And I worked in our family’s restaurant full time all the way through college.”

Mrs. Sampson ignored what Darcy had said. “Why did they fire you?”

There was no point arguing. “I wrote an exposé on a developer. He used shoddy materials in his buildings. Turns out he was a major advertiser with the paper. I refused to drop the story. I got fired.” It all had sounded plausible when she’d made it up, but now she found she had trouble meeting her mother’s gaze.

Mrs. Sampson started to sweep up the burned flour, again. “That doesn’t make sense. I see your name in the paper a lot. Your articles are good enough.”

Unreasonably pleased, she stood a little taller. “You get
The Post
?”

Mrs. Sampson shrugged. “From time to time. I buy it from the drugstore.”

Darcy stood five inches taller than her mother, yet she still felt like a five-year-old at times. “Any articles you liked in particular?”

“No. Would you get the dustpan?”

Grateful for the task, she dug the pan out of the broom closet and knelt down so her mother could sweep the pile of flour onto the pan.

“You should have listened to your boss, Darcy.”

Darcy picked up the full pan and dumped it in the trash can. “You’re right.”

Her mother studied her an extra beat as if she wasn’t sure if Darcy was being sarcastic or not. Darcy tried to look sincere.

Mrs. Sampson softened a fraction. “What about that boyfriend of yours?”

“We broke up almost a year ago.”

Mrs. Sampson swept up the rest of the flour and dumped it into the trash can. “I saw that Stephen guy on the
Today Show
when he was reporting on those fires in Washington last year. I thought his smile was too quick.”

“And fake too. Would you believe he spent thousands on caps?” His new, rich girlfriend had paid for them. “I still can’t believe I wasted two years with him.”

Mrs. Sampson shook her head. “So you’ve nowhere else to go and you’ve come home.”

Pride had her lifting her chin a notch. “I know I’ve not been the best daughter. Dad and I fought so much and I didn’t even stay for the reception after the funeral.”

The apology caught Mrs. Sampson by surprise. More tension drained from her shoulders. “Your father wasn’t the easiest man either, Darcy. I knew he could be difficult.”

An unexpected lump formed in her throat. “I was hoping I could crash here for a while.”

Mrs. Sampson was silent for a moment. “Of course, you can stay here for a while. In fact, I’ve an opening for a waitress. Our waitress quit just yesterday. I’ll have to check with Trevor of course, but I don’t see why you couldn’t work the tables like you used to.”

“That would be great.” The idea of working in the restaurant didn’t appeal, but it would be the perfect cover story.

Her mother nodded. “You can start by taking out this trash. Then, when you get your bags put away, you can start prepping for the dinner crowd. My cook, George, is on break now but he’ll be back within the hour.”

“George? What happened to Dave?” Dave had cooked for the Varsity since she’d been in elementary school.

Mrs. Sampson sighed. “He quit about six months ago.”

There was a time when she’d known everything about the Varsity. Now she was the outsider. “Everything all right with him?”

She stood a little straighter. “He just wanted more money than we could pay.”

“That doesn’t sound like Dave.” The tall, lean man always enjoyed a good joke and kept Eskimo Pies for Darcy in the freezer.

“People change.”

The tone in her mother’s voice told her not to push. “Okay. Where is Trevor? I tried him on his cell phone earlier but he didn’t pick up.”

“Your brother is getting supplies for the dinner crowd. We ran short on a few things.”

“How’s he doing?”

Mrs. Sampson started to wipe the cooktop with a rag. “He’s doing just fine. The tavern has never been busier. Thank God, I have him.”

Darcy didn’t miss the hidden meaning. Trevor was the golden child. “Good.”

“Well, you better get to work,” her mother said. “That trash won’t take itself out.”

Darcy glanced at the trash can overflowing with debris. She visualized the story she was going to write and the awards she was going to win.

“Will do.” Darcy sealed up the green bag lining the wheeled plastic trash can.

“And when you’re done with that, get this kitchen cleaned.”

“Right.”

Darcy pushed up the sleeves of her suit and tried to pull the bag out. It was heavier than she realized. Deciding to keep the trash bag in the can, she tipped the can back on its wheels and started to pull it outside.

“Darcy?” Her mother looked as if she had something else to say.

“Yeah?”

As their gazes met, her mother frowned, seeming to change her mind. “Never mind.”

“Okay.” Drawing in a deep breath, Darcy yanked at the can again and slowly started to drag it to the back alley behind the Varsity.

The alley was lined with pitted asphalt and wide enough for cars to drive through. The Varsity, flanked by a bridal shop and a drugstore, was located in middle of the block. The battered blue Dumpster, shared by all three businesses, was tucked in a nook by the drugstore.

Darcy pulled the trash can down the two steps by the back door, wincing as it banged hard with each drop. Her ankles wobbled as her high heeled boots caught between two of the cobblestones. Cursing, she yanked it free, and in the process, ripped the leather from one heel.

She stared at the torn Italian leather. The three-hundred-dollar boots had been a Christmas gift from Stephen two years ago. She suspected this was fate’s retribution for the lies she’d told her mother.

Tracking down the real Nero was worth it, she reminded herself.

Standing taller, she gripped the handle of the trash can and started down the alley. “I’m not going to quit. I’m not. I will get through this.”

The heavy can rumbled over the uneven asphalt as she headed toward the Dumpster. She opened the side door of the Dumpster and tugged on the green trash bag three times but couldn’t get it free.

“You are a stupid trash bag,” she said gritting her teeth. “And you aren’t going to win.” Determined, she jerked the bag. Her fitted jacket strained against her back and she pulled and pulled until finally the garbage bag wiggled free. She dumped the bag into the Dumpster.

Taking out the trash was hardly a moment to be celebrated, but she did feel a little pang of pride as she brushed her hands together.
Tenacity.
It had won out over the trash and it would find Nero.

Her shoulders back, she started to drag the can back to the kitchen. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t hear the roar of the motorcycle zooming down the alley until it was almost too late.

The driver hit the brakes and narrowly swerved around her as she looked up. Shocked, she stumbled back.

Her heart hammering in her chest, she went from fear to anger in a split second. Without thinking, she flipped the Motorcycle Man the bird. “What is the matter with you, sport?”

Motorcycle Man shoved up his visor. Electric blue eyes that held no hint of emotion stared at her.

Suddenly, all her senses became very sharp. She was intensely aware of the hot June air and the sweat drizzling down her chest between her breasts.

The jolt of desire surprised and irritated her. The guy had almost run her over. If she’d had any sense, she’d not have taken on a redneck biker in an alley. But her nerves were shot and her mouth worked faster than her brain. “Hey, mister, do you think you can be a little more careful?”

“You’re the one that wasn’t watching where you were going.” His voice was hoarse, rusty and sent tremors down her spine.