Her phone buzzed in her hand, and she glanced down at the screen.
He got away from me, Luck’s text read.
I’ve got him, she wrote. Heading deeper into the park still.
She trailed alongside and slightly behind Sablatsky. She kept on him for another minute before she ran into an obstacle: a large, tightly-packed group of people were blocking the way ahead. A marimba band was set up in front of a fountain in the center of the park. Six or seven of the instruments spread across the pathway, and they’d drawn quite an audience.
At the far end, she watched Sablatsky slip through a narrow gap and disappear in the mass of bodies.
She jogged around the crowd and the band, where a dozen or so hands struck the wooden plates with their mallets in unison.
When she got through the swarm of people, she found herself at the far corner of the park. There were no booths here, so it was quieter, less packed with people. But Sablatsky was gone from view.
She moved roughly in the direction he’d been headed before, reaching a small parking lot that served this end of the park. Where was he?
Spinning slowly in a circle, her eyes searched desperately.
“Slippery motherfucker,” she said.
She was about to text Luck, hoping someone still had Sablatsky on their radar when a flash of blue caught her eye. He was moving through an alleyway between a row of buildings beyond the park.
Darger couldn’t help but think of the alleyway that ran behind Judy Galitis’ house.
She made for the alley, texting Luck as she walked. She couldn’t imagine her description of the place was much help. She’d gotten turned around in the park and wasn’t really sure where she was in relation to where they’d started on foot.
She kept the phone out after sending the message to Luck. It was more for show than anything. There was nowhere to hide here, and she hoped the appearance of being glued to her phone would be less suspicious if she were spotted by Sablatsky.
At the mouth of the alley, she peered down the passage. It was empty, but further down she could see where this narrow lane intersected with another alley running perpendicular to it. He had to be around the corner of one side or the other.
As she approached the intersection, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. If he were to torch one of these buildings, the packed park would be the perfect place to return to after the fact. He could melt back into the crowd in seconds, maybe even stick around to watch the aftermath, hidden in plain sight.
Her fingers itched for her gun, but no. Not now. Not unless she spotted Sablatsky in the act of starting a fire.
She forced herself to walk through the middle of the intersection as if she were just a pedestrian passing through. With her face still aimed down at her phone, she glanced in both directions.
No blue shirt. No nothing.
Shit.
She considered the possibilities. He was out of sight so quickly, he must have turned one way or the other. But which way?
She chose left first, hurrying down to the street entrance. Peering both ways at the barren sidewalk, she felt a jolt of panic run through her.
Wherever Sablatsky was, he could be starting a fire right now.
Turning on her heel, she hustled to the opposite end of the alley, eyes desperate to spot a flash of bright blue t-shirt. But this side was empty, too.
How?
She studied the line of businesses across the street, with more alleyways running between them. This section of town was like a rabbit warren of back alleys. He could be anywhere.
Not willing to give up, Darger crossed the street, hopping over the double yellow line. As she drew closer, she saw that the nearest alley was a dead end.
Movement danced in the periphery of her vision. A flutter of white from behind the glass of the storefront to her left. Beside the door, a red, white, and blue cylinder rotated, looking like a patriotic candy cane. The motion she’d seen was nothing more than a barber covering a customer with a smock.
Her only choice now was to check the other alleys. If Sablatsky didn’t turn up then, she’d have no choice but to admit defeat.
As she moved past the front window of the barbershop, she glimpsed the face of the man sitting in the chair awaiting his haircut.
Sablatsky.
She almost stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of him but forced herself to continue walking. Face calm and impassive.
The fucker was just out for a wash and style. She couldn’t believe it. Part of her wondered if he knew he was being watched. Had led them on a wild goose chase and then capped it off with a really mundane errand. But no. That was the adrenaline talking. It made her want to believe this had been a genuine fight-or-flight scenario. The more realistic version was the one where they’d all just busted their asses following a guy to his weekly trim.
Ducking into the next alleyway, she texted Luck and then called Beck.
“Jeez Louise, what’s going on out there? I’m on pins and needles over here!”
“He’s getting a haircut.”
“Sorry… did you say… a haircut?”
Darger chuckled, letting out some of the tension she’d been holding in for the last half an hour or so.
“Yeah. Kind of an anticlimax, right?”
“I’ll say.”
“Radio Manta Ray and give them my position. They can sit on him until he finishes up here.”
“Roger that. The second team from the afternoon detail is here with me now. They’ll keep a watch on Sablatsky’s car, and I can come get you.”
“OK. See you in a few,” Darger said and hung up.
The team known as Manta Ray showed up a few minutes later. Darger pointed out the barbershop and suggested they park in one of the alleyways with a clear view of the front of the place.
When Beck arrived, she looked a little shaken.
“Are you OK?” Darger asked. “You look pale.”
Beck wiped the back of her hand over her forehead.
“I really thought I screwed that all up. I couldn’t stop picturing him getting away from us and starting a fire.”
“It’s fine,” Darger said. “We got eyes on him again in the end.”
“Yeah, but if we didn’t? If we’d lost him for good, and he’d ended up setting another fire? It would have been my fault.”
The corners of Darger’s mouth turned into a half-smile.
“What?”
“You sound like me.” Darger shook her head. “Always blaming myself when something goes wrong in a case, like I’m somehow solely responsible for the outcome. Only now, when I hear someone else saying it, I realize how ridiculous it sounds.”
Cocking her head to one side, Beck said, “I’m not sure if I should be offended by that or not.”
“Look, this guy is fucked up in the head. Who knows why he does what he does? The thing is, he’s going to set fires whether you’re on the case or not, right? You matter not at all to his process.”
Before Beck could respond, her phone rang. It was Luck.
“Where are you?” he said by way of greeting.
There was a note of panic in his voice. Darger frowned.
“In the car. With Beck.”
“Turn your radio to Fire and Rescue’s frequency.”
There was a burst of static as Darger adjusted the radio.
“Structure fire. 100 Stark Avenue,” a male voice said.
There was a mechanical beep and then a robotic female voice spoke.
“Station 41, Engine 14, Engine 2, Engine 4, Engine 6, Water 5, Water 3, Rescue 2, Battalion 4, Battalion 3, Car 220. Structure fire at 100 Stark Avenue. At 100 Stark Avenue. Cross of West Kane Street.”
Darger stared at the scanner, not quite sure if she was hearing what she thought she was hearing.
Finally, Luck stated the obvious.
“Our guy set another one.”
Chapter 34
Realizing her mouth was hanging open, Darger closed it. It didn�
�t make sense. They’d only lost Sablatsky for a few minutes at most. And she’d just seen him, settling into the barber’s chair as calm as day. Could he have possibly set the fire in the small window of time he’d been out of their sight?
“The fire is at a club across town. The Blue Handkerchief over in West Hollywood,” Luck said.
“Wait,” Darger said, still catching up. “That’s like twenty minutes from here.”
“Yeah.”
She exchanged a glance with Beck, who looked just as dumbstruck.
“Sablatsky’s not our guy,” Darger said. “He can’t be.”
“It’s looking that way.” Luck sighed. “I’m headed over there now. Meet you there?”
“Yeah. We’ll see you then.”
It was rush hour by this time, and the roads were clogged with traffic. It took longer than Darger’s estimated twenty minutes to arrive on the scene. When they did, the entire building was engulfed in flames.
The fire crews had cordoned off the street around the blaze. They found Luck positioned near one of the barricades, his gaze fixed on the inferno. Camacho stood nearby in a crowd of other task force members, conversing with his partner, Murphy.
“Was anyone inside?” Darger wanted to know.
Luck’s face stiffened, and she instantly felt her gut clench.
“Apparently the bar does a 3-6 o’clock happy hour on weekdays, so they had a decent-sized crowd when the fire broke out. A lot of people got out, but we don’t have a final count.”
She wasn’t sure if it was the smoke or the idea of people trapped inside the burning building, but her throat was suddenly very dry.
This was one of those times she hated being right. Klootey had asked whether the arsonist was a serial killer, and she’d told him it depended on whether he continued to target places that would ensure a body count. She was pretty sure she had her answer now.
“So how do we know for sure this is the same perpetrator?” Beck asked.
“One of the unis first on the scene found an almost empty soda bottle tossed on the ground nearby,” Luck said. “He remembered from the task force meeting that plastic bottles had been recovered from the Galitis and church fires, so he picked it up.”
“You said almost empty?”
“Yeah. He opened it and gave it a sniff. Said he figured it was 50/50 that it’d be Mountain Dew or urine, but he wanted to be sure. Turns out it was gasoline.”
Crossing her arms, Darger frowned. Luck went on.
“Looks like he doused the stairs leading up to the bar. Lit them up and dumped the bottle after.”
Luck shrugged.
“They’ll test it for trace evidence, obviously, but it’s looking more and more like you were right. He’s leaving them on purpose. He wants us to know he’s responsible for this.”
He gestured at the burning building, and Darger’s gaze couldn’t help but follow, locking on the writhing flames.
Sometimes she really hated being right.
Chapter 35
Darger watched from the perimeter as a team of firefighters pointed two large canvas hoses toward the big front window of the bar. Streams of water jetted into the jagged opening where the glass had been, disappeared into the black.
She couldn’t see anything through the little opening but churning smoke disturbed by the water’s flow. Was the water helping? Was the fire dying down? Could they even tell at this point?
The roar of the hose seemed to drown everything out, so much so that Darger didn’t feel like she was standing in a small crowd of onlookers, most of them fellow members of the task force. When she stared up at the burning building, she felt alone. Closed off from the outside world, save for the image of this building with the black smoke twirling out of its open places.
Just her and the fire. Nothing else was quite real in this moment.
Something brushed against her shoulder, startling her.
“Sorry,” Beck said, projecting her voice over the din. “I’m heading out. Want me to drop you at your hotel?”
Darger envisioned herself pacing back and forth across the ugly carpet in her stocking feet, waiting for news updates on the fire from the TV. She couldn’t fathom leaving the scene. Not when there were so many questions still unanswered. But she didn’t have a 90-minute drive home or a family waiting for her.
“I’m going to stay. I can catch a ride with Luck later.”
Nodding, Beck patted her arm. “You’ll keep me updated?”
“Of course,” Darger said. “Thanks for coming out today.”
“Part of the job.”
With a final wave, Beck ducked into the mob and out of sight.
Darger turned back to the smoldering building, focusing her eyes on the streams of water shooting from the hoses.
The white noise of the spray lulled her back into a daze. It almost seemed like a version of silence after a while. And the voice in her head returned, louder in the quiet. Urgent and forceful.
How many dead this time? Surely it can’t be worse than the church.
Could it?
The flames had spread upward rapidly, touching the upper floors of the structure. Darger could see the flickering orange ribbons now and then, dancing somewhere beyond the upstairs windows, flitting in and out of view as though being coy about all of this, playing hard to get or some such nonsense.
Darger knew enough to know that what she was seeing wasn’t good. It had spread too quickly. All that could be accomplished from here, in a best-case scenario, would be what the corporate types called “damage control.”
A second team of firefighters now sprayed the place next door — a fitness studio with a hot pink leotard on its sign. The hose’s powerful stream bashed right through the windows. A fist made of water. The steady spray darkened the concrete facade in haphazard strips that reminded her of graffiti.
Within minutes a third team joined the first two, readying to douse the vegan brew pub next door on the other side. So maybe they’d stop it from spreading. She hoped so. That would be something, at least. Some kind of progress.
How many dead, though? How many burning inside even as we stand out here and watch?
More windows fell as the third hose loosed its stream, glass panes shattering one after the other. Darger realized that she could hear the breaking glass this time, if just barely — little high-pitched tinkling laid over the water’s roar. It reminded her of cymbals crashing in a noisy song.
The sirens sang over all of it, wailing and warbling in the distance, more trucks and police on their way. More and more and more. Another spectacle to descend upon.
The sheer volume of water now being sprayed on this little chunk of brick and concrete became hard to fathom. It sounded immense, the outpouring, and she supposed it was. The water just kept shooting into the building. Impossible quantities. Approaching 1500 gallons per minute out of each of the hydrants, if she was remembering correctly.
Another group of firefighters seemed to appear from nowhere, three of them climbing up onto the truck closest to the building. They looked up at the top floors of the building and then back at each other a few times. Yelling and gesturing all the while, all of their movements exaggerated to a ridiculous degree like they were slapstick actors from the silent film era. Finally one of them moved to act.
He scampered into place toward the back of the truck, and now the tower ladder ascended, its huge boom arm unfolding, lifting the lone firefighter in the bucket up and toward the building. He pulled up just shy of a third-story window and stopped, jerking a few more times, final adjustments to position himself just where he wanted to be.
Then he too began spraying water into the building from a nozzle attached to the front of his bucket. It was hard to be sure from the ground, but it almost looked like this could be a more powerful stream than that of the hoses. Thicker and faster. It made the bucket quiver just a little, the firefighter gripping the bars on the sides for support.
Here, at last, Darger could se
e some sign of progress, too. Steam billowed from the opening where this fresh jet of water entered the building, the clouds of it giving way to tendrils and then dissipating into the sky as it rose up and away.
Still, that voice in her head wouldn’t let up.
How many dead?
How many dead?
How many dead?
She clenched her jaw. Closed her eyes. Tried to silence that nagging internal monologue.
She listened to the spray, the endless sizzle singing a four-part harmony. And she breathed. Deep breaths. Counted to ten. And maybe the tiniest sliver of peace came to her, offered its paltry comfort or some muted version of such. A moment of stillness.
Yelling brought her back from her spell. Frantic sounds. Words she couldn’t make out. Mostly it centered around a vowel sound — an elongated O. It almost sounded like they were booing.
She opened her eyes.
The men on the ground waved their arms and screamed at the man up in the basket. A couple of them jumped up and down, as though that might somehow help them be heard over the din. It almost looked like they were doing jumping jacks in full firemen gear.
If the fireman in the basket heard any of the chatter below, he showed no signs of it. His head and shoulders stayed trained on the gaping window where he sprayed his nozzle.
Darger felt a tug at her elbow. Looked.
Luck’s fingers pulled at her sleeve. His eyes met hers.
“Roof,” he said, eyebrows lifting as he enunciated as hard as he could. She could distinctly see that final F-sound forming as his bottom lip touched the tips of his front teeth.
She blinked. Twice.
Roof?
Oh. Roof.
Darger looked up just in time to see the roof of the building collapse.
Chapter 36
The roof buckled and crashed down onto the floor below it, sparks exploding from every opening in a great glittering gust. The biggest swirls of orange specks shot out of the top of the building, now peeled open to the sky as though a can opener had made its way around the perimeter of brick facade. The sparks danced on the wind, spiraling and bobbing and weaving, strange floating fireworks.
Violet Darger (Book 6): Night On Fire Page 17