“He was left alone while arrangements were being made to transfer him to the hospital. Apparently that’s when he started the fire. Jay’s message went on to say that he was sorry, that was all he knew, but he was checking into it and when he had further details he would get back to me. He didn’t, of course.”

“What about Brunner? After you were ousted, didn’t he pursue the matter of Jones’s death?”

“In the final report, he went with Jay’s explanation. The paperwork regarding Cleveland Jones’s arrest had been destroyed in the flames, so there was no documentation, but Jay was a hero, so Brunner didn’t doubt his word. You and the other media were so swept up in my story, so busy extolling the heroes, that the small footnote about Jones faded into obscurity. And anyway, he was the arsonist who’d caused death and destruction. Who cared how he’d died?”

“Brunner might now. If you went to him-”

“Can’t. He died. About six months after the fire. Cardiac arrest.”

“Oh.”

“In a way I’m glad he won’t be here to experience the shakedown. Whatever form it ultimately takes, a lot of blame would fall on him. I don’t think he was corrupt. A bit tired and lazy, maybe. Or just unwilling to rock the boat.”

She thought this over for several seconds, then said, “What about Cleveland Jones’s family?”

“A father. I called him, hoping to get some background information. The guy was hostile, said he didn’t want to talk about his wayward son. I stayed after him and finally wore him down. He agreed to meet with me. But when I got to his place, he wasn’t there. I went back several times. Called. Never could contact him again.”

“You know no more details than you did the night you went to the party.”

“No.”

“Did you ever learn why Jones was arrested?”

“Assault. Conveniently, no one could remember the nature of his crime, or where it was committed, or what time of day he was brought into the station. Amid all this hazy information, there was one fact of which everyone was absolutely certain: Jones’s fatal head injuries hadn’t been inflicted by anyone within the CPD.”

“Hmm. Just a tad suspicious.”

“You think?”

“Jay promised he’d have the arrest report to you by Monday.”

“It was an easy promise for him to make. He knew that by Sunday morning I’d have a dead girl in bed with me.”

He went to the window and parted the faded orange curtains, which matched the ugly carpet. Satisfied that no one was about to ambush them, he turned back into the room. “There was another unanswered question, and it was a dilly. How did Jones start the fire? With what? When he was arrested, his pockets would have been emptied, right?”

She shrugged. “He sneaked something past.”

“I’d buy that, except that no accelerants were found in that room.”

“They would have burned up.”

“Gasoline, kerosene leak into cracks and corners. It would have been detected even in that devastation. Anyway, Jones couldn’t have carted a gas can in there.”

“Matchbook?” she suggested. “Something that small would have been easy for him to conceal. In his sock or something. He could have lit one match, then thrown the book of them into the trash can, maybe saving some to light debris inside the air vent.”

Long before she finished, he was shaking his head. “No silica. It’s a compound found on match heads. It can withstand a fire. There was none.”

“So it was never determined exactly what was used to ignite the matter in the wastebasket?”

Facetiously he replied, “I suppose Jones could have rubbed two sticks together. Besides that, how did he light the fire, and see to it that it spread into the building, without inhaling any smoke? But for the sake of argument, let’s say he did. What did he hope to accomplish?”

“Escape?”

“Okay. That’s reasonable. But he’d been through this process dozens of times. He was only twenty-one, but he was a veteran criminal. He would have known that he would be locked inside that room. Seems really stupid, doesn’t it, to set a fire in a room where he’d be trapped?”

“If he was suffering from a skull fracture and behaving irrationally-”

“Assuming that much is true.”

“He could have been trying to commit suicide.”

“A tough guy like that?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. And who, even someone with a bone fragment short-circuiting his brain, would condemn himself to such a horrible death?”

“Maybe he only wanted to scare people,” she said. “He didn’t realize that, once the fire was inside the walls, it could spread that quickly. It was a prank, or the desperate act of an irrational man, that went haywire.”

“That still doesn’t explain the absence of smoke in his airways,” he argued. “But the biggest mystery of this whole thing is Jay’s stonewalling. He loved being in the spotlight, Britt. You know that. He was ambitious, and he had high goals. He freely admitted that he wanted to work his way up to chief of police. So why wouldn’t he want to be in the thick of the investigation, especially when the ME determined that one of the casualties was a possible murder?”

He began to pace. “Jay was a homicide detective. He should have been all over that unexpected development. The investigation would have kept him in the news, made his celebrity star shine even brighter. Instead, he distanced himself from it and avoided involvement. Very unlike Jay.”

“Very.”

“I think he stayed at arm’s length of the investigation because he feared the outcome. He was afraid it would be ruinous to either him or one of his buddies.”

“You were his buddy, too, Raley.”

“But I wasn’t in on the crime.” He stopped pacing and looked directly at her. “My gut tells me that our four heroes were covering up something having to do with Cleveland Jones, specifically the way he died. The fire was set so no one would ever know what took place in that room. That’s what Jay was going to confess to you at The Wheelhouse.”

She didn’t rush to either dispute him or agree, but held his stare, her brow furrowed with contemplation. After several long moments, she looked away, releasing a long breath. “You think someone killed him in that room.”

“Yes, I do. Do you believe I’m right?”

Her eyes moved back to him. “More than I believe you’re wrong. Everything points to it. Why would they go to such lengths to cover up anything less? But how do we prove it? How do we prove it and remain alive?”

“I’m not sure we can.”

She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, her face turned up to him. He could tell that the candid statement had taken her aback. He’d outlined the problem; she’d expected him to have ideas on how to solve it.

He had an intense but misplaced urge to reach down and touch her cheek, but he restrained it. After holding her gaze for a long moment, he said, “Britt, listen to me now, and listen good. You saw how I live. I’ve got nothing to lose. No career, no possessions or relationship…no nothing. But you’ve got everything going for you. You’re on the brink of a career breakthrough.”

“What are you saying?”

“Turn yourself in.”

“To Clark and Javier?”

“To the FBI.”

Her reaction wasn’t what he expected. She actually smiled. “I’ll admit, I’ve considered it. But murder is a state offense. The FBI would be reluctant to touch it. They don’t like interfering with local and state agencies unless they’re invited to, and the chances of that happening in this case are slim to none. Within hours, I’d be right back with Clark and Javier, and would look even more desperate than I already do. Not to mention how chapped they’d be that I’d gone over their heads.”

“You could tell them where to find your car.”

“But could I prove I was forced off the road?”

“Did the guys ram your bumper?”

“No.”

“Bump against your fender enough to scrape paint?”

“I don’t think so. Near misses, but-”