“Not anymore. Either it’s been immobilized or he’s waiting for you to jump inside before he starts shooting. It’s a death trap now.” “I can’t leave it.” Pause. “It has your ashes in it.”

“You kept them all this time?”

“Funny, isn’t it?”

“Yes, actually, but not worth your life anymore, are they? I parked my rental about a block away.”

“But, Dad, it’s my car.”

“It’s our only chance. We have many things still to do. We need a clean breakaway. Trust me on this.”

Kyle turned and looked at him, looked at his father, and suddenly he didn’t give a damn about the rusted old Datsun. What he wanted, what he had wanted for years, was someone he could rely on. His father, even before he supposedly died, had never been what you could call reliable, and his reappearance after fourteen years of what could only be considered desertion didn’t bode well for a swift turnabout. And yet Kyle had so often dreamed over the years of just this, a chance to put his fate in his father’s hands, that he couldn’t refuse. There were questions that needed to be answered, and soon, but not now. Now he’d rely on the old man, because it’s what he had wanted to do all his life.

“All right,” said Kyle. “I’ll follow you.”

“Good. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” said Kyle, and then he turned his head. “Hey, Dad.”

“Yes, boyo?”

“Happy Father’s Day.”

A gentle smile on his father’s face. “Is that what it is?”

“That’s what it is,” said Kyle, his voice choked, his heart so full it cracked. “Okay, let’s go.”

In the street a small crowd had gathered, pulled out of their parlors and off their porches by the light and the noise, watching the inferno devour the empty old Cape Cod as they waited for the arrival of the fire engines that had been summoned over and again from one cell phone after another. And every now and then, another rocket would shoot up from behind the house like a signal flare from some fiendish battle, exploding across the stars in fingers of fire emanating from a perfect blue eye hanging fierce and unblinking in the night sky. And the crowd would go “Awww” as if the display were being put on solely for their amusement.

And just as one of those rockets burst incandescent in the darkness over the flaming house, while most faces were tilted to the sky with mouths involuntarily open in delight, a young boy noticed two strange shadows rising like ghosts from the ground beneath the burning house’s porch, one ghost seemingly young and strong, the other older and thicker, moving stiffly as he clutched something to his chest, both running from the house with their waists bent, as if trying not to be seen, running down the street, the young one turning back to take in the splendorous sight, and then running away, away.

“Look, Mommy,” said the boy, pointing at the disappearing shadows.

“Yes,” said his mother, her chin high as she stared at the sweet show in the sky, “isn’t it beautiful?”

CHAPTER 31

DAWN WAS JUST BREAKING as Henderson and Ramirez toured the charred and stinking wreck with mouths shut and hands in pockets. The roof was gone, jagged shards of wall stood out from the debris, the whole site was soaked through as if it had rained nonstop for weeks on end just upon this one patch of blighted earth. The two detectives took it all in with stony expressions. This crime scene was out of their jurisdiction, and they had no inherent authority here, but they had come right out once notified of the fire by a suburban inspector named Demerit.

“I recalled the request you sent in about any information we might have on Kyle Byrne,” said Demerit as he accompanied them around the scene, kicking aside any burned timbers that had fallen in their way. Demerit was short and gray and wore the cheap blue suit of a cop a bit too long on the job.

“We appreciate it,” said Henderson. “It was quite a thing for you to remember that request right off.”

“I knew the kid. Byrne was the best running back we ever had at Haverford High, and that wasn’t even his sport.”

“What was?” said Henderson.

“Baseball. I coached against him in Little League. He had a swing so beautiful it could make you cry. We didn’t have a fence high enough to contain him. I could have sworn he was going places.”

“A regular Babe Ruth,” said Henderson. “So what happened?”

“Life, I suppose. I played drums all through high school, was going to be a rock star, right? What about you, sweetie?” he said to Ramirez. “What were you going to be when you grew up?”

“A police detective,” said Ramirez.

Henderson looked at the interaction with amusement. This Demerit had been talking mostly to Henderson, which had ticked Ramirez off, considering she was the one who had put in the request for information about Kyle Byrne. And then the “sweetie” had pissed her off even more. One more strike and she’d be at his throat, which wouldn’t get them anywhere but would be fun as hell to watch.

“What do you have for us, Inspector Demerit?” said Henderson.

“The fire marshal found evidence of accelerant all over the place, so it’s definitely arson. The house used to belong to Byrne’s mother. The son inherited it when she died.”

“How’d she pass?” said Ramirez.

“Cancer. The neighbors say it came quick and with a load of pain. Nothing to be done for her. Sad. Supposed to have been a nice lady and still young. The son stayed in the house for about a year or so after, but there was a mortgage that he never paid. The bank seized it about a month ago, kicked him out, cleared it of everything, and put it up for sale. Pretty good motive for arson, don’t you think?”

“You’re figuring the kid for setting the fire?” said Ramirez.

“It’s not so hard. We were wondering if you knew of any contact information or the boy’s current address.”

“You don’t really have much on him, do you?” said Ramirez. “He was angry at a bank. Who the hell isn’t angry at a bank? If the headquarters of my credit-card company ever exploded, they’d be looking at me. You have any evidence tying him to the accelerant?”

“Nope.”

“Any fiber samples or blood?”

“Nothing that survived the fire.”

“Any threatening letters to the bank, anything said to friends or relatives?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Then you don’t really have much tying Kyle Byrne to the fire, do you?”

“Well,” said Demerit, rubbing his jaw, “there is the car.”

Just then they reached the rear of the driveway, where a burnedout wreck of a sports car squatted on singed and ruined tires. The left front was still bright red, with its headlight and bumper fully intact, but the right side, closest to the house, and the whole rear end, starting with the doors and moving back, were a discolored, stinking mess of gray and black, leading to a hatchback where sheets of metal had been stripped away by fire and force.