“How long has this been there?” said Henderson.

“Wasn’t there yesterday, according to the neighbors. And it’s registered to Kyle Byrne, though the registration has lapsed and it’s overdue for inspection, which seems par for the course in the way Byrne’s life has gone lately. And then a kid on the street claimed he saw two figures running from the house. One was big enough to have been Byrne.”

“I guess you might have enough cause to pull him in at that,” said Henderson.

Demerit rubbed his jaw again, looked right at Ramirez. “Any idea where I could find him?”

“That’s why you called us down?” said Ramirez. “To get an address?”

“That was one reason. I was also wondering why a Philadelphia police detective was so interested in the Byrne boy.”

Ramirez looked at Henderson, Henderson looked at Ramirez. They could argue bitterly between themselves for hours, but throw in a third party like this Demerit, with his cheap suit and annoying jaw rubbing, like he was auditioning for the role of detective in some community-theater group, and suddenly they were a team, trying to figure out how much to hold back from this suburban stiff. Henderson gave a quick shrug to let Ramirez know it was all up to her.

Ramirez turned to Demerit. “There was a break-in at a law office. Kyle Byrne was picked up inside. Before we interrogated him, we sent a request to your office, since this was the last address he gave. But it turned out he had a valid reason to be there.”

“And what was that?” said Demerit.

“It was his father’s office.”

Demerit looked at her for a moment, turned to Henderson and then back. “I thought his father was dead. He died . . . what?” He pulled out a pad, paged through it quickly. “Fourteen years ago. And a few days before the kid’s house burns down, he has a hankering to break into his father’s old office?”

“Maybe it’s a coincidence. The office was in the process of being closed. No one pressed charges, and he was released.”

“Did he give you guys an address?”

“This one,” said Ramirez.

“What was he doing there, did he say?”

“Looking for souvenirs.”

“Is that what he said? Well, maybe that’s what he was doing here, too. But the bank had already cleaned the place out. So maybe he just got angry, lost control, maybe he burned the place down, and his car got caught in it. Maybe that explains everything.”

“You think?” said Ramirez.

“It might,” said Demerit, rubbing his jaw, “if it weren’t for the fireworks.”

Henderson and Ramirez looked at each other with a mutual puzzlement as a uniform came up to Inspector Demerit and motioned him away. They talked softly for a moment, and then Demerit came back over.

“Give me a minute, will you?” said Demerit. “The fire marshal just found something that might be of interest to the two of you.” He left them outside and followed the uniform into the bombed-out wreck that had been the Byrne house.

“Did your boy Byrne really do this?” said Henderson.

“He strike you as a kid just welling with anger, ready to throw a bomb at anything that pissed him off?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither. Best as I can tell, he doesn’t care enough about anything in this world to break a sweat, better yet to set it afire. And this was his boyhood home—”

“Taken from him by the bank.”

Ramirez sighed. “Do you remember the house where you grew up?”

“Sure I do. Parkside. I still pass it now and then and remember.”

“You care who owns it?”

“Not really.”

“Neither would he. If he wasn’t paying the mortgage, he knew it was only a matter of time. And why would he burn his car in the process?”

“Maybe it just caught on fire without him trying. Maybe he’s a fool.”

“Of course he’s a fool,” she said. “We know he’s a fool. But even a fool wouldn’t park in his own driveway if he were going to burn down his house.”

“True.”

“And what was that about the fireworks?”

“Don’t know. Maybe it was gunshots mistaken as fireworks.”

“Or maybe,” said Ramirez, “the fireworks were a cover for something else. You figure this moron will ever tell us what he knows?”

“I suppose he will when his jaw gets all itchy again.”

“Yeah, what is up with that jaw rubbing anyway?”

“He’s been watching Columbo reruns on cable.”

“Next time he starts up, I’m going to smash that jaw with my fist. That would be the end of the rubbing.”

“I’d pay to see that,” said Henderson, laughing as Demerit came out of the burned shell.

“Why don’t you two come inside and down to the basement,” said Demerit. “I’ve got something you might want to see.”

They had to climb down to the basement on an aluminum ladder placed by the firemen, since the stairs had been rendered useless. The space was a wreck of scorched framing and ruined drywall, still flooded from burst pipes and the firefighters’ efforts to drown the blaze. Seared scraps and timbers floated in a few inches of dark, filthy water. The place smelled of smoke and damp cement and singed dreams. The charred overhead beams were still in place, though much of the floor above them had been eviscerated, so that slashes of sunlight gouged their way through the open roof and the two ruined floors into the basement, illuminating thick motes of drifting ash. Ramirez couldn’t shake the feeling that she was entering a church.

“Over here,” said Demerit as he waded through the muck to the edge of the basement. The two Philadelphia detectives followed, water seeping into their shoes. A number of fallen beams had created a blackened frame around some singed rectangular object.

“What the hell’s that?” said Henderson.

“A file cabinet,” said Demerit.

“I thought you said the bank had emptied the place out,” said Henderson.

“I did. But if you follow the line of framing still standing, you can see that this little jog in the foundation walls was boarded up.”

“So the file cabinet was hidden.”

“That’s what we figure.”

“You check out what’s inside?”

“Nothing of much interest, best as we can tell, just some outdated legal files and records, all of them at least a decade and a half old.”