McMahon gave the fire chief a quick "See, I told you so" look and said, "So it isn't an accident after all."

"I wouldn't say that."

"I thought you said you found traces of an accelerant."

"I did, but it's not unusual to find traces like that in and around the garage. I see he has a couple of boats, it's a pretty big yard to mow…I'm sure he stored gas in the garage. He may have even had one of those gas caddies with a long hose. They're real popular around here. You save about fifty cents a gallon if you buy it at a gas station rather than filling up at the marinas."

Coleman nodded.

"A gas caddie?" asked McMahon.

"Yeah…they're a cross between a two-wheeler and big gas can." The chief gestured with his hands to show McMahon the approximate size. "They usually hold between twenty-five and fifty gallons. They're red, they have a hand pump, a hose, and a nozzle. You can wheel them around, but you'd never want to take it down stairs like the ones going down to the dock here. You'd just walk the hose down, leave the caddie up at the top, and fill the boats."

McMahon got the picture. "Can you tell if the accelerant was gas?"

"Pretty sure."

"How sure?"

"Ninety percent," answered the chief.

"Can you tell how much was used?"

"I'm not sure any was used," the fire chief said cautiously. "I'm just telling you it's pretty common for people to keep gas in their garage, especially around here, and when there's an explosion like this one, the gas goes up just like everything else."

"Can you show me where you found the traces?" Coleman asked.

"Follow me." The chief led them past the charred hulk of a burned-out car and pointed at the ground. "This is where the outer wall of the garage used to sit. You can see here where the slab starts." The chief kicked at the ground with his boot.

"Where did you find the traces of accelerant?"

The chief stepped over some debris and said, "It was concentrated in this area right here. From the outer wall of the garage to roughly over here."

Coleman remembered where the propane tank used to sit.

"My guess is," the chief pointed at the ground, "he had a small utility shed right there where he kept the gas. We think this might have been a two-banger. The first explosion came from the gas that had leaked into the house, and then the second explosion was the tank itself touching off a short while later."

"Any other hot spots?"

"We got a couple reads in the garage, but relatively small compared to this one."

The former SEAL nodded and said, "Thanks, Chief." He took McMahon by the elbow and led him back toward the road. When they were far enough away he said, "Mitch never had one of those gas caddies. At least not that I ever saw, and I can guarantee you, he didn't keep gas stored in a shed outside the garage a few feet from his propane tank."

"You know that for a fact."

"I know how the man thinks. He was very careful. There was no way in hell he would have stored gas in an outdoor shed, let alone that close to a propane tank."

"So what are you telling me?"

"I'm telling you Mitch didn't leave any gas outside his garage. You can figure the rest out on your own."

When they reached the street, Coleman looked back toward the house and beyond. He could see a few navigation lights out on the bay. "Irene tells me a fisherman pulled Mitch from the water."

"Yeah." McMahon pulled a small notebook from his suit coat pocket. "A local guy from Shady Side. Harold S. Cox." McMahon pointed north. "He was only a couple hundred yards away when the explosion happened. He says he literally saw Mitch flying through the air. He saw him hit the dock and then roll into the water. If the guy hadn't been there Mitch probably would have drowned."

Coleman was putting himself in the shoes of whoever it was who had tried to kill his friend. As a former SEAL he was drawn to the water. "Any other boats?"

"Two. They both called nine-one-one and helped Mr. Cox give CPR."

"Have they been thoroughly checked?"

"We're working on it right now."

"Did any of them see anything out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing came up during the initial interview that was handled by the sheriff's department."

Coleman's companion emerged from the woods. He held up his forefinger and said, "One guy. He had a bike, and he wasn't here long."

McMahon was completely dumbfounded. "Where? Show me?"

The guy walked over to the edge of the road and pressed his thumb down on the end of his tactical flashlight. The tiny device was extremely powerful. "See how the tall grass is pushed toward the street in that single line? Those are bike tires. The markings on the right are footprints. The tire track curves this way." The man pointed south. "The street dead-ends down there, but there's a trail that cuts through the woods." He looked at Coleman. "I've run it with Mitch before. After about a mile the trail forks-east to a beach and west, where it hooks up with a dirt road that runs along the edge of a small airstrip back out to one of the county roads."

"Back up a minute," said McMahon. "There were a fair amount of people running around here after the explosion. When I arrived on the scene I remember at least one person with a bike and who knows how many had already come and gone. How do we know it wasn't some neighbor who made that track?"

"Can you give me one good reason why a neighbor would carry their bike twenty feet into the woods, lay it down on the ground, and then lie down next to it?"

"Not off the top of my head."

The man looked back at Coleman. "I'm going to take a look at the path and see what I can find." He held up a Nextel two-way mobile phone. "I'll check in with you in fifteen."

"You want me to come with?"

The guy shook his head. "This tango is long gone." Without another word, the man took off jogging down the street.

"Who the hell is he?" asked McMahon.

"He's the best sniper I've ever seen. He can track anything."

"He works for you now?"

"Yep."

"Lovely. God, I hope you don't end up with the FBI on your doorstep someday."

"You and I both."

The sheriff returned, mumbling something under his breath. It was obvious things hadn't gone so well at the roadblock. "This TV crew is getting really pushy. They know we're stonewalling them. I spoke to their news director myself and he says we have five minutes until he gets a lawyer and judge involved. They're demanding to know the status of the husband, and they said they don't care if he worked for the CIA and neither will the judge."

Before McMahon could answer, Coleman said, "Sheriff, will you give us just a minute?"

The sheriff appeared hesitant at first and then consented. Coleman pulled McMahon a few feet away. "Can you take your FBI hat off for a second?"

"Do you really have to ask me that?" McMahon had proven to Coleman in the past that he was willing to look the other way.

"Throw the TV crew a bone. Have the deputy tell them Mitch is dead."

"Why in the hell would I want to do that?"

Coleman stared at him with a look that said, Do I really have to explain this to you? He would have preferred to not have this conversation with a law enforcement officer, but there wasn't a lot of time. "This was not an accident. It was a contract kill. One guy, maybe two."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"So why do you want us to leak to the press that Mitch is dead?"

"Theoretically speaking, in this line of work you get paid anywhere from a third to half of the fee as a down payment, and then when you complete the job you get the rest of the fee. If you don't complete the job, you don't get the rest of the money."

"And your point is?"

"If the media reports that Mitch is dead, this person will get the rest of the fee. Money will have to change hands. Probably a lot of it. That creates a trail."