Page 54 of Love Again

“And you’re both helping out the Rockland Police Department?” He lightly taps stubby fingers against his lips. “That’s the way it should be. None of this territory shit. Well, come on.” Then he stops and give Luke the once over. “You know this is a dead site. The event was last fall.”

Luke smiles. “I realize that. My clothes got soaked last night, and all I had was my bunker gear.”

But Turrow has already decided Luke’s explanation is too long, and he barrels toward the sliding doors of the warehouse with an irregular step that makes him look almost jaunty.

The guy has got to be close to seventy. I swear his knees crack when he heads off to the building.

A padlock and chain have to be removed before Luke can help him push up the rolling door. The storage facility is an eyesore of sooty, twisted beams and the remnants of whatever was stored inside. It looks as if six or seven units were destroyed, but whoever owned the facility hasn’t rebuilt, and the other units are clearly empty.

It’s a ghost town of empty fifteen-by-fifteen-foot corrugated metal units.

“This is where it started,” says Turrow, coughing slightly and spitting. He casts a quick eye of surprise my way, like he’s forgotten I’m here, and then there’s a, “Sorry, ma’am.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Oh, I’m not a ma’am, don’t worry.”

“No accelerant was detected?” Luke pulls out a pair of blue plastic latex gloves and hands me a pair as well.

“Nope. No rags, no canisters, no devices. No residue, no lurkers.”

The last one means no one showed up afterward to watch. Mateus once told me arsonists like to see their work. They’ll stand around in a crowd and watch efforts to extinguish the flames or even step up to help, offering bad information or “eyewitness” reports.

“And no motive. It seems random. That’s why I wanted it bumped to the FBI. But Portland PD is a bunch of pantywaists.” There’s another shocked glance. “Sorry.”

At least he lost the “ma’am,” and I have no idea what “pantywaists” are or what it means.

“But you don’t think it was.” Luke is focused on Turrow. I bet he’s trying to figure him out as much as the clues the site might offer.

The fellow raises a bent index finger. “I’ve been at this for sixty years. I’m telling you there’s something smelly at the docks.”

We poke around inside the first unit for nearly half an hour. The remnants are charcoal sludge and mud, burnt wooden file cabinets, and office furniture. It would seem like something combusted inside and set the place off.

Then Luke points to the linear footprint of the blaze.

“It didn’t shoot up. It paralleled six feet off the floor on either side of the unit.”

“In two places,” I say.

Luke nods. “Whoever set this wanted to make sure units on both sides were taken out.”

He shifts his shoulders as the breeze kicks up. He must be freezing.

“So why did you want the FBI involved in this? Even if it’s arson, they don’t need to be—”

“’Cause it fits a pattern and it crosses state lines. I’ve been talkin’ to this guy, Keller, David Keller, up your way and he’s convinced too. This is one part of a series of fires. It’s the same guy.”

“Detective Carlson thinks so too, so you’re in good company,” says Luke, neglecting to mention Dave Keller is his brother. “But he thinks the fires started in York.”

At this, Turrow becomes more agitated, pacing around the small unit, gesturing wildly. “No, no, no. There’s a house down in Marlboro, Massachusetts. Another in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, then we get to York and Old Orchard Beach and the rest.”

“What’s the link?” Luke is still watching Turrow.

“Well, they’re all somehow connected to this one person. Even if some of it might be a little iffy—you know, like seven degrees of Kevin Bacon stuff—but it’s all there.”

It’s technically six degrees, but I admire Turrow’s attempt at pop culture.

Turrow fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a cell phone. A grainy picture of a man flashes across the small screen, and for a moment, time freezes. I can’t stop the small gasp that escapes, and then my heart starts to thud in my chest. Trying hard to control both my head and my heart is hard. One is enough. I fail miserably and both men look at me.

“You know this guy?” Luke’s concern is a third emotional strand I can’t braid right now.