1

      POLICE LIEUTENANT Wes Kimball slid his truck to a stop behind two patrol cars—the entire force in Baxter, Georgia. The fire department’s ladder truck, pump truck and an ambulance completed the collection of city vehicles.

      Less than a hundred yards away the warehouse still billowed smoke. By the light of the three-quarter moon, he could see emergency crews lined along the sidewalk—shadows in the night, fighting a battle the heat and flames had already claimed. Still, two teams of firefighters held hoses of streaming water, aiming the quenching drink toward the building’s crumbling shell.

      Wishing he had a hot cup of coffee, Wes climbed from the truck, then strode purposefully toward the scene. The distinctive smell of gasoline washed over him.

      He paused, inhaling deep. Great.

      The second fire in as many weeks involving gasoline and a building owned by a prominent Baxter businessman. The second time he’d been called out in the middle of the night to investigate. Last time it was a real estate management office; this time an office supply warehouse. Since he was the only cop in town who worked the arson cases with the fire department, and he’d been dealing with the first fire for the past several days, Wes figured he’d hear from the mayor by dawn. That gave him only three hours to come up with a lead. On four hours sleep.

      He hunched his shoulders against the brisk October wind and approached the semicircle of cops standing to the side of the ladder truck. Great beginning for a Tuesday.

      “Early enough for you?” Eric Norcutt, a high school buddy and fellow cop, asked.

      “Too damn,” Wes returned.

      Two other members of the Baxter PD snapped to attention.

      Wes nodded. “Mornin’.”

      They returned his nod, saying nothing. Since he was known almost as widely for his formidable temper as his high rate of solved cases, he could hardly object. One of those things he vowed to work on—usually after he’d had a run-in with his boss or his older brother, who was the fire chief.

      “What’s the word on the warehouse?” Wes asked.

      “Dead loss,” Norcutt said. “Just like the other place.”

      A shout rose in the air, then a loud crash. A large beam fell from an upper floor and crumbled to the ground. Still, the firefighters stood their ground, aiming water toward the smoldering building, the picture of proud dedication. No doubt disciples of his brother Ben, who was the spitting image of their heroic father, both of whom Wes had long since ceased trying to live up to. He’d always felt like something of an outsider in his family, probably always would.

      Scanning the area again, he stiffened, recognizing two figures standing off to the side. The mayor—whose portly figure was unmistakable—and Robert Addison, the owner of the building, looked to be in deep and intense conversation.

      “BFD got here forty minutes ago,” Norcutt continued. “They found the warehouse already fully engulfed in flames. Thanks to the drought we had all summer, they’re concerned about sparks spreading across the field. They’ve soaked everything pretty good, but it only takes one.”

      “And their suspicions?” Wes didn’t have to say more than that. Every citizen—law enforcement, fire department or not—knew the first fire had just been declared an arson by the county fire