Playing with Fire

by Gerald Elias

  ‘Any cause yet, sir?’ Miller asked.

  ‘At this juncture it’s too much of an ice-skating rink to determine one. The water from the hoses and the melted snow took all of two minutes to freeze after we put the fire out, so now we’ll have to hack away at the ice to see what’s underneath. As far as we can tell, it could have been just about anything from a cigarette to faulty wiring to a turpentine-soaked cloth on a radiator.’

  ‘I’ve got a question, Mr Benson,’ Nathaniel said. ‘I live in New York City. We have fire hydrants on every block. But there’s probably not one of those within ten miles of here. How do you get the water to put out the fire?’

  ‘Not easy,’ Benson replied. ‘The way we try to do it is to find the nearest dry hydrant—’

  ‘What’s a dry hydrant?’ Nathaniel asked.

  ‘It’s just a standpipe you hook the truck to. The pump on the truck pulls the draft. We actually have two standpipes within a half mile we usually could’ve drafted out of. One’s by Denny’s old garage down the road that way and one’s in the other direction, by the bridge that goes over the Green River. But the problem was, we couldn’t find them because we had whiteout conditions by the time we got here.

  ‘So what we did was to drive one truck as close as we could get to the house and laid a five-inch supply line hose. That was our main attack truck. We put our second truck at the end of the driveway and hooked up to the supply line. We laid out two portable water tanks and had tanker shuttles from surrounding towns dump water in them. They got their water from our third truck stationed at Taconic Pond, about a half-mile from here. That’s called the source pumper truck and it’s got a high-power pump. Once we broke through the surface ice it pumped water into the shuttles.’

  ‘What if there wasn’t any pond nearby?’

  ‘Nathaniel,’ Jacobus said. ‘Do you mind? I’m freezing my ass off.’

  ‘I’ll make it quick, Mr Williams,’ Benson said. ‘You’ve got foam and chemical apparatus as well, but nothing beats good old H-two-O. Unfortunately, none of it did any good in the end. As you can see.’

  Jacobus was less concerned with the intricacies of rural firefighting than with the potential for frostbitten fingers.

  ‘Maybe you just should’ve made s’mores and called it a day,’ Jacobus said.

  ‘No doubt,’ Benson said, addressing Jacobus, ‘you’d been wondering why I had to badger Mr Miller to bring you down here this morning.’

  ‘Nah, that’s perfectly clear. You want me to die of hypothermia.’

  ‘Perish the thought. One reason was that with your expertise, we’d like you to examine any debris we come across that we can’t identify. We’re pretty good at determining accident or arson, but we always appreciate help from specialists.’

  ‘Jake’s an expert at debris!’ Yumi said. ‘His house is filled with it.’

  This time it was Jacobus who returned the favor, pressing his cane into Yumi’s boot and leaning on it.

  ‘Could Borlotti have been smoking in bed?’ Miller asked Benson.

  ‘Don’t think so. Hardly any fire damage in that part of the house. For sure the fire started in the shop. Besides, we talked to his best friend and asked the same question. Borlotti didn’t smoke. It worries me, though, there’s no sign of him.’

  ‘Maybe he started it and ditched,’ Miller said.

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Benson, ‘but his car’s still in the garage, and the snow piled against the outside of the garage door was undisturbed. We checked the tires. They were dry and so was the garage floor, so I’m pretty sure the car was never used.’

  ‘Maybe he left some other way, sir,’ Miller pursued. To Jacobus, Miller’s tone almost sounded patronizing. He wasn’t used to that from him. Maybe it was because Benson seemed to have no imagination, whereas Miller was a seat of the pants problem solver.

  ‘Have you come across any file cabinets, Mr Benson?’ Nathaniel asked.

  ‘None yet. But we still haven’t gotten to the basement. Could be there. Why?’

  ‘Tracing instrument and art fraud was my line of work. It’s possible a small-scale businessman like Borlotti may have kept business records there. If it turns out the fire was set, we might find something in a file that could provide an explanation. If any valuable instruments were destroyed, there’ll likely be some serious insurance claims. If it turned out that someone needed a lot of cash quickly it could be a possible motive.’

  ‘Lots of ifs,’ Benson said. ‘Here’s another. Let’s just hope that if there are file cabinets, they didn’t get crushed, burned, or drowned. Right now we’re still treating the fire as an accident, but if it was a crime, we’re hoping Mr Jacobus could tell us what other debris we should be looking for as evidence.’

  ‘How about a dead body?’ Jacobus said.

  ‘Now, Jake,’ said Yumi, ‘be nice to Chief Benson. He doesn’t know you well enough yet to appreciate your unique sense of humor.’

  ‘And probably never will,’ Nathaniel added.

  Jacobus thought for a moment. ‘In the absence of a dead body look for fine tuners.’

  ‘Come again?’ said Benson.

  ‘Assuming the instruments were immolated and are now sounding celestial chords in violin heaven,’ Jacobus continued, ‘all that would be left here on the earthly realm would be the metal parts that didn’t burn. Strings, maybe, but fine tuners are more solid, and I suppose less likely to melt.’

  ‘What’s a fine tuner look like?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Basically short brass screws with a round cap on a brass mounting. They’re attached to the tailpiece of the instrument. They loosen or tighten the strings fractionally so you don’t have to futz ’til the cows come home with the tuning pegs. Violins have a fine tuner on the E-string and most cellos have them on all strings.’

  ‘What about violas?’ asked Miller.

  ‘Who cares about violas?’ asked Jacobus.

  Only Nathaniel and Yumi laughed, well aware of violists’ inexplicable reputation as traditional whipping boys of the music world, where viola jokes abound. Benson and Miller, however, having no such insight, plodded on with their questioning.

  ‘But what can tuners tell us about the fire?’ Benson asked.

  ‘Because once you find them, you might be able to piece together not only how many instruments and what kind of instruments were in the shop, but also where they were placed. Violins are generally laid sideways in cases or lined up on hooks against the walls, cellos likewise but on the floor, so you’d find the tuners distributed accordingly. If, on the other hand, you find a pile of tuners in a Boy Scout fire pit in the middle of the living room, you’d know there was some funny business going on.’

  ‘See,’ said Miller, like a proud father. ‘I told you he knew his stuff.’

  ‘Your endorsement means so much to me,’ said Jacobus, covering his embarrassment. He had no difficulty handling insults, but nothing made him more ill at ease than undiluted praise.

  ‘And the bows that go with the instruments,’ Benson asked. ‘Could they provide any clues?’

  ‘I would expect they’re total goners, but if you find a marshmallow at the end of one of them, that’ll tell you something.’

  ‘Maybe I take back my previous comment,’ Miller said.

  Jacobus had lost sensation in his nose from the cold air, and getting impatient with the banter, directed a question at Benson.

  ‘You said my expertise was one reason you wanted me here. What’s the other?’

  ‘Tell me about your conversation with Amadeo Borlotti on Saturday night,’ Benson said. ‘The fire was likely set soon after.’

  ‘May I be so bold as to ask, Sigurd, shouldn’t I be talking to the police about that?’

  ‘Rest easy, Mr Jacobus. I’m also the town police chief.’

  ‘In that case, let’s go for doughnuts at K&J’s before I freeze my ass off.’

  FIVE

  ‘Hi, folks! I hope you’re all having a joyous holiday season. I�
�m Scott and I’ll be your server this morning. Coffee, everyone?’

  ‘Extra hot,’ Miller said, to which the others voiced unanimous assent. They also decided full breakfasts would take the chill off better than doughnuts.

  Benson ordered hot oatmeal and fresh fruit, Yumi chose pancakes. Miller and Nathaniel drooled over the Trucker’s Special.

  ‘Bacon and eggs, over easy,’ Jacobus said.

  ‘Perfect! Would you care to see our bacon menu?’

  ‘Bacon’s bacon.’

  ‘Not at K&J’s! Today we have an heirloom no-nitrate bacon; a cob-smoked slab bacon, extra thick cut; and a local, organic applewood hickory bacon. That’s my personal favorite. Or you can try our artisanal bacon sampler, which is one rasher of each, topped with our house-made seventy percent dark chocolate mole sauce for only six ninety-nine.’

  No one ever described Jacobus as a patient man, and neither Scott the server nor the Johnny Mathis Christmas medley crooning in the background would do anything to alter that general perception. Why the hell do restaurants need music in the first place? he thought. And Jingle Bell Rock isn’t even music. And it wasn’t even Christmas anymore.

  ‘The hell with the damn bacon. Just give me the eggs and an English muffin. And throw in an apple cider doughnut for the well-dressed little guy.’

  ‘Jake, what’s with you and doughnuts?’ Nathaniel asked. ‘You think the only thing police eat are doughnuts?’

  ‘They dough nut?’

  Jacobus took a sip of welcome, hot coffee as Scott the server departed.

  ‘Have we met before, Mr Jacobus?’ Benson said.

  ‘No, you’ve never had the pleasure.’

  ‘Then how did you know I’m a “well-dressed little guy”?’

  ‘Pretty obvious,’ said Jacobus. ‘When we were walking to the cars your feet weren’t sinking into the snow nearly as much as Roy and Nathaniel, who are big boys, and you were taking two steps for their every one. More like Yumi. Hell, I’d say you’re even lighter than me, and I’ve hardly got any meat left on my bones.

  ‘Also, when you handed me the Thermos, I could tell you were holding it with two hands even though it’s not a particularly large one.’

  ‘Maybe that was to keep my hands warm.’

  ‘No way, Jose. You had mittens on when I shook your hand, and besides, since when is the outside of a Thermos hot?’

  ‘But what about the way I dress?’

  ‘Top of the line Thermos – the kind that has that little pouring gizmo on top, and the coffee was a Kona-Yirgacheffe blend. Not cheap. I had a flyfishing friend down in Florida who spent a fortune on creels and waders just to catch a goddamn eight-inch trout. Anyone who fusses about accouterments will fuss about the way he dresses.’

  ‘Did you ever think about being a police detective?’ Benson asked.

  ‘Well, yes. As a matter of fact I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I decided I couldn’t think of a less interesting way to make a living.’

  Jacobus recounted his Christmas Eve conversation with Borlotti. With his acute memory, unimpaired by age, he recited it back to Benson almost verbatim, only leaving out the bit about figgy pudding. He also summarized his follow-up attempts to contact him on Sunday, all of which Nathaniel and Yumi corroborated.

  ‘Any idea what might have been on his mind?’ Benson asked.

  By the pacing and inflection of Benson’s question, Jacobus sensed there was inference behind the innocent inquiry.

  ‘You’re thinking Borlotti might have set the fire himself, aren’t you?’

  ‘Right now it’s not much more than a hunch. But if it had been an accident, don’t you think he would have called us at the fire department right away?’

  ‘But,’ Miller asked, ‘for argument’s sake, let’s say he did start the fire. What could his motive have been?’

  ‘The usual one is to collect insurance,’ Nathaniel said.

  ‘That’s what I was thinking, too,’ Miller replied. ‘But wouldn’t that be even more reason for him to call it in? He’d seem a lot less suspicious doing that.’

  ‘I suppose, unless he had a different reason to make sure the place was destroyed totally,’ Benson said. ‘We’ll probably find more as we dig, but for now it’s just one possible theory.’

  ‘But what about the car?’ Miller asked. ‘You said it was still in the garage. If he burned down his own house, how did he disappear?’

  ‘Couldn’t he have gone out of town,’ Nathaniel suggested, ‘by taking a cab to the airport? Maybe he was calling us from somewhere else.’

  ‘From what Mr Jacobus said of his conversation with him,’ Benson said, ‘it definitely sounded like he called from home, or at least close by, since he wanted to see Mr Jacobus right away. And if he had gone out of town, don’t you think someone would’ve known, or at least notified us by now?’

  ‘You said it’s not much more than a hunch,’ said Jacobus. ‘Is there a little bit of something you’re not telling us?’

  ‘There were some puzzling tracks in the snow.’

  Scott arrived with their breakfasts, singing a traditional Christmas carol with his own lyrics.

  ‘Your food’s here, merry gentlemen.’

  Jacobus slammed down his cup.

  ‘First of all,’ he said to Scott, ‘even my dog could sing better in tune than you. And though it may be neither here nor there, the comma in “God rest ye merry, gentlemen” comes after merry. There are no merry gentlemen in the damn song or at this damn table. Especially now. So why don’t you just give us our food and go a-caroling somewhere else. You know how to sing Far, Far Away?’

  ‘You betcha!’ said Scott, undaunted.

  ‘Good. Now go do it.’

  ‘Jake is an analyst,’ Yumi explained to Miller and Benson.

  ‘But before I go,’ Scott continued, ‘I checked with Chef Bob and he says he’s willing to make you our traditional regular bacon.’

  ‘He’s willing, huh? OK.’

  ‘How do you like it?’

  Johnny Mathis began crooning, ‘Si-ilent night. Ho-oly night … ’

  ‘Burned to a crisp. And tell Chef Bob to turn that ear pollution off until next year.’

  Jacobus couldn’t see Scott wince as he left, but somehow he sensed it. He felt no regret.

  ‘Now, tell me about the tracks in the snow,’ Jacobus said to Benson, ‘while I’m still in a good mood.’

  ‘There were two sets when we got there,’ said Benson. ‘Of course we obliterated them – no choice – but those are the kind of things we take note of with a suspicious fire. One set went from the street to the back door of his house, or vice versa of course.’

  ‘The back door,’ said Jacobus.

  ‘Exactly. The back door being the kitchen door. On a night like that you would think going in or out the front would have been more direct and much easier, since it’s closer to the street.’

  ‘Maybe someone didn’t want to be seen coming and going,’ said Nathaniel.

  ‘Could be.’

  Jacobus tore off a piece of English muffin, dipped it into an egg yolk, and popped it, dripping, into his mouth.

  ‘But then it would be someone other than Borlotti,’ said Jacobus. ‘A man entering his own house wouldn’t be worried about arousing suspicion.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Miller.

  ‘What kind of tracks?’ asked Jacobus. He wiped his chin with a napkin and not his sleeve, since he was in public. ‘Footprints?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Pretty deep in the snow, mostly within a narrow path, maybe made by a snow blower. Strange, though.’

  ‘What was strange?’ asked Nathaniel.

  ‘It sounds like I’m arguing against myself, but it couldn’t have been a snow blower. First, with a snow blower you get the snow piled up on one side of the path or the other where it’s been blown off. Here the snow was untouched and level on both sides. There were no piles. Second, Borlotti had a snow shovel in his garage but there wasn’t a
snow blower anywhere.’

  ‘Maybe a neighbor did it for him,’ Yumi suggested. ‘Mr Borlotti was an older gentleman.’

  ‘We checked. Negatory. And don’t forget the absence of a snow pile.’

  ‘Maybe he just shoveled,’ Nathaniel said, ‘like Jake has me do.’

  ‘I don’t think so. The sides of the track were parallel all the way and the depth all along the path was just too even.’

  ‘Sled,’ said Jacobus.

  ‘Yes!’ said Nathaniel.

  ‘Nice try, but that wasn’t it, either,’ said Benson. ‘Sled blades would have left narrower tracks, and these parallel lines were much closer together and much deeper than any sled I’ve seen.’

  ‘Did you check for treads in the footprints, sir?’ Miller asked. ‘See what kind of shoe or boot it was?’

  ‘No time for that with the fire and with the snow still coming down. And by now the footprints are long gone. They were too deep in the snow, anyway, to get accurate tread readings. But the depth tells us one thing, anyway.’

  ‘That whoever it was was there shortly before you arrived,’ said Jacobus.

  ‘Exactly. The new snow hadn’t had time to fill them in.’

  ‘Which would mean that the blaze went up really fast, suggesting it was started by that person.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was the second set of tracks you saw?’ asked Jacobus.

  ‘This was strange, too. East Grange Road, Borlotti’s street, hadn’t been plowed yet. Not too many people live on it and the road crews were up to their necks just keeping the main arteries open. But there was a set of tire tracks, from a truck.’

  ‘How big a truck?’ Miller asked.

  ‘About the size of a delivery truck. FedEx or UPS.’

  ‘Maybe Borlotti was getting a delivery?’ Yumi suggested.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Benson said. ‘First of all, it was late on Christmas Eve, and we checked with both FedEx and UPS. They both stopped delivering at seven p.m., and none of them had any record of sending a truck out to Borlotti’s address at all during the day, anyway. Same with the local post office. Another curious thing is that the truck didn’t park right in front of Borlotti’s house. It had been parked just out of sight from Borlotti’s house where there were some pine trees along the side of the road. Also, it was there for more than the few minutes it would have taken to make a delivery.’