But something's different.
I crouch beside the most intact pour pattern, studying edge characteristics. Accelerant spread is narrower than previous fires, burn pattern shallower. Whoever did this used less accelerant or a different type, changing the signature just enough to create variation.
Evolution. Learning. Adaptation.
The arsonist is refining their technique, and that pisses me off more than anything. This isn't desperation or impulse. This is craft.
Fire Marshal Davis arrives while I'm photographing the origin area. He joins me inside, expression grim.
"Same methodology?"
"Similar. Not identical." I gesture to the pour patterns. "Same approach, multiple ignition points, professional work. But accelerant characteristics are different. Less volume, different spread. Either experimenting or someone's copying."
"Copycat?"
"Or adaptation." I stand, brushing soot from my gloves. "Either way, this doesn't fit the protection racket theory."
"Why not?"
"Building owner isn't Brotherhood-connected. David Sullivan, runs an import business. There’s no real connect to the Brotherhood, but he frequented the bar and has talked about getting a custom bike. He has no relationship with previous victims. Doesn't fit the pattern."
Davis processes this. "So either the arsonist moved beyond Brotherhood targets, or we've been looking at this wrong from the beginning."
"Or someone's muddying the waters." I pull out my notebook, sketching the scene layout. "I'll confirm Sullivan's background. Financial disputes, business conflicts, anything that explains why his warehouse became a target."
We work the scene for hours. Davis handles witness interviews while I document evidence, collecting accelerant samples, photographing burn patterns from multiple angles. Painstaking work. The kind that builds cases.
Mira stays behind the perimeter the entire time, tablet in hand, taking notes. Doesn't try to cross into the scene or interfere. Just watches, professional and patient. Waiting for something—answers, mistakes, proof of whatever theory she's building in that sharp mind of hers.
Davis finds me photographing the northeast corner, his expression telling me he's got something before he even opens his mouth. "Got something interesting. Sullivan turned down a business proposal a few weeks back. A Brotherhood member wanted to partner with him, buy into the operation. Sullivan wasn't interested."
I stop mid-photograph. "Brotherhood member?"
"Employee didn't catch a name. Just remembered Sullivan mentioning it was someone from your club. Made Sullivanuncomfortable because the guy got pushy about it." Davis checks his notes. "Sullivan seemed relieved when he finally backed off."
Anger flares hot in my chest. If a Brotherhood member approached Sullivan with a business proposal, I would know about it. We don't make moves like that without the club knowing—especially not aggressive partnership offers that make people uncomfortable. That gets discussed in Church, gets vetted, gets approved.
"If one of my brothers was pushing Sullivan for a partnership, I'd know." I finish photographing the corner with more force than necessary. "Either the employee is mistaken, or someone claimed to be Brotherhood when they weren't."
Davis frowns. "Why would someone do that?"
"To create exactly the pattern we've been seeing. Make it look like the club is running protection or targeting businesses." I brush soot from my gloves, hands wanting to curl into fists. "Frame us for arson."
"Or a Brotherhood member went rogue? Decided to retaliate on his own?"
"Fires match too closely in methodology. Same person doing all of them, not different brothers acting independently." I straighten, jaw tight. "Someone's using the Brotherhood as cover. And when I find them, they're going to regret it."
Davis looks at me carefully. "Shaw?—"
"I need to talk to the other victims. Pete, Beth, Danny, Mike. Find out if they had similar situations. Business proposals, partnership offers, anything that connects them beyond the club."
When we finally emerge from the building, Davis heads for the command post. I strip off my turnout coat and helmet, cool air hitting sweat-soaked skin. Mira approaches as I'm securing gear in the truck.
"Different pattern," she says without preamble. "I could see what I thought were the accelerant trails. They seemed narrower spread than The Anchor."
She caught the variation from outside, recognized the significance without explanation. Professional competence I can respect even if everything else about her complicates my life.
"Yeah. Same methodology, different execution. Either evolving or we're looking at a copycat."
