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When Sampson got close enough to look deep into the shadows beneath the ramp, he saw that the police tape was still up but the body was gone, and a winch was dragging the hulk of the Audi onto a flatbed. Two investigators he knew from the Metro Fire Department were standing to one side.
Hank Holder, an arson expert, had massive shoulders that rolled forward, humping his upper back. He also had long arms, bowed legs, and a wide forehead accentuated by thick black eyebrows.
His partner, Marian Gibbons, was waifish in comparison, a short, thin blonde with intense green eyes and a highly analytical mind. She had a master’s degree in chemistry from Rutgers and a keen understanding of how fires were born.
As Sampson walked toward them, he saw a line of small yellow flags running from the edge of the brush to the car. At the car, the yellow flags changed to red ones.
Boog called out from behind the near stanchion, “Hey, Detective. Welcome back to nowhere.”
Sampson stopped and waited as the young teen climbed down to him.
“I was hoping I’d find you here,” John said. “You hungry again?”
The kid nodded eagerly. “Always.”
“Figured,” Sampson said. “Go back to that diner, order what you want, and wait for me.”
“What if they won’t serve me?”
“With the amount of food we paid for this morning and the big tip we left, they’ll serve you.”
The kid grinned, glanced up toward the sentries, and said, “I’ll see you there.”
Sampson turned and walked toward the fire investigators. Boog called after him, “How long you gonna be?”
“Probably about half an hour,” Sampson said. He ducked under the police tape and went up to Holder and Gibbons.
“Big John,” Holder said, shaking Sampson’s hand with a paw that felt twice the size of his own. “Long time.”
“Least a year, Hank,” Sampson replied, then grinned at Gibbons and shook her hand too. “About a month for us, but always good to see you, Marian.”
“Likewise, Detective,” she said.
As the tow truck drove off with the shell of the Audi strapped onto its flatbed, Sampson said, “What did you find?”
The fire investigators turned all business. Gibbons pointed to the line of yellow flags. “That’s our burn trail from the ignition point to the car. But it wasn’t regular gas. That’s why the kid you interviewed said there was a whoosh and the fire engulfed the car.”
“Okay? What was it?”
Holder said, “We won’t know exactly until we run definitive tests, but from where we’re standing, I’d say the car was doused in avgas.”
“Avgas?”
“Aviation gas. Jet fuel. Super-super-high-octane stuff used in piston-engine aircraft. There were two five-gallon tanks of it in the trunk. It’s what blew the back of the car all to hell.”
His partner nodded. “And broiled your victim and any evidence.”
16
JOHN SAMPSON LEFT the fire investigators about twenty minutes later.
On the way to the diner, he spotted two security cameras on the street close to where it met the road that ran parallel to the lumberyard. Even in a torrential rainstorm, these cameras might have picked up on a black Audi SUV sometime in the hours before dawn. He decided that after he talked with Boog again, he’d take a run down to the other end of the road behind the lumberyard and see if there were additional cameras the car might have driven past.
As he got out of his pickup down the street from the diner, Sampson saw a text from Alex:
Nana Mama better but not out of woods. Still waiting on CT scan because one of two is down, and four car-accident victims just came in. She’ll spend night here. Bunch of tests ordered. I’ll keep you posted.
He sent a thumbs-up emoji, checked his watch, and saw it was five p.m.
