Part 4 (1/2)

He glanced up. ”Maybe.” With a putty knife, he began to sc.r.a.pe at residue. He sniffed, he grunted and, when he was satisfied, placed it in a jar. ”Do you know what oxidation is, Ms. Fletcher?''

She frowned, s.h.i.+fted. ”More or less.”

”The chemical union of a substance with oxygen. It can be slow, like paint drying, or fast. Heat and light. A fire's fast. And some things help it move faster.” He continued to sc.r.a.pe, then looked up again, held out the knife. ”Take a whiff.”

Dubious, she stepped forward and sniffed.

”What do you smell?”

”Smoke, wet... I don't know.”

He placed the residue in the jar. ”Gasoline,” he said, watching her face. ”See, a liquid seeks its level, goes into cracks in the floor, into dead-air comers, flows under baseboard. If it gets caught under there, it doesn't burn. You see the place I cleared out here?”

She moistened her lips, studied the floor he had shoveled or swept clear of debris. There was a black stain, like a shadow burned into the wood. ”Yes?”

”The charred-blob pattern. It's like a map. I keep at this, layer by layer, and I'll be able to tell what happened, before, during.”

”You're telling me someone poured gas in here and lit a match?”

He said nothing, only scooted forward a bit to pick up a sc.r.a.p of burned cloth. ”Silk,” he said with a rub of his fingertips. ”Too bad.” He placed the sc.r.a.p in what looked like a flour tin.

”Sometimes a torch will lay out streamers, give the fire more of an appet.i.te. They don't always burn.” He picked up an almost perfectly preserved cup from a lacy bra. Amused, his eyes met Natalie's over it. ”Funny what resists, isn't it?”

She was cold again, but not from the wind. It was from within, and it was rage. ”If this fire was deliberately set, I want to know.”

Interested in the change in her eyes, he sat back on his haunches.

His black fireman's coat was unhooked, revealing jeans, worn white at the knees, and a flannel shut. He hadn't left the scene since his arrival.

”You'll get my report.” He rose then. ”Draw me a picture. What did this place look like twenty-four hours ago?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, but it didn't help. She could still smell the destruction.

”It was three stories, about two thousand square feet. Iron balconies and interior steps. Seamstresses worked on the third floor. All of our merchandise is handmade.”

”Cla.s.sy.”

”Yes, that's the idea. We have another plant in this district where most of the sewing is done. The twelve machines upstairs were just for finish work. There was a small coffee room to the left, rest rooms... On the second, the floor was made of linoleum, rather than wood. We stored the stock there. I kept a small office up there, as well, though I do most of my work uptown. The area down here was for inspecting, packaging and s.h.i.+pping. We were to begin fulfilling our spring orders in three weeks.”

She turned, not quite sure where she intended to go, and stumbled over debris. Ry's quick grab saved her from a nasty spill.

”Hold on,” he murmured.

Shaken, she leaned back against him for a moment. There was strength there, if not sympathy. At the moment, she preferred it that way. ”We employed over seventy people in this plant alone.

People who are out of work until I can sort this out.” She whirled back. He gripped her arms to keep her steady. ”And it was deliberate.”

Control, he thought. Well, she didn't have it now. She was as volatile as a lit match. ”I haven't finished my investigation.”

”It was deliberate,” she repeated. ”And you're thinking I could have done it. That I came in here in the middle of the night with a can of gasoline.”

Her face was close to his. Funny, he thought, he hadn't noticed how tall she was in those fancy ankle-breaking shoes. ”It's a little hard to picture.”

”Hired someone, then?” she tossed out. ”Hired someone to burn down the building, even though there was a man in it? But what's one security guard against a nice fat insurance check?”

He was silent for a moment, his eyes locked on hers. ”You tell me.”