For the second day in a row, the phone had woken him up before 6 AM. The time on the clock read 4:47 AM, and for a second, he considered just ignoring it, but only just a second. He didn't have that luxury.

"Yeah?"

"John, it's me." Dimes sounded like shit, and that immediately got Riley's attention, pulling him into one hundred percent consciousness.

"What's going on?" Riley pushed himself up in bed and swung his legs over the side.

"We lost Bennett, John," Dime said, his voice cracking slightly. "And Dale."

Riley's stomach sank, "How?" There was no trace of sleep in his voice anymore.

He suddenly felt a pang of guilt as he remembered that he had never called Dale back to cancel target practice on Friday. He had meant to, but it was just one of those things that had kept not getting done.

Shit.

Riley got dressed while Dimes filled him in as best he could.

"They called into dispatch about returning a minor to his house, and then three minutes later there was a short, unintelligible, call from Dale. Really hard to make out, and then silence. They sent out a couple of units for backup... but it was too late. The house was on fire, Riley."

***

The neighbourhood was a flurry of light and activity; floodlights cast everything in a flat white light that scattered the gray of the pre-dawn night and split shadows. Two fire engines sat in front of the house along with several police cars, both marked and unmarked, and an ambulance. News helicopters presided noisily over the ground activity, immune to the privacy customarily afforded to crime scenes by yellow police tape.

Fire hoses trailed across the road and lawn, limp and empty. A few firemen were reeling them in while others stomped through the debris of the house.

A uniformed cop lifted the yellow tape for Riley to slip under. Neighbours had come out of every house on the block, standing in their own doorways or shuffling along the sidewalks talking to the other neighbours for probably the first time in months. Others opted to come right up to the thin police tape.

Further down the street media vans whirred as their rooftop satellites unfolded. Inside the vans reporters, intent on staying warm until the last minute checked their makeup in mirrors and practiced delivering their lines.

Dimes and another cop stood in the driveway, next to a car with open doors, no doubt the one from the low-speed pursuit.

"Figure out what happened in there yet?" Riley asked.

One of the firemen appeared in the doorway and signalled to Dimes.

"Come on. I made one sweep then got out of the way for Fire to clear the house." Dimes put a hand on his shoulder and guided him to the door. "That's the car behind us. Arnold is going to start processing it now so we can get it towed."

Detective Arnold Gray was the "third wheel" in the Homicide Department; a Detective who frequently worked alone to handle the smaller assault charges that also fell to Homicide and fill in holes in the regular teams when other Detectives were out. His presence was a signal that Riley was probably not here in an official capacity.

Dimes and Riley paused at the doorway. A stern-looking uniform handed a clipboard to them and Dimes signed Riley into the crime scene.

The inside of the house was black, charred and smoky. Everything was wet. Steam still leaked from some of the debris and despite the chilly morning, they had walked into a sauna. The rain and fire hoses left the air in the house humid and heavy. The roof had collapsed in the kitchen area and more rain misted through the gaping hole threatening to wash away evidence.

Riley coughed a couple of times as he took his first breaths of the smoky air, and the burnt pork smell of human flesh reached him.

"Here," Dimes walked carefully to the back of the room.

Riley walked behind him, trying to follow exactly in Dimes' steps. The house was small, and the only separator between the kitchen and the living room was an out of place counter, floating in the sense that it was not attached to any of the walls or other countertops. The roof had caved in filling the kitchen with burnt wood and shingles. Some of the debris had spilled over the floating counter and dusted the body.

"Jesus Christ. That's Dale."

Dimes nodded.

The room was filled with a sudden flash of white light, and there was a click and a whir behind Riley. Another Detective had come in to help with the processing. The flash of the camera highlighted the hole in Dale's head. The bullet had gone in just above his right eye. His gun was lying on the ground by his hand.

Riley shook his head.

"There's an unidentified in the bathroom," Dimes led the way.

The body in the bathroom was that of a young boy, half-naked and sitting across from the toilet leaning to his right against the shower door. There were two cans of gasoline nearby, a plastic one, melted and charred, and a metal one, still intact.

Riley pointed at the boys head. His face was charred, identifying him would rely on fingerprints, or dental records if his hands were too burnt to lift prints, but the cause of death seemed evident. A gun lay in his left hand, and there was a hole in his left temple. The blood splatter on the shower stall was still evident, although badly burned.

"Huh," Riley looked over the bathroom one more time. Nothing else seemed out of place.

"In here."

Riley turned to the left and followed Dimes to the master bedroom. The carnage was bad enough, but two cops dying made the matter all the more serious and personal, "I'm not going. This is too important."

Dimes shook his head, "Nope. The Sarge was clear on this one: you're spoken for. My call to you this morning was a courtesy. But I'm on it, don't worry."

Riley let it drop. He would take it up with Harmond later, now wasn't the time.

Bennett was lying in the doorway. Burnt badly, just like Dale. Whoever set the fire had put a healthy dose of gasoline on both cops. The walls were blackened, and the house had been gutted, but the fire had not been strong enough to do this on its own. The boy's body was burned too, but not nearly to the same capacity.

Behind Bennett, on the bed was the final corpse; female, young, tied to the bed and the only one in the entire house that was naked.

"What a fucking mess."

They retraced their steps. Outside, Riley pulled off the foot covers he had slipped on over his own shoes and stuffed them into his pocket.

"I'll find him, John," Dimes was at his side, pulling out a cigarette and resting it between his lips.

"So you don't think it was the kid either."

They walked back to the small cluster of squad cars, and Dimes lit the cigarette and took a deep pull before responding. "We'll see what the Medical Examiner says, but I don't think so. They wouldn't have gone into the house with just the kid, and he's not holding that gun. I don't think he even killed himself."

Riley thought about it for a second then said, "Fuck 'em. I can stay."

"John. You've got to go, even if you stayed at this point, there is no way Harmond would let you work this. You would just piss him off. Don't worry, I'll find this guy."

Riley nodded and looked around at the organized chaos of the crime scene; the occasional flash from the camera inside the house, the firemen, reeling in their hoses, Detective Albert methodically working over the civilian car on the lawn.

"Come on," Dimes said, reaching into the back of his car for a black case. "Help me process while you're here. You can start with the sketch. I'm going to grid the house and search, starting in the living room."

***

Dimes' cell phone chirped and he pulled it out, "Yeah?"

He listened to the phone then snapped it closed and looked around. They had been working for almost two hours; Riley had finished the crime scene sketch and helped Dimes search the house and amass a small pile of evidence, now photographed, bagged and labelled. Medical Examiners had removed three of the four bodies, the girl tied in the master bedroom was the last one left.

"Come on," Dimes said to Riley, "We've got the owner of the house at the station. We're almost done here, Arnold can take over and finish up."

Outside, Riley took one last look at the house before he pulled on his helmet. Even now the place was still a bustle of activity, without a matching noise level. Two cops were down inside, and everyone knew even if they couldn't say it yet, that whoever did it was long gone. The fire department had finished their job but was slow to pack up and leave, and more cops than were necessary milled around on the front lawn. The feeling of loss was second only to impotence.

The rain had stopped for now, though judging from the sky it would be back before long.

***

Riley smelled like smoke and dead bodies even though he had only been in the house a few minutes. Some things you never get accustomed to, for Riley the smell of burnt flesh was one of them. He didn't gag anymore, but it was unpleasant, and it took days before he could get the memory of it out of his nose. It was enough to turn him away from any backyard bar-b-ques for weeks.

The light rain had turned into a stinging downpour as Riley rode home from the station. Everyone seemed to be going ten miles below the limit, and every light flashed to red as he approached. By the time he reached the house, he felt rushed and frustrated. Things were happening, and Riley didn't want to miss them, but it had been made clear to him that his place was nowhere near Seattle. If the case was still open when he returned from Barbados, then he might be able to pick it up with Dimes and Arnold.

Still, he was determined to keep up to date with the case. He had gone over everything they had before he left the station. Preliminary reports stated that three of the bodies appeared to have been killed by gunshot. Also, the male juvenile also had a broken leg. There was no speculation on the cause of death for the juvenile female's body; there was no gunshot wound, but there were numerous lacerations, some very deep, as well as lacerations and bruising around her wrists and ankles where she was restrained. They wouldn't get a cause of death on her until the autopsy was complete.

The owner of the house, a man named Jeff Detolla, had come down to the Public Safety building on his own. He waited in an interrogation room for half an hour before Riley and Dimes arrived from the scene. When they walked in Detolla was sitting in a small metal chair that strained to hold him upright. He was a short round man in a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt that strained to meet across his stomach. He had short arms, and fingers to match. A file with the address of the house printed on it lay on the table in front of him.

Detolla started off by asking for details on what had happened: how badly the fire had damaged the house, how many people had died inside. His primary interest, it was clear, was the house.

Dimes cut him off without answering any of his questions, asking instead about the person, or persons, renting the house. Detolla's fingers trembled as he rifled through the file, licking his fingers a little too eagerly as he leafed through the loose pages. Finally, he came up with the renter's application form, waving it in the air with a look of triumph. Dimes reached across the table and took the paper from the man; the corner of it was wet where his finger had pawed it.

"I don't remember what this guy looked like," Detolla said, dragging a small handkerchief across his forehead, "He's been in there for two years. Never calls. His rent always comes in on time, and I leave him alone. I drive by the house once in a while, the front is always clean, and that's all I can tell you, really."

They photocopied the application and sent Detolla on his way.

"I'm going to go by the house now. Is that OK? Do you think they will let me in? Oh," something occurred to him and his voice took on a worried tone, "I have to call Jack." He looked up at Riley and Dimes and explained, "Jack is my insurance agent. He won't be happy," Detolla chuckled nervously.

Riley looked at their copy of the application, it listed the renter as Mr. Charles Larry. Larry had a small rap sheet, mostly for driving under the influence and one arrest for assault on an officer who had pulled him over and tried to take the very drunk Charles Larry into custody. His sheet showed him as 6 feet tall and weighing in at close to 250 pounds.

His place of employment was listed as a small construction firm in South Seattle. Riley dialled the number and got a machine.

"What kind of construction company doesn't open until eight?" Riley asked.

"One that hires people with two first names," Dimes responded and slid the paper with the company's number on it out of Riley's hand, "You need to go home, amigo. Then you need to get on a plane. I got this covered."

Riley let out a deep breath, it felt like he had been holding it since he answered the phone this morning.

***

A FedEx van pulled up in front of the house as Riley was lugging his bags to the front door. Riley watched the distorted figure of the man in purple through the giant decorative glass oval in the center of the door, the shapes rippling and tearing as the man walked to the door, a living cubist painting. Riley answered the door as soon as the doorbell rang.

The "From" address was listed as the 'District A' Police Station in Barbados. Inside were the police reports from the killings on the island, along with a few pictures. Or more accurately: photocopies of pictures.

He flipped through the pictures while still standing in the doorway. They were lousy copies, but they got the point across. Four total, there was one for each crime scene accompanied with a handwritten report, and a letter addressed to "Detective John Riley, SPD."

The cab pulled up while Riley was still looking through the reports. The driver stayed behind the wheel while Riley locked his front door, then pounded on the back of the car for the driver to open the trunk.

Riley sank into the back seat of the cab, exhaustion taking over his body. He was still sore from the spill on the bike the day before, his hip was bruised, and he walked stiffly. Coupled with the exhaustion of not sleeping and the loss of two officers Riley felt decades older than his 34 years. A light rain streaked down the window, lending tears to Riley's reflection. The whites of his eyes, usually a vibrant contrast with his deep dark skin were bloodshot and withdrawn. He had two days stubble on his face, with a light sprinkling of grey that he hated to see. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the seat, thinking Let's hope tourism is shitty and no one else is on the plane.

"Where to?" The driver had to ask three times before Riley realized he was speaking to him.

"Airport. Sorry, it's been a long night," he said.

The cab had a sour smell to it, and the smell of smoke from the fire was almost overpowering. Riley put it down to being in a confined space and cracked his window. The cab driver looked like he'd had a rough night as well, or maybe he was stoned. His eyes were bloodshot and what little hair he had stood up in clumps like he'd been pulling on it. A tattoo of a naked woman on his forearm had lost most of her breasts to a scar, cutting the pale blue ink drawing into two pieces.

"Where ya headed?"

"Airport" Riley said it louder this time.

"No, no-no. Where from there?"

Riley rubbed his eyes and felt in his pocket for his sunglasses. Empty. He must have left them on the counter.

"Fuck," he muttered.

The cabbie was looking at him in the mirror, his left hand gingerly touching a spot under his eye, waiting for an answer.

"Barbados," Riley said. Then felt compelled to add, "It's in the Caribbean."

The driver was nodding, and kept looking in the mirror at Riley, "Right, right... that's on Jamaica, right? Be a nice break from the rain."

Riley's lips tightened, and then he just rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. He had heard a variation of the "in Jamaica" over the years and almost added that information as an immediate counter-measure. The cab driver was already rubbing him the wrong way, and he couldn't be bothered, but he did have a point about the rain.

The weather in Seattle tended not to bother him the way it seemed to bother everyone else. Winter days got short, but he was a night person anyway. In Spring it seemed to rain all the time, but at least it didn't get blistering hot and humid enough for you to drink the air if you got thirsty.

"Business or pleasure?"

Riley looked up, "What? Oh. Business."

"What do you do? You like a banker or something?"

"No. I'm with Seattle PD."

"Ahhh. A cop." The cabbie seemed interested now, "You find the guy that started that killed them, people, last night, and started that fire? The one in South Seattle?"

Riley leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Back to the fire: the burning, smoky smell had only gotten stronger since he got in the car. He glanced at his watch, by now Dimes would have gotten in touch with the construction company. He might even be on his way to pick up Larry. And when he did would Larry smell like smoke and charred flesh? Riley thought he might. If he was at work at all.

When Riley didn't respond the cabbie just kept talking, "Shame what happened. That was a nice house," he caught Riley's eye in the mirror and quickly glanced back at the road, "I live just near there. I was getting ready to go on shift when all the commotion started up. So, you think they'll catch him?"

The driver adjusted his mirror so he could no longer see Riley in it. Riley shifted his gaze from the mirror to the scar running up the man's hand as he thought. He could feel the weight of his carry-on against his leg and still couldn't believe he was leaving. What he should be doing was staying in Seattle to find the guy who killed Dale and Bennett.

At his side, his phone started to vibrate. He grabbed it.

"Yeah, we'll get him," he said to the Cabbie and then held up a finger to pause the conversation as he answered the phone.

The driver grunted.

"We're fucked," Dimes's voice came through the phone. "You at the airport yet?"

"On my way. What's going on?"

"Larry hasn't worked there for over two years. We found his sister though. Turns out that she was a co-signer on the rental application. She hasn't heard from him in that time either. She said she thought someone else was renting the place now. Says she's been by there a couple of times and some other guy always answers the door. Creepy little white guy, overweight and balding with a couple of tattoos and he smells sour like he doesn't shower. Oh, and according to her, we're already looking for Mister Larry. He's got his own missing person file."

Riley shook his head, impatient. The whole thing was just getting worse and worse.

"Fuck. So who is this guy? What about prints? You get anything off of the house?"

"Pretty much everything was burned. We got some off of a knife in the bedroom and some from the gun in the kid's hand. Nothing yet though."

"Shit."

"I'm headed out to see Detolla now. Maybe he rented to someone else after Larry went AWOL and he just forgot."

Riley looked up, the driver had adjusted the mirror down and was watching him again.

"I've got to go," Riley said staring at the driver in the mirror. The man didn't seem to care that Riley knew he was eavesdropping. "Got a nosey cab driver. Keep me posted okay? Send messages to my home machine. I'll check messages; God knows if my cell will work on that island."

"You got it. Say hello to your sister for me."

"You don't even know my sister, Dimes."

"This is true, but I imagine she is nicer than you."