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CHAPTER ONE

The car, once a Ford Explorer, is a roaring inferno.

I park my MG convertible in a No Parking zone, put my Police placard on the windshield, and get out to investigate. First responders, in full firefighting gear, are covering the burning car with white foam. I feel chilly. It's cold for an April day in Washington, and there's a slight breeze. I push my hands into my pockets to keep my fingers warm. Three DC fire trucks and a rescue vehicle form barricades at both ends of the block to keep curious onlookers away. A sudden gust of wind swirls the smoke into my face, heavy with the acrid smell of gas and burning rubber. My eyes sting. In the distance, more fire trucks are racing toward the fire, sirens wailing.

Watching the inferno is a woman I've met before—a DC fire department captain named Claudia Collins.

I show her my badge. "Marko Zorn. DC Police. We got a call from you folks saying you had a homicide. This looks more like a car fire to me."

"Wait till you see what's inside."

I follow Captain Collins so we're both looking through the driver's-side window, staying far from the scorching flames. Even at this distance, the heat is intense. Captain Collins's face is pale and drawn. In my experience, firefighters are stoic and have nerves of steel. But today, this woman has seen something so awful it's beyond imagining.

"What am I looking at?" I ask.

Collins points at the car. "There. In the front seat, you can see a man in there—on fire. Or, at least, I think it's a man. Maybe it's a woman. Who knows? Anyway, it's on fire."

I peer through the flames, smoke, and the air that pulses with heat to make out the form of what I think was once a human being. The corpse is turning black before my eyes.

"We got multiple calls this morning reporting a car fire," Captain Collins tells me. "When my crew and I arrived at the scene, the vehicle and victim were already engulfed in flames. There was nothing we could do."

I scan the crowd bunched at the far ends of the block. They're all staring at the burning car with fascinated horror. Except one man, tall and muscular, with a stiff, military posture and spiky white-blond hair. He's not looking at the burning car. He's looking at me. When he sees me observe him, he turns quickly away and disappears into the crowd. There's something about him that bothers me, but I can't put my finger on what. Why is he not looking at the burning car like everyone else? He's gone now. No use worrying about it.

"Did you try to get the victim out?" I ask the fire captain.

"Of course! We couldn't manage it. The doors are all locked, probably by one of those electric keys. We tried to break through the windows. Even though we have tools for that sort of thing, it was impossible. We didn't have time. In situations like this, the gas tank can explode."

A large truck pulls up, and half a dozen more men, dressed in heavy protective gear and face coverings, pile out of the truck and unload thick, black hoses.

"How long will it take for you to put out the fire?" I ask. "My people will need to examine the body."

"We'll suppress the fire in a couple of minutes," the chief tells me. "But you won't be able to get into the car for at least another half hour. The vehicle will be too hot to touch. You got to give it time to cool down. Then this mess is all yours, Detective. You'll have to share it with our arson team."

"You think it's arson?"

"I know it's arson."

I have a major crime on my hands now. This is going to ruin my weekend. I call headquarters and direct that the medical examiner and forensics teams come to the crime scene.

We're on a residential street of single-family, redbrick row houses with tin roofs and wooden shutters. The buildings are probably around fifty to one hundred years old. Some are derelict with broken windows, doors covered by sheets of plywood, shutters missing or hanging loose, and front yards full of weeds and trash. Other buildings have been well maintained, their front lawns cared for—some even have small flower beds.