Firefighters from station forty-three were on the scene at 3:30 A.M.  They were stopped from entering by the heat of a fireball, a flashover shooting out the front windows.  Gases collecting near the top exploded outward through the roof.  Shards of liquor-bottle glass, apparently blasted by the heat, were scattered around room.  Debris from the falling ceiling buried the deceased, Dolly McNair, burned almost beyond recognition while she sat in her living room at 1669 NW 87^th Terr.- Investigation is in progress as to cause of death.  Origin of fire is established to be at site of body.  Autopsy report inconclusive, owing to condition of deceased.  She was ID’d by Lori Carter, daughter.

    He looked up, 10:20 A.M.  Where the hell was Charlie?  The dead lady’s sister was due in ten minutes. 

    At a light knock he yelled, “Come.”  He took a deep breath, let it out, swung his tight, jeans-clad legs to the floor and stood.  He straightened his tie, put on his gray tweed jacket and a smile.  Time for the party.

    Jennifer Morgan strolled through the open door. 

    He was impressed.  Late thirties--early forties, he’d guess.  Oh, yes, he thought, repressing a whistle of appreciation.  His eyes traveled north and south and north again.  Florida sun-kissed skin, auburn hair cropped short, classic features, slender as a reed in a smart, expensive-looking suit. 

    She wasn’t smiling.  She was not happy.  “Detective Adams?” 

    “Lieutenant Adams.”  Cool fingers touched his outstretched hand, sent a shock up his arm.  You’re losing your cool, my man, he thought. “Ms. Morgan?  Please, have a seat.”  He indicated a beat-up wooden chair alongside his battered metal desk. 

    “Coffee?” he asked, moving to the brown-stained coffee machine. 

    She’s tense, he thought, peering over his shoulder.  It was understandable.

    She sat on the edge of her chair, hands folded in her lap.  “No, thank you,” she answered.

    Adams poured amber liquid into a ceramic cup reading Boss and resumed his seat.

    Ms. Morgan leaned back, her short, tight skirt climbing her thighs as she crossed one golden-tan knee over the other. 

    Very up-tight, he noted, as one long leg nervously swung back and forth. 

    He settled deeper into his own chair, perusing the letter before him.  “You intend to file a complaint relating to the untimely death of your sister, Dolly McNair, against Frank Carter, her son-in-law?”

    “Yes.”

    “What makes you think this wasn’t an accidental death?” 

    Her gaze moved around the room, rested on Adams, flitted away-- not meeting his eyes.  Fingers twisting around each other, she said, “I learned of my sister’s death from a friend.  She phoned me to offer condolences.  Besides being shocked, I was angry.  Why hadn’t my niece let me know Dolly had died?  The more I thought about it the more furious I became.  I knew the control Frank had over Lori.  Then Smitty faxed this clipping to my office.”  Ms. Morgan placed the article on the desk.

    Adams read the condensed obituary:

LONGTIME RESIDENT, DOLLY MCNAIR, DIES IN HOME FIRE.

At one o’clock Monday morning, March 2^nd, Dolly McNair died in her home. A daughter, Lori Carter, survives her.  Cremation at Morningside Chapel, Tuesday, March 3^rd.  Internment immediately following services.  There will be no viewing.

    Jennifer Morgan looked up, mouth set, eyes challenging.  “You see?  No mention of kin.  The family is persona non grata.”  She seemed about to crumble as she stared at her well-manicured nails.  Then, she suddenly looked up.  “Dolly visited me two months ago.  She owned a valuable painting.  She planned to send it to me as soon as she arrived home--safer if I held it, she insisted—she didn’t trust Frank.  The painting never arrived.”  Jennifer Morgan re-crossed her legs.

    Adams watched, then forced his thoughts back to the matter at hand.  “And you think the missing painting has to do with your sister’s death?”

    As if not hearing him, Morgan continued, “I gave Dolly a beautiful red dress to give Lori.  Lori loves red.  She never called to thank me.” 

    She looked straight at Adams, her voice strong.  “I believe Frank killed my sister!” 

    The lady dabbed at her eyes with a slip of a handkerchief.  Her perfume wafted across his desk.

    Nice performance, but something was missing.  “Why didn’t you call them?” 

    She shrugged, frowned.  “I was busy.  Time passed.  Then the call came from my friend.  The funeral was over.  I left a message on their answering machine.  They never called back.”

    The lieutenant rocked slowly back and forth on the rear legs of his chair, hands clasped over tight abs.  “Did your sister drink?”

    “Dolly?  No.  Her religious beliefs forbade alcohol in the house.  Why do you ask?” 

    She pulled a gold cigarette case from her pocket.  “May I?”  Her foot kicked faster. 

    Adams nodded.  “Tell me about Frank Carter.”

    She bent her head, sighed audibly as she searched for something in her purse.  He reached for his lighter, lit her cigarette.  “Thank you,” she said, then shrugged.  “Frank liked a drink.  He wasn’t an alcoholic, if that’s what you mean.”

    “What about the rest, his life-style?”

    “Frank is always in debt or doing something shady.  The worst thing he did was to sign his dead father’s Social Security checks for two years.  When they finally caught up with him, Dolly paid the government back to keep him out of jail.  Of course, she hadn’t known he was doing this until Lori came crying to her for money.  There were other times she bailed him out.”

    Lieutenant Adams glanced toward his door.  Where the hell was Charlie?  She should have that information by now.  “Do you remember if they booked him at the time?  The Social Security scam?”

    Morgan shrugged.  “I wouldn’t know.  I know he never held a job for long.  Always asking my sister to finance one crazy scheme or another.  Dolly finally said no more money.  I know she suspected he abused her daughter.  A month before her death, Lori stopped visiting Dolly.  They live on the same street.  Lori wouldn’t answer the phone--punishing her mother.  It’s my fault.  I should have called my niece.  Don’t you see--I have to do something now.”  She brushed a tear away with the back of a sun-kissed hand.

    Lieutenant Adams jotted notes on a yellow legal pad.  He closed his pen, slipped it back into the breast pocket of his jacket and rose.  He held out his hand.  “Are you going to be in town long?  I want to keep in touch . . . er, the case.  We’ll check into what you’ve told us,” he added, suddenly feeling awkward.  She was damned attractive.

    “I’ll be here for two days.”  Jennifer Morgan smiled for the first time.

    Adams felt his blood pressure rise.  He stared after Morgan, sauntering down the aisle between the desks toward the elevator.  He watched heads turn in her direction, eyes following her.

    Detective Charlie Davis burst into his office, a bombshell of energy.

    “Sorry, Boss.  Hope I haven’t interrupted anything.”  She glanced back at the retreating figure, raised her eyebrows.  “Hmmm.”

    The lieutenant grimaced.  “What took you so long?”

    Davis laughed.  “The guy lived quite a life.  We came up with a scam, only he didn’t do time.  The bill got paid.  The guy worked in a gun store.”  She grinned.  “It gets better.  Ex-boss says he owed gambling debts—got calls from the bad boys—he fired Carter.  Oh, and yes, some boxes of black powder’s gone missing.”

    “Charley, we need a search warrant.  Check with Judge Massucci.  The two of us are going to pay a little visit to Mr. Carter.  I’ll meet you back here in an hour.  Something I have to do first.”

*   *   *

    l:20 P.M. - Lieutenant Adams stopped his car at the site of the fire for the second time.  Hosanna, he thought, demolition hasn’t begun.  Whitehead must still be probing.  Hell, they had cause.  “I’ll find your dirty little secret.”  Adams glared at the pathetic, windowless shell that was once a house.

    At the marked-off area where the burned body was found, nothing remained within a diameter of ten feet.  One damn blast, he thought, so hot the ceiling fell on top of the dead woman.  Daylight spotlighted the first floor debris through a hole in the roof.

    Adams backed out of the room, watching where he placed his feet, one step at a time, searching--

    The hallway farther down was clear, untouched by the fire.  Soot covered the walls, but the kitchen was clean, only muddy boot prints from the firefighters.  Inch by inch, he scrutinized the area.

    Hello, he thought.  By the backdoor sill--a long, dark smudge.  Something had been brushed away?  With his penknife, Adams scraped out a substance from a crack in the floorboard close to the stain.  From his pocket, he brought out a plastic bag.  A small amount was all he needed.  On his hands and knees he bent and smelled the contents; he zip-locked the bag, put it into his coat pocket, and stood. 

    Knew your way around did you--came through the kitchen door without a break-in.  Gotcha, mister!  You shouldn’t have dropped that bag.

    By 2:20 P.M., Lieutenant Adams knew the fire was set.  This was no accident.  Now all he had to do was prove who wanted Dolly McNair dead and who had the means.  Most of it he’d already guessed.  Guessing wouldn’t do.  He had to be sure.

    In Charlie’s report, Frank Carter sold guns.  Adams knew gun stores also sold firearms men bought for hobbies, antiques used for target practice that called for ball and powder.  Black powder.

    The Lieutenant’s mind raced ahead.  Let’s suppose the arsonist encircled the floor around the woman—drugged or deeply asleep—using black gunpowder, then threw a lit cigarette from the doorway.  Garaboom!  A fast-burning fire confined in a limited space, causing an explosion hot enough to blow the windows out.

    The small amount of matter he’d scooped up at the back door looked like black gunpowder.  It smelled like black gunpowder.  Therefore, it was black gunpowder.  He’d bet his badge on it.

    Police Lieutenant Zacheriah Adams checked his watch,  3:30 P.M.  Detective Charlie Davis stood with him at 1637 NW 87^th Terr, down the block from 1669, the site of the fire.

    Adams rang the doorbell.  They waited.

    He rang again.  Footsteps.  A pause, scuffling sounds.  The door opened a crack.

    “Lori Carter?”

    “Yes?” she said, in a tiny, barely audible voice.

    Adams showed his badge, his manner soft, caring.  “We’d like to speak to you—about your mother’s death.  Just routine, ma’am.”

    She glanced over her shoulder.  Her voice picked up in volume.  “I have nothing to say.”  She moved to shut the door.

    Detective Davis put her foot in the opening.  “May we come inside, ma’am?”

    The woman wilted.  “I don’t know anything,” she said, dropping her hands to her sides.  The door swung open.

    Adams catalogued his evaluation of the woman in the doorway: limp, mousy-blond hair, dull blue eyes avoiding contact, beads of perspiration above pale lips, non-descript dress hanging loose, approximately five-foot-three-inches standing, and nervous as hell. 

    “Is your husband at home?” he asked.

    “He’s sleeping.  I don’t want to wake him.  He works nights.”

    “He doesn’t work for the gun shop anymore?” Davis asked.

    “Yes, no. . . .  You’ll have to ask him.”

    “That’s why we’re here, ma’am.  Will you wake him now, please?  We’ll wait.”  Davis pushed the door fully open with her shoulder, hand flat against her holster.  The two police officers entered.

    Lori Carter moved slowly toward the back of the house.  She turned once  to glance over her shoulder.  A door closed.  Minutes passed.  Voices drifted down. 

    They waited.

    Suddenly a bang, like something slamming against a wall, a low cry.

    Adams and Davis drew their guns, running toward the room. 

    “Frank Carter?” Adams asked, replacing his gun at the sight of the man on the bed.

    The room reeked of sour whiskey and stale tobacco--and something else?  Adams’ nostrils recoiled at the combination of smells. 

    Carter lifted his squat body from where it rested on the bed, sitting up like an untidy Buddha.  Brown hair stood in greasy tufts.  Flab rolled over rumpled shorts, a stained tee shirt.  Head in hands, the lump of mush looked up, face growing red as the two police officers stood looking down at him.  The mouth curled down, twisting with disdain.  The voice snarled, “What the hell do you want?”  He pointed a shaky finger to the door.  “I don’t want you in my house.  Get out!”

    Low-key, calm, Adams said, “We can’t do that.  I have a search warrant in my pocket.  I’d rather we do this quietly, or we can book you and do it without your cooperation.  Which way do you prefer?”

    Lori Carter had her back against the one closet, arms at her sides, fingers splayed. 

    The lump that was Frank Carter stood.  “I told you, get the hell out of my house,” he yelled.  He attempted a swing at Davis, closest to him.  The swing went wild. 

    Davis jumped behind the assailant, hitting him behind his knees with her foot, knocking him to the floor.  She pinned his arms behind him, snapping her cuffs on the squirming man.  Her face broke into a smile.  “Okay.  We’ll do this your way.  Let’s go.”

    Pushing him ahead to the living room, Davis undid one handcuff, placing it around a post of the stairway going to the upstairs rooms.  “Sorry, sir.  We could have done this the easy way.  Stay here quietly while we do our job.  Behave yourself, now.”

    “You’re wrong about this.  I didn’t do anything,” Carter said.

    “We’ll start in the downstairs bedroom,” Adams ordered, ignoring the handcuffed man.  “Mrs. Carter, I prefer you stay with us while we search.”

    Adams rummaged through the dresser and chest of drawers, then made for the bed. 

    Davis headed for the closet.  She banged around for a few minutes, tossing things out to the center of the floor.  “Boss, in here--”  She reached inside just as the lieutenant let out a hoot.  She turned--

    Lori Carter slipped away from the wall where she’d positioned herself, reaching out for the bedroom’s door handle. 

    “Oh, no you don’t.”  The detective grabbed for Carter’s bony-thin arm, turning the woman about to face her.  “Please sit, ma’am.”  With a nod of her head, Davis indicated the only chair in the room. “Please stay there, ma’am.”

    “My, my,” Adams said, holding up a pair of worn jeans turned up several times at the bottom.  Gingerly holding open the cuff, the lieutenant showed his aide what lay snug in the crease, then pointed to a black stain on the knee.  He sniffed.  “Gun powder . . .?”  He sniffed again, his face creasing into a frown, “and whiskey.  That’s what the awful smell is.”  From his coat pocket, he brought out a large plastic bag, placing the jeans inside.  “Forensic should have some fun with this.”

    Mrs. Carter’s hands were tight fists; eyes frozen on a piece of rope twisted into the loops of the pants.

    Davis grinned and turned back, removing a large, square article from the closet.

    2:00 P.M. - the following day.  The phone rang.  Adams picked it up.  “Dr. Sanchez?  Uhuh.  I see.  You sure?  And the jeans?  Yes, of course.  We brought Carter in last night.  I’ll get on it immediately.”

    The lieutenant leaned back into his chair.  “Whatayaknow.”  He hit the intercom button.  “Charlie, get in here.”

    “Yes, Boss?” 

    Davis popped her head in the door, grinning.  “I called it, didn’t I?  That was from Sanchez, right?”

    “Yeah, smart ass, you called it.  Now get your butt over there.  Take Bigham with you.” 

    He had his hand on the phone, about to dial when it rang.  He glanced at the clock.  “Adams here.”  Cool it, man, he thought, his blood surging at the sound of the voice on the other end.  “I was just about to call you.  We need to clear up a few details.  How long before your plane leaves?  Why don’t I meet you at your hotel?  In the lobby, yes.” 

    2:30 P.M. - Detective Charlie Davis and Officer Bigham stood outside 1637 NW 87^th Terr.  Davis loosened the clasp on her gun holster, one hand slipping neatly around the grip of her new pride, a Smith and Wesson 40VE.  With the other hand, she reached for the doorbell. 

    Lori Carter answered the door.  Her shirt and pants hung limp on a too-thin body.  Her eyes flitted from one to the other of the two police persons, seeming to shrink into herself as she stared up; her hair more unkempt than the last time; her mouth pressed in a long, thin line.  She looked weary, like she hadn’t slept in some time.

    The detective shook her head at the sight of this poor soul.  She released her finger from the safety, relaxed her hand on her weapon and reached for her badge.  Nodding to Bigham, Detective Davis took out her handcuffs and placed them on the woman’s wrists. 

    Officer Bigham pulled out a card and recited Lori Carter’s Miranda rights: “You have the right to remain silent.  Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law . . .”

    5:00 P.M. - Adams walked through the lobby of the Hotel Hilton.  She was there.  Her dress was some sheer something that clung in all the right places.  He sighed, held out his hand and smiled.  “Shall we go for coffee?”

    “Fine,” Jennifer Morgan said.

    We look good together, he thought, glancing at their reflections as they strolled past a row of windows. 

    In the hotel coffee shop he held the chair for the lady.  They ordered and the waitress left. 

    “We’re winding up the case now.  I’m glad I caught you before you left,” Adams said.

    Niceties over.  He dropped the bomb.  “I think you should know your niece was one of the perpetrators in your sister’s death.”

    The beautiful smile left her face as her mouth twisted into a nasty frown.  “You’re going on what Frank said?  Frank is a bully.  Is his word good enough?”  Morgan asked.

    Adams leaned back in his chair.  “Maybe not.”  His eyes searched her face.  “We found an answering machine in their house with the message you sent.  Would you like to hear it?”

    “I know what I said.”

    “We found an earlier conversation between Lori and Frank.” 

    Adam put his hand in his jacket pocket and took out a small Walkman.  He placed it on the table and switched on the machine. 

    Lori spoke, her voice slurred, but unmistakable.  “Frank, we have to do it, now.”

    “Not me.  I want no part of it.  Killing’s where I draw the line.”

    “The will’s made out to her, stupid.  I’ll get nothing.”  Lori screamed, her voice pitched like she’d lost control.  “Mother won’t pay your debts anymore.  Make up your mind to that.”

    It was quiet for a moment but for the low sound of gears rolling.  Adams let it run.  He glanced over at Ms. Morgan.  She was staring at the machine.  

    Then Frank’s voice again.  “Lori, there has to be another way.  I will not be a part in your mother’s murder.”

    “You meet me at her house, and don’t you forget the gunpowder.” 

    “Lori, your drinking isn’t helping.”

    Lori’s voice changed to smooth syrup.  “Please, Frank.  She promised she’d help us.  My mother would let them kill you.  Please.  Seven o’clock.  Meet me there.  Darling, just this once and we can leave, go where ever you want. “

    Adams stared at Morgan.  “Any idea who ‘she’ is, and the bit about the will?”

    “Should I?  I confess, I didn’t think Lori hated Dolly so much.  Foolish girl.  She was adopted.  Dolly gave her a wonderful life.  Whatever happened to gratitude?”  Jennifer Morgan brought the tiny handkerchief to her eyes.  “The resentment must have been building.  My sister is . . . was quite well off.  They depended on her money for years.  I know Dolly threatened to stop giving Lori any more, but it was for her own good.  My poor, sweet Dolly.  She loved Lori so much.”  Morgan’s voice broke as she delicately wiped away a tear.  She sighed, glanced at her watch, stood.

    Adams indicated she sit again.  He smiled at the lady with the fabulous tan and the gloriously long legs.  “Here’s some good news.  We found your sister’s painting in a closet in the Carter house.”  He studied her face: a chiseled smile on cold marble. 

    “That is good news.  Perhaps they took it that night--didn’t want it burned in the fire,” she said.

    “We found something else in the closet . . . a red dress.” 

    He waited for some response from Ms. Morgan. 

    None coming, he continued, “You know, we’ve pretty much figured out what happened.  We have him for obtaining the stuff and assisting, but he didn’t actually do it.  Lori did.  She wore Frank’s jeans.  Clever, don’t you think?  Then she carefully hid them where we would find them.  Only why would he need to hold them up with a long hank of rope?  Wouldn’t expect she was smart enough to plan this so well?  I only met her once, but I wasn’t impressed with her brilliance.”

    He sipped his coffee, eyes staring at her.  “There’s something more on the tape.  Someone put her up to it.  It wasn’t Frank.”

    Jennifer Morgan said nothing.  She studied her watch again, poised half out of her seat.

    “When must you leave for your plane?” he asked.

    “Seven o’clock--I still have some packing to do.”

    “Please sit down.  Shall I tell you what else was on the tape?”

    “Is it important?”

    “I think so.”

    Morgan sat on the edge of her seat; her head held high, eyes mere slits in a stoic face.

    He grimaced, rubbing his face with his hands, then faced the woman across from him.  “Lori said you wanted Dolly dead.  That you needed Frank to help with the powder.  That you promised you would take care of them, share Dolly’s money.   When she told him Dolly had drawn up a new will leaving everything to you, that convinced him.  You both planned for him to be blamed—then deny any crazy claim he made.  Who would believe him over the two of you?  There wasn’t any new will, was there?  Lori says you set it up, including the newspaper obit.”

    He looked for a flicker of emotion on that once beautiful face; saw only hardness--void of remorse.  Why? he thought, would someone who had everything--  Greed, of course, and maybe jealousy.  He shrugged.  Nothing surprised him anymore in this business. 

    Jennifer Morgan stood, appearing ready to bolt as her eyes flew around the room.  Her words spat out at him like a trapped snake’s venom.  “She couldn’t keep her mouth shut!  The stupid little fool!”

    Adams stood also, observing the no longer attractive lady, shaking his head in regret.  He beckoned.  “Charlie.”

    Detective Charlie Davis put down her newspaper and sauntered from a table nearby.  She took out her handcuffs, reading Jennifer Morgan her rights as she led the lady from the room to a waiting patrol car. 

    Zachariah Adams watched Morgan walk away.  My-oh-my, if her hips didn’t sway just right in that short, short skirt. 

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