Fireproof

like he was playing house at someone else’s place and he didn’t like it no matter how much he loved Gwen.
    When the phone call woke them both, Tully should have beenreluctant to leave, disappointed or something—anything, but not relieved.
    Thank God, Gwen had been too sleepy-eyed to notice.
    He stepped aside. Let two firefighters tromp past him headed into the billowing smoke. Before sunrise he guessed this one would be a two-alarm. In less than a week Tully had learned more about fires than he cared to know.
    Another thing about staying at Gwen’s—it put him at the scene sooner than perhaps he wanted to be here. This time of night it was a short five- to ten-minute drive from her Georgetown condo. Ordinarily it would have taken him thirty to forty minutes to get to the District from his bungalow in Reston, Virginia.
    He took advantage of being early. Found a spot downwind from the smoke. The flames actually felt good against his back, warming the chilled night air, letting him forget the thinness of his trench coat. The days had been unseasonably warm for February but the evenings were still a reminder that winter was not over.
    Tully pushed up his eyeglasses. He pulled out a pen, and his fingers checked his pockets for something, anything, to write on. He settled for a sales receipt. Then he found a spot under an oak tree, safely out of the way, and started to examine the gathering onlookers.
    Son of Sam had admitted to starting hundreds of fires. Even before he shot his first victim, he claimed to be a serial arsonist. He’d set a fire, then stand off by himself someplace where he wouldn’t be noticed. He’d watch the blaze, enjoy the chaos, and masturbate.
    Tully studied the faces in the glow of the flames, trying to ignore, to shut out the crackling whoosh behind him. A camerawoman and a reporter had already stationed themselves up close to the ribbon.
    How did they get here this soon?
    Tully jotted down, “Who called in fire?”
    Then he looked beyond them, beyond the bystanders. He searched the shadows, scanning the alleyways and sidewalks across the street. He let his eyes move over the rooftops. He checked each window, side by side and row by row in the neighboring buildings. As far as he knew, these were warehouses, not residences, so it would be strange, or at least unusual, to see movement or lights on any of the floors.
    He moved to the other side of the tree and started the process again with the adjacent block. That’s when it struck him that the few bystanders looked like homeless people. He was used to seeing what he called the city’s “night crew.” Drug dealers, prostitutes, overnight delivery men, and cabbies. They were usually the only ones out at this time of night. But he never got used to seeing the homeless, with their hollowed-out cheeks and vacant eyes, reminding him of walking zombies.
    “Hey, Tully.”
    The voice startled him so much it made him jump. Probably thinking about zombies didn’t help.
    Tully glanced over his shoulder. Detective Julia Racine wore jeans and a leather bomber jacket, unzipped—her badge and weapon on display. There was always something Racine did or said that made her seem tougher than Tully knew she was. Tonight it was the unzipped jacket on a cold night, plus a swagger and now a swipe of her hand through her short spiky hair, which was still wet from a quick shower.
    “What are you doing out here in the shadows?” she asked.
    She didn’t expect or wait for an answer. It was Racine who had called him and this was her greeting. He was used to it by now.
    “He’s here,” Tully said, almost under his breath, and he didn’t move. His eyes returned to the adjacent building.
    He wasn’t sure Racine had even heard him. She came up beside him and stood stock-still, hands in her pockets, so close he could smell coconut and lime. Probably her shampoo, and it was enough for Tully to think that the aroma canceled out her swagger and her unzipped “I’m too tough to get cold” tough-guy message. It was one of the things Tully liked about working with women, though he’d never in a hundred years admit it—they always smelled so much better than men.
    “Fifty-five percent of arsonists are under eighteen,” she said with no emotion and without a glance in his direction, all business as usual.
    She studied the clusters of people while Tully continued to go from window to window, floor to floor.
    “You’ve been reading too many worthless