arson than he did, so when he got the word that the fire at Oquossoc Inn might be suspicious, and there was at least one body, he let Bangor know that this one was his.
The half circle of driveway at the main entrance to the Inn was clogged with response vehicles. The crime scene van was stopped half-blocking the road, and the deputy sheriffâs car, and a half dozen other police cars, plus the private cars of some of the firefighters, had pulled in and been left wherever they stopped. Shep clocked the scene, then drove his 4X4 around to the side of the building and into the parking lot from which he could see the blown-out window and charred surface of the upper-story room where the fire had burned hottest. It was blackened and wet and no longer smoking. He got out and stood in the bleak early sunlight of what promised to be another heart stopper of a day, and stood studying the patterns of smoke and damage on the outside walls.
Within seconds he was swarmed by a crowd of reporters from god knows where, asking unbelievably stupid questions. Assholes with flashbulbs, what were they doing here? They had a weekly paper in this part of the county that told you who got married, who had died, what went on at the selectmenâs meeting, and gave people a place to write in to complain about the road commissioner or to advertise yard sales, and he thought that was about enough in terms of minding other peopleâs beeswax. Once when he had just been promoted he gave an interview to some bimbo from the Bangor Fishwrap. Came out sounding like Jed fucking Clampett. Wasnât ever making that mistake again.
He bulled his way through the swarm of assholes all stretching microphones toward him, yammering. What was the matter with these people, couldnât they see he just got here? The two words he kept hearing were arson and Artemis . What Roman gods had to do with it, he didnât know and didnât care. He wanted to talk to Denny Robertson, big-time.
The Special Response team from the fire marshalâs office was working carefully through their list of procedures in Mr. Antippasâs charred bedroom when Shep got there. It was a large room, with what had once been pale blue wallpaper. What was left of the paper was now grimed with smoke and peeling in wet strips off the walls. The carpet, once plush navy wall-to-wall he judged, was sodden and mostly melted, especially in the area from the king-size bed to the blown-out glass slider leading to a narrow balcony overlooking the parking lot. The floor-to-ceiling curtains, what was left of them, dangled in wet black tatters from the hooks along the left side of the balcony wall. There had been an enormous old-fashioned TV sitting on the dresser opposite the bed, with built-in DVD and VCR players. The cathode tube had exploded. The rest of the furnishings in the room were a desk and chair by the window, an upholstered chair and a floor lamp, and a bench at the foot of the bed. The deceasedâs suitcase was in the closet along with his hanging clothes. The floor of the closet was being used as a laundry basket, judging from the socks and enormous wrinkled undershorts tossed there. Farthest from the source of the fire, the contents of the closet were mostly intact. There was a stack of drawers, one containing clean underwear, one with fresh shirts still in their laundry packaging. Nice stuff. Shep checked for labels in the gigantic undershorts to see where they came from but there werenât any. Must be custom-made. Damn.
He went through to the sitting room next to the bedroom, which also overlooked the parking lot and the mountains beyond. The damage here was mostly from water, as someone had left a terrace door open. There was a laptop open on the desk, pretty well soaked. An ice bucket sat on the coffee table full of water, and beside it a coffee cup the victim had been using as an ashtray had a disintegrating cigar butt in it. On the arm of the chair, open and
The half circle of driveway at the main entrance to the Inn was clogged with response vehicles. The crime scene van was stopped half-blocking the road, and the deputy sheriffâs car, and a half dozen other police cars, plus the private cars of some of the firefighters, had pulled in and been left wherever they stopped. Shep clocked the scene, then drove his 4X4 around to the side of the building and into the parking lot from which he could see the blown-out window and charred surface of the upper-story room where the fire had burned hottest. It was blackened and wet and no longer smoking. He got out and stood in the bleak early sunlight of what promised to be another heart stopper of a day, and stood studying the patterns of smoke and damage on the outside walls.
Within seconds he was swarmed by a crowd of reporters from god knows where, asking unbelievably stupid questions. Assholes with flashbulbs, what were they doing here? They had a weekly paper in this part of the county that told you who got married, who had died, what went on at the selectmenâs meeting, and gave people a place to write in to complain about the road commissioner or to advertise yard sales, and he thought that was about enough in terms of minding other peopleâs beeswax. Once when he had just been promoted he gave an interview to some bimbo from the Bangor Fishwrap. Came out sounding like Jed fucking Clampett. Wasnât ever making that mistake again.
He bulled his way through the swarm of assholes all stretching microphones toward him, yammering. What was the matter with these people, couldnât they see he just got here? The two words he kept hearing were arson and Artemis . What Roman gods had to do with it, he didnât know and didnât care. He wanted to talk to Denny Robertson, big-time.
The Special Response team from the fire marshalâs office was working carefully through their list of procedures in Mr. Antippasâs charred bedroom when Shep got there. It was a large room, with what had once been pale blue wallpaper. What was left of the paper was now grimed with smoke and peeling in wet strips off the walls. The carpet, once plush navy wall-to-wall he judged, was sodden and mostly melted, especially in the area from the king-size bed to the blown-out glass slider leading to a narrow balcony overlooking the parking lot. The floor-to-ceiling curtains, what was left of them, dangled in wet black tatters from the hooks along the left side of the balcony wall. There had been an enormous old-fashioned TV sitting on the dresser opposite the bed, with built-in DVD and VCR players. The cathode tube had exploded. The rest of the furnishings in the room were a desk and chair by the window, an upholstered chair and a floor lamp, and a bench at the foot of the bed. The deceasedâs suitcase was in the closet along with his hanging clothes. The floor of the closet was being used as a laundry basket, judging from the socks and enormous wrinkled undershorts tossed there. Farthest from the source of the fire, the contents of the closet were mostly intact. There was a stack of drawers, one containing clean underwear, one with fresh shirts still in their laundry packaging. Nice stuff. Shep checked for labels in the gigantic undershorts to see where they came from but there werenât any. Must be custom-made. Damn.
He went through to the sitting room next to the bedroom, which also overlooked the parking lot and the mountains beyond. The damage here was mostly from water, as someone had left a terrace door open. There was a laptop open on the desk, pretty well soaked. An ice bucket sat on the coffee table full of water, and beside it a coffee cup the victim had been using as an ashtray had a disintegrating cigar butt in it. On the arm of the chair, open and
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