Someone Always Knows by Marcia Muller Page A

recognition. It wasn’t only the house that had died in the Webster Street conflagration. Someone trapped inside it had died too.
    Who? A squatter? One of the neighborhood thrill-seekers? Nemo? For Chelle’s sake I hoped not.
    8:10 a.m.
    I picked up my cell and called Chaz Witlow, an old friend from college who was on the city’s fire commission. As I’d expected, because of last night’s fire, he was in his office.
    “I was just about to call you,” he said. “You were spotted by a couple of our personnel at the fire on Webster Street last night—how come you were there? On a job?”
    “That’s confidential.”
    “Come on, Shar, this is me you’re talking to.”
    “All right. I have a client who owns that house and we were running a surveillance on it because it had been plagued by intruders. From what I heard on the news, it sounds as if you’ve already decided it was arson.”
    “There’s evidence that points that way. The house was an open invitation to firebugs.”
    “I agree. When I toured it, there were piles of debris all over the place. One flick of a Bic, and fire would spread very rapidly. Did your investigators find any evidence of accelerants?”
    “Not yet. But the fire appeared to have several points of origin. If it wasn’t arson, I’d be very surprised.”
    “And what about the body that was found there?”
    “No identification yet. It was a real crispy critter.”
    “That bad, huh?”
    “That bad.”
    “Chaz, there must’ve been two people in that house when the fire started. I saw somebody running away from it just seconds before the flames flared up.”
    “You get a good look at them?”
    “Not good enough to identify him.”
    “But you say ‘him.’ Are you sure it was a man?”
    “Reasonably. He had a man’s stride.”
    “Height? Weight?”
    “Over six feet. He ran like a heavy man, but I couldn’t tell because he was bundled up in a dark parka and jeans. He wore running shoes.”
    “Like half the men in this city. Any markings on the parka? Team or club names?”
    “None that I saw.”
    “All right. We’ll get onto it. I’ll keep you posted, and if you remember anything else, call me.”
    9:22 a.m.
    Kendra nodded at me when I entered the offices, and returned to whatever she was typing. I went down the hall to my private space and curled up in my chair under Mr. T., contemplating the brilliantly green Marin headlands. Until recently the hills had been browned off from last summer’s heat and drought, their oaks and eucalypti and bay laurel standing out in sharp relief against long grasses that resembled wheat. Now patches of green showed through. It was another nice day. The morning commute was winding down, although cars moved slowly on the bridge. Waldo Grade was backed up in both directions as people left the city and vice versa. Used to be the heavy traffic was inward bound in the morning and outward bound at night, but in recent years the volume had become about equal, as many businesses had spread to the suburbs.
    As I sat there, I began to feel lower and lower by the minute. I missed Hy. There had been no news of him from Craig. I wished we were together at the ranch or the seaside. But then I’ve wished for any number of things; some hadn’t happened, but a lot more had. Not bad, on the average.
    10:07 a.m.
    A knock on my office door. Mick stuck his head inside. “May we come in?” Then he walked in anyway, bringing a short, wispy-haired man in stained cargo pants and a rumpled T-shirt with him. The man looked nervous; he twisted the Giants baseball cap he held in his thick fingers.
    Mick said, “This is Lester Harwood. He’s…he used to be a serial arsonist, and has written a book about his experiences called Firebug .”
    I blinked. “Uh…great. Please sit down.”
    Mick motioned the man toward one of the sofas. “Les decided to give up his profession before his luck ran out. His book is a tell-all under a blind pseudonym that will be