Next to the gun sat a pair of bolt cutters, seared to well done. I said, “Someone was having a party.”

“Probably Mr. Charles Ellston Rutger,” he said. “Probably?”

“Body’s unrecognizable but Rutger’s Lincoln is parked around the corner and there was a solid gold calling card in the ash, with his name engraved on it. Plus, some dental bridges came out half baked, same for a gold collar pin and initialed platinum cuff links.” He cursed. “Dressing for success. Idiot cut the chain, climbed up to the turret with his Dom Whatever, goddamn goose liver, and no doubt some other comestibles that got vaporized.”

I said, “Picnic under the stars.”

He kicked a clump of mud off a sneaker tip. “Cretin probably convinced himself he owned the place again. Who knows how many other times he went up there, when there was no chain. I warned him but of course he can’t listen ’cause I’m a dumb public servant and he’s a goddamn aristokook. Talk about bad timing, Charlie Three-Name.”

“Story of his life,” I said. “Wouldn’t be surprised if the arsonist saw the broken chain, took advantage. How’d the fire start?”

“What the arson guy’s telling me so far is someone wadded charges of something highly combustible, probably petroleum-based, in at least eight spots distributed methodically throughout the ground floor. ‘Very well thought out’ was his description.”

“Petroleum-based as in vegan Jell-O?”

“Flavor of the month. The neighbors heard only one explosion, whole place went up like kindling, so it looks like a single timer. Coulda been a disaster if the winds were strong and the flames jumped to neighboring foliage. The fact that the lot had been stripped down to bare dirt actually helped.”

“Ground floor ignites, flames shoot up through all that open space, oxygen feeds it. Meanwhile Rutger’s stuck on top with the stairs burned out.”

“Wouldn’ta made a difference, Alex. This was sudden, intense immolation, no chance for escape. Rutger’s drinking champagne, stuffing his face, no one’s the boss over him. So now, he’s toast. Scratch that. Crumbs.”

A stocky gray-haired man wearing a yellow helmet, a blue LAPD windbreaker, and jeans approached us wiping a sooty, sweaty face.

“We’re going to be here for a while, Milo. You can go unless you want to stick around.”

“Better you than me,” said Milo. “This is Dr. Delaware, our psych consultant. Doctor, Captain Boxmeister from the arson squad.”

“Don,” said Boxmeister. “I’d shake your hand but mine’s filthy. This was some conflagration, reminds me of you-know-which jungle, Milo, huh? Vegan Jell-O, haven’t heard that in a while, yeah it sure works like napalm. You mind continuing with the murder part of it so we can concentrate on the arson? Which isn’t to say we won’t be collaborating.”

Milo said, “Sounds good, Don. That Fed I mentioned said Jell-O’s an eco-terrorist fave-rave.”