The fire was located on a seedy strip on the western fringes of the University of Pennsylvania. Darkness had fallen, and flashing emergency lights were visible miles away. Police cars had closed off two blocks of the street. There were at least eight fire engines and four ladder trucks, and more than seventy feet in the air, firefighters in buckets blasted the smoking roof with deluge guns. The night rumbled with diesel engines, and the blasting of high pressure water drummed over wood and shattered more glass. Tumescent hoses snaked across the street, and water was up to the hubcaps of parked cars that would be going nowhere anytime soon.

Photographers and news crews prowled sidewalks and were suddenly on alert when McGovern and I got out of her car.

“Is ATF involved in this case?” asked a TV reporter.

“We’re just here taking a look,” McGovern answered as we walked without pause.

“Then it’s a suspected arson, like the other grocery stores?”

The microphone followed as our boots splashed.

“It’s under investigation,” McGovern said. “And you need to stay back, ma’am.”

The reporter was left at the hood of a fire engine while McGovern and I drew closer to the store. Flames had jumped to the barbershop next door, where firefighters with axes and pike poles chopped square holes in the roof. Agents in ATF flak jackets were interviewing potential witnesses, and investigators in turn-outs and helmets moved in and out of a basement. I overheard something about toggle switches and the meter and stealing service. Black smoke billowed, and there seemed to be only one area in the plenum that stubbornly smoldered and spurted flame.

“She might be inside,” McGovern said in my ear.

I followed her in closer. The plate-glass storefront was wide open, and part of the inventory flowed out on a cold river of water. Cans of tuna fish, blackened bananas, sanitary napkins, bags of potato chips, and bottles of salad dressing flowed by, and a firefighter rescued a can of coffee and shrugged as he tossed it inside his truck. The strong beams of flashlights probed the smoky, black interior of the devastated store, illuminating girders twisted like taffy and exposed wires hanging in tangles from I-beams.

“Is Lucy Farinelli in there?” McGovern called inside.

“Last I saw her she was out back talking to the owner,” a male voice called back.

“Be careful in there,” McGovern loudly said.

“Yeah, well, we’re having a real problem getting the power to shut down. Must be an underground feed. Maybe if you could look into that?”

“Will do.”

“So this is what my niece does,” I said as McGovern and I waded back out to the street and more ruined produce and canned goods floated past.

“On her good days. I think her unit number’s 718. Let me see if I can raise her.”

McGovern held the portable radio to her lips and searched for Lucy on the air.