“Let me begin by telling you what I firmly believe right now as I sit in this chair,” he said. “The fire was not an accident.”

“That’s what we’re here to investigate, sir,” Marino said, more politely than usual.

“I believe the motivation was racist in nature.” Sparkes’s jaw muscles began to flex and fury filled his voice. “And they—whoever they are—intentionally murdered my horses, destroying everything I love.”

“If the motive was racism,” Marino said, “then why wouldn’t they have checked to make sure you were home?”

“Some things are worse than death. Perhaps they want me alive to suffer. You put two and two together.”

“We’re trying to,” Marino said.

“Don’t even consider pinning this on me.”

He pointed a finger at both of us.

“I know exactly how people like you think,” he went on. “Huh. I torched my own farm and horses for money. Now you listen to me good.”

He leaned closer to us.

“I’m telling you now that I didn’t do it. Would never, could never do it, will never do it. I had nothing to do with what happened. I’m the victim here and probably lucky to be alive.”

“Let’s talk about the other victim,” I quietly spoke. “A white female with long blond hair, as it looks now. Is there anyone else who might have been in your house that night?”

“No one should have been in my house!” he exclaimed.

“We are speculating that this person may have died in the master suite,” I went on. “Possibly the bathroom.”

“Whoever she was, she must have broken in,” he said. “Or maybe she was the one who set the fire, and couldn’t get out.”

“There’s no evidence that anyone broke in, sir,” Marino responded. “And if your burglar alarm was set, it never went off that night. Only the smoke alarm.”

“I don’t understand.” Sparkes seemed to be telling the truth. “Of course, I set the alarm before I left town.”

“And you were headed where?” Marino probed.

“London. I got there and was immediately notified. I never even left Heathrow and instantly caught the next flight back,” he said. “I got off in D.C. and drove straight here.”

He stared blankly at the ground.

“Drove in what?” Marino asked.

“My Cherokee. I’d left it at Dulles in long-term parking.”

“You’ve got the receipt?”

“Yes.”

“What about the Mercedes at your house?” Marino went on.

Sparkes frowned. “What Mercedes? I don’t own a Mercedes. I have always bought American cars.”

I remembered that this had been one of his policies that he had been quite vocal about.

“There’s a Mercedes behind the house. It burned up, too, so we can’t tell much about it yet,” Marino said. “But it doesn’t look like a recent model to me. A sedan, sort of boxy like they were earlier on.”