“Well, guess what, boys and girls? The fireman set the fires himself. Not because he was a pyromaniac, if that’s what they call those people. No, he didn’t care about the fires. He cared about the prestige. The glory. He basked in it. Went away for attempted murder, in addition to the arson, burglary and assault charges. I think they dropped the vandalism. Didn’t need it really.”

He stabbed a finger at the TV. “Have you noticed that Brad Dannon has been on the scene of the disasters pretty damn fast? And that he was real eager to talk to the media about what he did. ‘Hero.’ That’s what they’re calling him. So. You think he might be the perp, your unsub?” He smiled in faint triumph.

“I—” Dance began.

“Wonder why we didn’t think of that before?” Overby said.

Dance wished he hadn’t added that last sentence. Throughout his monologue she’d been trying to figure out some way to sideline him before he tossed out a line like that.

Well, nothing to do.

She set the file folder she’d just received on his desk. “Actually, Charles, I did wonder if Brad might be a suspect. So I had Rey Carreneo check him out.” She tapped the file. “He correlated his whereabouts and checked phone records. After Bay View, we’ve got the unsub’s prepaid number. There was no connection. He’s innocent. His boss at MCFD says he’s usually on the scene in the first ten minutes of a call. He cruises around the county with a scanner, even when he’s off duty. Oh, and he’s known for being a real pain in the ass.”

A pause. Overby teepeed his fingers.

“Oh. Good. Great minds think alike.” And the look on his face wasn’t sheepishness for having been outthought, Dance believed; it was pure relief that he hadn’t offered up the theory at a press conference only to recant a few hours later based on the findings of his suspended underling.

Dance’s mobile hummed. It was TJ Scanlon.

“Hey.”

“Boss, I’ve been plundering various and sundry records. Real estate, deeds, construction permits. Per your request.”

She knew he had. “Yes?”

“Dusty. You’d think everything would be online but, un-uh. I’ve been prowling through shelves, back rooms. Caverns. Where are you?”

“Charles’s office.”

“I’ll be there in one. You’re going to want to see this.”

He arrived in less time than that. And his flecked Jefferson Airplane T-shirt and, yes, dusty jeans attested to his old-fashioned detective work.

Caverns…

He held a file folder similar to the one she’d just passed to Overby.

“Michael, Charles. Hey, boss. Okay. Check this out. Nobody got back to me from that Nevada company, the one planning that construction near Solitude Creek? So I thought I’d do some digging. Try to find shareholders, whatever. Well, the company is owned by an anonymous trust. I tried to get a look at the trust but it’s not public. I could, though, find out who represents it. Barrett Stone, a lawyer in San Francisco. How’s that for a lawyer’s name? I’d want him representing me, I’ll tell you. Okay, I’ll get to the point. The phone company coughed up his call log for me, and I looked them over. Guess who the lawyer’s been calling? Three calls in the past two days.”