“Yeah. And it wasn’t easy. I’m sweating like a pig in this. And this helmet is gonna ruin my hairdo, but it’s better than having my head ventilated with bullet holes.”

“Did you talk to Morelli this morning?”

“I did. Jeez Louise, he was in a mood. That man needs to get some. He was cranky.”

I tried not to look too happy about that. “Have they made any progress finding the killers?”

“He said they had an out-of-town lead.”

“Are you going to take that helmet off, or are you wearing it all day?” Connie asked.

“I guess I could take it off in here.”

“I’m looking for Ernie Dell today,” I said to Lula. “Do you want to ride shotgun?”

“Is he the firebug?”

“Yep.”

“I’m in.”

“I don’t mind if you wear the flak vest,” I told her, “but I’m not riding around with you in the helmet. You look like Darth Vader.”

“Okay, but I’m gonna hold you responsible if I get killed.”

Ernie lived alone in a large house on State Street. No one knew how he got the house, since no one could ever remember Ernie having a job. Ernie alternately claimed to be a movie producer, a stockbroker, a racecar driver, and an alien. I thought alien was a good possibility.

I idled in front of his house, and Lula and I craned our necks and gaped up at it. It was on about a half acre, on a hill high above the street. Shingles had blown off the roof and lay sprinkled across the yard. Window frames were down to bare wood and were splintered and split. The clapboard siding was charcoal gray. I wasn’t sure if it was water stain, battleship paint, or mold.

“Holy crap,” Lula said. “Are you shitting me? Someone lives in that? It’s falling apart. And there must be a hundred steps to get up the hill. I’ll get shin splints climbing those steps.”

“There’s an alley behind the house. And there’s a back driveway and a two-car garage.”

I drove around the block, took the alley, and parked in Ernie’s driveway.

“What’s the deal with this guy?” Lula asked. “Has he always set fires?”

I thought back to Ernie as a kid. “I can’t remember him setting fires, but he did a lot of weird things. One time, he entered a talent show and tried to burp “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but he was hauled off the stage halfway through. And then he went through a period where he was sure he could make it rain, and he’d start chanting strange things in the middle of arithmetic. Oowah doowah moo moo hooha.”

“Did it rain?”

“Sometimes.”

“What else did he do? I’m starting to like this guy.”

“He took a goat to the prom. Dressed it up in a pink ballerina outfit. And he went through a fireworks stage. You’d wake up at two in the morning and fireworks would be going off in your front yard.”

We got out of the Escort, and I transferred cuffs from my purse to my back pocket for easier access.

“We don’t want to spook him if he’s home,” I said to Lula. “We’re just going to walk to the back door and be calm and friendly. Let me do the talking.”

“Why do you get to do the talking?”

“I’m the apprehension agent.”

“What am I then?”

“You’re my assistant.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be the assistant. Maybe I want to be the apprehension agent.”

“You have to talk to Vinnie about that. Your name has to be on the documentation.”

“We could write me in. I got a pen.”

“Good grief.”

“How about if I just say hello.”

“Fine. Terrific. Say hello.”

I knocked on the back door, and Ernie answered in his underwear.

“Hello,” Lula said.

Ernie looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. His thinning sandy blond hair was every which way on his head. “What’s up?” he asked.

“You missed your court date,” I said. “You need to go downtown with me and reschedule.”

“Sure,” he said. “Wait in the front room while I get dressed.”

We followed him through the kitchen that was circa 1942, down a hall with peeling, faded wallpaper, and into the living room. The living room floor was bare, scarred wood. The furniture was minimal. A lumpy secondhand couch. Two folding chairs with the funeral home’s name engraved on the back. A rickety end table had been placed between the two folding chairs. No lamps. No television.

“I’ll be right back,” Ernie said, heading for the stairs. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Lula looked around. “How are we supposed to get comfortable?”

“You could sit down,” I told her.

Lula sat on one of the folding chairs, and it collapsed under her weight.

“Fuck,” she said, spread-eagle on the floor with the chair smashed under her. “I bet I broke a bone.”

“Which bone did you break?”

“I don’t know. Pick one. They all feel broke.”

Lula struggled to her feet and felt around, testing out her bones. Ernie was still upstairs, getting dressed, but I didn’t hear him walking overhead.

I went to the bottom of the stairs and called. “Ernie?”

Nothing. I climbed the stairs and called his name again. Silence. Four rooms, plus a bathroom, led off the center hall. One room was empty. One room was filled with bizarre junk. Store mannequins with broken arms, gallon cans of cooking oil, stacks of bundled newspapers, boxes of firecrackers and rockets, gallon cans of red paint, a wooden crate of rusted nails, a birdcage, a bike that looked like it had been run over by a truck, and God only knows what else. The third room housed a sixty-inch plasma television, an elaborate computer station, and a movie house popcorn machine. A new leather La-Z-Boy recliner sat in the middle of the room and faced the television. The fourth room was his bedroom. A sleeping bag and pillow had been thrown onto the floor of the fourth room. Clothes were scattered around in no special order. Some looked clean and some looked like they’d been worn a lot.

The window was open in the bedroom, and two large hooks wrapped over the windowsill. I crossed the room to the window and looked down. Rope ladder. The sort you might stash in a room as a fire precaution.

I ran downstairs and headed for the kitchen. “He’s gone.”

Lula and I reached the back door just as an engine caught in the garage, and a baby diarrhea green VW bug chugged out to the alley. We ran for the Escort, jumped in, and took off. I could see the bug two blocks away. Ernie turned right and I floored it, bouncing along the pot-holed service road. I turned right and caught a flash of green a block away. I was gaining on him.

“Do you smell something?” Lula asked.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not good.”

I was concentrating on driving and not on smelling. Ernie was going in circles. He was driving a four-block grid.

“It’s like a cat was burning,” Lula said. “I never actually smelled a cat burning, but if I did, it would smell like this. And do you think it’s getting smokey in here?”

“Smokey?”

“Yow!” Lula said. “Your backseat is on fire. I mean, it’s a inferno. Let me out of this car. Pull over. I wasn’t meant to be extra crispy.”

I screeched to a stop, and Lula and I scrambled out of the car. The fire raced along the upholstery and shot out the windows. Flames licked from the undercarriage and Vrooosh! The car was a fireball. I looked up the street and saw the pea green VW lurking at the corner. The car idled for a few moments and sedately drove away.

“How long do you think it’s gonna take the fire trucks to get here?” Lula wanted to know.

“Not long. I hear sirens.”

“This is gonna be embarrassing. This is the second thing we burned up this week.”

I dialed Ranger. “Did I wake you?” I asked.

“No. I’m up and functioning. I just got a report that the GPS unit we attached to your car stopped working.”

“You know how when you toast a marshmallow it catches fire and gets all black and melted?”

“Yeah.”

“That would be my car.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, but I’m stranded,” I told him.