"What's next?" Spinnelli asked.

"I'll analyze the samples we took from Hill's house last night," Unger said. "I don't anticipate finding much in the kitchen, but we did sweep the front part of the house where there was less damage. I'm going to take a team back again this morning, to check things out in the daylight. If he left a hair and it didn't burn, we'll find it. Can I count on Ben Trammell, Reed? He was a huge asset yesterday."

"Of course."

"We'll talk to the Doughertys," Mitchell said. She looked up at Reed. "Then I'd like to go back to Penny Hill's house, too."

"We should also go back to the university. We need to know who else knew where Caitlin would be or if anyone was seen around campus that didn't belong."

"And then to the arcade to check out Joel Rebinowitz's alibi. I drove by after I left Penny Hill's last night, but they were closed. They open again at noon." Mitchell looked over ai Spinnelli. "I still need Burnette's case files Can you send Stacy to get them?"

Spinnelli scratched a note on his notepad. "How far back do you want her go?"

She looked over at Westphalen. "What do you think, Miles. A year?"

The old man shrugged. "It's a place to start. I don't know, Mia."

"Me, either," she said grimly. "We can stop by DCFS and get access to Hill's records on the way back then we crosscheck until something common pops."

"Reed, have you run a database check for similar fires?" Spinnelli asked.

"Yep. I ran queries through the BATS database, Sunday morning and again this morning before I came. BATS is the Bomb Arson Tracking System that's maintained by the ATF," he added in response to Mitchell's puzzled look. "I got a lot of hits on solid accelerants, but mostly in commercial properties. I didn't get any hits when I added in the murders. I got thousands when I queried trashcan fires. I set up a query to run automatically a few times a day in case our guy does something like this somewhere else. We'll see."

Spinnelli frowned. "So basically our best bet is finding a link between our own cases at this point. Update me before you leave for the day, Mia. Good luck." He and Unger left the room, but Westphalen hung back, aimlessly fiddling with his tie.

"You don't believe in the impact of home life on criminals," Westphalen said, his voice still mild. Reed hated shrinks' "mild" voice. It was like fingernails on a chalkboard.

"I think it's society's panacea," he said, not nearly as mildly. "Everybody's got issues, Doctor. Some people get dealt a liaidet deck than otheis. Too bad. Good people deal with it and become productive citizens. Bad people don't. It's that simple."

Mitchell looked at him, her blue eyes curious, but said nothing. Westphalen pulled on his overcoat. "Such conviction."

"Yes," Reed answered, knowing his answer was curt and not giving a damn. Shrinks used ploys like that to learn things most sane people would rather keep private.

"We'll have to talk more someday," Westphalen said, mild amusement in his voice, then he turned to Mitchell with a warm smile. "I'm glad to see you back, Mia. It wasn't the same around here without you. Don't go getting shot again, okay?"

Her mouth curved, her affection for the old man obvious. "I'll do my damnedest, Miles. Say hi to the missus." When Westphalen was gone, she looked up. He thought she'd press him on why he'd been so curt with the shrink. But she didn't, simply gathering her notes. "You ready to roll, Solliday? The faster we talk to the Doughertys and check out Penny Hill's house, the faster we can get to the files, which is my absolute favorite part of the job." Her sarcasm said it was anything but.

"I thought threatening belligerent boys with bullies named Bubba was."

She grinned unexpectedly and his heart lifted a little, the sour mood brought on by the shrink fading away. "Not bad, Solliday. Added a few more poetic words there. Not bad at all. Let's stop by a drive-through on the way to the Doughertys". I'm starving."

Tuesday, November 28, 8:45 A.M.

He blinked down at the front page of the newspaper. Wow, the reporter moved fast. He hadn't expected to see the story until tomorrow. But there it was on the front page of the Bulletin- //smc serial arsonist/murderer at large.

I'm not all that large, he thought and smiled at his own joke.

They'd named Penny Hill as the victim right off the bat. None of the "withholding name of the victim pending family notification" crap. He read on and frowned. Somebody had seen him driving away. Well, they couldn't identify him even if they did since he'd been wearing the ski mask. It wouldn't matter if they'd seen the license plates of the car-they belonged to Penny Hill herself.

"The victim was Penny Hill, forty-seven years old." Hmm. She looked pretty good for an old lady. At least she had. Once again he chuckled. Now she looked like a marsh-mallow left in the fire too long.

At least he imagined she did. What he really wanted was to see the body. To see the house. To see the destruction he'd caused. But that wasn't prudent as long as the law was on the case. So who was chasing him? He scanned the article. Lieutenant. Reed Solliday, OF1. A lieutenant. They'd sent a higher-up looking for him. None of this junior G-man shit. Good. This Solliday was decorated. Experienced. He'd prove a worthy adversary. That just meant he'd have to work hard to keep his work area clean. Leave nothing for the good lieutenant and his partner to find. So who was his partner?

His lips curled into a sneer. Detective Mia Mitchell. A woman? They'd actually picked a woman to try to find him?

They'll never catch me in a million years. But overconfi-dence would not be his downfall. He'd plan and act as if two qualified men chased him. But he'd sleep easy.

He tore the article from the paper and scanned it a last time. They mentioned Caitlin. He'd missed it the first time, so anxious had he been to see Penny Hill's name in print. "The victim of the first fire is nineteen-year-old Caitlin Burnette, daughter of Sergeant Roger Burnette-" His heart nearly stopped.-"A twenty year veteran of CPD."

Shit. He'd killed the kid of a cop. What was the daughter of a cop doing there anyway? Shit. Furious, he shoved the article into his book, along with the one on the Dougherty fire from yesterday's Trib and the other one from Saturday's Spring-dale Gazette on the Thanksgiving fire. Shit. The police would hunt him now, like he was a dog. He swept all his things into his bag with one angry swoop. Dammit. This totally sucked.

He headed for the door, his heart racing as fear set in. I have to stop.

Then he stopped in his tracks. No. He couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop. He was doing this for his own future. The anger has to go, remember? You can't stop until you're done. Or it would be like… like not finishing a bottle of antibiotics.

It'll just be worse, stronger, more powerful the next time. The next time he could lose his head and get caught. But right now, he was in full control. He hadn't lost his head last night, nor would he. He was conscious of every action. He was thinking smarter. Working smarter.

He wouldn't stop. Not till he was done. He'd have to be fast not to get caught. He'd have to be perfect. But right now, he had someplace to be. He had to be on time.

Tuesday, November 28, 9:05 a.m.

Mia was folding her breakfast sandwich wrapper when they pulled in front of what had once been the Doughertys' home. A middle-aged couple stood on the curb staring up at the blackened structure in shock. "I think that's the Doughertys," Mia said quietly.