Page 40 of Flint’s Strike

“This ain’t a group therapy session,” I mutter. “Can we focus on the crime committed here?”

“Organized. I like it,” Nate says when he sees the dozen file folders, each labeled by building quadrant and subject matter. “You color code these, and we’ll have ourselves a party.”

“Start with the south quadrant.” The first image loads, and suddenly the whole tone of the room shifts. Parker leans forward, elbows on the table. Nate passes me a handheld mouse with a built-in laser pointer.

“The primary point of origin was halfway between the break room and the atrium along the south wall. Accelerant soaked in here.” I gesture to a blackened area on the floor. “I can’t prove it—the fire burned too hot to leave behind much trace—but I’d bet the unsub used Paracord to start the fire. There’s a faint char line partway between the origin point and the west service entrance.”

“So, they lit the end and ran like hell?” Parker asks.

“Yup. And they used enough naphthalene to guarantee the structural integrity of the steel columns would be compromised. But that ain’t the worst of it.” I advance to the next set of images. Metal pipes hang from the ceiling like molasses poured in January at the North Pole. “Each photo shows part of the sprinkler system. Want to play spot the differences?”

I watch Parker’s face. She’s so intent, her lips curved into a frown, a tiny crease between her brows, eyes narrowed. “The ends are different. The one on the left looks like it exploded. The other one…it’s capped.”

I pat my pockets, then shrug. “Forgot my box of gold stars at the office. I’ll have to owe you one. Or six.”

Scrolling through photo after photo, I point out each missing sprinkler head in turn. “The suppression system in this section of the building was operating at forty percent capacity.”

“Could the unsub have tampered with it?” Nate asks. “Removed the sprinkler heads before they started the fire?”

“Not likely.” I zoom in, aiming the laser pointer where the cap is threaded onto the pipe. “I sent a crew out there to excise a couple of these capped sections. We need a forensic examiner to put all this under magnification. If someone removed a head, we’ll see tool marks. But the cap has the same level of corrosion as the rest of the pipe. Looks to be the same age to me.”

Parker flips through half a dozen pieces of paper in front of her. “This is the inspection from twelve years ago. The sprinkler system got a pass.”

“Then either the inspector was an idjit, or he knew exactly what he was doin’ and did it anyway.”

Parker sighs. “Well, shit.”

For the next hour, I walk the two Rangers through the building one photo at a time. The zone map posted on the wall marking the location of every sprinkler head alongside photographs of the actual sprinklers—or caps—that don’t match up. The control valve assembly indicating which zones discharged and which didn’t. How the water stained the floor in some locations but not others.

I’ve been staring at these images off and on all weekend. I know every pixel. But as I move on to the second problem with the building, Parker stretches in her chair, arms over her head. Small lines of pain crinkle at the corners of her eyes.

“We can take a break,” I offer. “This next part’s…deadly, but boring as fuck.”

“That’s where I excel,” Nate says. “Also where I use Excel. Any time the boredom starts to get to me, I turn to spreadsheets.”

“Who hurt you, Nate?” Parker asks. “No normal person finds spreadsheets entertaining.”

“I used to know some people who were damn good at twisting the truth. Rows and columns don’t pull that shit.”

Parker stares at him, eyes soft, like she’s seeing him for the first time. A moment passes between them, something I can’t read. Nate shakes it off, takes a swig of water, and rubs the back of his neck.

Turning back to me, Parker tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “We’re caffeinated enough to handle boring. Go for it, Eliot.”

I’m not prepared for the way her voice changes when she says my name. Or the little smile she gives me. I’m definitely not prepared for Nate to stare at the two of us with a bemused smile curving his lips.

“You have a set of building plans?” I ask.

Nate passes them across the table. “Knock yourself out.”

Parker helps me unroll them and anchor the corners with coffee mugs. “This wall here”—I gesture to one on the back side of the kitchenette area, then another by the stairwell—“and here are firewalls.”

“Those are walls. And?” Nate asks.

“Not walls. Firewalls. They’re what we call ‘rated assemblies.’ They’re built with denser drywall. Two layers instead of one. Thicker. Pipes passing through a firewall have to be sealed properly. Doors on those walls need to be rated as well. A standard wall—like the one in front of you—can slow a fire for maybe twenty minutes. Firewalls are supposed to give you two hours. Plenty of time for the engine company to show up and knock down the flames enough for the security guard to survive.”

I flip to a photo of the wall next to the kitchenette—or what’s left of it—then take a seat next to Parker again. She shifts close enough, her forearm brushes mine. The contact is brief. Through two layers of fabric. Yet, it’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in…years.

“That isn’t a rated assembly. It’s plain, everyday, available at Home Improvement Warehouse drywall.”