Free Tin City Tinder (A Boone Childress Mystery) by David Macinnis Gill

business.”
    “How’s the hunting?” I offered my hand. “Boone Childress, Allegheny VFD.”
    “I know who you are, Possum. My kid brother is Dewayne Loach.”
    That explained the animosity. The brothers looked nothing alike, except in the shape of the mouth. That’s why he had seemed familiar.
    I faced the fire. “What’s the situation?”
    A deserted farmhouse. An isolated location. A fire burning so hot and fast, it was a loss before the first responders reached it.
    Two times is a coincidence.
    Three times is a pattern.
    Loach spat tobacco juice at my boots. “Farmhouse is engulfed. Going to be a total loss.”
    Nobody could walk up to a house that looked like ground zero and instantly assess the extent of the situation. Maintain professional decorum, I reminded myself. “My captain asked for a visual assessment.”
    “Don’t waste your time. The house’s been empty since forever.”  
    “You know the owners?”
    “Doesn’t everybody?”
    “Not everybody,” I said. “You must know this area pretty well?”
    “Ronnie! Donnie! Y’all done yet?”
    “You just said—“
    “Shut it up, Possum. Let us professionals handle the assessment.” Loach spat tobacco juice again.  
    It hit my boot.
    “Too slow, Possum.”
    I kicked the wad of tobacco back at him. “This is a pitiful excuse for an assessment, if you ask me.”
    “Didn’t nobody ask you.” He grabbed my turnout and tried to push me away. “How ‘bout you sit in the truck till your daddy gets here.”
    “How about you take your hands off me instead.” I sidestepped, rolled my arm over his, and pushed hard on his straightened elbow. “I’m not in the mood for dancing.”
    “Hands off me, ass wipe!”
    "Gladly." I let him go. “No hard feelings?”
    He looked my hand over like it was leprosied. “Wouldn’t shake your hand if you was a native-born President of the United States, you goddamn liberal.”
    “Liberal? Are you trying to insult me, because I don’t get it.”
    “Donnie! Ronnie! Y’all come on back. Mr. Possum’s going to put this here fire out all by his lonesome!”
    “I never said that.”
    “No you didn’t.” Loach reloaded another plug of tobacco in his jaw. “But I did. Do what you want, but don’t expect us to lift a finger to help.”

    3
    With Loach and the twins watching, I finished the visual inspection. I returned to my truck and radioed Julia.  
    “Got an ETA on the tanker?”
    “They’re still ten minutes out. Cap says for you to call him on the radio.”
    I stood on my truck sideboards and radioed Lamar. “Got your status update, Captain.”
    “What’s the situation on site?”
    “We’ve got a level three burner on a single residence. Stick built. Approximately one thousand five hundred square feet with multiple stories.” I stretched out the mic cord. “Fire has spread to all four corners. Flames coming through the roof in three, check that, four different areas.”
    “Exterior fuel sources? Heating oil tanks? LP?”
    “That’s a negative, sir.”
    Firefighters feared LP, liquid propane. A pinhole leak and a random spark could create an explosion strong enough to blow down a house. A LP tank for a barbecue grill could swell to twice its size and become a poor man’s claymore, blowing jagged chunks of shrapnel straight through your body, turnout gear be damned. Most of the houses in Allegheny County used LP for heating and had huge tanks sitting right next to the structure. It was enough gas to make a crater deep enough to swallow a fire truck.
    “How many occupants?”
    “None. According to Atamasco VFD. They were first responders. They state that the house is abandoned.”
    “Atamasco is half way across the county.””
    “That’s an affirmative.”
    “Is their captain on site? Their tanker?”
    “That’s a negative.” More static. “This is a suspicious situation.”
    “Roger that. Our ETA is now eight minutes. Do not engage until we arrive. Roger that.”
    How was I