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Jos¨¦ de la Cruz shook the arson investigator's hand. "Thanks. I look forward to your written report."

The man shook his head as he glanced back at the charred remains of the Caldwell Martial Arts Academy. "Never seen anything like this. You'd swear some kind of nuclear bomb went off. Frankly, I don't know what to put in the file."Advertisement

Jos¨¦ watched the man walk over to his county truck and drive off.

"You going back to the station?" Ricky asked while getting into his own squad car.

"Not right now. I gotta head across town."

Ricky waved and headed out.

Alone at the site, Jos¨¦ took a deep breath. The smell of the fire was pungent, even four days later.

As he headed to his unmarked, he looked down at his shoes. They were pale gray from the twelve inches of soot that covered the site. The stuff was more volcano ash than anything left behind by a normal fire. And the ruins were odd, too. Usually parts of a structure survived, no matter how hot the flames. Here, nothing remained. The building had been razed to the ground.

Like the arson investigator, he'd never seen anything of the sort.

Jos¨¦ got behind the wheel, stuck the key in the ignition, and put the car in gear. He drove eight miles to the east, into a grittier part of town. A series of unimpressive apartment buildings appeared, urban weeds that grew up from the concrete and asphalt ground.

He stopped in front of one. Put the car in park. Turned off the engine. It was a long time before he could force himself out of the car.

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Steeling his nerves, he walked over to the front entrance. A couple was coming out, and they held the door open for him. After going up three flights of stairs, he headed down a ratty hall with carpeting that was flat and brown from having borne thousands of footsteps.

The door he was looking for had been repainted so many times, its sunken panels were almost flush.

He knocked, but did not expect any answer.

Picking the lock was the work of a moment. He pushed the door open.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. A body left for four or five days would smell by now, even in the air-conditioning.

But there was nothing.

"Butch?" he called out.

He closed the door behind him. The couch was covered with the sports sections of the CCJ and the New York Post from the previous week. There were empty beer cans on the table. In the kitchen, there were dishes in the sink. More empties on the counter.

Jos¨¦ went into the bedroom. All he found was a bed with messy sheets and a lot of clothes on the floor.

He paused by the bathroom door. It was closed.

His heart started pounding.

Pushing it open, he fully expected to find a body hanging from the showerhead.

But there was nothing.

Homicide Detective Butch O'Neal had disappeared. Without a trace. pqdm.com