time for that. The maps and the notes on them were the history. On the corner of one page was written the gate code to the ranch on Highway 599. On another were black X’s that showed the locations of caves and climbing cliffs. Even the attack patterns that the wildland firefighting crews had used during the huge Cerro Grande fire of 2000 were drawn in red marker across a map of Los Alamos.

Lucy opened the binder now to get a general description of their location. She actually had little idea of how they had gotten to the fire; there had just been one dirt road after another bringing them deeper into national forest land. She used her pinkie and some creative mapping to guesstimate the driving distance from town. She then filled that information in on its proper place on the form.

When she was done, she went in search of the sheriff’s deputy who had been on scene with them. He was sitting in his cruiser, with the passenger door open, talking on his cell phone. Lucy stood off a discreet distance while he chatted, not wanting to be impolite but hoping he would hurry up. He was a portly man with dark hair. She thought his last name was Segura. He finally noticed her, but instead of getting off his phone, he just covered up the earpiece and said, “What do you need?”

“I just wanted to give you the VIN,” she said, “and I was hoping you could give me the owner’s name for our records.”

“No problem.” He placed the phone on the seat next to him, not hanging it up, and got on the computer sitting over the middle console of his car. She told him the VIN, and he typed it in.

“Okay,” he said, looking at the screen. “The first name is Beto and the last name is Escobar. My God, that is such a Mexican name.”

“And the address?” she asked, not really wanting to get into a conversation with him.

“Hang on,” he said. A few more keystrokes and he said, “It looks like it’s 162 Airport Road.”

She was busy writing it down when he said, “Huh. That’s weird. We’ve had three burned vehicles come back to that same address this year. All different names, and we don’t have stolen vehicle reports for any of them. Must be some Mexican insurance scam.”

Lucy didn’t comment on the unlikelihood of that. She was trying to keep good relations between their respective departments. So she said instead, “We also just wanted you to know that the car has some graffiti on it, like it’s been tagged. In case the gang task force wants to know.”

“Thanks. I’ll write it down,” he said, smiling. She noticed the phone still open on the seat next to him. It bugged her for some reason. Who was this person that would stay on hold this long? His mother? His kid? As far as she could tell, the guy really didn’t deserve “on-hold” devotion.

She was about to step away when he said, “Hey, I’ve got a joke for you. What do you call a Mexican shooting a Chinese outside a Starbucks? . . . A cap-a-chino.” He started laughing.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” she said, in her best you-are-a-moron tone. “So now you’ve told me two things about yourself. One, you’re racist, and, two, you can’t tell a joke.”

She walked away as he started to sputter out some swear words and went back to the ambulance just as Gerald came over, pulling off his helmet and fire-retardant hood.

She handed him a bottle of water before he could ask for it, and he downed it in one gulp.

“Man, that fire was hot,” he said, wiping the sweat off his face. He took off his heavy bunker jacket.

“Do you need anything else?” she asked him.

“Just some food,” he said.

“Hey, so stupid racist cop over there says that the guy who owns this car lives at the same address as two other owners whose cars got burned,” she said.

“Sounds like someone really doesn’t like the people at that house.”

“Oh, and none of the owners have ever filed stolen car reports.”

“Really? That seems odd. How else are they going to get them back or get paid by their insurance company?”

“Maybe they know who’s doing it and don’t want to get them in trouble.”

“What, like a teenage relative?”

“Could be. Or maybe the Mafia. Or it’s part of a voodoo ritual. And let’s not rule out aliens . . .”

“Only an