Read Small Apartments for Free Online Page A

kitchen, so Franklin walked into the living room. There were dozens of framed photographs nailed to the brown paneling. In a homemade wooden rack above the television Mr. Olivetti had a collection of two dozen chrome Zippo lighters. The lighters had all sorts of designs and phrases painted on them: a colourful, bald eagle, an American flag, the
Playboy
bunny logo, the insignia of the U.S. Navy. Franklin selected one that had the Chevy symbol painted on it.
    He put the lighter in his shirt pocket and used the paper towel to rearrange the others so it did not look like one was missing.
    He wanted to poke around the house a bit more. He knew this would be his only opportunity. Part of it was curiosity, but it was also an unfamiliar sense of power. He knew that at that moment he could take anything he wanted from Mr. Olivetti’s house.
    On top of the television set were several photographs. Mr. and Mrs. Olivetti’s black and white wedding portrait was the largest. The pose showed them from the chest up, smiling at some far-off point of interest. There were also colour photos of Mr. Olivetti’s daughter with her husband and two daughters.
    Franklin stared into the eyes of Mr. Olivetti’s daughter. He focused on the red dots inside her pupils as she smiled over her shoulder in front of a Christmas tree.
    “Your father was a bad man,” said Franklin. “He was worse than you’ll ever know. I’m sorry I killed him, but I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
    Franklin checked the time: 10:54. No time for this, he thought. I have to get this show on the road.
    FRANKLIN PULLED DOWN a can of turpentine from Mr. Olivetti’s supply shelf. He read the side of the can, WARNING: FLAMMABLE . Let’s hope so, he thought. He soaked a rag in the turpentine, rubbed it onto Mr. Olivetti’s shirtsleeves, then poured some onto the worktable. The liquid flowed quickly across the table, spilling off onto an oilcloth draping a bale of hay Mr. Olivetti used as a chair. Franklin shook the remaining contents of the can onto the walls like a bishop distributing holy water.
    He dropped the rag on the table in front of the body. For good measure, he placed a hammer in Mr. Olivetti’s cold, right hand.
    “Whatcha working on, Albert?” asked Franklin. “Don’t forget that you have to fix the drip on that pothead Tommy Balls’ kitchen sink. You’ll need a plumber’s wrench for that Al, not a hammer.”
    Franklin lit a cigarette with the Zippo, touched it to Mr. Olivetti’s lips, then dropped it onto the rag. The cloth ignited instantly. The flames simultaneously advanced up Mr. Olivetti’s shirtsleeves and rolled across the worktable. The fire leapt onto the oilcloth and began to incinerate the hay bale. Franklin trundled over and held the Zippo’s blue flame to the wall until a fire fluttered to life and orange and yellow waves danced seductively atop the plywood.
    In seconds the fire had begun to consume the body. Mr. Olivetti’s smiling face grew darker behind an orange veil of fire.
    Good golly. This is the real thing, thought Franklin.
    The smell of burning flesh was almost too much for him to bear, but he forced himself to watch long enough to be sure the fire was raging. He wiped the Zippo clean with his T -shirt and dropped it in the dirt at Mr. Olivetti’s feet.
    By the time he reached the end of the gravel driveway the fire had spread to the barn’s supports and crossbeams. By the time he reached the Lackawanna town line, the structure was totally engulfed in flames and fire departments from three towns were on their way to the scene.

CHAPTER
6

    L ACKAWANNA FIRE INVESTIGATOR Burt Walnut was asleep next to his wife, June, when the phone rang. It was a quarter to midnight and the voice on the other end of the telephone was Lackawanna Fire Chief Billy Browski.
    “How’s about it, Burt? I’m sorry if I woke ya. We got a crispy critter here at a barn fire off Old Post Road. Italian fella named Olivetti. You know him?”
    “Nope.