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notebook that had been balanced on the lid and when he took his place at the head of the table he left behind a light cloud of expensive-smelling cologne.
     He flipped open the cover of the notebook, slid a slim silver pen from the loop inside and held it poised over the paper. After a moment he looked up then raised a perfectly manscaped eyebrow. The expression on his face was one of impatient expectation.
    Thomas finally spoke. “Thank you for seeing us, Officer Schmidt.”
    “Detective,” the man corrected.
    “Detective Schmidt. I believe Bridget—Miss O’Malley—explained what we’re all about when she called.”
    The detective just nodded.
    Thomas cleared his throat. “Well, we would like to take a look at the files. We believe there might be more to the case, like maybe something got missed.”
    Schmidt slid the pen back into its holder then sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Based on?”
    Toni glanced at Thomas’ profile. He squirmed like a suspect under interrogation. “Based on…well, that is…I guess based on a hunch.”
    “A hunch,” Schmidt repeated. “Well, the case has been closed since ’55, all of the principals are dead and everything in the file is a matter of public record. You’re well within your rights under the Freedom of Information Act to review what we’ve got. If you want photocopies of anything, just set it aside and our administrative assistant will run them for you. They’re twenty-five cents each.” The detective rose and snapped shut his notebook. “You filled out the request forms?”
    Bridget nodded and passed him a stack of papers. He glanced through them and nodded. “Good luck to you, folks. Here’s my card. It’s got my email address and cell number. But it’s probably better if you email rather than call.”
    Thomas took the business card. “Uh, officer—Detective Schmidt, we were hoping we could ask you a couple of questions about the case.”
    Schmidt chuckled. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be of much help. I wasn’t even born in ’55 and my knowledge of the case is pretty limited. All I know is there was a fire in the alley between the two theatres. The Rialto burned down on opening night and the only casualty was the projectionist from the Bijou. The guy was trouble. He’d been arrested half a dozen times. Witnesses put him at the alley door that night and there was testimony that just before the fire started, he’d had a fight with his boss over a woman. Maybe he’d meant to torch the Bijou but the wind was blowing the wrong way. A known criminal had cause and opportunity. Case closed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go deal with crimes from this century.”
    With that, he left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
    Thomas shook his head. “Maybe he’s late for a waxing appointment.”
    “Brazilian?” Mike joked.
    “Wouldn’t doubt it,” Thomas said then pulled the file box towards him. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
    The other three leaned in as Thomas lifted the lid. Toni expected to see the box stuffed with manila folders overflowing with forms and newspaper clippings. Instead a single file lay in the bottom of the box. Thomas reached in, grabbed it then pushed the empty box away. The folder held two typewritten forms. A black and white mug shot was paper clipped to one. Thomas passed the sheet marked ‘Incident Report’ to Bridget then unclipped the photo from the one marked ‘Arrest Record’.
    “There’s not much here,” Bridget said after a moment. “The cause of the fire is listed as ‘unknown, suspected arson’ and they’ve got one name listed under suspects—‘Kipling Monroe, aka Kip Monroe, born October 30, 1929. Deceased August 12, 1955.’ He was just twenty-five.”
    Toni dragged the photo closer. Her heart ached at the image of Kip Monroe. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt stretched over his wiry frame. His greased back pompadour looked tousled and a few strands hung down over his