Burnt damp wood, the stench smacked Myrtle across the face. Covering her face, Myrtle touched her fingers to her temples. On Enceladus, and in most new domed urban centers, the air is neutral, manufactured, filtered, sterilized. Some retailers pumped a cocktail of sales inspiring scents but mostly there was a scent of nothingness.

The bookshop was a husk. Black and charred countertops and melted organic plastic stools littered the floor in soggy heaps. Shelves like exposed bones hung empty.

Myrtle could hear her Chief of Detectives Hatchet arguing with Officer Madgalene of Drug Trafficking whether this arson was related to drug possession or a part of a string of arsons related extorsion in the flower markets. Their angry words stirred the thick smoke.

The daughter of teachers the sight of books actual books burnt opened a wound inside a crimson gash. Myrtle blinked hard and gave a sigh. Her eyes landed on who must have been the bookshop owners. She could see their wound, bright and bleeding. Nothing burned anymore.

Even the cheapest dives would have fire suppression sensors and powder sprayers to knock out a flame before it could flicker. It took work to create this level of destruction.

Myrtle surveyed the crime scene techs. Reporter drones lined up to record the rarity of a building fire.

"Madgalene is a foolish. It is evident--" Hatchet said. He stopped trying to read her face.

"He is an idiot. Fools are the people who argue with idiots. Interview the shop owners away from the press and the neighbors. They want to talk. Find the connection to the Saturnines."

Myrtle climbed back into her car.