There’s a fairly simple explanation for the mysterious lights in the burning Windsor building. The whole point of holding down a job in one of the more expensive districts in town is to have somewhere to sleep after an evening’s drinking without taking out a billion dollar mortgage or exchanging fluids with zombies. The guys on floor 11 were happily snoring away under their desks when one woke up smelling smoke. They then made a rapid exit, dodging the police cordon–probably not particularly difficult–and swearing one other to eternal secrecy. Elementary, my dears.
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