Read Die in Plain Sight Online
Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
Die in Plain Sight (17 page)
T
he ringing of his phone jerked Rory awake. Bliss, who was sprawled across him, grumbled sleepily and burrowed closer to his warmth. He reached around her and fumbled for his cell phone. Damn, getting older was a bitch. Once he would have awakened completely, mind and fingers nimble. Not anymore.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
“There’s a fire down in Newport.”
“Jesus, Ward, what are you doing awake?”
“You get to be my age, you spend a lot of time awake.”
“Listening to the police radio,” Rory said, understanding what had happened.
“Better than television.”
With a sigh, Rory shifted beneath Bliss’s thighs. He couldn’t believe
he was getting an erection—not after the last few nights. But damn, it felt good to have her pussy snuggled up to him.
“You hear me?” Ward said irritably.
“There’s a fire in Newport Beach, which is in Orange County, which wasn’t a part of Moreno County last time I checked.”
“You didn’t have any trouble assigning men to cover Susa Donovan, did you, and she went to Orange County.”
“What do you want me to do, drive down and pee on their fire?” Rory said impatiently.
“I want you to get your well-paid ass out of my daughter’s bed and go see where the fire is.”
Idly, Rory wondered how Ward had found out who was sleeping with Bliss. “Your daughter, my future wife.”
There was a pause. Rory smiled. He could almost see the old man’s calculating frown.
“When?” Ward demanded.
“As soon as the blood tests come back.”
Ward grunted. “Didn’t know she had the guts.”
Rory didn’t bother to hide his yawn. “Anything else on your mind?”
“The fire in Newport Beach. From the address called in to 911, it sounds close to that girl’s shop.”
“A lot of girls have—”
“The one with the paintings,” Ward interrupted. “Quinn or whatever the hell she’s calling herself now.”
Rory rubbed his hand over his face and told himself to be patient with his once and future father-in-law. Then he told himself to wake up and start thinking about his boss rather than how good it was going to feel to spread Bliss’s knees and dive in.
Girl. Paintings. Quinn.
Damn. No wonder Ward’s dick is in a knot.
“Are you saying that Lacey Quinn, the young woman whose paintings you want to buy, that her shop—where she’s keeping the paintings now—is on fire?” Rory asked.
“How the hell would I know?” Ward shot back. “All I remember is that the place your men followed her to is in the old section of Newport and there’s a fire burning in the old section of Newport right now. Get up and find out if my paintings are safe!”
Rory didn’t bother to point out that the paintings weren’t Ward’s yet—if ever. From all Savoy had been able to find out, the lady wasn’t interested in selling. On the other hand, Rory couldn’t think of the last time the old man had taken no for an answer.
“I’ll make some calls,” Rory said, and hung up.
W
rapped up in a thick terry cloth hotel robe, Susa glanced at the closed door of the second bedroom and then at Ian. “How is Lacey?”
“She was asleep when I left her. Hope she still is.” He raked his fingers through his hair and wondered if he would ever get the ghastly smell of death out of his skin and his mind. “Losing everything is a bitch, but at least Lacey didn’t roast like her neighbor.”
“From what you told me about it, I doubt that the woman ever woke up.”
His mouth flattened. “Sure as hell hope so.”
“Are you certain Lacey lost everything? She said they got the fire out before it got into her shop.”
“Smoke and water damage,” Ian said succinctly. “Some of the durable stuff, glassware and jewelry and metal and such, can be saved. Posters and textiles…” He made a sharp gesture with his hand. “Dead loss.”
“What about her paintings?”
“Mostly ruined, I’d guess. Maybe not. I don’t know much about the staying power of oil and canvas.”
“Better than pastels or watercolors.” Susa frowned. “I’ll help Lacey go through her paintings when she’s ready. She might throw out something that could be saved with proper treatment. Did you ask about insurance?”
“She has it. Whether it pays anything helpful is up to the claims adjuster and the lawyers, if it comes to that.”
Susa looked at Ian’s spiky hair and grim eyes. “How about some food or coffee or a drink?”
“No thanks. I’m still digesting smoke.”
“Some salve for your burns?”
“Been there, done that. Smeared Lacey all over while I was at it.” He almost smiled. That part, at least, had been enjoyable.
“Sleep?”
“In a while. I’m waiting for a call from the arson investigator.”
Eyes narrowed, Susa watched Ian pace. “Arson? Lacey didn’t say anything about that.”
“All fires are routinely investigated.”
“Nice try, doesn’t fly,” she shot back. “You wouldn’t be waiting up if you didn’t expect something more than routine.”
“Bet your boys never got anything past you, did they?”
“Constantly, but nothing that mattered.”
Ian looked over his shoulder at the closed door, then walked over and stood next to it, listening intently. If Lacey was awake, she wasn’t moving around.
Susa waited with the patience of a mother or a hunting cat. Sometimes there wasn’t much difference.
“From what I could see, the fire started in a trash barrel,” Ian said. “Then someone dumped the barrel and the fire poured over the aisle between the two shops. Just in case that wasn’t good enough, some kind of accelerants were used—kerosene or gasoline—plus what looked like chunks cut from those paraffin-and-sawdust logs folks use for fires when they don’t want to bother with wood. Stuff burns like a bastard, even in a downpour.”
“Why would anyone set fire to Lacey’s shop?”
“It wasn’t Lacey’s shop, it was Cosmic Energy next door.”
“Then why are you sending out the kind of feelings that make my Druid ancestors twitchy?”
Ian shot her a dark look. “What kind of feelings would those be, Ms. Donovan?”
“Bad. You might as well tell me the rest of it.”
“Nothing to tell.” And he hoped there wouldn’t be.
“Bullshit.”
He blinked, then smiled slowly, his first real smile since he’d half carried, half dragged a smoky, hollow-eyed Lacey into Susa’s suite an hour ago, dumped her in Susa’s arms, and gone back for the paintings he’d left in the lobby.
“Okay,” Ian said, “but I don’t know how my speculations are going to make anyone feel any better.”
“Did I ask to feel better?”
He whistled very softly between his teeth. “Lawe told me you were a rapier, but I didn’t really believe it until now.”
“You can wiggle like a worm on a hook and try to change the subject, but it won’t work.”
Ian had already figured that out. “Something that looked a lot like burning chunks of sawdust log lay in an arc from the trash can to Lacey’s shop. I thought I caught a whiff of gasoline, too, but nothing I could take an oath on. But I just flat out don’t like how it adds up.”
“Anybody ever tell you that you’re paranoid?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve got a gut feeling you’re right.”
It took a moment for Susa’s calm words to sink in. “Damn, I was hoping you’d disagree.”
“So was I. What are we going to do about it?”
“You aren’t going to do anything,” he said, “except what you came here for, and that doesn’t include messing with arson.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “You and my husband have something in common—arrogance.”
“Good thing you like that particular trait,” Ian said easily, smiling.
“I think it’s time to call my new friend Dana Gaynor of Rarities Unlimited. Your boss, I believe.”
“Dana might send me out at your say-so for some slap-and-tickle that
she thinks is long overdue, but there’s no way she’s going to put your artistic tush in danger.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched a speed-dial number. “Ask her yourself.”
“And while you’re doing that,” Lacey said from the bedroom door, “Ian can tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”
R
ory shifted the weight of his side arm as he waited at a table in a cafe overlooking the ocean. Coffee steamed in front of him, black as hell but a lot better tasting. The weather outside was the other half of January in southern California—sunny, with a warm Santa Ana wind from the desert, and blue sky forever, or until the smog crept back over the land as soon as the inland wind stopped blowing.
He drank more coffee, glanced up, and saw Dick Merle approaching. He looked like a vampire in need of a quart of blood, and was the chief arson investigator for Newport Beach Fire Department.
Rory stood and held out his hand. “Morning, Dick. I want to thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule for me.”
Merle shook hands and grinned wearily. “Man’s gotta eat,” he said. “Since Moreno County is buying, I’m one hungry son of a bitch. I’ve been working most of the last three weeks.”
“Yeah, we’ve been watching the string of arsons you’ve had in Orange County. Bad news. Hope you catch him soon.”
Merle sat down with a heaviness that told its own story of too much work and not enough sleep. “So do I. Until then, I’m living on coffee.”
The server appeared, watched Merle inhale a cup of coffee, poured him another, and set the pot on the table, ensuring her tip. After the server took their orders and left, both men drank in silence for a moment, watching ocean waves flattened by wind blowing from the land.
“Now that your arsonist is up for murder after last night’s fire,” Rory said, “you might get more manpower.”
Merle drained the second cup of coffee, poured more, and sighed. “I’m kind of iffy about last night.”
“What do you mean?”
“Different MO entirely. If you can even call it a MO.”
Rory picked up his coffee cup and settled in to listen.
“Our serial arsonist likes empty buildings, cigarettes, matches, birthday candles, and kerosene,” Merle said. “A real slow fuse leading to kerosene-soaked rags. He gets off waiting for the party to begin, see?”
Rory nodded.
“Then he gets off all over again watching it burn and seeing us run around like ants with our feet on fire,” Merle said.
“But not last night?” Rory asked.
“Dunno.” Merle yawned until his jaw cracked. Then he yawned again and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Don’t think so.” He fixed Rory with pale blue eyes. “This is all very preliminary. We’ve barely even begun a proper investigation of the one last night.”
“I hear you. I’m not making any reports. I’m just damned curious. If the asshole comes calling in Moreno County, I want to know what his act looks like.”
“Okay. What we have is a cold, windy night, an alley with small businesses on both sides, two old houses that are shops on the first floor and owner’s quarters above.”
Rory had figured that out from the police reports, but didn’t say a word.
“We have a few resident homeless, a couple old ladies. Then a couple of drifters looking for a place to piss and sleep out of the wind.” Merle
rubbed his eyes and poured more coffee. “Nobody else around but the shop owners who were asleep in the two old houses.”
“Did the street people see anything?”
“What do you think?”
“I think they all slept the sleep of fortified wine.”
“Yeah. Didn’t see, didn’t hear, didn’t know shit until the sirens woke ’em up.”
The server came and put breakfast platters in front of the men. Rory was eating toast, fruit, and scrambled eggs. Merle was eating everything but the hand that fed him—eggs, pancakes, steak, potatoes, toast, biscuits and gravy, a side of ham, and two glasses of milk.
“More butter, please,” Merle said to the server. “And jam.”
“Man, you’re something,” Rory said. “I’ve known you for years and you never gain an ounce.”
“Clean living, constant prayer, and twenty-hour workdays.” He shoveled in the first of the food, chewed, and said, “So the boys questioned the bums—excuse me, the domicile-challenged—and found out nothing.”
Rory chuckled and shook his head. “If your job depended on votes, you’d be mopping floors.”
Merle chewed and didn’t disagree. His impatience with politics of all kinds was an article of personal faith. “My men found indications of petroleum products, which was hardly a shocker—it’s an alley and people park cars there and change oil there and take out their household garbage and such. Plastics are made with petroleum, you know. They also found a plastic trash can that was pretty well slagged.”
“Fire source?”
“Yeah.” Merle cleansed his palate of pancakes and syrup with one glass of milk and went to work on the salty part of the meal. “There was enough trash around to burn down half the city. No surprise that the wind tipped over the can and the fire spread. I’m guessing the drifters that started out warming their hands over the barrel ended up running down the alley with their asses on fire.”
“So it wasn’t your arsonist?” Rory asked.
Merle swallowed coffee and went back to steak, talking and chewing with startling efficiency. “Buildings were inhabited, not empty. No cigarette butts stubbed out while he stood back and waited for it all to get
going. No empty rainbow package of birthday candles left to taunt us. Nope, not our boy.”
Rory settled back and got to the part of the conversation that interested him, or rather, Ward.
“What about a Louie the Torch?” Rory asked, referring to a contract arson purchased to collect insurance on a losing business.
“Possible, I suppose. Didn’t look like anything much in the place where the woman died. How much are crystals and bogus vitamins worth to an adjuster? Besides, so far there’s no sign of any insurance on that one.”
“What about the other place?”
“The artist’s business?” Merle shrugged, swallowed the last of the steak and eggs, and concentrated on the biscuits and gravy. “Insured. Kept the policy in a bank safe deposit along with some other papers.”
“How much?”
“Dunno, but she said business had been good enough to pay the rent and then some, and the insurance wouldn’t be worth more than that. We’re checking on it.”
“What about the merchandise itself?” Rory asked. “Was it worth burning down the place to collect on insurance?”
“She had some old movie posters that apparently were worth something, and some stuff that was too old to be junk but not old enough to be antiques. Nothing big. Anyway, she said she got the most valuable things out before it burned.”
“What was that?”
“Three old paintings.”
Smiling, Rory nudged his plate over toward Merle. “Have some more breakfast.”