Skies of Ash (13 page)

With a black marker, Colin started a timeline on the whiteboard. “It takes ten days to buy a gun. So ten days before last Thursday was Monday, November twenty-sixth.” He wrote “JC BUYS GUN.”

Then, we filled in other dates we knew: Juliet Chatman’s last doctor’s appointments, the date of the fire, Juliet at Gun Runners, Cody in the emergency room. Arms crossed or leaning forward, we all stared at the whiteboard in silence.

“Can I hear the 911 call?” I asked.

Pepe tapped a few keys on his computer keyboard, and soon the familiar blurp of an incoming emergency call answered by a female operator filled the squad room.

Operator:
Fire and paramedics. What is the address of the emergency?

Juliet Chatman:
I need help! Help me! My house is on fire.

Operator:
Okay, ma’am. What is your address?

Juliet Chatman:
Oh god… Oh no! Wake up, baby! Wake up!

Operator:
Ma’am, what is your address?

Juliet Chatman:
[static] trying to kill me![coughing]

Operator:
Ma’am—

[Dial tone.]

Operator:
Ma’am?

The call disconnected.

For another minute, we all sat there, barely breathing, not speaking, soaking up the abject fear in Juliet Chatman’s voice.

Wake up, baby!

She was pleading with Chloe.

A flush crept across my face and burrowed beneath my skin. I swallowed hard, then asked, “What time did that call come in?”

Pepe peered at the computer. “Three thirty-one that morning.”

“She used her cell to make that call?” I asked.

“Yep,” Pepe said. “The R/O got to the house at 3:51 and called it in again—fire trucks were en route already because of Virginia Oliver’s call at 3:45.”

“Oh yeah,” Colin said. “ ‘Sounded like God frying bacon.’ ”

I handed out assignments:

Luke would handle the Chatmans’ phone records.

Pepe would delve into the family’s finances.

Colin would liaise with Forensics and handle the murder book.

Lieutenant Rodriguez would manage media inquiries.

I would do all of this and more, while also interviewing family, friends, and the husband.

Just as we were about to break, my e-mail alert chimed.

Quigley had sent over a PDF.

I hit
PRINT
.

Luke and Pepe read the hard copy of the fire report as Colin, Lieutenant Rodriguez, and I peered at my computer monitor and the nineteen pages of sketches, floor plans, and photographs.

The summary detailed the square footage and number of rooms in the Chatman house. Three pages detailed the on-scene investigation: what had been on fire upon the fire department’s arrival and preliminary observations of where the fire had started and had found its victims.

“ ‘Lab analysis shows,’ ” I read aloud, “ ‘a household petroleum product.’ ”

“What?” Colin asked. “Like oil or Vaseline?”

I pushed away from my desk and rubbed my bottom lip. “How would a household petroleum product—say, Vaseline—catch fire?”

Lieutenant Rodriguez continued to read the report. “ ‘Point of origin… electrical outlet in the upstairs hallway bathroom.’ ” He cocked his head. “And how would it spill into an electrical outlet to spark and hit those paint cans and rags?”

“He or she used a trailer,” I said. “Does the report mention newspaper or dryer sheets? Typical trailer trash?”

The men read in silence until Colin said, “No mention of a trailer, but the investigation ain’t over.”

Lieutenant Rodriguez’s gray eyes had turned the same color as the pewter sky outside. He grunted as he hopped off my desk. “This is bigger than we thought.”

“Devil’s in the details,” I said. “And you know I live and breathe details.”

“
El diablo sabe más por viejo que por diablo
,” he countered.

The devil knows more for being old than for being the devil.

My muscles tensed—he was right. I hadn’t lived on this planet long enough to know everything there was to know about evil. And despite living for the details, I didn’t even know what I didn’t even know.

SPENCER BROOKS WAS IN THE CUTTING ROOM AND COULDN’T BE DISTURBED. SO I
left him a voice mail. “Juliet Chatman’s emergency call came in at 3:31
A.M
., which confirms your finding lots of carbon monoxide in her lungs. She was alive for much of the fire. Hope that helps.”

It would: the devil was in the details.

I pulled from my bottom drawer a small white Christmas tree with tiny red and green bulbs and a miniature polar bear clinging to the top. I sat it next to my fuchsia orchid that never saw the sun and was slowly dying on the corner of my desk.

I clicked back to my virtual in-box, and, just like that, its contents had grown by twenty. Brooks had received my voice mail and had e-mailed me his thanks. Another message had been sent by Sam Seward, the assistant district attorney assigned to the Monique Darson murder case. My stomach lurched as I scanned the preview pane of Sam’s e-mail: “grand jury summons… Max Crase… competence trial.”

As I read, my eyes burned and my nose twitched.

A forest… in the middle of the Pacific Ocean…

“Colin,” I snapped. “Stop stinking.”

My partner now hunkered over me, his eyes twinkling like liquid blue topaz. “Put your panty hose on. We got visitors.” He tapped a bulb on my Christmas tree. “You being ironic?”

I sneezed three times. “Maybe if you wore
more
cologne, you’d kill me
all
the way.” I plucked tissue from the box on Pepe’s desk and blew my nose.

“Ladies love Armani,” he said, sauntering toward the interview rooms.

“Ladies love oxygen, too,” I said, following in his overscented wake.

A moment later, we sat in interview room 3, the nicest of the three craptoriums used to interrogate suspects and their loved ones. This room had retained nearly all of its gray soundproof padding and had sufficient ventilation for two people. Across from us sat the short, balding white man from Don Mateo Drive and his mousy-haired playwright-wife, Delia.

“Eli Moss,” he reminded me as he crossed his hairless pink calves. Underarm sweat rings darkened his red
THING 1
T-shirt. The pockets of his green cargo shorts had been stuffed with who knows?

Delia wore an eggplant-colored sweater two sizes too big, thick black leggings, and shearling boots.

They had dressed for two of California’s climates.

“So what can we do for you today, Mr. and Mrs. Moss?” Colin asked.

“It’s more, what
I
can do for you.” Eli thrust out his chin. “I created something of a minidocumentary of the fire.” His lungs, filled with self-satisfaction, expanded beneath his shirt.

All my forward thinking froze and I blinked at him. “Why would you do that?”

A vein throbbed in the middle of his forehead. “I’m a filmmaker, remember?”

I didn’t remember, but I still said, “Ah, yes.” Then, I blew my nose.

His nostrils flared, but he swallowed to tamp back his anger. “See, I wasn’t home that night.”

“Okay, so where were you?” I asked.

“My other job,” he said. “I work at the airport. Anyway, I wasn’t home that night, but everyone else in the neighborhood was. And almost everybody used their phones to record parts of the fire.” He nodded as a huge smile spread across his face. “So I took everybody’s snippets of video—”

“I actually used our video camera,” Delia interjected.

“And the footage Delia got,” Moss continued, “and edited it all together.” He sat back in his chair with a smug smile. “Later, I’m going to make a documentary about it. Then, I’ll enter it in Cannes or Sundance. Win a few awards and everything. But I’m here today to give you a sneak peek at what I have so far. For your investigation.” He pulled a DVD from his stained khaki rucksack. “For your eyes only.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking the disc.

Delia cleared her throat, then said, “I saw Christopher leave the house on Monday night.”

“Yeah?” I said.

She nodded. “I was getting ready for bed and heard his car start around eleven that night. I peeked out the window and watched him back out of the driveway.”

I cocked my head. “Was he alone or was Juliet with him?”

“He was alone.”

“Was the house dark? Had the others gone to sleep?”

“Guess so.”

“You see him leave late like this a lot?” Colin asked.

Delia nodded. “At least twice a week. When the fire…” She took a deep breath, then slowly released it. “When the fire started, I thought he had come home by then. It was late or early, or… We didn’t notice that his car wasn’t in the driveway until he showed up.”

“How long have you known the Chatmans?” I asked.

Delia and Eli looked at each other the way couples do when they’re unsure of the answer.

Eli scratched an angry red splotch on top of his balding head. “Maybe six, seven years?”

“They have any enemies?” I asked.

“Everyone has enemies,” Delia said. “We often call them friends. Or lovers. Or—”

“Heh,” Eli said, rubbing his jaw. “Didn’t think we’d be asked serious questions. We just wanted to drop in and give you the film.”

“So you’re a documentarian.” I pointed to his rucksack. “Are you taping our conversation right now with a hidden camera?”

Eli turned the color of pomegranates. “Is… that a problem?”

“No,” I said. “When it is, you’ll be the first to know. So: enemies?”

“Like in the neighborhood?” Delia asked.

“In the neighborhood,” Colin said. “At work, school, wherever. Were they assholes? Sounds like the boy was a Grade A jerk, settin’ shit on fire, gettin’ into fights, bullying little girls. And his old man: last night, in Mrs. Emmett’s living room, we talked about him and that dog-faced redhead he was bangin’ on the DL.”

I blanched and kicked Colin’s foot.
Dude, take it easy
.

The couple considered each other again with bit lips.

“Don’t be nervous,” Colin continued, not taking it easy. “In this room, you can speak ill of the dead. We want you to. Helps us figure out why they’re dead.”

“The boy setting fires,” Eli said, shaking his head. “A phase. Nothing more. Boys do stuff like that, y’know? I’m sure you played with matches when you were a kid.”

Colin said nothing.

“They’re actually nice people,” Delia said. “They work hard, love their kids, go to Mass every Sunday. No strange visitors at the house. No mysterious comings or goings in the middle of the night. Everyone on the block likes them, but you can easily imagine people being jealous.” She tugged at her sweater sleeve. “You don’t have to actively
do
anything for people to hate you.”

“Think he has Mob connections?” I asked.

Eli’s right knee, close to popping out of its socket from all the bouncing, abruptly stopped jiggling. “The
Mob
? Why would he fool around with gangsters?”

I shrugged. “Because even Baby Fat Larry and Johnny No-Thumbs wanna make legit ends off of wheat and silver.”

Wide-eyed, Delia held up her trembling hands. “I don’t understand, Detectives. Enemies and Mob bosses? There was a
fire
. It was
accidental
. And,
tragically
, Juliet and the kids
died
. The end. It was the most horrific…” She lifted her face to the ceiling. “My eyes were burning just…
standing
there yesterday. There I was, out in the open, and I couldn’t breathe. Desperate, that’s how I felt, and… and… panicky. Numb. Hysterical but unable to do anything about it. If
I
felt that way, how did Juliet and the kids feel? To be trapped in that inferno, in that hell on earth? But then the fear of death, says Publilius Syrus, is more to be dreaded than death itself.” Her hands dropped into her lap.

A lump formed in my throat, and I gaped at Delia Moss and wanted to stand, clap, and throw roses at her feet.

Not a fan of the theater, Colin yawned, then said, “Okeydokey. Anything else?”

“The guy in the hockey jersey,” Eli said. “You catch him yet?”

“No,” I said.

“Is this fire related to the others?” Delia asked.

Colin said, “We can’t say right now.”

I smiled at Eli and Delia. “Anything else?”

The couple shook their heads.

I picked up the DVD and waggled it. “Thanks for stopping by. And thanks for giving us this. I’m sure it will be a great help in our investigation.”

“For your eyes only,” Eli reminded me.

“Cross my heart,” I said, crossing my heart.

A DVD recording of a fatal house fire.

The devil hadn’t planned on me winning
that
, had he?

COLIN ESCORTED THE MOSSES DOWN TO THE LOBBY.

I ambled to my desk, DVD in hand.

The red light on my phone blinked. Voice mail.

I slipped the disc into my computer’s DVD player, then listened to the phone message.

The caller introduced herself as Adeline St. Lawrence. “I’m Juliet’s best friend,” she had said, and she wanted to talk to me, but today wouldn’t be good. “I’ll need you to come out to Corona, where I live, cuz my car’s on its last leg.” Then, she rambled off her address. “Anyway, her parents think I should talk to y’all. Guess I got a lot to say about all this. And I’ll talk to the devil himself if that means that hobbit motherfucka won’t get one thin dime of Jules’s money.”

St. Lawrence’s last words roared in my ears. Who was the hobbit? And money? What money?

I returned the woman’s call.

No one answered.

I left a message.
Tomorrow. Ten in the morning. See you then.

Colin, back in the squad room, plopped into his chair and placed his boots on the edge of my desk.

“Were you raised in the mountains or something?” I asked, knocking his feet to the floor.

“Yup,” he said with a smile. “Were you raised in the ghetto or somethin’?”

“Yep. And I’ll lay it on you straight: if you put yo’ kicks on my desk one more time, I’m gon’ pop a cap in yo’ honkey ass, you dig?” And then, I clicked
PLAY
in the DVD menu.