Skies of Ash (16 page)

There’s no place like home.

I collapsed at my desk, breathless, as though I had run there.

“What’s next on the agenda?” Colin asked as he plopped into his chair.

Nora Galbreath had positively identified TeShawn Shaw as the Guy in the Orange Hockey Jersey. Ruby Emmett had also confirmed that she had witnessed Shaw roaming Don Mateo Drive.

“Check on our outstanding warrant requests,” I told Colin now.

“Yep,” he said, logging on to his computer.

Juliet Chatman’s journal, found during the search of the converted garage and now stowed in evidence box 1, was waiting for me.

I flipped to another entry: November 20.

We had lunch today since she’s back in town for the moment. We talked about our boring husbands. Well, for her,
ex
-husband. Weird, but I feel sorry for the insufferable twit. Mel can’t help who she is. Born poor and thrown into high society and expected to miraculously have the manners of the Queen? She’s like me. Ha ha. As usual, she had too much to drink and got vulgar. After lunch, I sent her a bouquet of lilies, as is custom when something dies. To be served divorce papers in the middle of Pilates was wicked. Ron is a mean bastard.

Had Ben Oliver been truthful—were they all just friends?

I flipped back to an entry dated April 11.

My life is one big pile of crap. I loathe him. Totally. Completely. And the kids. I love them but I’m tired of them, tired of their noise, tired of their constant need. Tired of Chloe eating all the time. Tired of Cody setting fires and beating kids up and flunking school and just being an asshole. If there is a God (and with all that’s going on right now, I am doubtful), He should come back
now
or I will end it all because if He doesn’t do it soon, I will end it for Him. And then, quiet at last.

What did that mean? “I will end it for Him”?

CC is out in the back in the swing again. Upset. My fault. Of course. Because I made a crack about this precious house of ours (well,
his
house, don’t I ever forget it). I kissed his precious little forehead and apologized for being a cruel monster. For fuck’s sake!! Why can’t he MAN UP? Always getting his feelings hurt. And when will he let them go??? They’ve been dead for years now. And it’s perfectly normal for me to want a bigger house.

Colin rolled his chair over to mine and looked over my shoulder. “Whatcha reading?”

“Juliet’s journal.” I pushed away his face. “Your breath smells like bacon.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

Light-headed, I closed my eyes and tried to see nothing for a moment.

I will end it for Him.

Fail.

I opened my eyes. “The warrants?”

“Should be here any minute.”

I watched him—thinking about nothing, just enjoying the break—until my telephone blipped. I grabbed the receiver and answered.

“Detective,” the man said, “this is Christopher Chatman.” He sounded thick-tongued.

I jerked as though God had lit my fuse, then snapped my fingers at Colin and mouthed, “Christopher Chatman.” I fumbled for the phone’s recording adapter, stuck the what’s it into the thingamabob, and hit the speaker button. “Mr. Chatman,” I said, “I was planning to call you.”

“The hospital discharged me this morning,” he said, “and I’m staying with my friend Ben for the moment. He said that you stopped by the hospital yesterday.”

“Yes,” I said. “But we didn’t want to trouble you until it was absolutely necessary. You’re recovering from a horrific ordeal.”

“It has been very difficult for me.”

“I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mr. Chatman.”

Silence.

I crossed my eyes at Colin.

“How soon will you complete your investigation?” he asked. “And I must admit: I’m still unclear about what you’re investigating. You are a homicide detective, correct?”

“I am, and I hope to be finished soon, sir. But I have several questions that still need answering.”

“Questions? Like?”

“Like how your wife and children were killed.”

He made a gurgling noise, then croaked, “
Killed?
I thought… The fire…”

“Yes, sir. The fire played a part in all of this, but just a part.” My pulse banged at the spaces behind my eyebrows. I pulled the small silver hoops out of my earlobes. Too heavy.

He coughed, then cleared his throat. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know, Detective. But tomorrow Ben’s having people over. And if they see me talking to you… I don’t want to have any visitors, having to explain and say over and over again, and with my head injury… Can you come over now? While I’m alone? While I can still think?”

I stifled a groan—Lena wouldn’t
totally
kill me. She preferred that I flaked because of work and not because of what’s-his-face. My husband. “Of course,” I told Chatman.

“Ben and Sarah are out. Come through the side gate. See you soon.”

I hung up, then slipped the silver hoops back into my ears. “So what should we ask?”

“Why were you at work so late, Mr. Chatman?” Colin said.

I added, “How come you were so broke that you needed to borrow money from Ben Oliver, Mr. Chatman?”

“What does Melissa Kemper have to do with any of this, Mr. Chatman?”

“We’ll go easy on him,” I said, grabbing my bag from the desk drawer. “Cuz he’s injured and he’s lost his family.”

“You’re so sweet,” Colin said, pulling on his blazer.

I twirled car keys around my finger and smiled. “A real Mary Poppins, I am.”

BEN AND SARAH OLIVER LIVED ON JOAQUIN WAY, IN A SALMON-COLORED
Mediterranean with white window frames and a rust-colored, ceramic-tiled roof. Their Westchester Bluffs neighborhood overlooked the wetlands of Ballona Creek, the campus of Loyola Marymount University, and the Pacific Ocean, now lost in the blues and grays of dense winter fog. At half past six, all living rooms on Joaquin Way—except for the Olivers’—glowed with electronic entertainment. In the Oliver home, no light burned beyond the faux balconies hanging from each second-story window, and no cars were parked in the driveway.

Colin, driving his Dodge Charger, parked behind my Porsche, and we met at the curb. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Smells like my grandma up here.” He pointed at bushes. “Wild rye. Sage. Lavender. Yep. Just like Grandma.”

“So,” I said, stepping closer to him, “I want this to go easy, all right? Like a slow dance at the prom. Don’t wanna put my hand up his skirt too quickly cuz he’ll shut us down.”

Colin nodded. “Got it.”

I squinted at him. “Do you really ‘got it’? Cuz you’ve said that before and…”

“Yeah, Lou. I got it.” Then, he winked at me.

We strolled through the side gate, unlocked as promised.

A white party canopy had been set up over the two-tiered backyard. Tall cocktail tables were set up underneath, as well as a scattering of chairs that waited for the asses of invited guests who’d soon hoist plates of cheese and baby lamb chops on their laps.

Colin and I quickly stepped across the slick flagstone pathway and descended steep steps that led to an ivy-covered guesthouse.

The arched wood door opened. “Evening.” Christopher Chatman’s gray Adidas tracksuit clung to his small frame. The purple scratches on his face zigzagged past bandages. White gauze covered both of his hands, and a sling supported his left arm. “Thank you for coming out so late in the day,” he said. The novocaine effect had worn off, but his voice was still smoky and white-man-singing-“Ol’ Man River”-deep. He coughed—sandpaper and mucus stirred together in a mixing bowl.

“It’s no problem at all.” I considered his bandaged hands and sling. “How are you?”

His red eyes still watered from soot and sorrow. “It’s just a fractured radius. My head, however, is not a ‘just.’ I hit it when the firemen jumped me. And the bandages… I got pretty cut up from the wood and glass on the ground.” He gazed at his sling. “Wasn’t thinking. Just took off toward my house.” His attempt to take a deep breath resulted in a coughing fit.

I moved closer to him, just in case he fainted.

He waved me off. “Just…” He coughed. “Not feeling well,” he wheezed, trying to catch his breath. “May I please see your identification?”

I cocked my head.
Huh?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If you’re not comfortable showing me…”

“It’s no problem.” I reached into my pocket.

“Just so that I know for sure that you are who you say you are,” Chatman explained. “There have been reporters…” He studied my identification card, handed it back to me, then took Colin’s.

I peeked past him and into the guesthouse. The window in the small dining room overlooked the Olivers’ canopied backyard. The kitchen sparkled with white tile and white older-model appliances. Spotless hardwood floors and a potbellied fireplace aglow with dying embers made me think of Adeline St. Lawrence’s use of the word “hobbit.”

“So reporters have been bothering you?” Colin asked.

“A few,” Chatman said. “Usually Ben or Sarah protect me.” He handed back Colin’s card.

“Do we check out?” I asked.

Embarrassed, Chatman’s face darkened. “I used to be the type to trust someone’s word. Lately, though, I follow Euripides’ thought: ‘The day is for honest men, the night for thieves.’ ”

I bristled. “Says the banker who works wonky hours.”

“Ha,” he said with a good-natured grin. “It’s all good. Didn’t mean to make you feel weird about it.” He turned on his heel and limped back into the living room. “Please have a seat.”

Colin and I perched together on the couch since the only other option was an armchair.

Countless medicine vials and water glasses crowded the glass coffee table. The smell of burning wood mingled with those of thick mucus, cinnamon potpourri, and chicken broth.

My stomach loosened as nausea crept up my throat.

“Detective Norton, I googled you,” Chatman said as he limped to the armchair. “As I read more about the fire, I was comforted to know that you’ve been successful in the past.” He looked at Colin. “I found nothing about you on the Internet.”

Colin cleared his throat. “Well, I’m… I…”

“If you’re not googleable, then you must not exist.” He grinned. “That was a joke. A bad one, I guess.” To me, he said, “I was also happy to read that you recovered your sister’s remains. The Darson case… What a nightmare. But some good came out of it.”

“Yes.” I offered him a smile tighter than a pair of size 6 shoes on size 9 feet.

“I’m afraid I can’t talk long.” He sat on the edge of the armchair. “The painkillers make me sleepy. A bit breathless. A little punchy. Maybe we can start now, and then you can come back again if you need to?”

“Sounds good,” I said.

“I’m glad the pills do that,” he continued. “Force me to sleep, I mean. When I
don’t
take them—I’m terrified of becoming addicted, so I’ve skipped a dose here and there—but when I don’t take them, I have nightmares.” He paused, then said, “What would you like to know?”

“Are you currently employed with Vandervelde, Lansing, and Gray?” I asked.

“I am.” He smiled. “That was an easy one.”

“And your employment is in good standing?” I asked.

He started to stand from the armchair. “Would you like something to drink? I’m sorry I didn’t ask earlier—”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Colin said.

“Harder question,” I said. “Tell us about the night before the fire.”

The man’s smile dimmed as he eased back onto the armchair’s edge. “Well… We ate dinner around seven, seven thirty.”

“Who cooked?” I asked.

“My wife. I can make money, but I can’t make a meat loaf to save my life. I made everyone strawberry shakes for dessert.”

“Anything eventful before dinner?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing strange. Okay, well. My wife…” He stopped speaking.

When he didn’t continue, Colin asked, “Your wife what?”

Chatman flexed his free hand, then stared at the vials on the coffee table. “She drank a lot that night. Well, she had started to drink a lot every night. But on Monday evening, she was… I asked if she was okay. She nodded, but it looked like she was about to cry. I left it alone because my prodding would cause her to shut down even more.”

“Sarah Oliver mentioned that she stopped by that evening,” I said.

He nodded. “Zumba class. My wife didn’t go.”

“Okay,” I said. “Tell me about dinner and Juliet’s behavior on Monday night.”

He shook his head. “She was very sharp with me. At one point, she told me to stop calling Chloe ‘dumpling.’ She said that I was passive-aggressively calling Chloe fat.” He looked at me. “That’s not what I meant, and that’s what I’ve always called Chloe.” He sniffed, then swiped at his nose. “After dinner, we all went to the den to watch
A Christmas Story
. My wife had another glass of wine—she fell asleep on the chaise in the first twenty minutes of the film. The kids lasted for about an hour.”

“What time did you all go up to the bedrooms?” Colin asked.

“I woke everyone up around nine,” he said. “Tucked the kids in, then hung out in the bedroom with my wife for a moment. Flipped through a few channels and found
Four Weddings and a Funeral
, one of our favorite movies. Watched it, and then we talked about paint. Talked about Chloe and soccer, about Christmas shopping, and…” He blinked, and a teardrop rolled slowly down his cheek. “Then, around eleven, she took a Valium, and I left to drive to the office.”