Skies of Ash (17 page)

“Juliet had a prescription?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“She took them for anxiety,” he said. “I’m not comfortable with it, especially since she drinks so—” He gasped. “The wine. The Valium.” His eyes bugged. “Did she overdose? Is that why she couldn’t get up and save—?”

I held out a hand. “Mr. Chatman, all of that is still being—”

“No,” he shouted. “No, no, no. Why didn’t I…?” He covered his mouth with his free hand. “It’s my fault. I should’ve said something. I shouldn’t have gone to the office.”

“And why did you go in so late?” I asked.

In the dim light, his skin glistened with sweat. “Had to prepare for an early-morning teleconference with the team in Chicago. In my business, just like your business actually, hours are unpredictable. I left the office around 4:10, and when I got home… Fire trucks. My house… on fire. Everything on fire. The flames… They’d already swept through and stole my family. But the fire… it left me behind.” He gritted his teeth and tapped the arm of his chair. “I want to talk to you, Detective Norton and Detective…” He squinted at Colin.

My partner blushed. “Taggert.”

Christopher Chatman coughed and coughed, then plucked a tissue from the box on the coffee table, then coughed some more and spat what he had coughed into the tissue. “I haven’t really talked to anyone about this. Not even Ben. Not an hour passes that I don’t think about ending it. Taking what the fire denied me. I’m lost without them. And I just need to understand.”

“Understand what, Mr. Chatman?” I shivered even though the room was warm.

“Why God is doing this to me.” He dried his eyes on the bandages of his hand, then took a wheezy breath. “Let’s move on, please.” He used tissue to dab at his sweaty forehead. “Maybe another easy question.”

“Would you like me to get you help?” I asked.

He cocked his head. “Help? Like… from a psychiatrist?”

I nodded.

He sighed. “Thought you were going to ask an easy question.”

I offered an understanding smile. “You’re a commodities broker, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“Is that basically a stockbroker?” Colin asked.

“I don’t trade in bonds or stocks,” Chatman explained. “I trade grain, livestock, gold, silver… So it works like this: Some of my clients, for instance, think the price of gold will rise now that the dollar is uncertain. On the other hand, other clients think the price of gold will fall. I advise them, they place their orders with me, I buy or sell on their behalf.”

“You get a commission regardless,” I said.

He nodded.

“You don’t seem like the banker type,” Colin said. “You’re not…”

“An asshole?” Chatman shrugged. “I’m good at numbers; I’m good at guessing. I’m interested in helping people live better lives. Happier people means the world is a better place. I compete against myself—do better, Christopher. Make people more money, Christopher. Learn from your mistakes, Christopher. Some see that as a weakness, but…” He shrugged again. His anguish about his family had passed, and he was talking to us as though we were potential clients.

“Any enemies at work?” Colin asked.

“No,” he said.

“Juliet mention being frightened of anyone?” I asked, remembering that 911 call. “Had anyone threatened her? Any road rage incidents?”

“Are you saying that this fire…?” He shook his head. “That it was deliberately set?”

“We aren’t sure what caused the fire,” I said. “We don’t know if it was arson or truly an accident, so we need as much information as possible.” I exhaled. “So I’ll need you to think real hard on this. And I’ll need you to make me a list of people who may have had the slightest problem with you. You may have dated their ex, used their coffee creamer without permission…”

His gaze dropped as he thought about that. “Okay.”

“And put on that list any recent visitors or workers you’ve had at the house. You all were remodeling, and so…”

His eyes shimmered with tears. “There were a few contractors and day laborers, and… I thought nothing of it, how the guys leered at my wife sometimes. I figured, you know, Mexican men, that’s what they do, gawk and stare, even though she wasn’t at her prettiest.”

“Because she was sick, right?” Colin said.

“She caught a virus,” Chatman answered.

“Did she go see a doctor?” Colin asked.

The man shrugged. “I encouraged her to. If she did, she didn’t tell me. Over the last year, she didn’t tell me a lot of things. Once, she’d taken too many pills and she’d thrown up before I got home. She didn’t say anything about it, and I didn’t see any evidence of it. Just saw an empty wine bottle. It was Chloe who told me. Told me that Mommy had taken medicine and vomited. That was just last week, and I never brought it up to her. I wanted to think it was the paint fumes that had made her sick.”

“About that,” I said. “You were painting the upstairs bedrooms and bathrooms.”

“Yes,” Chatman responded.

“The windows were shut,” I said. “Usually, when you paint, you crack open windows for ventilation. To get rid of some of the fumes.”

He shifted in the armchair. “Usually.”

I waited, then said, “But not in this case.”

“We were burglarized a few years ago,” he said. “The thief came in through a cracked window in the den. I still beat myself up about that happening. It could’ve ended differently—we all could’ve been killed. Anyway, you can’t arm the security system with a cracked window, and since I was leaving for work so late… My wife and I didn’t want to take that chance again.”

“Investigators found lengths of PVC pipe in the window sliders,” I said.

“All the windows had them.” He swiped at the beads of sweat forming on his temples. “To keep someone on the outside from sliding open the windows.”

“But it keeps people on the
inside
from escaping in an emergency,” I said. “People forget when they’re scared. They’re not thinking clearly and forget about all the weird workarounds like PVC pipes in the windows.”

“You’re right,” he admitted. “We were reacting from the burglary.”

“Did you call Juliet early Tuesday morning?” I asked. “Like an, ‘I’m leaving the office now’ call right before you left the office to come back home?”

“Call her?” He peered at me as though I had asked him about the mechanics of wormholes and quantum tunneling. “I didn’t want to wake her. She wasn’t feeling well.” With a shaky hand, he touched each bandage on his face. “Oh God… It’s true.”

“What’s true?” I asked.

He twisted the gold wedding band on his finger. “Ben told me about your meeting at Ruby’s. He told me, and I didn’t believe him. In your eyes, I’m already guilty. I didn’t believe Ben because I’m… I’m… I’ve never claimed to be the salt of the earth. But I work long, long days to provide for my family. I tithe ten percent. And I pray. Although not recently. God and I aren’t on speaking terms right now.”

“Your son,” Colin said.

“Played with fire all the time,” Chatman said. “And it’s possible that he… that he…” His eyelids fluttered. Dark sweat rings were forming in his jacket’s underarms.

“Of all the people you know,” I said, “why do you think it’s possible that
he
could’ve set the fire?”

Chatman stared at his knees. “He hated me. And he was in this weird phase where he’d set fire to my things.”

Colin and I exchanged glances.

Chatman offered us a tired smile. “Yes, I knew he was burning my clothes. He’d also burn my papers, my files—anything just to annoy me. I actually had to lock my office door because he’d sneak in and… The house. He knew how much it meant to me.” He rubbed his face with his free hand and shook his head. “No. He didn’t do this. He loved his mother, his sister. He wouldn’t… I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

“We should probably let you rest,” I said.

“There are a few more people we need to talk to,” Colin said.

Chatman flinched. “Like who? The hockey-jersey guy?”

“We don’t know the answer to that question,” I said, knowing that the hockey-jersey guy had been scratched out of the equation.

“Surveillance cameras,” Chatman said. “We have a security system. You should be able to see someone coming or going, right?”

“Right,” I said. “And we’ll check those.”

“Who are these people you need to talk to?” Chatman asked. “And what would anyone else have to offer besides gossip? Between this and the insurance company, I’m just… This is the worst moment of my life, but no one will let me grieve. Everyone is questioning my integrity, and I’m not used to that.”

“People died, sir,” I said. “We have to ask questions, including unpleasant ones.”

“Especially since you increased your home policy to five hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Colin said.

I glared at my partner.
Damn it, Colin.

“I had to replace everything that the burglar stole,” Chatman shouted. “And we hadn’t increased our policy since my son had been born. What’s strange about that? Am I the only man in the world who has increased his policy?”

“Calm down, sir,” I said, hands out. Then, I threw my partner another glare.
You got it? You got
shit,
dude.
“Detective Taggert, why don’t you…?”

“Yep.” Colin stood from the love seat. “I’ll go do that.” He stomped out of the cottage and slammed the door.

Chatman gaped at me with wounded eyes. “It’s just so hurtful. I mean, your partner just inferred… How would
he
react if some pencil pusher from the insurance company came looking for him just
hours
after his family died?”

“
You
called the insurance company, Mr. Chatman,” I whispered. “Well, Mr. Oliver called on your behalf.”

He blinked at me, and after a moment’s reflection, he nodded. “My head is killing me.”

“I’ll let you rest now, sir,” I said.

Christopher Chatman took a breath, but it caught in his throat. He threw out a congested rattle, then took another breath. “Really: I don’t mean to sound so harsh. You’re just doing your job. I’m not the guy who thinks he knows it all and deserves special treatment. I apologize, but I’m barely… here.” He peered at me. “You know how it feels… to experience loss. Your sister… And to have the cops tell you that
you
are the reason why…”

Damn
. The first time Detective Tommy Peet had interviewed my mother, he had done more than infer that we were to blame for Tori’s disappearance.

At the front door, Christopher Chatman warned me to take care while navigating the slippery flagstones. “Before you go…” He leaned against the door frame. “My family. Were they…? Will I be able to see them?” His eyes grew bright and his nostrils flared. “Are they…?”

“They are recognizable, sir,” I said. “But whether or not you’d want an open service is up to you.”

He blinked rapidly. “They didn’t suffer, then?”

If suffocating to death because your lungs were being twisted inside your chest wasn’t suffering… “I can’t answer that question, sir.”

Chatman smiled. “Thank you for all that you’re doing, Detective Norton.”

I crept up those steep stairs and tiptoed over those slick flagstones, passing the cocktail tables and high chairs. Once I reached the side gate, I glanced back over my shoulder.

The commodities broker stood in the doorway of the guest-house, a dark figure lit from behind. He looked smaller now, and his tracksuit hung loosely from his body like molten skin.

Talking to me had diminished him.

I wanted to apologize to him and prepare him for the future: Didn’t matter if he killed his family or didn’t kill his family. By the end of this investigation, Christopher Chatman would be nothing.

THE AIR HAD GAINED TWENTY POUNDS OF WET WEIGHT, MAKING THE SCENTS OF
lavender and night-blooming jasmine stronger and muting the dog barks, heels clicking on pavement, and car doors whooshing open and closing with thuds.

Colin paced near my SUV. “Sorry ’bout that insurance remark. It just… popped out of my mouth.”

I didn’t speak to him until I leaned against the passenger door of the Porsche.

He stopped pacing and stood in front of me, his legs wide apart, his face tilted to the night sky. Heat rolled off his body in waves, and, like the jasmine and lavender, the foggy atmosphere had compounded the smell of his cologne.

Nothing is more dangerous than a hard man in soft air after a long day.

I dropped my gaze to the asphalt and stared at the toes of my shoes.

“Guy’s a jerk,” he said. “He just hides it well.”

“You’d know.”

“Whatcha thinkin’?”

“That maybe my next partner will be less of an asshole.”

“I don’t like him.”

“The feeling was mutual.”

“But he’s fascinated by you.”

I smirked. “I do that to all the mourning husbands, sociopaths, and video-game geeks. It’s my wonder power.”

“So what now?”

“Off to happy hour with the ladies. I need a drink after today’s adventure. And you?”

His neck reddened as he shrugged. His blue-eyed gaze focused beyond the bluffs.

“See you in the morning, then?” I asked, meandering to the driver’s side.

“Yep.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his 501s and moseyed back to his car. Seconds later, he zoomed past. He did not wave, nor did he blow his horn.

I slipped behind the steering wheel and texted Lena.
On my way.
I turned the key to start the engine but didn’t immediately pull away from the curb.

Christopher Chatman had googled me. Strange but… not. He knew about my cases and my sister. But then anyone who had read the
Times
this past summer knew about my sister. And Chatman seemed both innocent and guilty. Sometimes, the husband did it—Jean-Claude Romand, the Frenchman who had lied to his family about everything possible, then killed them and burned down the house with them in it. And sometimes the husband
didn’t
do it—the Connecticut doctor William Petit, who had been beaten with a bat by two psychopathic home invaders that had raped and killed his wife and two daughters and then burned down the house. While he was never a suspect and the murderers apprehended, some folks still wondered about Dr. Petit’s quick recovery from the assault and about his successful escape from the flames.