Skies of Ash (33 page)

“That’s an understatement,” I muttered, uncertain of what he meant by “desperate times, desperate measures.”

Ben smirked. “Securities fraud. A serious wobbler—hard to prove in court. He’ll get a slap on the wrist, pay a fine, and then be sent home to write an essay on why his actions were bad.”

The hair raised on the back of my neck.
Securities fraud?

“Anyway,” he continued, “I think he went to New York because he wanted to get away from all of that. Who knows? I’ve never had a life-threatening disease, nor have I had to fight to keep my job while being sick. I’m not gonna second-guess his thinking.”

“Fair enough,” I said, my mind still reeling from Ben’s securities-fraud disclosure.

His finger poked the small of my back.

I smiled. “What was
that
for?”

He poked me again, slower this time.

I grabbed his finger. “Is that poke indicating business or pleasure?”

Our finger hold slipped into a handhold.

“That’s where his tumor was,” he said. “Only two centimeters, but it’s cancer. You want that shit cut out of you. He thought about waiting until it got bigger, but I convinced him to get it over with. Told him that if he waited, he risked it spreading to his liver and lungs.”

“So he flies back east and then…?” I asked.

“He stays with a cousin who lives in the Bronx,” Ben explained. “Two weeks later, he’s back at home with a bloody bandage and stitches.”

“Did you see his wound?”

Ben made a face and pulled his hand out of mine. “Of course I saw it. When Juliet wasn’t around to change his dressing, I changed it. What kind of question was that?”

All feeling left my face—I was losing him. “I have to ask.”

He crossed his arms. “Do you?
Really
?”

I took both of his hands in mine. “Relax before you pop a blood vessel.”

“Are we close to the fun part of this visit?”

“It’s the next exit. Did he return to work?”

He took in a long breath before he pulled away from me again. “Between the pain and the meds, he was out of it. But two weeks before the fire, he started going into the office a couple of times a week. He was scared that if he waited, he’d have no clients.”

But according to Stacy the receptionist, Chatman wasn’t allowed into his office.

I picked up my glass of sangria. “The securities-fraud investigation—”

“A mere formality,” Ben said with a dismissive flick of his hand. “He did nothing wrong. But the powers that be can’t
not
look into it.”

“And who is this cousin living in the Bronx?” I asked, then sipped my drink.

Ben squinted at me. “My blood pressure skyrockets when we’re together, you know that? You’re suspicious of everything, of everyone.”

I slipped my arm around his waist. “You forget: we aren’t friends. Despite my charms and good looks, I am still conducting a murder investigation.”

He pulled me closer to him. “I haven’t forgotten, Detective Norton.”

“He got sick,” I said. “How did that affect Juliet?”

“She had been planning to leave him, but now she couldn’t abandon him. That’s what she told me. He needed her, and so she stayed.”

“She confided in you a lot.”

His hand brushed my hair from my face. “I keep everyone’s secrets.”

“That seems exhausting,” I said, placing my hand atop his knee. “Did Mr. Chatman know that his wife wanted a divorce?”

Ben nodded. “I think we passed that exit two miles back.”

“You’re so eager to go off-roading,” I whispered.

“An incredibly sexy woman is practically sitting in my lap.”

“So tell me about Christopher’s professorship at UNLV.”

“His…
what
?”

“His professorship at UNLV.”

He didn’t speak, and his eyebrows furrowed.

“What about L.O.K.I. Consulting Services?” I dipped into my glass for a piece of nectarine, then offered it to him.

He snagged the fruit with his teeth and chewed. “Who are they? What do they do?”

I shrugged, then offered him more fruit. He took it, then watched me lick my sticky fingertips.

“You’ll be wrong if you take this SEC angle,” he said, his gaze on my lips. “Christopher’s an ass, but he’s not a thief. You haven’t told me anything that would be grounds for MG Standard to deny his claim nor for you to charge him with something as horrendous as murdering his family.”

“Arguing the case already?” I asked.

He rubbed my knee. “Well,
yeah
.”

“You’re gonna lose and I’m gonna win,” I taunted.

“Oh, yeah?” His hand slipped up to my bare thigh.

“Yeah.” I bit my lip, then said, “Guess where we are.”

“Where I’ve wanted to be ever since we met.”

“And now that we’re here…” I pressed my breasts against his arm. “What do you want to talk about?”

He squeezed my thigh. “First, why are you sitting here with me and not with some hotshot cop? Or at home cuddling with a hotshot husband?”

“I don’t do cops. And my husband… will soon be my
ex
-husband.”

“I’m sorry about that.” He lifted my hand and kissed it. “But only a little sorry.”

My skin smoldered as his warm breath writhed up my wrist. “Why are you here, Benjamin Oliver? You hate cops. I’m a cop.”

“Not happy at home.”

“The standard reply.”

“She checked out a long time ago. Started living a separate life. And now I find out about shit way after the fact. She doesn’t want me to touch her, and she refuses to look at me. What am I supposed to do? Stop living?”

“Divorce.”

He placed my palm across his cheek. “Can’t do that.”

“Why not? This is America, land of the free, home of the…” My free hand inched toward the danger zone—and from what I could tell, Ben’s danger zone had a very wide range.

But his cell phone whistled from the inside of his jacket.

We froze, our faces less than an inch apart.

His phone whistled again.

I nuzzled my nose against his. “Special ringtone for a special someone.”

He slowly moved away from me. “Sorry.” He reached into his pocket and glanced at the text message in the phone’s display. His body stiffened.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“No. It’s Sarah. Amelia’s throwing up, and her blood pressure’s too high. Damn.”

“Sickle-cell anemia, right?”

“Yeah. I have to go to the emergency room. Sorry.”

I waded back into shallow waters. “Don’t apologize. Go be with your little girl. I hope she’s okay.”

He sighed. “I wish circumstances… I wish
everything…
were different.”

“Me, too. Alas…” I shrugged.

“Alas…” He kissed my cheek.

I closed my eyes as his lips brushed against my earlobe.

“Good night, Elouise.”

“Good night, Benjamin,” I said, reclaiming my hands.

And I watched him weave through the crowd, uncertain now who was being played.

GREG WAS NOT HOME, AND THE HOUSE WAS COLD AND DARK. I SHIVERED—MY
hands and face were strangely cold—as I rushed from lamp to light switch, throwing light into the shadow. After punching up the thermostat to seventy-six degrees and hearing the
click-whoosh
of the heater, I returned to the dining room. Greg had stopped by—today’s mail sat on the kitchen counter and the flip-flops he kept near the laundry-room door were gone.

I did not climb the dark staircase to my bedroom—that space now meant nothing and everything to me. With the house warmer now, I flopped onto the living room couch and grabbed a steno pad and pen from the coffee table to scribble down all that I had learned at the Ritz-Carlton.

Cancer treatment:
Something
had happened to Christopher Chatman’s back. Ben had seen the wound and had tended to his friend’s recovery. Dixie had mentioned Chatman’s back problems and treatment at Orthopaedic Hospital. Had he undergone surgery and passed
that
wound off as tumor-related?

UNLV: Ben’s silence had been strange, and his expression—clueless. Had Chatman kept that lie solely for Melissa Kemper?

And the biggest WTF moment: Christopher Chatman was being investigated for securities fraud.
That’s
why Myron Meiselman over at Vandervelde, Lansing & Gray couldn’t answer my questions—a federal investigation was taking place. But what had Chatman done exactly? And did it relate to that mysterious envelope of checks and deposit slips left beneath my desktop Christmas tree?

And would any of that lead Chatman to burn down his house and kill his family?

Ben didn’t seem to think so, but then he was the man’s best friend and wanted to think the best of him. Hell: no one wants to be homies with a sociopath.

“Ben Oliver,” I said as my mind slipped through images of our evening.

Remembering made my head swirl. The kind of swirling you experience at county fairs—cones of cotton candy and corn dogs, rides on the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Charlie Daniels Band playing “Devil Went Down to Georgia” one more time. Giddy. Nauseated. Confused. Nauseated again. Screaming, “One more time!” for the band to play even though you hate country music, but today…

Because, wow. Banter? At the dinner table with Greg, we couldn’t banter and we couldn’t flirt, but just minutes ago I had bantered and flirted and touched with another man. And it was…
nice
. Benjamin Oliver, the married-jerk insurance attorney who was homies with a sociopath and probably a sociopath
himself
, had given me something I had not had in a very long time, sensations that I enjoyed and missed.
Craved
.

I had not sought Ben’s attention—“faithful” had been my middle name and blood type for eleven years, and that fidelity had been discounted by the man I loved.

My face burned—remorse, anger, desire, and confusion all dumped into one pot.

Next door at Aiden’s place, the stereo blasted Katy Perry. California girls
were
undeniable. A mile away, a helicopter
thump-thump-thumped
over the 405 freeway. Across the street at the park, a small jazz combo played “My Favorite Things.”

I hummed a few bars, then spotted the bin of Christmas ornaments still near the tree.

I plucked off my snakeskin stilettos and wiggled my tortured toes. I padded to the laundry room, the bones in my toes clicking, and found yoga pants and a matching tank top in the dryer.

I unwrapped myself from the Diane von Furstenberg dress and pulled on the new set of clothes.

Don’t you need to take off a few more things?

I considered my platinum engagement ring.

Greg had proposed to me during a gondola ride through the canals in Long Beach. The princess-cut diamond had cost the required two paychecks of someone who was not a low-level designer like Greg had been at the time.

I tugged off the ring, unclasped the cross necklace, and then placed both on the kitchen counter. My finger beveled where the ring had lived for so long.

Later, I would drop both the ring and pendant into my mahogany jewelry box, the one filled with honor society pins from junior high and high school, a 1984 Sam the Eagle Olympics pin, and my first pair of silver hoop earrings from Claire’s. Talismans that had meant so much once upon a time.

I grabbed a remote control from the fireplace mantel, and with one push of a button Anita Baker’s voice poured from the stereo. I lit the gingerbread candles, and soon the aromas of sugar and spices wafted from the melting wax.

“Icicle lights first,” I said, lifting the top off the bin. And then the jewel-colored balls. No special ornaments this year, ornaments that had been chosen by Greg and me over our eleven years together. The Eiffel Tower from Paris. The red-lacquer temple from Japan. Mario and Luigi…

The telephone rang, and Caller ID announced, “
Out of area, Out of area
.”

I ignored the call as I continued to futz with strings of blue and white tree lights.

The phone kept ringing.
“Out of area, out of area.”

I grabbed the receiver from the couch. “Hello?”

The caller didn’t speak.

I aimed the remote control at the stereo, muting Anita Baker midnote. “Hello?”

In the background, espresso machines hissed and metal blades whirred.

“Greg?”

Just hissing and whirring.

Anger—at me for hoping that Greg was calling—flared in my chest, and I punched the
END CALL
button.

I tossed the phone on the couch and gaped at my Christmas tree: it was beautiful. Smiling broadly, I spread my arms wide and shouted, “
Fa, la, la, la, la
.”

And then I smelled it. Not gingerbread. Not melting wax. But burning wood and burning… something. Thick smoke. Nearby.

I stood still.

God frying bacon.

That’s how Virginia Oliver had described that early-morning fire at the Chatman house.

And that’s what I was hearing right now.

Fire.

At
my
house.

God frying bacon.

Damn.

She was right.

SOMEWHERE ON MY PROPERTY, A FIRE BURNED.

I bolted to the foyer and threw open the front door.

A thick curtain of black smoke bellowed from the south side of my house.

“Oh
shit
!” I raced back to the kitchen and grabbed the fire extinguisher from beneath the sink. I ran outside and toward the side of my house, the wet grass slick beneath my feet. I rounded the corner. The change in the air—hot, thick, burning—made me falter in my step.

Flames and black smoke had engulfed my side yard and now rolled up the side of my house and splashed into the sky.

My neighbor Ira slid open his second-story window. “What the hell’s burning?”

“I don’t know,” I shouted back.

His wife stood behind him and cried, “Fire!”

Ira shouted, “Call 911.”

Heart in my throat, I aimed the fire extinguisher at the base of the blaze.

Leaves and ashes shot into the air as water and foam tried to smother black smoke.

My lungs tightened as they filled with burning debris. Heat poured from the blaze and stung my eyes, pushing me back until I could only squint at the fiery blossom that refused to die.