Skies of Ash (40 page)

“Somebody cleaned it out,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said.

“Somebody cleaned it out,” I said, “and then somebody used it.”

Colin blinked. “I don’t get it.”

“Lint burns longer than paper,” Quigley explained. “There’s cotton, and fiber, polyester, nylon, everything in a fluff of lint. And all of that makes a fire start easier.”

“Which is why I asked you to bring some lint with you,” I said with a smile. “Show Colin what we’re talking about.”

Quigley reached into his sack and pulled out a bag of lint. He cleared a spot on the worktable and then lit a piece of fluff with a gold lighter.

The lint quickly ignited and, just as quickly, disappeared.

“That’s untreated. Now, watch this.” He pulled out a small tube of petroleum jelly and squeezed a glob over a new fluff of lint. He lit the treated lint, and the Vaseline started to melt from the heat.

“The petroleum jelly helps start the fire and also lets it smolder some,” Quigley explained. “Add more lint and more Vaseline, and the flame lasts longer. Put all of it in an electrical outlet, and the lint and Vaseline will catch a spark and smolder until the flames grow.”

“Which means,” I said, “when the wife and kids were knocked out, Chatman probably made a trailer.”

“A what?” Colin asked me.

“A trail of lint. And it probably led from that bathroom outlet in between the paint cans to the hallways with all the still-wet thinner on the walls.”

“And we found the vials,” I told Quigley. “In the bins out back.”

“What’s the big deal with that?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked me. “Of course, there’d be medicine vials in their trash. They were prescribed to one of the occupants. I bet if I went to
your
house, I’d find a vial with
your
name on it.”

“And you’d find
one
vial per drug.” I held up one finger. “One prescription a month. And I’d toss out the empty vial as soon as I brought home the new one. In
this
instance, the old ones weren’t tossed. Why? Besides that, Juliet’s doctor said she’d stopped taking the drugs back in the summer. And yet Juliet and the kids had crazy amounts of Valium in their systems.”

Lieutenant Rodriguez leaned on the edge of my desk. “So?”

“
So
any fingerprints on Juliet’s vials should either belong to her or to the pharmacist who initially filled the order.”

“And if the fingerprints don’t belong to Juliet or the pharmacist?” he asked.

“Then someone else drugged her and the kids. Which also means we’ve just eliminated one of our primary suspects: Juliet Chatman. It’s no different than if we had found his prints on her gun. These pills were just another type of weapon.”

“Chatman could’ve picked up the meds for her,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said. “So his prints could be on the vials.”

“And he handed her a pill each day without her ever touching a vial?” I asked, eyebrow cocked. “Even if he picked up her prescription as a favor, her prints should be on one of those vials, right?”

My boss nodded. “Fine. I’ll put a rush on the prints.”

“The prints on the Vaseline tub, too?”

“And the prints on the Vaseline tub, too.”

“And process the straws?”

“And process the straws.” He tapped my shoulder. “You doin’ okay?”

I paused, then said, “Uh-huh.”

His gray eyes searched mine. “I know what’s going on.”

“Yeah?”

“His Ducati. That’s a beautiful bike. Art.”

I squinted at him. “I won’t take a tire iron to it.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart, hope to die, and so on and so forth.”

Satisfied with my promise, he and Quigley wandered back to his office and closed the door.

“So what is Chatman lookin’ at?” Colin asked me.

“Arson,” I said. “Three counts of murder. And if the SEC investigation is related, then murder for financial gain.”

“Sounds like he’s getting the needle.”

“He will if California still does that kind of thing.”

He glanced at his watch. “Think we’ll get a print hit tonight?”

My desk phone rang. “Maybe this is them.”

The caller didn’t speak at first. After I said, “hello,” twice, the caller said, “This is Sarah Oliver. Ben’s wife.”

My body went cold. “Hi.”

“Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time. I know you’re probably very busy right now. Although, looking at my husband’s last phone calls, it seems you’ve been in constant contact with him beyond normal work hours.”

Stunned, I paused before grabbing the recorder adapter and jamming it onto the phone. “I talked with Mr. Chatman this evening, and he told me many interesting things, some of which involves your family.”

She laughed without humor. “I guess it all comes out now. I knew about Ben and Juliet.”

Chatman had told the truth.

“Did you confront her about it?” I asked.

“No. But I confronted my husband. He asked for a divorce. I told him no.”

“So Chloe—?”

“He showed interest in Chloe,” she said. “But I told him no about that, too.”

“What was there to tell him no about?”

“The girl had a father—Christopher. My money, our resources, would not be taken from Amelia just because he fucked around and got caught.”

“And Juliet?”

“Was hopelessly in love with my husband,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I have the e-mails to back that up. Perhaps I’ll send them to you.”

My heart jumped in my chest. Would they come from that mysterious Google account we’d found?

“Funny: Ben has that effect on women, where they just completely lose their way. You know this is true.”

“But you never confronted her,” I said, ignoring her observation.

She laughed that nasty, bitter laugh of hers. “Juliet wanted him, but she couldn’t have him. She knew that. Therefore, there was nothing for she and I to discuss. Well, that’s not true. That evil spawn of the devil she bore.”

“No love lost on Cody Chatman, then.”

“He tortured my daughter,” she spat. “And now he’s back in hell, where he belongs.”

“Wow.”

“You
obviously
are not a mother. If you were, and a teenaged boy had abused
your
daughter, you’d do anything to protect her, to punish him.”

My stomach lurched.
Protect her. Punish him.
“You were pissed off at three of the four Chatmans, then.” I held up one finger, even though she couldn’t see it. “Juliet, for sleeping with your husband. Chloe, for being the product of that affair. And Cody, for bullying Amelia, your sick daughter.” When she said nothing, I added, “Your rage is certainly understandable.”

“I don’t need your pity,” she whispered.

I leaned forward on my desk. “You said you visited the Chatmans on the night of the fire. Right before Zumba.”

Sarah said nothing for several seconds. “I did visit them, yes.”

“Just that one time? Or did you come back later that night? After class?”

Silence again.

“And you took Juliet’s keys that first visit,” I said. “So that you could enter the house on your own. Am I right?”

I glanced at Colin, then walked onto the ledge. “I’m asking because a witness told me that you
did
return to the Chatman house that evening. The witness also told me that you were very upset with Juliet, that Cody had done something else to Amelia, and that both Juliet and Cody had reasons to fear you.”

“If you’re implying that I’ve committed a crime,” Sarah said carefully, “if that’s what you’re doing, Detective Norton, then we have a problem.”

“Did you return to the Chatman house before the fire?”

No response.

“Did you visit the upstairs bathroom when you stopped by to see if Juliet wanted to go to Zumba with you?”

Sarah Oliver snorted. “Ridiculous questions, one after the other.”

Had Juliet peeked out her bedroom window that night? Had she glimpsed Sarah Oliver’s SUV parked out front and so she grabbed the gun? Because she knew that Sarah had wanted to kill her?

My bladder pressed against my waistband. “I’d like you to come down to the station for a formal interview, for more ridiculous questions.”

“My daughter is sick—Cody’s fault. He harassed her every time she visited, and it just wore her down. Did you know that he locked Mimi and Coco out of the house last week? And he thought it was funny. She’s not a regular little girl, Detective Norton. She can’t handle stress like other children can.”

“I understand—”

“I don’t think you do,” she snapped. “You wouldn’t be asking me to come see you if you understood. I wasn’t there last week when Cody Chatman was bullying her, but I’m here now. I will not leave her, not while she’s vulnerable.”

“Ben can watch her while you’re here,” I offered, not budging. “Shall I send a car to come get you?”

“Are you accusing me of murder?” she asked. “If so, I should call my lawyer before talking anymore to you.”

“Who you should call first is your business.”

She snorted. “Fine. See you soon, Detective Norton.”

WHEN LIEUTENANT RODRIGUEZ PAGED ME, I WAS CATCHING A NAP IN THE COT ROOM
for much-needed slumber. Colin had been hunkered in the break room, weary-eyed and too tired to eat his breakfast burrito. Together, we plodded back to our desks. Colin dropped into his chair, and I sank into mine.

Lieutenant Rodriguez glided out of his office as though it were three in the afternoon and not three in the morning. He smiled broadly at us and waved a single sheet of paper in his hand. “Prints came back.”

That
yanked me awake. “And?”

He handed me the results.

Colin rolled his chair next to mine and peeked over my shoulder.

My hand flew to my heart as I studied the magnified whirls, ridges, and little pink dots. “On all three vials?”

“On all three vials,” Lieutenant Rodriguez confirmed.

“Holy shit,” Colin muttered. “Good job, partner. I doubted you.”

“And the petroleum jelly?” I asked.

My boss sighed. “Sarah Oliver’s prints are in the system from her days as a lawyer.”

Chatman and Sarah had worked together to murder his family. What the
hell
?

The requests for arrest warrants took twenty minutes to complete.

A judge approving the warrants took another hour and a half.

The drive to Westchester by Colin, Lieutenant Rodriguez, and me, along with seven giants from our Violent Criminal Apprehension Team (including my favorites, Gino Walston and Ro “Samoan Ro” Matua), took only fifteen minutes.

At dawn, our convoy of Crown Vics and blacked-out Suburbans rolled silently up the hill and through twisty, tree-lined streets to arrest Christopher Chatman and Sarah Oliver for three counts of capital murder. The eastern rim of the world, edged in purples, oranges, and reds, promised a ray of sunshine before clouds rushed in to remind us that it was December 16th. We parked, careful not to slam car doors and awaken the man we had come to apprehend.

After Gino divided us into two teams—one team to apprehend Sarah Oliver, and another for Chatman—I tugged at the straps of my ballistics vest, then checked my Glock. I slowly inhaled, and my nerves loosened from their bundles.

“Ready, Lou?” Gino asked.

“Yep,” I told him. “Make my dreams come true.”

Gino and I led the Chatman team to the south side of Ben Oliver’s house, while Samoan Ro and Lieutenant Rodriguez led the second team to the main house.

We crept past the wrought-iron gate and reached the backyard.

The early birds, mostly sparrows, were getting the worms and hopping on wet grass. A stray cat lounged near Amelia’s abandoned scooter, licking its paws and washing its face.

We descended the slick flagstone steps to the cottage.

I banged on the door. “Police! Open up!”

No response.

Lieutenant Rodriguez, up at the main house, also banged on the door. “Police! Open up!”

My heart pounded as I banged the door three more times. “Police! Open up!”

Silence.

Gino twisted the doorknob.

Locked.

On a three count, my foot flew at the door’s sweet spot, and the wood crunched and splintered. One more kick, and the door flew open. Gun drawn, I moved aside and let the big guys roll in.

“Anybody in there?” I shouted.

“Found him,” Gino shouted back.

We rushed in and found Christopher Chatman’s limp body draped across the couch. Colin and I huddled over the big cop, who was now moving Chatman to the floor.

“Looks like he tried to off himself,” I said, eyeing the empty vial of Vicodin and near-empty bottle of vodka.

Samoan Ro and Lieutenant Rodriguez had run from the main house and now rushed into the cottage. “Ain’t nobody in there,” Samoan Ro shouted. “We checked every room. Empty.”

I muttered, “Shit,” then keyed the mic on my radio and called for EMT.

Chatman lay on the carpet, still not moving.

Gino pinched Chatman’s nose and started CPR.

Colin took a team and canvassed the Olivers’ property.

The rumble of fire trucks made lights in the houses on either side of us pop on.

Firemen hollered for us cops to leave the cottage as two red-faced EMTs shoved an endotracheal tube down Christopher Chatman’s throat. They turned Chatman onto his left side, then gently slipped another tube into his mouth and down his esophagus to reach his stomach to start pumping out poison.

Once the EMTs had lifted Chatman onto a stretcher, I followed them as they rolled the man out to the front of the house.

Colin and Lieutenant Rodriguez came to stand beside me as Chatman was being loaded into the ambulance.

“It’s a mess in that little house,” Colin said. “Vicodin, vodka bottles, a handgun, a loaf of bread, wads of cash… I don’t know what he was planning, if he was staying or going or throwing a party.”

“I’m gonna ride with him,” I told my boss and partner. “We need to find Sarah Oliver, and Chatman will wake up and he’ll tell us. She may be at the hospital with her daughter, though I doubt it.”

Lieutenant Rodriguez grabbed his radio and called in another crew to process the scene. Then, he called Luke and Pepe to join Samoan Ro and Gino to search for Sarah Oliver.