Skies of Ash (6 page)

“You’re an insurance attorney,” I said, with no room for rebuttal.

Ben Oliver considered me for a moment, then said, “And that seems outré to you?”

“A representative from MG Standard Insurance is here,” I pointed out. “Did
you
suggest that Mr. Chatman file an immediate claim? Or did he call them from the hospital’s room phone? I’m just trying to figure out the timeline of when best to talk to you about this, especially since the insurance company is already here, which, to me, is outré.”

He squinted at me, then stepped back and opened the door wider.

The house smelled of cinnamon, bacon fat, and Vicks VapoRub. In a room somewhere, a television blared and an actress raved about the wonders of Downy fabric softener. Framed pictures hung along the foyer walls. Praying Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. Hopeful Jesus looking up to heaven. Pensive Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., staring into space.

“After we talk with you,” I said to the attorney, “we plan to head over to the hospital.”

“A feckless endeavor,” he said. “I just called—Christopher is suffering from a concussion, but they finally let him sleep.”

I cocked my head. “I expect that he’ll wake?”

“Of course he’ll wake.”

“Then…?” I shrugged and offered a quizzical,
What’s the problem?
smile.

An old black woman in a pair of pink-and-white-checkered Vans shuffled from the living room into the foyer. Her snowy, coarse hair had been pulled into a ponytail. Both pockets of her green housecoat had been stuffed with remote controls. She was my type of granny. She peered at me over the tops of her pearly-pink spectacles. “Who you?”

“Mother,” Ben Oliver said, “this is Detective Taggert and Detective Norton. I assume they’re handling the investigation. Detectives, this is my grandmother, Virginia Oliver.”

The old woman kept her gaze on me. “I already talked to the white boy right there. Tol’ him how I heard the fire and called the police.” She hurled a look at Colin. “Ain’t you remember that?” Before Colin could answer, she turned back to me. “So what
you
want?”

I cleared my throat, tasting peanuts, caramel, and cinders. “We need to further understand the circumstances surrounding the fire, ma’am. And then determine how the…
deaths
occurred.”

She glanced at her grandson. “Benji, ain’t they say it was an accident?”

He shrugged. “I guess the city doesn’t mind wasting money on piscine expeditions.”

I chuckled. “This is far from a fishing trip, sir.”

“Y’all gotta talk to me right
now
?” the old woman asked. “To you, it’s three o’clock. To
me
, might as well be midnight.”

“May I stop by tomorrow then?” I asked.

She gave Colin the up-and-down. “Boy, don’t go trackin’ no mud round here with them boots you got on.” To her grandson, she said, “Put ’em in the parlor.” Then, she pivoted on her sneakered heel and scuffed down the hallway.

Ben Oliver glanced at his watch à la Arthur Fiedler conducting the Boston Pops, all swooping arms and cocked chin. “Detectives, I have a meeting at four o’clock, so you have three minutes.” Then, he strode down the hallway, three fingers held up as visual confirmation.

Colin and I rolled our eyes and followed in the maestro’s wake.

Sure: in its heyday, this room
would
have been called a parlor. But the glory had faded from this place the moment Nixon had skulked out of the White House and boarded Marine One. There were magenta-taffeta-covered walls and lamps with dusty ruffled shades and shedding tassels. A yellowed songbook sat in the music stand of a spinet piano. The silk flowers in the vases had died. There was more life in King Tut’s tomb than Virginia Oliver’s parlor.

The attorney flopped onto the purple plastic-covered sofa.

Colin hunkered on the matching plastic-covered armchair across from him.

With no other seating option available, I perched next to Ben Oliver on the couch. “How is Mr. Chatman?” I asked.

“He doesn’t know the full extent of what’s happened,” Ben said as he rubbed his chest. That hand thumped to his side, and he gave a heavy sigh. “And, in a way, that’s preferable. He needs to regain his strength. What he’s about to endure… It won’t be easy.” His eyebrows gathered and his hand returned to his chest.

“How long have you known Mr. Chatman?” Colin asked.

“All my life. We were born and raised in this neighborhood. Me in this house, him next door. We both attended UCLA as undergraduates. Then, UCLA Law for me and Anderson for an M.B.A. for him.”

“I went to UCLA Law,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Class of 2000.”

“And now you’re police.”

“I wanted to
save
lives, and lawyers… are people, too.”

He smiled and rubbed the top of his lip.

“So you and Mr. Chatman are something like best friends, then?” Colin asked.

“The bestest.”

“And what firm are you with?” Colin asked.

“Kensington, Scott, and Merrill in Century City.”

“And Mr. Chatman,” I said. “What now is his métier?”

Ben Oliver cocked an eyebrow with my correct usage of the ten-dollar word. “He’s a commodities broker.”

“Nice living,” Colin said, still uncertain what the hell that was.

Ben Oliver leaned forward. “He’s more than a money man, though. He’s an
honorable
man. And my heart aches for him. Juliet was a marvelous woman, and the kids… Chloe… This—the fire, the deaths, talking to police… This is just…
surreal
.”

“When did you hear about the fire?” I asked.

“Early this morning,” he said. “I was on my way home from the airport when my grandmother called and…” He jammed his lips together, and his body tightened. He dropped his head and covered his face with his hand. His shoulders shuddered for several seconds. Then, he went still and his breathing slowed. “I apologize,” he said.

Head still down, he pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket and dried his face. He exhaled, then straightened in his seat. “My grandmother called,” he said, looking at me, “and at first, I didn’t understand what she was saying—she kept screaming, ‘They’re gone, they’re gone!’ ”

“Do you live nearby?” Colin asked.

“I’m about three miles away,” he said, that baritone not so smooth now. “In Westchester.”

“Some neighbors mentioned seeing a strange man around,” I said. “Black guy, midtwenties, wearing an orange hockey jersey, carrying a backpack. You see him?”

Ben Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. “Haven’t seen anyone fitting that description. But I’m only here for a few hours a week to check on my grandmother.”

“Are you aware of the recent arsons in the neighborhood?” Colin asked.

The attorney nodded. “I’m very aware. I’m representing one of the families whose home was torched two weeks ago. Their insurance company, no surprise, is haranguing and deceiving them.” He cocked his head, then held out his hand. “Wait a minute. This hockey jersey—did he set—?”

“We don’t know anything yet,” I said, shaking my head. “Who this man is, who did the arsons, if this case is even related. That’s why we’re here: to gather as much information as possible.”

Ben Oliver pounded a fist against his thigh. “I’m just trying… I’m trying to hold it together.” He squeezed shut his eyes, then opened them again. “To make sense out of the nonsensical.”

“When was the last time you saw the Chatmans?” Colin asked.

He stared at the coffee table as he thought. “Took my daughter Amelia and Chloe to get frozen yogurt on Sunday. I saw Juliet on Monday morning. And I had lunch with Christopher back on Wednesday? Maybe Thursday?”

“How old were the Chatman kids?” Colin asked, writing in his pad.

“Cody was turning thirteen in March, and Chloe…” He bit his lip, inhaled, then slowly exhaled. “Nine in July.”

“Were Juliet and Christopher fine before the fire?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know where to even begin answering such an open-ended question. I only know what Christopher tells me.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let me back up. Tell me about your relationship with him.”

“Well”—he waved his hand, dismissing what he was about to say—“we compete. More him than me. But that’s what men do, right?” He asked this of Colin, who also had a penis.

“Especially lawyers and bankers,” I said. “That’s a lot of ego in one area code.”

He threw me a glare but couldn’t refute my observation. “When I bought my wife—”

“You’re married?” I asked, just noticing the gold wedding band on his ring finger.

He smirked. “Disappointed?”

“No,” I said, unblinking. “We may need to talk to your wife. And what does she do for a living?”

“She’s now home with our daughter,” he said. “But in a previous life, she also practiced law.”

“Insurance?” I asked.

“Mergers and acquisitions.”

I nodded. “You were saying about competition…?”

Ben Oliver offered a slow smile. “When I bought
my wife
a new SUV, Christopher—”

“You always call him Christopher?” Colin asked. “Not Chris?”

“He doesn’t like his name shortened,” Ben said. “Anyway, my wife, Sarah, always asks, Why can’t you be more like him? And I always ask her, Do you want me to work twenty-hour days and consume Maalox by the gallon?” He chuckled. “Her answer is always yes.”

“She sounds… delightful,” I said. “So Mr. Chatman works all the time is what you’re telling me.”

“Which is why he wasn’t home when the fire started.” Ben tugged at his right ear. “He has to keep unconventional hours. That’s just the business, especially in this economy. He has to be aware of everything all the time. Too many typhoons in Indonesia and a drought in Nebraska affects the prices of rice and wheat, which then affects his clients, which ultimately affects his firm’s bottom line. But he enjoys trading, and, more than that, he loves providing for his family.

“But I know he despises himself right now. Because he had been working late when…” His nostrils flared, and he tapped his fist against his thigh again.

I waited for him to gain control of his emotions, then asked, “Is Mr. Chatman the jealous type? Is he possessive? Quick to anger?”

Ben Oliver gawked at me. “
Christopher?
Absolutely not. He’s
far
from possessive. He worships Jules, and he dotes on the children. Gives them everything they need and deserve.” He covered his mouth with his hand, then whispered, “Past tense.”

“Excuse me?” Colin said. “I didn’t hear…”

A sad smile overtook the attorney’s face, and his eyes brightened with tears. “I’m talking about Juliet and the kids as though they’re still… here. I don’t know what Christopher will do—he has no one now. I don’t know what
I’d
do. No. I
do
know—I wouldn’t want to live. And I can’t see Christopher wanting to live, either. Juliet and the children were his world, and I hate to say this, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I found my best friend… if I found him dead.”

BEN OLIVER APOLOGIZED FOR ENDING OUR INTERVIEW AND SUGGESTED THAT NEXT
time we make an appointment. “I don’t want to be a jerk about it,” he said, rushing down the walkway to his car and
totally
being a jerk about it, “but my days are labyrinthine. Next time, call my secretary, Dawn—she’ll set up an appropriate time.”

“Actually,” I shouted after him, “you’ll need to come down to the station to give an official statement.”

“Certainly. Soon. Promise.” Then, he slipped behind the Jag’s steering wheel, started that V-8 engine, and roared down Don Mateo Drive like Mario Andretti.

One last brake-light blink from the Jag’s ass, and
poof!
Gone.

No cars, trucks, or busses jammed Sepulveda and Wilshire boulevards. A small miracle. It took only forty-five minutes to drive from Baldwin Hills to UCLA Hospital. By then, dark clouds the color of dingy socks and second-day bruises had rolled in from the west. Would it rain or were those just Hollywood clouds? Nice fronts with nothing behind them.

Beneath those stormy skies, the college town looked deserted, as though the rain had already beaten down the city and washed away its people.

No crowds meant better parking, though. And better parking meant less walking. And zippity-do-da, I pulled into a parking space only seventy-six miles away from the hospital.

Colin, driving his own car, did not share my luck and found a spot two rows farther back.

“Preordered your hubby’s new game yesterday,” Colin said as we marched toward the entrance. “Zombies and big guns and Bible stuff? Sounds kick-ass.”

“Good for you. He’ll love to hear that,” I said, checking my phone for any voice mail left by said husband.

“Ha ha,” Colin said with a smirk. “Hashtag Sarcastic Lou.”

“That was so sincere, it hurt,” I said. “Gregory Norton loves the love and the attention. One fan, a million fans, doesn’t matter. As long as he’s being adored, he’s happy. He’s a puppy in that way.”

No voice mail messages from the puppy.

I called the puppy’s two phone numbers. He didn’t answer either, so I left a message on his cell’s voice mail. “Hey, still working. Just calling to check in. Talk to you later.” Frowning, I disconnected and ignored Colin’s,
You okay? What did he do now?
gaze. I tossed my partner a strained smile.
It’s all good. Carry on.

Patients and their families and all of the Westside filled the lobby, occupied every chair, and took up every empty space available. And everyone coughed or sneezed or oozed liquids the colors of infection and/or imminent death.

“I can
feel
the Ebola,” Colin said as his eyes darted from the snotty-nosed toddler to the old man who wore a face mask not over his mouth but on his forehead. “Tell my mother I love her.”

I didn’t speak—I didn’t want to open my mouth. But the air that managed to creep through my nostrils and hit my taste buds tasted more like swine flu.

We held our breath as we rode the elevator up to the third floor—and we exhaled as soon as the door opened to a calm, deserted waiting room that smelled of Listerine and soap.