The Spider Bites (6 page)

“Is this an area you specialize in, Mr. Davies?” asked Sergeant Donovan.

“It is.”

Donovan wrote something on the folder in front of him and handed it back to Luke. Luke passed another folder to the sergeant.

“And now we come to the identity of the man in the basement,” said Donovan. “He has been tentatively identified as Fred Hancock. At the time of his death, he appeared to be living in Sergeant Montoya's apartment. What can you tell us about him, Sergeant Montoya? Was he renting the apartment from you? Or was he a friend you were helping out?”

“Neither one, sir,” I said. “But I had run into him in the course of my work. He did not have my permission to be in my apartment.”

“Who was paying the rent?” asked the guy from CSI.

“I had paid the rent until the end of December,” I said, trying to remember where I had put the receipt that Cheryl had given me.

“How long had he been living in the apartment?” asked Donovan, looking around.

“I don't know, sir,” I said. Long enough to pile up a sinkful of dishes. But I wasn't going to bring that up.

“I would say that he arrived sometime after Friday morning,” said Mark Davies. “Mrs. Vicars did not mention him on Friday. On Tuesday she was disturbed about a stranger living in the basement. Apparently he had changed the lock on the apartment.”

“You spoke to her on Tuesday?” Mark nodded. “Had she invited the stranger in?”

“I don't know,” said Mark. “She was a private sort of person.”

“Sergeant Montoya, did you know Mr. Hancock?” asked Donovan.

Everyone in the room knew that I had known him. Except, maybe, Greg.

I nodded. “He had been involved in an investigation that I was working on.”

“When you say involved, what do you mean?” asked Donovan.

“He was an informant. He was prepared to testify against a person of interest to us. This person could have been charged with serious offenses,” I said carefully.

“So it is possible that the fire was started to dispose of Mr. Hancock, and that Mrs. Vicars's death was an unfortunate coincidence. ‘Collateral Damage' as they call it.”

“It is certainly possible, sir.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TONY

S
ergeant Donovan left. We all spread out a bit and made statements. They were read, checked and signed.

Susanna and Greg grabbed their coats and left without a word to anyone.

I turned to Angela. “How about lunch?”

“Sorry,” she said, “I have to get back to work.” She opened her wallet and pulled out a card. “Your room key,” she added. “I borrowed it. Call me tonight.”

I watched her walk out with Mark Davies, laughing about something.

“Tough luck,” said a voice behind me. A familiar voice.

“Hi, Tony,” I said.

“Quit worrying about Angela and let's get some lunch. We have a lot of stuff to talk about.”

“Good idea,” I said.

“She quit, you know,” said Tony. “Right after you left town. She was upset. And a couple of the guys were making bad jokes about you being in trouble. She blew up and walked out.”

“She has a temper,” I said. “Let's go.”

* * *

Tony's favorite Italian restaurant was crowded. But the owner found us a table. They like him there.

“How's Susanna?” asked Tony. “I wanted to talk to her too. But she took off like a scared rabbit with that overgrown kid, Greg. Is she okay?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I saw her yesterday, right after the fire. She looked to be in shock, shivering with cold. So I took her for a pizza.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“But the weird thing is that she looked amazing. She had a gorgeous red dress on. Hair and makeup like a model. You must have seen her. Didn't you notice?”

“Yesterday?” I nodded. “No. No red dress. I think I saw her in her usual jeans and black sweater. Neat, clean jeans and sweater.”

“I guess she changed at work.”

“Probably. Look, Rick—that stuff you said last night about Rodriguez was all bullshit, wasn't it?”

“Yeah, it was. I was sort of out of it. It seemed a good idea at the time. I wanted to see how you'd react. But, of course, you didn't.”

“You should know by now that I don't fall into your traps.” He grinned. “But I want to know what made you come back? Just in time for Freddie to get incinerated?”

“Believe it or not, it was because my job was over. I picked up my pay and came down to the terminal with the last load of apples. End of season.”

“Nothing to do with Freddie?”

“Everything to do with Freddie. Except for the date. But I was not expecting him to be in my apartment. And I was certainly not planning on him being dead. I wanted to talk to him.”

“And did you?”

“No. I got to the apartment. I saw that someone was living there. I had no idea it was Freddie. But I was mad as hell. It was around six, I guess. I'd been up and working since four in the morning. I needed to shower and change. I figured it could wait. I got a room, went to bed and slept for twelve hours.”

“Did you go down to the house then?”

“No, I spent the morning getting cleaned up and buying some clothes that fit me. Then I went to see the lawyer. I saw something on the news about the fire and went down to see what had happened. I figured that Cheryl and Susanna were at work.”

“But it was Wednesday.”

“I know you won't believe me, Tony, but I lost track of the days up there.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I was working seven days a week from before dawn to after dusk. Doing the same thing, over and over again. The days blend into each other. It sounds feeble. But it's the truth.”

The waitress set down two bowls of pasta. As soon as she left, Tony leaned forward.

“So who's on your short list of guys with torches? Besides me, of course.”

“You?” I said.

“Of course. We're at the top of everybody's list. We're the guys Rodriguez would try to bribe.”

“Makes sense,” I said carefully.

“So if it was Rodriguez, he was aiming to get rid of Freddie and one of us.”

“Kill Freddie and put the blame on me, more likely. He'd already set me up with that money stuffed under my mattress.”

“The problem's going to be getting to Rodriguez,” said Tony.

“He's left town,” I said.

“I heard that. Where is he?”

“Mexico. For Christmas.” I raised my hand. “Don't say it. It's still October. But that's what I was told.”

“That's not going to be easy.”

“Not that hard. I sent him an email. I asked him who torched Freddie. He answered.”

“No shit. He answered?”

I took the printout from my pocket and handed it over.

“It's in Spanish.”

“Well, of course it is. But he says two things. He isn't the one trying to cut my throat, and he wouldn't burn down a barn to kill a rat. It's just possible he had nothing to do with it.”

“Maybe. Who else then?”

“Who could get in the house?” I asked.

“Without breaking in? The two of us.”

“And four other people, I think. Susanna, Angela's friend Mark, Angela…”

“And Susanna's friend, Greg,” said Tony. “And since Freddie was living there, any one of Rodriguez's guys.”

“Let's start with Angela. I refuse to believe that Angela would set fire to Cheryl's house.”

“Where is she working now?” asked Tony.

“I don't know. Do you?”

“I haven't heard. She hasn't exactly been on good terms with our side lately,” he said. “Although she did go down to the morgue and tell me the body wasn't you.”

“She was probably disappointed,” I said bitterly.

He shook his head.

“No, Rick. Actually she sounded worried. But something else is bothering me.”

“What's that?”

“Mark Davies. He said that Cheryl had installed alarms and fire extinguishers. So why didn't she hear the smoke alarm?” asked Tony. “They told me she didn't even try to get up. It doesn't make sense.”

“I wonder,” I said. “And I want to know when Susanna changed her clothes. Did she bring all that stuff with her to work? Are her jeans and sweater still there?”

“I'd like to find out something about Greg,” said Tony.

“And who in hell is Mark?” I said.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE WEB

I
refused the offer of a ride from Tony. It was at least three miles to my hotel, but I walked. I needed to move around. I had to clear my head.

Meanwhile, a small group of cops at the station had started asking questions. When did Susanna change from her jeans into her red dress? What was Mark's background? What was his connection with Cheryl? Who was Greg? And in the lab, technicians were busy analyzing the samples from the site of the fire. They had already finished writing some early reports on their findings.

* * *

My hotel room wasn't any more inviting than it had been the day before. I sat on the bed. I turned on the
TV
and watched it for five minutes. I turned it off again. I went downstairs and bought a paper. There were a few pictures of the fire, mostly of the house. And there was a lot of written coverage as well. But there was nothing really new. A lot of descriptions of Cheryl and Susanna from people who didn't know them. Most of it was garbage.

I shoved the paper in the basket.

* * *

At seven I called Angela.

“You said I should come over and pick up my stuff,” I said.

She admitted that she had said that.

“Come on over.”

The apartment smelled warm and inviting. I hung up my jacket and looked around. I had expected to find a pile of my things by the entrance door. There was nothing there. “Where's my stuff?” I said. “In the junk room?”

I opened the door to the second bedroom. That was where we used to throw everything we didn't have a place for. I turned on the overhead light. I stepped back, amazed. All the junk was gone. Angela had stripped off the hideous wallpaper and replaced it with a soft yellow paint. She had hung new curtains on the windows.

“You've fixed it up,” I said.

“You noticed.”

“Are you planning to rent it out?”

“Of course not,” she said impatiently. “I just decided to do it. And I did.”

“Okay, okay, don't get mad,” I said. I didn't feel like fighting. “But what did I leave behind?”

“Not much. A couple of pictures. Some photographs. A whole lot of hurt feelings. Even more memories. Not much that you can carry away.”

“God, Angela, I'm so sorry,” I said. I reached out to take her hands.

She backed away. As if she couldn't bear to be close to me.

“You can't believe how sorry I am,” I said. “For being so stupid. And stubborn.”

“And drunk,” she added. “Don't forget that. Come on. Let's get out of here. It still smells of paint and disappointment.”

I followed her into the living room.

“I called and left a message at your apartment,” she said. “Like you told me to if I had to get in touch. You never called me back.”

“I collected my messages at least once a week,” I said. “I never heard from you. Was it important?”

“It was important when I called. It doesn't matter now.” She sounded bitter and unhappy.

“What was it?” I said. “You've got to tell me what it was, Angela.”

“I don't have to tell you anything,” she said. “But I didn't ask you over so we could fight. I'm cooking supper. I'd appreciate it if you'd join me. Today wasn't much fun, was it?”

“You want me to stay for supper?”

“That's what I said. I'd rather not be alone for now.”

“Sure,” I said. I would have agreed to anything right then. Besides, I suddenly felt hungry. “What can I do?”

“Throw a salad together. As soon as the water boils I'll put on the noodles.”

“What are we having?”

“Baked chicken and mushrooms.”

And so we worked together in the kitchen, side by side, the way we used to. When things were better. “No red onions?” I said, my head in the refrigerator.

“If you'd wanted red onions you should have bought some.”

“How was I supposed to know? Hey— where did you get these olives? Nice work.”

I put the salad bowl on the table, cut some chunks of bread and drained the pasta. Angela tasted the sauce from the chicken.

“How is it?” I asked.

“Good. I tried some fresh rosemary in it. It works.”

And we sat down to eat, talking food. I told her about cooking on a tiny budget with the crew on the farm.

“I picked up a lot of new ideas,” I said. “The guys in the crew always send as much money home as they can, so we bought as little as possible. Tiny pieces of meat, oil, flour, salt, hot pepper sauce. Otherwise we lived on fruit and vegetables.”

“No parties?”

“Never. On Saturday nights the crew went into town for a beer. One beer.”

“And you didn't go?” She didn't sound as if she believed me.

“I didn't go.”

We were cleaning up the kitchen. I was beginning to wonder about possibilities for the rest of the evening. Then Angela's mobile buzzed unpleasantly. She plucked it out of the little leather holder fastened to her belt and flipped it open.

“Damn,” she muttered. “Hi. What's going on?” She paused. “Right. See you there. Fifteen minutes.”

“Sorry, Rick,” she said. “My boss. I've been called out. Something's up.”

“What in hell do you do?” I asked.

“I'm still a cop, sort of. Private security and investigative stuff. It's interesting, but it does have a few drawbacks. Like getting calls on my evenings off. But this is a case I'm on, so it's my baby.”