Touched by Fire (10 page)

“About what?”

“His slipcover. It’s filthy. I made a special effort to get home early to wash it. He wouldn’t let me near it. Made such a fuss.”

“It’s his security blanket, Mom. Let it be.”

“Security blankets are for children. Lilah,
grand
children.”

“Spare me the guilt trip, okay?”

“Just a reminder,” Marge replied, her voice rising in the way parents have of saying,
Don’t say I didn’t warn you,
without saying it. She began emptying the dishwasher, automatically handing the plates to Lilah, who just as automatically put them in the cupboard. Marge cocked her head knowingly and caught Lilah’s eye when she turned. “Did it again, didn’t you?”

“Wrong shelf?”

“No, parked behind my car.”

“Mom,” Lilah groaned. “It’s almost nine-thirty. Where would you be going at this hour?”

“Lucky’s.”

“You’re going to the supermarket now?”

“Why not? It’s the only time I have to do my marketing. Even if I wasn’t, it’s the principle of the thing, Lilah, and you know it.”

Lilah nodded contritely to mollify her. “You know, you don’t sound very happy to see me.”

“How can you say that? Your father and I were worried sick after what happened. He got right on the phone to his cronies in County to make sure they put a priority on the investigation.”

“Yeah, they’re totally ignoring the wildfires just for me,” Lilah said facetiously.

Marge sighed. “I’m relieved just to see you’re in one piece.”

“Well,” Lilah replied, smiling at what she was about to say, “the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.”

Marge nodded and studied her with disapproving eyes. “And one of these days, if you don’t get it cut, He’s going to come after that hair.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Merrick was driving north on the Harbor Freeway—the twelve-lane slab of concrete that split the city’s core like a seismic fault. He took the Sixth Street off-ramp into a mirror-walled canyon of skyscrapers, and turned into the parking garage beneath L.A.’s World Trade Center. Its impenetrable granite base and concrete pedestrian bridges perfectly suited a building that housed the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms laboratory.

The whir of processors and scent of ozone came from the Computer Imaging unit, where the piece of charred cardboard that Merrick found in Lilah’s office—the piece that seemed to have printing on it—was centered beneath the lens of a video microscope tied in to a computer. The greatly magnified image looked like a black-on-black relief map of the Grand Canyon.

Logan and Pamela Dyer, an ATF computer technician, had spent the afternoon engaged in a two-step process designed to visually separate the charred printing from the charred cardboard.

The first step, Spectrophotometric Analysis, used the light absorbent properties of substances to differentiate between them. The cardboard didn’t react in the ultraviolet band, but the black marker, used to print the address, did;
and fragments of printed letters began slowly emerging on the monitor.

The second, computer Image Reconstruction, refined the bits and pieces so they could be read. Video line by video line, it scanned them until they resolved into a distinct character or digit. The painstaking process took hours to spell out the letters: P.O.

Logan didn’t have to wait for the word that would eventually follow. “Son of a bitch—a post office box.”

“A fire bomb with a return address?” Dyer exclaimed incredulously. A straight-A DeVry graduate with a sexy, counterculture eccentricity, she spent her off hours playing backup guitar in her boyfriend’s rock band. A tiny tattoo that proclaimed
WIRED
, the name of the magazine of the Internet elite, could sometimes be glimpsed above the lacy edge of her bra. She stared at the monitor anxiously; but the digits she hoped would follow had defied reconstruction and were illegible.

“Great,” Logan grumbled. “It could’ve been mailed anywhere in the goddamn country.”

Dyer widened the field of view. A line of craggy, oddly spaced letters filled the screen: –A–TA–––NICA

“A, B, C, D,” Logan recited, searching for the missing letter of the first word, “E, F, G, H—”

“Try Santa Monica,” Merrick said from the doorway, where he’d been watching with bemused detachment.

“Smart-ass,” Logan growled, winking at Dyer.

“But you still don’t know the number,” Merrick chided. “You have any idea how many post office boxes there are in Santa Monica?”

Dyer shrugged. “Why would this nutcase put a return add on a fire bomb anyway?”

“Nuts do things that are nuts,” Logan replied.

“Did a nut do this?” Merrick opened his attaché and removed the remote he’d borrowed from Schaefer.

Logan slipped it from the plastic evidence bag and gave it a once-over. “Your standard universal remote. You can program it to turn on your TV, VCR, stereo, open your garage, brew coffee, mix martinis—”

“How about detonate an incendiary?”

Logan’s eyes widened with curiosity. “Take another whack at that number, Tattoo,” he said, heading for the door.

“Better make that plural, gramps,” she cracked.

Logan paused. “You got another one?”

Dyer nodded coyly.

“On your butt, right?”

“Down south,” she replied with a saucy grin. She hooked her thumbs in her jeans, letting her hands frame her pelvis. “I’d show you, but your hard drive might crash, and then where would we be?”

“In heaven,” Logan quipped under his breath.

Merrick laughed and followed him down a corridor to the Forensics unit. The glass-partitioned space contained diagnostic equipment, detection gear, and tools designed to work within the miniature universe of electronic devices. In moments Logan had the remote apart and was scrutinizing the components with an illuminated magnifier. “Nada.”

“No modifications? The range hasn’t been extended?”

“Doesn’t look that way.”

“His office is a block from hers. There’s no way it could have been used to detonate this damn thing?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then it could?”

“I didn’t say that either. Gonna have to run the circuits in the chip to be sure. This guy a prime?”

“Could be. Busted affair, cheating on his wife . . .”

“Then I’d be looking real hard at
her
too.”

“I’ll bet,” Merrick teased. “Hubby claims she was out of town, so . . .” He was splaying his hands to imply the conclusion was obvious when Fletcher came through the door and announced, “WAR came up empty on that Las Flores print.” Earlier, a technician had lifted the thumbprint from the charred matchbook that Merrick found in the ashes of the wildfire; and Fletcher had just run it through the Wild-land Arson Response program. WAR contained computerized personal profiles of known arsonists along with their modus operandi. Statewide in scope, the data was used to identify repeat offenders, or unknown arsonists with similar profiles.

Merrick sagged with disappointment “You run it through APP?” The Arson Profiler Program was an index of arsonists who had been apprehended and interviewed by ATF agents, and was national in scope.

“Naw, I figure our guy is a local and—”

“Don’t figure, Billy-boy. We know it’s not the Unabomber, but running his profile might help.”

Fletcher nodded, appropriately chastened.

“Might as well run the fire-bomb-in-a-box M.O. while you’re at it. Might be something in their weirdo file. Oh, before you do that, get hold of that guy Copeland, and see where my videotape’s at.” Merrick watched him go, then shifted his glance to Logan. “Anything on the blob?” he asked, referring to the lump of black plastic he’d also found amid the debris in Lilah’s office.

Logan slipped three X rays onto a light panel. Captured within the ghostly outlines were the remains of an electronic device. The intense heat had vaporized most of the
microchips and circuitry, fusing the rest into a globule of silvery gray silicon. “Nada.”

“I can see that for myself, Pete,” Merrick said. “No idea what kind of gizmo we’re looking at?”

“Gizmo, geegaw, gadget—call it what you like. Not enough left to tell what it is. My money’s on some kind of timer.”

“Great. I had it down to whoever knew the doc and the hot potato were both there. Now it could be damn near anybody.”

“Yup, damn near anybody,” Logan echoed.

Merrick groaned wearily and headed for the door. “I’ve got to crash for a while.”

Traffic was lighter now, and the Blazer-was soon heading west on Rosecrans, one of several streets in Manhattan Beach that led to the ocean, though the sound of crashing surf was well out of earshot when Merrick pulled into the carport beneath his apartment. He had moved into the place a couple of years ago when he and his ex-wife separated—a temporary situation that gradually became permanent.

The Santa Anas were still gusting, and the door blew open with a bang when he unlocked it. A blast of stale air rushed from within to greet him. Merrick glared at the struggling air conditioner, then winced at the empty cans and fast food containers on the table. He stepped over the dirty laundry and fell on the bed fully clothed. The light on the answering machine got his attention, and he reached over and slapped at it, lighting a cigarette as the tape rewound. There was a message from his dentist, scolding him for being months overdue for a cleaning, followed by Jason’s adolescent squeak, which made him smile. “Hi, Dad, I’m calling about the game. We’re going, right? Oh,
and I need a little help with my algebra. Talk to you later, okay?”

Merrick pulled the phone onto the bed and dialed. He hated talking to his ex, and hoped Jason would answer. “It’s me,” he said coolly, exhaling smoke into the phone when he heard her voice. “Put him on, will you?”

“He’s doing his homework,” Joyce Merrick replied.

“Good. We’re working on his algebra this weekend.”

“Too little too late, as usual. Steve’s helping him as we speak.”

Merrick winced, then, unable to resist the opening, said, “Really? I didn’t know cops could spell algebra, let alone teach it.”

“That’s not all they’re good at,” Joyce taunted.

“Can I talk to my son, please.”

“Hold on,” she said curtly.

Merrick pictured her crossing to the table where Jason did his homework, pictured him nodding admiringly at his tutor’s mathematical prowess. He was reflecting on Jason’s comment that “Steve’s okay,” when the kid’s voice pulled him out of it.

“Hi there, tiger,” Merrick said cheerily. “Take it from someone who’s been there. There’s life after algebra.”

Jason chuckled. “So . . .” he asked hesitantly. “We still on for the game?”

“You know it,” Merrick replied. They were bemoaning the Kings lack of scoring when the call-waiting signal beeped. Merrick put Jason on hold and clicked to the other line. “Merrick.”

“I don’t know how she did it,” Logan growled, “but Tattoo came up with the number for that P.O. box.”

Merrick bolted upright and lunged to the night table for a pen. “Okay, shoot.”

“It’s either seventy-four twenty
-three
or seventy-four twenty
-eight
.”

“Two?” Merrick wondered, writing on his palm.

“She couldn’t resolve the last digit. You’ll have to get your buddy at postal to run ’em both.”

“No way I’m gonna get hold of T.J. now.”

“Tomorrow’s another day, Dan. Take a couple dozen Valium and call me in the morning.”

Merrick grunted wearily and hung up. The last thing he remembered was thinking he had to call Jason back. Twelve hours later he awoke with a start. He took a few minutes to get his bearings, then, with a cup of cold coffee in one hand, P.O. box numbers jotted on the other, he called T.J. and had him run them.

“Seventy-four twenty
-three
hasn’t been rented for over six months,” T.J. finally reported.

“Then it’s gotta be twenty
-eight,
right?”

“Right.”

“Rented to?”

“Woodlawn Cemetery in Santa Monica.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Woodlawn Cemetery?” Lilah said, baffled. She was sitting on the floor of her blackened office, looking up at Merrick. The workers who removed the collapsed ceiling grid had also replaced the shattered window with plywood and erected some temporary walls. Outfitted in surgical gloves, mask, and protective eyewear, Lilah was unhappily picking through the sooty debris for the remains of books, research papers, and personal effects. She had just unearthed a charred strip of plastic that still faintly proclaimed
LIKE BEGETS LIKE
when Merrick arrived and briefed her on the return address. “Woodlawn Cemetery in Santa Monica?”

Merrick nodded. “Ring any bells?”

“No,” Lilah replied, brushing herself off as she got to her feet. “Should it?”

Merrick grinned at a thought. “Wouldn’t happen to have any patients planted there, would you, Doc?”

Lilah shed the glasses and mask and began peeling off the gloves. She hadn’t slept well after trading barbs with her mother, and the smudges of ash on her cheeks heightened the appearance of fatigue. “You’re making fun of me,” she said with a weary smile.

“Well, doctors, med schools, cadavers . . . you know. I
figured maybe there was an odd chance. I mean, this is no time to pooh-pooh an off-the-wall connection.”

“A cadaver with a return address?” Lilah wondered. “I mean, why would this creep even use one?”

“Because the post office won’t accept a package without one. Could be that simple.”

“But a cemetery? It doesn’t make sense.”

Merrick retrieved a charred binder from the debris and handed it to her. “I guarantee you it makes sense to your favorite pyro.”

“You mean, like a symbol or something?”

“Like a sick joke, Doc. Like that’s where you were supposed to end up. In the cemetery.”

Lilah shuddered, took a breath to settle herself, then put the binder into one of the file boxes that held the items she’d salvaged. “Grab one of these, will you?”

Merrick made a face but hefted an overstuffed box and followed her through a newly installed door. It opened into the reception area of an adjoining suite where administrative functions were being moved.

Lilah’s temporary office was about half the size of the burned-out one. The furnishings were utilitarian at best. The windows overlooked the brick facade of the adjacent building, not the plaza, and there was little natural light. The thought of spending months working here soured her mood. She set the box on the desk and stared at Merrick. “You’ve got a big mouth, you know?”

He set his box down, confused by her sudden change in attitude. “What’re you talking about?”

“They all knew I talked to you. The least you could’ve done was use a little discretion.”

“Discretion doesn’t cut it in my business, Doc. I was baiting them.”

“Any bites?”

Merrick shook his head, dismayed. “Couple of nibbles, but this angle I was working got blown out of the water. So, back to square one.”

Lilah sighed with disappointment. “Which is what?”

“The target.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You. What you do. You said it was controversial, but we never got into it. Give me something I can sink my teeth into.”

“Well, it’s a cause and effect kind of thing,” Lilah explained. “A certain genetic defect may be the cause. Impulsive, antisocial behavior the effect.”

“Violence, no?”

“Violence, yes; but it takes many forms.”

He nodded and studied her for a moment, making a decision. “You ever been to a hockey game?”

“Hockey?” Lilah echoed in an incredulous tone. “I’m afraid I have no interest in blood sports per se.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Merrick advised with macho enthusiasm. “We’re talking fast and furious; and the squad has a box right on the glass. If you’re into violence, you have to get into hockey.”

“I’m into science, Lieutenant. Whether or not genetic defects predetermine antisocial behavior.”

“Yeah, like arson and pyromania. Keep talking.”

“Okay, think of the human genotype as a computer program that affects everything: your health, intellect, temperament. If it has a glitch someplace . . .” Lilah paused, fetched some autorads, and spread them on a light table. “This little marker means breast cancer,” she resumed, using the point of a pencil to indicate specific bands. “This little marker sickle cell anemia. And
this
little marker—well,
we have reason to think it may set off violent and/or sexually abusive impulses. In other words, we know some people have a higher risk for certain diseases. It may be true for certain behavior. Of course, you need an environmental trigger to set it off. You can be genetically predisposed to melanoma, but you won’t get it if you never go in the sun.”

“Impulses . . .” Merrick grunted. visibly agitated. “You saying that killers, rapists, child abusers aren’t responsible for their actions?”

“Well, for example, there’s a family in Holland. For five generations, most of the men were in the habit of sexually abusing women. DNA typing of their remains revealed they all had the same genetic defect.”

“Doesn’t answer my question. Are they responsible or not?”

“I have to finish my study and run it past the scientific community first; then you and the rest of the mucky-mucks get to decide.”

“What mucky-mucks?”

“Law enforcement types, legal scholars, social scientists. It’s dicey, but some people think genotype should be taken into account when sentencing criminals.”

“You’re going to give these creeps an out?” Merrick bellowed in protest.

“Not me. The mucky-mucks. Though I suspect you’ll side with those who believe that since genetically programmed ‘creeps’ can’t be rehabilitated, why not just lock ‘em up and throw away the key?”

“Great idea.”

“There are those who believe there’s a difference between being programmed to do something and choosing to do it of your own free will.”

“You really think the pyro who tried to kill you couldn’t help himself?”

“Well, if he has certain markers, it’s possi—”

“Come on! Anyone who makes a fire bomb knows what the payoff’s going to be! It’s bad enough every weirdo from the Menendez brothers to O.J. and McVeigh are claiming
they’re
the victims! By the time
you’re
done, they’ll all be saying—”

“Hold it,” Lilah interrupted. “Emotionally, I agree, but intellectually, there’s nothing wrong with keeping an open mind until—”

“Bullshit!” Merrick erupted. “I’m sick and tired of open minds and bleeding hearts telling these animals it’s okay to hurt people!”

Lilah recoiled at his outburst, then collected herself, sensing that Merrick’s anger wasn’t personal, wasn’t as driven by her or what she said as by some inner turmoil; and it wasn’t the first time it had occurred to her. “What’s your problem, Lieutenant?”

“Problem?”

“Yes,” Lilah replied gently, her soft soulful eyes finding his. “Who hurt you?”

“Nobody,” Merrick muttered. He came within a blink of replying,
Her name is Joyce,
but the words stuck in his throat “I was about to say, by the time you’re done, every serial killer and pedophile on this planet will be saying, ‘Don’t blame me, blame that guy my great-great-grandmother married.’”

“Hey, we’ve already identified a genetic marker that’s a predictor of violence—give you one guess.”

Merrick shrugged with indifference. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Right there,” Lilah said, her Doug Graham smile tugging
at the corners of her mouth as she pointed to Merrick’s groin. “An X-Y sex chromosome. The marker that produces a male. Men commit violent acts nine times more often than women.”

“Twenty times when it comes to arson.”

“Then I guess we’re looking for a man, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, and when I bust him and he says, ‘This naughty gene made me do it,’ you’re gonna say, ‘No problem. Let him walk’?
You’re
the victim here! Don’t forget it.”

Lilah nodded vulnerably.

“You’re like two people, you know?” Merrick went on, baffled. “One wants me to nail this pyro’s ass. The other’s working overtime cooking up excuses for him.”

“It’s called conflict,” Lilah explained, unsettled by the exchange. “Not everyone’s heart and head are in perfect sync like yours.” She looked around, as if trying to get her bearings, then fetched a vacutainer kit. “Roll up a sleeve. I want to take a blood sample.”

“For what?”

“My study.”

“No thanks. No way you’re turning me into some guinea pig. Like I said, get into hockey.”

Lilah was about to reply when something dawned on her. She hadn’t seen the potential when he said it earlier; but this time, as she stood there studying the vacutainer, the mention of hockey struck an intriguing chord. “Was that an invitation to a game?”

“Why?”

“I think you might have something there.”

“Don’t patronize me, Doc.”

“Not what I’m doing, Lieutenant.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“That’s nothing to brag about.”

“Okay, okay,” Merrick said in mock surrender. “What’s your problem?”

“Same as yours,” Lilah replied with a laugh. “I’m dying for a cigarette.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, laughing with her. “So what’s your angle on hockey?”

“The players,” Lilah replied, fetching her briefcase. “They’re like a population subgroup. It’d be neat to profile an entire team’s DNA.”

Merrick nodded, taken by the scent of her perfume as she brushed past him and headed for the door.

“I’m starving,” Lilah went on. “What do you say we get something to eat while we’re at it?”

“Where? There’s no place left in this town where you can chow down and light up at the same time.”

Lilah laughed knowingly and entered the reception area. “There’s this funky little falafel stand over on Weyburn. Why don’t we—” She suddenly stiffened and bit off the sentence.

“Been there,” Merrick replied. He was feigning indigestion when he saw Lilah’s reaction and realized the woman waiting in the reception area was the cause of it. Her hair wasn’t swept back the way it was in the photograph, and she was taller than he’d imagined, but her lab coat and the icy stare she was giving Lilah confirmed she was exactly who Merrick thought she was.

“Fiona,” Lilah finally said, trying to sound friendly. “What brings you by?”

“You’re Lieutenant Merrick, aren’t you?” the woman declared as if Lilah weren’t there. “Fiona Schaefer. My husband thinks we should have a chat.”

“Right,” Merrick grunted, caught off guard. “I figured he might.”

“I hope you don’t mind my dropping by like this?” Fiona went on coolly. “I called your office to make an appointment, and they said you might be here.”

“No problem,” Merrick replied with a pained glance at Lilah. “Doc, would it be okay if we—”

“Use the conference room? Of course. I’ll be in my office when you’re finished.” Lilah turned to Fiona with uncertainty and added, “I don’t blame you for being angry, Fiona. It . . . it just happened. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”

Fiona’s glare hardened, then she broke it off, turned to Merrick and said, “I think whoever tried to kill her had a perfectly good reason, don’t you?”