“John!” Rhonda said. She pointed down the alley at the sign that threatened illegal parkers with towing.
“It’s okay,” he said. “They won’t tow a cop.”
She frowned but didn’t say what he knew she was thinking. She hated double standards. She got out and stood with her back to the car while he climbed across her seat. He paused, before getting out, to dig his Official Police Business sign from under the seat to throw on the dash. She stiffened as he took her arm and steered her toward the Conroy’s back gate. It wasn’t locked. He pushed it open and waved her in. He closed the gate behind them, and they started down the walk.
He felt the adrenaline-rush almost before he recognized its cause. He grabbed Rhonda’s arm hard enough to make her gasp, and stepped between her and the danger. “Don’t move!”
In the center of the path, the biggest Doberman pinscher he’d ever seen stood at attention. Black and tan, ears up, panting with excitement or expectation. The dog’s teeth seemed at least three inches long.
Rhonda started to say “What—?”
A voice said, “Miata, sit!” The dog sat as if operated by a switch. “Stay.”
Thinnes looked past the animal to see a small, dark-haired woman in black. She had piercing eyes behind large glasses. “She’s quite friendly,” the woman said. She had an East Coast accent. Not New York, not quite Boston—the only accents he would have recognized.
Thinnes stayed put. The dog looked as friendly as a canine cop ordered to watch.
The woman stepped around her dog. “You must be John and Rhonda.” She held her hand out. “I’m Deen Kogan.”
He took the hand, tiny compared to his. Her handshake was as firm as Rhonda’s.
Rhonda, meanwhile, stepped around them and knelt beside the dog. “Hello, Miata. Aren’t you a beauty?”
The dog sank down and wriggled with pleasure, then licked Rhonda’s face. Next to Rhonda, it seemed much smaller. She rubbed the sides of its face and stroked its head. Then she stood up and offered her hand to Deen. “How do you do?”
As the women turned toward the house, Miata fell in behind. Thinnes was left bringing up the rear.
Rhonda’s friends were like Rhonda—moderate, liberal, and sensible. Their hostess, Jeanette, was an artist. A tiny white woman, she must be eighty-seven pounds soaking wet. She had blue eyes and prematurely gray hair. Her husband, Harry, sold insurance.
The other guests were Howard, a high school shop teacher, and Deen. Within ten minutes of meeting him, Thinnes decided that Howard was the kind of guy who got on with kids because he’d never really grown up. As for Deen, Thinnes thought about the axiom that people were like their dogs. On the surface she certainly wasn’t anything like a Doberman—he’d have pegged her for a miniature schnauzer or small greyhound type. But on second thought, he saw that she watched and listened like a cop. And when Jeanette told him that Deen ran a theater in Philadelphia and directed its productions, he understood. Anyone who could stand up to actors and nutcases and some of the I’m-God’s-gift-to-the-world new-money types that financed a theater had to be tough as a drill sergeant and have the tactical skills of a field marshal. She wouldn’t bother with some fussy little yap-dog.
While they were winding down after dinner, Deen asked Harry about the insurance implications of the heat. He seemed to know his stuff, so Thinnes asked about fire insurance fraud.
“The most obvious and easiest type to catch is filing multiple claims—take out policies with more than one company, then torch the building.”
“But they have to prove a loss,” Deen said.
“Well, usually, when the police ask the name of the insurance company, the guy says, ‘I must really be upset, I can’t think of it. I’ll get back to you.’ Only he never does. He gets multiple copies of the police report and fills in the blanks with different company names. Or, if the cops are smart enough to put something like “none given” in the blank, or to find out a company name, the guy gets some White-out and doctors the forms.”
“How do they get away with that?”
“If they don’t get too greedy, nobody notices. The sheer volume of claims precludes checking every fact. They usually check that a police report was made—a loss actually occurred—and send an adjuster out to estimate the damage.”
“So how do you check whether somebody’s insuring property with more than one company?”
“Check the information services insurance companies subscribe to—NICB, IRC, and PILR. Get the insured’s name and DOB and call around.”
Forty-Five
Caleb had been sitting on a golf cart-like vehicle parked in the cloister on the south side of the Chicago Botanic Garden’s main complex of buildings. The cloister surrounded a fountain consisting of numerous jets of water rising from a floor of overlapping concentric rings of square stones. The sound it made as it fell back down was too high-pitched to be a roar—more of a constant white-noise, a mantra that stopped thought and calmed obsessive ideation. Surrounding the fountain were ferns and low-growing junipers, yew bushes, cut-leaf silver maples and white pine trees arranged to give the serene feeling of a Japanese garden without its formality. It was early enough for the heat to be merely uncomfortable; unbearable would set in in an hour or two. He was thinking of Martin, as he had many times since the night they’d met at Gentry’s, daydreaming. As before, the thought of Martin seemed to conjure him from the humid air…
“Jack!” Martin seemed to glow with pleasure, a little guilty, perhaps. “You come here, too!”
They’d discussed many things at their last meeting, though not Caleb’s substitute for church. He refrained from saying, obviously. Meeting Martin by chance for the third time in a single summer was mind boggling. Karma, or an amazing congruence of interests?
“Do you come often?” Martin asked.
“Two or three times a month. And for some of the programs.”
“We always come on days when Helen doesn’t feel like going to Mass—that’s every Sunday lately.”
“We?”
“My children are with me. They went to get a drink. We’ve been coming early to avoid the heat.”
Caleb nodded.
Martin stared at the cascading water and continued. “I was a devout Catholic once. I think it was the music. The Mass used to be in Latin, and if you didn’t understand it, you could imagine the words were magical incantations that had the power…” He blushed as he trailed off. “This must sound crazy.”
Caleb had been thinking of Carmina Burana as Martin spoke. When he’d first heard it, he’d been moved to almost orgasmic bliss. “Not in the least. Why do you suppose so many of us pay dearly for season tickets to the Lyric?”
Before Martin could respond, a girl’s voice said, “Martin, Josh needs to go to the washroom and he’s too old to go in the ladies room with me.” A statement of fact without emotional expression. If the speaker was annoyed to be saddled with a small boy, it wasn’t apparent.
Caleb stood as she got nearer.
She was in her teens. The boy was much younger, an early frame, Caleb was sure, from a time-lapse of Martin’s life. His baby-blond hair hadn’t darkened yet; it would. But his eyes were already gray and serious.
“Over there,” Martin said, pointing.
The boy put his hands in his pockets and headed in the direction Martin had indicated.
“You’re not going to let him go in by himself?!” the girl demanded.
Martin opened his mouth as if to reply, then closed it. By way of an answer, he stood and said, “Excuse me,” to Caleb, then hurried after the boy.
The girl turned to Caleb and met his gaze squarely as she held her hand out to him. “Hi. I’m Linny.” She had blue-gray eyes and long lashes—though perhaps that was mascara—her mother’s beauty and confidence, her father’s height and coloring—though she’d dyed her hair black, the auburn roots showed. Rows of earrings adorned the edges of her ears, and there were silver rings on every finger. “Martin’s my
father.”
Caleb shook her hand. “How do you do, Linny? I’m Jack.”
“I’m pleased to meet you.” She sounded pleased. “My mother was sure my father’d be meeting a woman. She asked me to spy. Now I won’t have to.” He raised his eyebrows slightly by way of a reply. Linny tilted her head. “Oh, she didn’t say spy, but that’s the translation.”
“Well, your father and I didn’t arrange to meet, but since we did and we’re acquainted, we said hello.”
“She didn’t say what to do if he met a man.”
Caleb didn’t know what to say to that so he said nothing.
“I’m fourteen,” she said, as if he’d asked. “My brother’s only eight. There’s just two of us—my parents don’t have sex much.”
He had to work hard to avoid showing his surprise, though as he thought about it, Helen Morgan’s daughter would have learned the value of an ambush with her first words. She seemed disappointed when he wasn’t shocked. “Where do you know my father from?”
“I’m also a doctor.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s your specialty?”
“Psychiatry.”
Her eyes widened and she smiled. “What do shrinks do for fun?”
“We sit around watching for Freudian slips.” The joke was older than she was, for that matter older than he.
She grinned. “So you can point to them and say ‘Your Freudian slip is showing’?”
“Precisely.”
“Very good! Very punny. How did you know I would know what a Freudian slip is?”
“Lucky guess.” She gave him a skeptical look. “Your father’s bragged about how smart you are. I figured if you didn’t know, you’d ask. Besides, I understand you watch Star Trek.”
“He told you that?” Caleb nodded. “He never tells anyone that!” He shrugged. “You’re more interesting than most of my parents’ friends.”
“Why is that?”
She shrugged. “Maybe because you’re not easy to shock.”
“Perhaps because I remember being a teenager.”
“Did you give your parents gray hairs?”
“No doubt. You?”
“My moth-ther. Giving my dad a hard time would be cruel.”
He realized she was flirting, trying her budding sexual power out on the semi-safe ground of her father’s middle-aged friend. He was flattered. “Interesting.”
When Martin and Josh returned, Linny announced that it was time to go to the cafeteria and cool off. Josh’s eyes widened and he said, “Ice cream!”
Linny rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You’re such a child.”
“Race you,” Josh challenged.
“Josh, no running!” Martin yelled.
It was strange to hear. Caleb had begun to believe that Martin was too controlled—or maybe the word was repressed—for a public display. Josh apparently hadn’t heard; he kept running.
“I’ll get him,” Linny said. “Meet you there,” she told Martin. “You, too, Jack. You can entertain my dad while we spend his money in the gift shop.”
“Please come,” Martin entreated.
Caleb got up, and they followed the children in companionable silence. When they reached the perennial garden, Caleb asked, “Does your wife know about your proclivity?”
“Good God, no! I mean…she’d use it if she did. She’s asking for the moon and the children.” He paused thoughtfully. “I’d die for my children.”
Forty-Six
“Thinnes?”
“Yeah.” Thinnes wedged the receiver between his ear and shoulder and reached beyond the phone to turn the digital clock so he could read the time. Two o’clock. It was dark in the room. Must be A.M.
“Does the name Morgan ring a bell?”
“You wake me at this hour just to ask that?” He kept his voice low. No use waking Ronnie. “Who is this?”
“Art Fuego.”
“God! Don’t you ever sleep?”
“I got rousted for a car fire.”
“And misery loves company.”
“Thought you might be interested. Car was registered to a Martin Morgan.”
“And?”
“A woman was driving it.”
“Was?”
“She’s toast.”
The witness was in shock, sitting sideways in the backseat of Fuego’s car with his legs hanging out the open door and his feet planted on the gas station drive. He was facing the mop-up activities on the street. He kept hyperventilating. After every few sentences, he had to stop to breathe into the barf bag the paramedics had given him. Fuego was telling him to slow down and take it easy, but he was having trouble. He’d already given a statement to patrol and complained about having to repeat it.
“I stopped to get gas…and make a phone call,” he said. “I parked there.” He pointed at the remains of the pay phone mounted at car-window level at the edge of the lot, across the road from the smoldering wreck of Martin Morgan’s car.
“Why’d you pull in like that?” Thinnes asked. “The logical way to pull in would be the other way, so you wouldn’t have to get out or climb across the seat to reach the phone.”
He swallowed. He took a deep breath and let it out. “I like to keep an eye on things.”
“Ahuhn.”
“Ah. Actually, I was s’posed to meet someone.” He swallowed again. “I didn’t wanna miss ’im.”
“So where is this guy?” Fuego demanded.
“I dunno. I guess—” He breathed in, held it a long moment, and breathed out. “When he saw all the ruckus, he must’a decided to keep goin’. Didn’t wanna get involved.”
Thinnes said, “Go on.”
“Well, after I park…” He wiped his forehead with his palm. “I see this broad drive up. I notice…” He swallowed. “…cause she stops practically in front of me, in that pay-attention car. Right under the street light there.” He pointed to the blackened skull of an overhead light dangling above the wreck. “It was workin’ fine before.”
“Yeah,” Fuego said.
“An’ you don’t see many white broads out alone this time’a night—’less they’re hookers, and then they’re in a cab or with a pimp.”
They waited while he paused, looking ready to puke. He swallowed and took a deep breath.
“Then I get into my conversation an’ forget about this broad ’til I hear some asshole leanin’ on his horn.” He breathed in and out. “I look up an’ see the light’s green, but the broad’s just sittin’, yackin’ on her phone. What looks like a pretty involved conversation—wavin’ her hand an’ all.
“And there’s this guy right up on her ass in a brown car, leanin’ on his horn. She just gives him the finger.” He shook his head. “He puts it in reverse and backs up to go around. When he gets up even, he leans on the horn. She looks up. He flips her the bird. Then he flips his cigarette butt at her. Right out his window and over the top of his car. An’ he floors it and takes off.
“It musta lit the gas before it even hit the ground. I mean—it happened so fast. Just Boom!”
And his aim wouldn’t have to be perfect, Thinnes thought. Judging by the burn pattern on the street, the gas tank had leaked quite a bit while the car sat at the light. Any spark within a couple feet would be close enough.
The witness shook his head. “One minute she’s talkin’ on the phone, the next…
“God! When I seen that fireball I hit the deck!”
“What?”
“I mean, I dived right for the floor. Then there was this huge explosion—just like the movies only…It musta been the gas tank exploding. When I look up, it was just all fire. Everything on fire—the street, the tires, her…” He put his hand over his mouth and swallowed hard.
Thinnes distracted him. “What did you do next?” He said it with a hard edge to his voice. The witness seemed to come back from his private rerun.
“I…I slid over and put the damn car in reverse and got the hell outta there!”
“That when the rec
eiver came off the phone?” Fuego asked, pointing at the remains.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Didn’t you smell gas before?”
“Yeah, sure. But what the hell. At a gas station you expect to smell gas.” He seemed to be drifting.
“D’you get a look at the torch?” Fuego asked.
“Huhn?”
“What did the guy look like?”
“White. He was white. I didn’t see him real good. He didn’t stop under the light. He didn’t stop at all. Christ! He just flipped his butt at her like he was flickin’ a booger off his finger!” His eyes widened like a kid’s at a horror film.
Fuego grabbed his forearm and shook him. “Snap out of it! You got to help us ID this bastard.”
“Yeah, sure…” He put his hand over his mouth and stood up unsteadily. He barely got the rest out before he started to heave. “First I’m gonna be sick…”
Forty-Seven
After they’d sent the witness to the Area, Thinnes and Fuego watched the major scene team pack up their van and the squad roll team pack the remains into a body bag. Remains. Accurate term, this time.
“Wanna bet we’ll find the gas cap was loosened, too?” Thinnes said, “Just like Nolan’s car?”
“If we find enough of it to find anything,” Fuego said.
“Well, it wasn’t Wiley Fahey this time.”
When the tow truck—a flatbed rig—backed up to the charred wreckage, Fuego said, “Hard to believe that was a hot white Mercedes two hours ago.”
“It wasn’t this hot two hours ago.”
“Bad, Thinnes. Even for this early in the morning.”
“Guess we better go wake up the doctor and ask who was driving his car.”
“First we’d better clear your working this one with the watch commander.”
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