“Best for last,” she said, in a tremulous voice. “So where do you fit in?”
“The only thing I can think of is that damned symposium.”
She started to switch off her tools. The dog tagged after her, stopping each time she did, looking up, as if seeking approval.
“Alex,” she said, removing her apron, “if de Bosch did commit suicide, do you think it could have been due to remorse? It doesn’t mean much, but it would be nice to think of him having some self-doubts.”
“The woman asked me the same thing. I’d have liked to say yes—she’d have loved to hear it, but she wouldn’t have bought it. The man she described didn’t sound very conscience laden. My guess is his motivation was just what the papers printed: despondence over ill health. The slides his daughter flashed at the symposium showed a physical wreck.”
“A wrecker,” she said.
“Yeah. Who knows how many kids he messed up over the years?”
The dog heard the tension in my voice and cocked his head. I petted him and said, “So who’s the higher life-form, anyway, bub?”
Robin picked up a broom and began to sweep wood shavings.
“Any other calls?” I said, holding the dustpan for her.
“Uh-uh.” She finished and wiped her hands. We stepped out of the garage and she pulled down the door. The mountains across the canyon were clear and greening. Drought-starved shoots, trying for another season.
All at once the big, low house seemed more foreign than ever. We went inside. The furniture looked strange.
In the bedroom, Robin unbuttoned her work shirt and I unsnapped her bra and cupped her breasts. They were warm and heavy in my palms and as I touched her, she arched her back. Then she stepped away from me and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Let’s get out of here, Alex—out of the city.”
“Sure,” I said, looking over at the dog, head-butting the bedcovers. “Do we take him with us?”
“I’m not talking summer vacation, just dinner. Somewhere far enough to feel different. He’ll be fine. We’ll leave food and water, the air-conditioning on, give him a couple of chew-bones.”
“Okay, where would you like to go?”
Her smile was barren. “Normally I’d say Santa Barbara.”
I forced myself to laugh. “How about the other direction—Laguna Beach?”
“Laguna would be peachy.” She came over and placed my hands on her hips. “Remember that place with the ocean view?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Calamari and pictures of weeping clowns—wonder if it’s still in business?”
“If it isn’t, there’ll be someplace else. The main thing is we get away.”
We left at seven-thirty, to avoid the freeway jam, taking the truck because the gas tank was fuller. I drove, enjoying the height and the heft and the power. A tape Robin had picked up at McCabe’s was in the deck: a teenager named Allison Krause, singing bluegrass in a voice as sweet and clear as first love and running off fiddle solos that had the wondrous ease of the prodigy.
I hadn’t called Milo to tell him about Meredith.
Another scumbag, he’d say, world-weary. Then he’d rub his face …
I thought of the man on the tape, chanting like a child, reliving his past.…
Bad thoughts intruding.
I felt Robin tighten up. Her fingers had been tapping my thigh in time with the music, now they stopped. I squeezed them. Strummed the fingertips, let my hand wander to her small, hard waist as the truck roared in the fast lane.
She had on black leotards under a short denim skirt. Her hair was tied up, showing off her neck, smooth as cream. A man with a functioning brain would have thanked God for sitting next to her.
I pressed my cheek against hers. Let my shoulders drop and bobbed my head to the music. Not fooling her, but she knew I was trying and she put her hand high on my thigh.
A babe and a truck and the open road.
By the time I reached Long Beach, it started to feel real.
Laguna was quieter and darker than I remembered, the art fair over, nearly all the tourist traps and galleries closed.
The place with the squid and clowns was no longer in business; a karaoke bar had taken its place—people getting slogged on margaritas and pretending to be Righteous Brothers. The painful sounds made their way to the sidewalk.
We found a pleasant-looking cafe farther up the street, ate huge, cold salads, decent swordfish, and excellent Chilean sea bass with french fries and coleslaw, and drank a bit of wine, then strong black coffee.
Walking it off, we went far enough past the commercial zone to get an ocean glimpse of our own. The water was a thousand miles of black beyond a white thread of sand. The waves rolled drunkenly, sending up ice chips of spray and an occasional roar that sounded like applause. We held hands so tightly our fingers ached, grabbed at each other, and kissed until our tongues throbbed.
Barely enough light to see Robin’s dark eyes, narrowing.
She bit my lower lip and I knew some of it was passion, the rest, anger. I kissed her behind her ear and we embraced for a long time, then we returned to the truck and drove north, out of town.
“Don’t get on the freeway,” she said. “Drive awhile.”
I got onto Laguna Canyon Road, went for several miles, and made a random turn onto an unmarked strip that corkscrewed up into the mountains.
No talk or music. Her hands on me as she cried out her tension. We passed a pottery studio, its wooden sign barely lit by a dusty bulb. A glimpse of chicken-wire fencing. A couple of horse ranches, an unmarked shack. Then nothing for a long time and the road dead-ended at brush.
Crickets and shadows, the ocean nowhere in sight.
I put the truck in reverse. Robin stopped me and turned off the engine.
We locked eyes and kissed, fumbling with each other’s clothing.
Stripped completely naked, we held each other, shivering, knitting our limbs. Breathing into one another, fighting for oblivion.
The ride back was slow and silent, and I managed to keep reality at bay till we got off the freeway. Robin slept, as she had since we’d crossed the L.A. county line, low in the seat, half smiling.
It was one forty-two in the morning and Sunset was nearly bare of cars. The familiar eastward cruise was solitary and peaceful. As I approached the Beverly Glen intersection, I prepared to shoot through the green light. Then wailing sirens sounded from somewhere I couldn’t pinpoint, surrounding me, growing louder.
I slowed and stopped. Robin was startled, sitting up just as flashing red lights popped out from around the bend and the sirens became unbearable. A hook-and-ladder came at us from the east, bearing down; for an instant I felt trapped. Then the fire engine made a sharp right turn, northward, onto the Glen, followed closely by another fire truck, then another smaller unit. A cherry-topped sedan brought up the rear as the sirens tapered off to a distant whistle.
Robin was clutching the armrest. Her eyes were gigantic, as if the lids had been stapled back.
We looked at each other.
I turned left and followed the shrieking caravan.
A hundred yards in I could smell it. A pot left too long on the stove, overlaid with gasoline.
I put on speed, just able to see the fire car’s taillights. Hoping the company would continue on up, toward Mulholland and beyond. But they hooked west.
Up an old bridle path that led up to a solitary property.
Robin held her head and moaned as I floored the truck. Coming to my street, I sped up the slope. The road was blocked by the newly arrived fire trucks and I had to pull over and park.
Work lights were scattered about, highlighting the firefighters’ yellow hats. Lots of movement, but the night blocked out the details.
Robin and I jumped out and began running up the hill. The burnt stench was stronger now, the sky a black, camouflaging host for the plumes of dark smoke that shot upward in greasy gray spirals. I could feel the fire—the caustic heat—bet
ter than I could see it. My body was drenched with sweat. I was cold to the marrow.
The firefighters were uncoiling hoses and shouting, too busy to notice us.
What had once been my pond gate was charcoal. The carport had collapsed and the entire right side of my house was smoldering. The back of the building was haloed in orange. Tongues of fire licked the sky. Sparks jumped and died, wood crackled and crashed.
A tall firefighter handed a hose to another man and pulled off his gloves. He saw us and came forward, gesturing us back.
We walked toward him.
“It’s our house,” I said.
The look of pity on his face cut me deeply. He was black, with a big jaw and wide, dark mustache. “Sorry, folks—we’re working hard on it, got here as quick as we could from the Mulholland substation. Reinforcements just came in from Beverly Hills.”
Robin said, “Is it all gone?”
He removed his hat and wiped his forehead, exhaling. “It wasn’t as of a few minutes ago, ma’am, and we’ve controlled it—you should start to see that smoke turn white real soon.”
“How bad is it?”
He hesitated. “To be frank, ma’am, you’ve suffered some serious structural damage all along the rear. What with the drought and all that wood siding—your roof’s half gone, must have been pretty dry up there. What was it, ceramic tile?”
“Some sort of tile,” I said. “It came with the house, I don’t know.”
“Those old roofs … give thanks it wasn’t wood shingle, that would have been like a pile of kindling.”
Robin was looking at him but she wasn’t listening to him. He bit his lip, started to place a hand on her shoulder, but stopped himself. Putting his glove back on, he turned to me.
“If the wind doesn’t do squirrely things, we should be able to save some of it. Get you in there soon as possible to start taking a look.”
Robin started to cry.
The fireman said, “I’m real sorry, ma’am—if you need a blanket, we’ve got some in the truck.”
“No,” she said. “What happened?”
“Don’t know exactly, yet—why don’t you talk to the captain—that gentleman over there? Captain Gillespie. He should be able to help you.”
After pointing to a medium-sized man up near the carport, he ran off. We made our way to the captain. His back was to us and I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned quickly, looking ready to snap. One look at us shut his mouth. He was in his fifties and had a deeply scored face that was almost a perfect square.
Tugging at his chin strap: “Owners?”
Two nods.
“Sorry, folks—out for the night?”
More nods. I felt encased in sand. Movement was an ordeal.
“Well, we’ve been at it for about half an hour, and I think we got to it relatively fast after ignition. Luckily, someone driving up the Glen smelled it and phoned it in on cellular. We’ve got most of the really hot spots out. Look for white smoke soon, Mr.—?”
“Alex Delaware. This is Robin Castagna.”
“Ron Gillespie, Mr. Delaware. Are you the legal owners or tenants?”
“Owners.”
Another pitying look. A whooshing sound came from the house. He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back.
“We should be able to save at least half of it, but our water does some damage, too.” He looked back again. Something creased his brow. “One minute.” Jogging over to a group of new arrivals, he pointed at my flaming roof and spread his arms like a preacher.
When he came back, he said, “You folks want something to drink? C’mon, let’s get away from the heat.”
We followed him down the road a bit. The house was still in sight. Some of the smoke had startened to lighten, pluming upward like an earthborn cloud.
He pulled a canteen out of his jacket and held it out to us.
Robin shook her head.
I said, “No, thanks.”
Gillespie opened the bottle and drank. Screwing the cap back on, he said, “Do you know of anyone who’d want to do this to you?”
“Why?”
He stared at me. “Usually, people say no.”
“There is someone,” I said. “I don’t know who—it’s a long story—there’s a police detective you can talk to.”
I gave him Milo’s name and he wrote it down.
“I’d better call him now,” he said. “Our arson investigators will be in on it too. This is an obvious intentional, we’ve got three discrete points of origin and we found a gasoline can out back that’s probably the accelerant—looks like the bastard didn’t even try to hide it.”
“No,” I said. “He wouldn’t want to do that.”
He stared at me again. I looked back without focusing.
Gillespie said, “I’ll go call that detective now.”
CHAPTER
31
Milo spent a few seconds of silent comfort with us, then he huddled with Gillespie.
The fire went out, sending off columns of white smoke. Some time after—I still don’t know how long—Robin and I were able to tour the damage, accompanied by a fireman with a flashlight who looked out for our safety but hung back, diplomatically, as we stumbled and cursed in the dark.
The garden and the rear half of the house were a total loss, the air still hot and bitter. The front rooms were sodden and putrid, ash filled, already moldering. I ran my hand along scorched furniture, fingered hot dust, looked at ruined art and decimated keepsakes, TV and stereo equipment that had blistered and burst. After a while it got too difficult. I pulled the paintings and prints that looked intact off the wall and made a neat stack. Short stack. My Bellows boxing print seemed to have come out okay, but the frame was blackened around the edges.
Robin was across the living room when I said, “I’ve got to get out of here.”
She gave a dull nod—more of a bow. We carried the art out and took it to the truck.
Beyond the vehicles, Milo and Gillespie were still conferring and a third man had joined them—young, chubby, balding, with bristly red hair. He held a pad and his writing hand was busy.
“Drew Seaver,” he said, holding out the other one. “Fire Department arson investigator. Detective Sturgis has been filling me in—sounds like you’ve really been through it. I’ll have some questions for you, but they can wait a couple of days.”
Milo told him, “I’ll get you whatever you need.”
“Fine,” said Seaver. “What’s your insurance situation, doctor?”
As if cued, Captain Gillespie said, “Better be getting back—good luck, folks.”
When he was gone, Seaver repeated his insurance question.
I said, “I never really checked the details. I’m up to date on my premiums.”
“Well, that’s good. Those insurance guys are real sonofa’s, believe me. Dot your ‘i’ wrong and they’ll find a way not to pay you. You need any help with justification, just have ’em call me.”
He handed me his card. “That and a statement from Detective Sturgis should handle it.”
“What needs to be handled?” said Robin. “What do we need to justify?”
Seaver picked at his chin. His lips were thick, pink, and soft looking, with a natural turndown that made him look sad.
“Arson fires tend to be self-generated, Mrs. Delaware. In lots of cases, anyway. Like I said, insurance companies’ll do anything not to pay up. First thing they’re going to be assuming is you’re behind this.”
“Then fuck ’em,” said Milo. To us: “Don’t sweat it, I’ll handle it.”
Seaver said, “Okay … well, better be looking around some more.” Cracking a brief smile, he left.
Milo’s hair was ragged, his eyes electric. He had on a shirt and tie, but the tie was crooked and his collar was loosened. In the darkness his acne-scarred face looked like moonscape. His hand moved over it rapidly and repeatedly—almost ticlike.
“It’s okay,” said Robin.
“No, no,” he s
aid. “Uh-uh, don’t comfort me—you’re the victims—goddamn protect and serve—some protection. I know it sounds like a crock but we are gonna get him—one fucking way or the other, he’s history. We’ll get free of this.”
The three of us walked back to the truck. Milo’s unmarked was parked behind it. None of us looked back.
The firefighters’ lights were going out, one by one, as some of the trucks pulled away. Sunrise was several hours away. Without the bulbs and the flames, the night seemed hollow, just a thin membrane holding back the void.
“Wanna go back with me?” said Milo.
“No,” I said. “I can handle it.”
Robin stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
“I found out what de Bosch’s sin was,” I said. I told him of Meredith Bork’s experience.
“You stab me, I stab you,” he said. “No fucking excuse.”
“Can we be sure this wasn’t the Iron Priests?”
“We can’t be sure of anything,” he said furiously. “But a thousand to one it’s not them. No offense, but you’re just not important enough to them—they want Raza blood. No, this was our bad love buddy—remember Bancroft’s comment about firesetters at the school?”
“You told me there was no record of any fires there.”
“Yeah … the kids behaved themselves there. It’s when they graduated that the problems started.”
I drove, but I felt as if I was being towed. Each segment of white line diminished me. Across the cab of the truck, Robin wept, unable to stop, finally surrendering to deep, wracking sobs.
I was beyond tears.
Just as I crossed into Beverly Hills, she took a sucking breath and pressed fisted hands together.
“Oh, well,” she said, “I always wanted to redecorate.”
I must have laughed, because my throat hurt and I heard two voices chuckling hysterically.
“What style should we choose?” I said. “Phoenix Rococo?”
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