by Chassie West
The walls, those left, were bowed. The roof was gone, one whole side of the house no more than an open wound, the interior black and charred. The siding was blistered and warped, windows shattered and gaping. Debris, largely unrecognizable except for a couple of file cabinets, littered the lawn, the air still acrid with the stench of burned wood, furnishings, carpeting. The ubiquitous crime scene tape marking the perimeter of the property made it resemble some sort of obscene gift.
The curious lingered in twos and threes on the sidewalk, subdued, faces mirroring their horror. A police car blocked the driveway, behind it one from the fire department. The only free parking spot was across the street and we jaywalked to get to the other side. Duck lifted the tape for me.
“You sure about this?” I asked.
“My district,” he said tersely, as if that was all that was required.
I squatted, knees protesting, and scooted under the yellow ribbon, still a little nervous about it. He had a badge. I didn’t. As far as the law was concerned, I was trespassing.
“Hey!” A broad-beamed cop in uniform rounded the house, scowling, the setting sun glinting off his glasses. “You two blind? Get back behind that tape.”
“Hey, Masters.” Duck smiled affably. “Just nosing around. How long have you been working days?”
“Duck! My man!” They shook hands, did the usual knuckle-to-knuckle nonsense. “Just started last week. Still not used to it either. This your lady? Seems to me I know you.”
“Leigh Warren,” I said, extending a hand.
“Oh, yeah. You used to work out of the Fourth. Haven’t seen you in a while.” His body language was now completely relaxed. After all, he was in the company of members of the brotherhood. Evidently Duck considered it prudent to keep to himself that technically, I no longer belonged. I wasn’t about to correct him.
“How’d it start?” I asked. “It must have been one hell of a fire.”
“Gas leak, they think. Blew furniture and stuff all over the neighborhood. Lucky there aren’t any places closer by.”
A gas leak. Duck and I exchanged wondering glances. He took my hand and squeezed it. Translation: button up, babe.
“I hear two bodies were found.” His arm snaked around my shoulder. “ID them yet?”
“Nah, but most likely a couple of cooks. According to the owners, they had a brunch scheduled for today, so the lady who did most of the baking might have come in early. Their offices were on the second floor and all their records were destroyed. The owners are scrambling to dig up phone numbers for their employees. The last I heard, they had a few left to find.”
“Large staff?” Duck asked.
“A dozen or so, mostly part-timers. They did a good business, though. A shame. Y’all excuse me,” he said, his attention caught by a white paneled van pulling up behind the fire inspector’s. “This here’s one of the owners.” He moved toward the new arrival with a flat-footed gait.
The man who climbed out of the van was on the short side but solid, with a caramel complexion and, I suspected, a plethora of deeply etched furrows in his face that hadn’t been there the night before. His eyes were bloodshot, visible even from where we stood. Shoulders slumping, he hesitated, looking at the ruin his business had become, shook his head, and slammed the door of the van.
“Hey,” Duck said, surprise plastered across his features. “I know that dude.”
Big wow. The number of people in the District he didn’t know would only fill a storefront church.
“Who is he?”
“Give me a minute. I’m working on it.”
It took less time than that, thanks to the newcomer, who glanced without interest in our direction, looked away, then back again. “Kennedy?”
“Haskell!” Duck responded, striding toward him. “I didn’t know you were back in town. My God, Beanie, this was your place?”
He blinked, his eyes filling. “Yeah. Aw, man, look at it. Just look at it! Goddamn!” He turned away, but Duck, at his side now, pulled the man into his arms. Haskell didn’t resist, burying his face against Duck’s shoulder. Masters, the cop, looked embarrassed, and retreated. I stayed put, knowing Haskell was in good hands.
In short order he pulled what had to be a linen napkin from a back pocket and wiped his eyes and nose, mumbling apologies. Duck murmured assurances, one arm still grasping Haskell’s shoulder.
He looked back at me. “Give me a few minutes, okay, babe?”
I nodded. “Take your time. Unlock the car.”
He aimed the remote at the Caddy and I crossed the street and got back in, watching as he and Haskell walked slowly up the driveway toward the charred remains of the house. They talked for a short while, Duck nodding at Haskell’s replies, before disappearing in back of the ruin. Masters followed them, lagging far enough behind to give them privacy.
I reclined the seat a little and made myself comfortable with a pencil and notebook, jotting down thoughts, unanswered questions, and potential trails to explore given this new development. Having learned that our girl worked for Celebrations, we would have asked Marty or Jensen to act as a go-between to get the full name and address from the caterers, since I suspected that the owners would be more inclined to give it to the Jensens than to Duck or me.
That was no longer necessary. Duck would find out what we needed to know from Haskell. With his records up in ashes, Haskell might not remember Michelle’s address, but he would surely remember her name. From there, Marty would find out where she lived. Like Plato, she could massage a database into giving her the precise moment of conception of Genghis Khan, if it existed anywhere.
I must have nodded off because a rap on the window jarred me awake. The locks released and Duck opened the doors on the driver’s side. He was not alone.
“Sorry, babe,” he said, getting in. “I didn’t think I’d be this long.”
Haskell slipped into the backseat. “My fault.” He extended a hand. “Jim Haskell. Duck tells me you’re The One. Pleased to meet you.”
“Leigh Warren,” I said, twisting to take his hand. “Likewise.”
“I’m sorry about what happened back there. I saw old Duck and I couldn’t help it, all the starch went out of my stiff upper lip.”
“You’re entitled,” I assured him. “I’m sorry too. You had a good thing going, if the service at the Jensen wedding was any example. I hope you’ll be able to recoup.”
He sighed. “It’s up to the wife. She worked so hard, put so much of herself into building the business. We’ll see. Forget me for the moment. The Duck says one of my former employees has been giving you grief.”
“Former?” Was she slipping through our fingers again?
“Oh, yes. I fired her ass. By the way, her name is Michelle Halls, plural. And anything I can do to help, just ask. If it wasn’t for Brother Duck here, I’m not sure where I’d be now. He got me into the fraternity, loaned me enough money to pledge. And he kept me going while I was ‘on line’, hid me when I had a test so I could study without the brothers coming to get me.”
“Beanie.” Duck slouched under the wheel, looking embarrassed.
“Well, you did. You saved my hide more times than I can count. So how can I help?”
“Tell me about Michelle, for a start,” I said.
“She’s a very troubled woman. It’s almost like she’s got multiple personalities, a real sweetheart and charismatic one minute, a bitch on wheels the next. But she was also a dynamite waitress and my best bartender. She could charm anyone she was serving, but behind the kitchen door hard as hell to work with, snotty, talking down to coworkers as if they were beneath her. And untrustworthy. That’s what finally did it for me.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“People who turn over their kitchens, hell, their homes to us when we cater a dinner or party or whatever, have to be able to trust us, to know we won’t abuse the privilege. Michelle broke the rules. She had to go.”
“How long ago was that?” I asked.
He thought about it. “I’m not sure. If you’d asked me yesterday, I could have told you. Unfortunately, all my records are toast. We used the second floor for office space.”
“Which, by the way, is where the fire may have started, babe,” Duck said. “They found a trash can that looks suspicious.”
“What about the gas leak?” I asked.
“I still haven’t figured that out.” Haskell yanked off his cap and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “Jackie—that’s my wife—and I, we had a nightly routine. Before we left, we checked all the burners to make sure they were off. The equipment was new; we’d just upgraded all the cooking surfaces and ovens, had Washington Gas come and check everything out. I’m here to tell you that every last knob was turned to off and there was no smell of gas or anything.”
“Maybe one of the cooks turned it on,” I ventured.
“They hadn’t arrived, weren’t coming in until six. The only people in the place before six would be the cleaners, and the kitchen wasn’t their responsibility, just the second floor and the reception area on the first. Now they’re dead.” Heat flared in his eyes. “They were good people, hardworking. They didn’t deserve this. Jackie’s with their families now. We’re gonna foot the bill for their funerals. In fact, one of them is . . . was a distant relation of Michelle’s, a third or fourth cousin or something.”
Which meant I had to erase one of the images that had slithered through my mind when we’d first arrived: Michelle skulking around inside Celebrations and for whatever reason, turning the knob on the oven and blowing the place to hell and gone. With a cousin right upstairs? That made it seem less likely. But then what did I know? My dad’s cousin had killed him and my mom. So who was I to guess at the dynamics in Michelle’s family?
“But Michelle definitely served at Jensen’s wedding, right?” Duck asked.
“Yeah. That was one of her bad days. She was fine the first hour or so, then somebody must have done something or said something, I don’t know. Anyhow, it rubbed her the wrong way. She couldn’t seem to keep her mind on what she was supposed to be doing, spilled things, snapped at a guest. I had to pull her off the serving floor, keep her in the kitchen.”
I processed that information and jumped, right or wrong, to my own conclusion. “She saw me at the wedding! She couldn’t have missed me, Duck, not after the way everyone toasted us and with Marty walking over and plopping her bouquet in my hands. Michelle must have remembered me, remembered how we met.”
Duck swiveled in his seat. “That might have done it, lit her fuse. A fine actress—that’s obviously how she sees herself—yet there she was, serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres.”
Now that I thought of it, she was in a white uniform that day on Sixteenth Street. Oh, yeah, there was Plato’s trigger all right. Seeing me at the wedding.
“Well, to give her credit,” Haskell was saying, “according to my wife, Michelle is very talented. She went to a couple of her plays, sort of felt obligated to support her as a member of our staff, I guess. Jackie said you could have knocked her over with a feather, the woman’s that good.”
I’d already seen proof of that. “Do you remember where she lives?”
“Lord, no. She used to have a room in a house on Sixteenth, but got herself kicked out. She worked for us for a year and a half and had to move three times that I know of. Guess she was as hard to live with as she was to work with. But the job was perfect for her because she could work around auditions and plays she was in. If she hadn’t been so good behind a bar, I’d have let her go long since. But once I caught her on a client’s computer, I had no choice.”
My gaze locked with Duck’s. “How’d that happen?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah, babe, listen to this.” Duck swiveled around, his back against the door.
“We were catering a fiftieth anniversary party at a place in Gaithersburg. Everything was going smooth as silk, folks having a good time. I notice Michelle’s missing, figure she’s in the john. I go to knock on the door to tell her to make it snappy because it’s time to serve dessert. I pass the door of the manager’s office and there’s Michelle plunking away on his computer! Her ass was grass, gone. I let her stay until the party was over so she’d have a ride back here but that was the end of it.”
I flipped through my notes. “Haskell—”
“Beanie,” he corrected me with a sheepish grin. “Around my frat brothers, I prefer Beanie.”
“You got it. Did you cater a party or anything at New Gospel in Mitchellville?”
“A wedding reception. Three hundred guests, hors d’oeuvres, Cornish hen with wild rice and baby peas,” he recited. “Why?”
“I hate to tell you, but she used their computer, too, and one in some church here in the District. Saint—”
“Dammit!” Haskell exploded. “Ours too. I kept blaming Jackie, thought she’d left it on. Oh, my God. How’d you know?”
“She sent me hate e-mail, that’s how, and a friend traced them for me.” Which made me wonder if Michelle might have used the Celebrations computer to send the last three messages. If the cleaners had arrived before she could leave, would she have resorted to setting a fire to cause a diversion?
“Leigh, I’m so sorry.” Haskell reached over the console to squeeze my arm. “I had no idea. Look, I’d better get back over there. The fire inspector’s bound to wrap things up soon; it’s getting too dark to see. Duck has my number. If there’s anything else I can do, let me know. Duck, my brother, thanks for the shoulder. Keep in touch.” He opened the door.
“Count on it,” Duck said, getting out. They embraced again, went through the complicated handshake deal, and Haskell bounded back across the street, his steps slowing the closer he got to his ruined business.
“A nice guy,” I said. “How’d he get the nickname?”
“Beans were all he could afford to eat back then. He put himself through college working as a fry cook. Once he moved into the frat house, he took over the kitchen. Swear to God, he could fix beans seven days a week and they’d never taste the same twice.”
“And now his business is in ashes. Duck, I’m going to feel lower than snake shit if Michelle had anything to do with this. I’m already feeling guilty about Claudia. If I hadn’t been so pigheaded about not letting Michelle go get her damned car that day—”
“Cut the bullshit.” Duck reached over, squeezed my thigh. “What if you’d let her through and the block had gone up? You were doing your job. If she wasn’t such a nutcase, she’d realize that.”
“But she is and she doesn’t. So what do we do now?”
“Nothing. Now that Beanie knows what’s been going on, he’ll ask the family of the cleaners if they know where Michelle is living now.”
If he remembered. Under the circumstances, he just might forget. The end of this nightmare had seemed so near for a moment.
Duck’s pager went off as we pulled into traffic. He checked it and swore. “That’s Cap’s number. Guess I’d better get back. Sorry about dinner, babe.”
The apology was unnecessary. I knew how it worked. Duck reported to Captain Ray Moon, so when Cap Moon called you, you went.
“I’ll survive,” I said. “Maybe we can go out to dinner tomorrow night.”
Speeding through a yellow light, he yanked one of my braids. “It’s a deal. Where are you going now?”
“I don’t know. I need to grab a sandwich or something and sit down and think.” For some reason I had the feeling that I was rapidly running out of time.
We rode the rest of the way in silence, dealing with our own thoughts, Duck tempting fate a couple of times in his hurry to respond to Cap Moon’s summons.
He screeched to a halt in front of the Sixth, and grabbed me for a quick kiss before scrambling out. “I’ll make sure Evans and Thackery get the message about the name. You stay out of trouble,” he warned me. “And lose the makeup and braids. They make me feel like I’m cheating on you.” He sprinted for the entrance and was
gone.
I got out and took his place behind the wheel, then sat there thinking until I realized I was double-parked. I drove around, trying to work out my next move. Waiting for Haskell to get an address for Michelle was impractical. He had too many other issues on his plate. There had to be things I could do in tandem with Thackery and Evans, or, if necessary, alone to find her.
By the time I skirted the Capitol, I’d decided on the sweet and simple. And tedious. It meant settling down with a phone. And perhaps a few slices of Heavenly Ham on sourdough bread with lettuce, tomato, and mayo. No perhaps about it. Thank God Duck was a firm believer in keeping the refrigerator stocked. It was just as well. I hated shopping in general and grocery shopping in particular.
“Home, James,” I muttered, and searched until I found a radio station playing Christmas carols. Michelle had tried to ruin my wedding. I’d be damned if I’d let her ruin Christmas for me, too.
Back in Southwest again, I circled the block a couple of times checking for her tan compact, but didn’t see it. I checked the underground garage. No elderly Honda. The coast looked clear.
Bypassing the elevator, I took the stairs, removing my shoes halfway up. Duck would have to check for any mail. I was not up to facing the Gang of Four in this getup, even though Mrs. Luby had probably told them about our earlier meeting.
Wig discarded and sandwich made, I brought the District’s phone book into the kitchen and planted myself at the kitchen table. Humming with pleasure as I demolished my late lunch, I flipped through the white pages to the Hallses and moaned. For some idiotic reason, I’d assumed there wouldn’t be all that many since Hall singular was much more common. Feeling masochistic, I counted them. Seventeen of them. No Michelle Halls, of course. Sighing, I began to dial, trying the M. Halls first, just in case. If she’d had a phone recently, perhaps there was a referral to her new number.
