A Question of Fire

by Karen McCullough

  "Miss Bennett. It is Miss?” he asked. “Thank you for coming so promptly. I realize you had a rough night, though you don't look the worse for it.” He paused. “It must have been a shock." His tone was carefully neutral, and she noticed he didn't refer to their previous meeting.

  "It was."

  He shifted in the chair behind the desk. His clothes were well cut, and though his blond hair had been carefully combed, strands were starting to fall loose across his forehead. "I don't suppose you had an easy time yourself," she offered. He shrugged but said nothing. "In any case, I'm glad you called. I wanted to talk to you."

  "About Bobby Stark?"

  "And his brother."

  He nodded, but his expression gave no clue to his thoughts. "You've met them before?"

  "I read about Danny's arrest in the paper; I've never met either of them before last night. I don't cover criminal cases."

  Lowell picked up a pen and twirled it in his fingers. "How did you happen to meet Bobby?"

  Cathy detected suspicion in his tone, but decided to ignore it and save her energy for the real conflict that would come later. "The police didn't tell you?"

  "Very little.”

  She kept her own expression under tight control so he wouldn’t see how much that discovery pleased her. "Mr. Lowell, there are things I want to know about Bobby and Danny Stark. I want your help and you need mine. What about a deal? I'll trade cooperation for cooperation."

  His eyes narrowed and his fingers tightened on the pen. "As a newspaper reporter, I'm sure you know what confidentiality means."

  "I'm not asking for any of your clients’ secrets. In fact, what I want is public information anyway, but it'll simplify my life and yours to do it this way."

  "What is it you want?"

  "Background on Bobby and Danny Stark. A chance to talk to Danny."

  She held his eyes, though his wary, weighing look made her wonder if he saw her as some kind of dangerous spider. She sucked in a deep breath, knowing herself a match for the man, but only as long as she held onto her volatile temper.

  "And, in exchange, you'll tell me how you met Bobby last night and what he told you?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  He sat very still for a moment, eyes trained on her but focused inward in thought. "All right." He leaned over and jotted something on a piece of paper in front of him. "There's one stipulation. What I tell you is strictly off the record. You don't quote me or print any of this without my permission."

  Cathy considered it, then nodded. "Accepted."

  He inclined his head also. "Good. About last night?"

  She recounted the story as she'd told it to Norfolk the previous evening. Lowell listened intently, without interrupting, until she finished. Even then he remained silent for several minutes. He wasn't sharing whatever thoughts the story suggested to him, however. "Thank you," was all he finally said. "Now, what do you want to know?"

  Cathy got her pad and pen ready. "Tell me about Bobby Stark. Background?"

  "Miserable," Lowell answered. "Alcoholic, abusive father, ineffectual mother. The two boys—Bobby and Danny are the only children—had a wretched childhood and were nothing but relieved when their father was convicted of armed robbery and sent up for fifteen to twenty. That was about three years ago, I think. Jimmy Stark was a dangerous, violent man even when he wasn't drinking.

  "I met Bobby shortly after that," he continued, "when I was appointed to defend him on a drug charge. He was guilty, but I got him off and didn't regret it. It's been a struggle, but Bobby pulled himself together, kicked the drug habit, found a new set of friends, kept a steady job, and had a girlfriend he was planning to marry." Tightening of the lines around his eyes and mouth gave the only clue to his emotions. "Despite his background, Bobby was a good kid. He just needed help."

  For a second, she glimpsed raw pain in his eyes, making her wonder how much of that help he'd provided himself. She refrained from asking. "Danny?"

  Lowell shrugged. "I don't know him very well. Bobby called me a couple of weeks ago to say that his brother was in trouble and ask if I'd help. I've talked to the kid a couple of times, but he's a quiet boy, more reserved than Bobby. Not easy to get to know. Even when he does talk, he seems to have a hard time saying what he means. Except when he gets drunk, and then he says too much."

  "Did Danny set that fire?"

  Lowell's light, almost level brows rose. "The law says he's innocent until proven otherwise."

  "That wasn't what I asked."

  He shrugged. "I don't know. There's plenty of evidence to show he did. But Bobby didn't believe it. There's this, too: Danny's story has more holes than a cyclone fence, but it's still better than I'd think he could invent on his own."

  "What is his story?"

  "You didn't hear it from the police?"

  She wondered if she were inviting another round of mutual blackmail. "No."

  Lowell consulted papers on his desk. "Nine tomorrow," he said, then looked up at her. "I’d rather you heard the story from Danny himself. Arraignment’s tomorrow morning and we should be able to get bail. I want him out of jail before his brother's funeral. If it goes well, I want to talk to him here, afterward, and you can, too. I'd also like to hear his story in more detail. Is that all right with you?"

  Actually it was more than she’d hoped for, but he didn’t need to know that. "Yes, thanks."

  The man's face eased slightly as he settled back in his chair. His stare tried to dissect her. "Do you always go to these lengths to get a story?" he asked.

  She finished scribbling notes on her pad. "Yes and no. Yes, I'll work hard to get a story; that's my job, after all, and I like to think I do it well. But no, it's not just a story I'm after."

  "What is it then?"

  She searched his face, trying to gauge his probable reaction to her next words. He had good features. The strong bones weren't quite regular enough to be called handsome, but the character they displayed was attractive. She guessed he was in his mid-thirties. "I want to know who killed Bobby," Cathy answered. "And what he did with the evidence he had."

  "That's the police department's job," he said, without any change of expression. "They generally do it well. I suggest you leave it to them."

  "What if they don't or can't do it? Suppose they conclude Bobby was deluding himself again when they don't find his evidence after searching all the obvious places? What are you going to do? Danny is your client; can you afford to overlook the possibility of evidence that might prove him innocent?"

  The man sat up straighter, and sparks ignited in the depths of his green eyes. "That's my job, Miss Bennett," he said, in a tone that held an edge of controlled anger. "I like to think I do it reasonably well, too."

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I overstepped. It's just that I don't want to see Bobby's efforts wasted, and I'm afraid it might happen. The police don't believe in his evidence."

  "What makes you think so?"

  "You didn't hear the way Lieutenant Norfolk spoke about Bobby. He didn't believe there was anything to it."

  "And you do?"

  Cathy looked at her notepad, but she was seeing a shadowy figure in a dark garden. "Bobby Stark trusted me," she said. "He didn't want to, but he had no choice. And maybe if I hadn't demanded that he come out where I could see him, he'd still be..."

  "Don't torture yourself," Lowell ordered. "The only difference was a few minutes one way or another. You didn't change the outcome."

  She nodded. "Probably not. But I might be able to change the outcome for Danny. Anyway, Bobby trusted me. I was the only person available. And I promised him as he was dying that I'd see his message delivered. You've heard the message, but you didn't hear the way he said it. Whatever Bobby had, he was sure it would stand up, and he also knew it was dangerous. He wanted to be sure that proof got to you and no one else." She sighed. "I feel like I betrayed him when I told the police."

  "You don’t need me to tell you you did the right thing." His tone was anyt
hing but reassuring. "Of course you told the police. Bobby was murdered. You can't withhold anything that might help them catch his killer."

  "I know that."

  "So?"

  "I want help finding that proof if the police don't."

  "Miss Bennett, if you're thinking of playing girl-reporter-turns-detective, I suggest you give it up and stick to writing about the news."

  It took a minute's silent struggle to control her outrage. "I have another, more personal reason for wanting to find that evidence," she said when she finally unclenched her jaw. "Whoever killed Bobby knew he had the goods. He also seems to think Bobby told me where to find it."

  Lowell’s eyes focused sharply on her face again. "What happened?”

  "Someone tried to run me down in the parking lot outside of my apartment this morning. To answer all your objections at once, I'm not hysterical, subject to delusions, or nearsighted, and I know the difference between a careless driver and one who's aiming at a target. It was a new experience for me, so I'm forced to conclude Bobby's killer believes I'm a threat also." She let that sink in. "You see why I'd like to find that proof right away? I'm more than willing to let the police take care of it, if they will. But what I've heard so far leaves me dubious."

  He looked down at his desk, but she doubted he was seeing the papers there. She couldn't gauge his reaction beyond evident surprise. "Maybe I do, and maybe I don't," he said. "But I'll go this far with you. If the police stop looking for that proof, I'll help you search. Meanwhile, I suggest caution and stay away from lonely alleys after dark."

  "Thank you," Cathy said, standing up to leave.

  His expression didn't change or relax as he nodded goodbye. A pity, she decided. He'd be an attractive man if he'd lighten up a bit.

  The drive from Lowell's office to the newspaper's headquarters took only ten minutes. She spent the first half of the trip musing on what Peter Lowell's problem might be; why he seemed to resent her when he hardly knew her. It had nothing at all to do with Bobby, she was sure. Lowell had been curt to the point of rudeness the previous night at the party when a mutual acquaintance had introduced them.

  She wasn't paying attention to traffic, so she wasn't sure when she first noticed the dark blue Toyota that kept popping up in her rearview mirror. When she changed lanes, it did, also, and when she turned right and then right again, the Toyota stayed in line behind. She made a sudden left turn and zigzagged around the next couple of blocks, to come out a half mile further up the road than she wanted to be. A look in the mirror confirmed the Toyota was still there, two cars back. She continued to watch it when she swung into the employees' parking lot at the newspaper building, but the blue car cruised on, down the street and out of sight. She was too far away to get a look at the driver.

  Ray was in his office, so she knocked and entered at his nod. She filled him in on the conversation with Lowell and added her belief that she'd been followed back from his office. He expelled a long sigh and picked up a cigarette that had been smoldering in the ashtray.

  "Off the wagon again?" she asked.

  He looked at the cigarette and nodded. "Brief trip this time. It's all your fault. Worry sets me off."

  "Forget it. I'm carrying all the guilt I can handle right now."

  He sucked in another long pull and expelled slowly, trying to blow smoke rings that never quite achieved circularity.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "I talked to Lieutenant Norfolk," he said. "No line on the killer yet. They searched Bobby Stark's apartment, but didn't find anything that looked like evidence."

  "They checked the air vents and conditioners?"

  "Of course."

  She heard more in his tone. "Well?"

  Ray blew a perfect ring for a change, then put the cigarette down. "They did find a stash of crack."

  - 5-

  Thursday

  Cathy had a lot on her mind that afternoon, so much, in fact, that she nearly forgot she had a dinner date. Or was appointment a better word? Come to think of it, he hadn't said they'd go out for dinner, either. And if you really wanted to quibble, she didn't even know the man's name. Given the circumstances, she debated the wisdom of keeping an assignation with a complete stranger.

  But he'd saved her life that morning. Suspicions aside, she at least owed him a bit of her time. So she waited at the employees' entrance until he pulled up, five minutes late. Chronic tardiness was one of her pet peeves, but he wasn't so dilatory as to make it onto her B list. In any case, the smile he offered as he pulled to the curb, jumped out, and came around to the passenger side to assist her into the vehicle would have made up for more than the five minute delay.

  "Hello, Catherine Bennett," he said, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. "Can I call you Kate?"

  "No." She let her fingers explore the plush texture of the upholstery. "I'm not a shrew—most of the time, anyway. It's Cathy, please."

  "All right. Are you hungry, Cathy?"

  "Voraciously."

  He turned to glance at her. "That's a ten penny word. But then they're your business, aren't they?"

  "Words? The reporter's stock in trade."

  "So." He nodded. "Would a steak satisfy your voracious appetite?"

  "Admirably. And now that you have the advantage of knowing my name and occupation, might we even things out some? The introduction was a bit informal."

  His grin lit sparks in the aquamarine eyes. "Sorry, I didn't realize. Ed Hammond. I'd offer to shake but I don't drive well with one hand, especially not when the car has a stick. There's a steakhouse half a mile up the road if I remember correctly. Will that do?"

  "Sure. Nice car," Cathy commented, admiring the high-tech instrumentation of the dashboard and the sleek lines of the Cirrus’s hood. "Yours?"

  "Rented, I'm afraid." He let her see a bit of wry disappointment. "Wouldn't mind owning one like this, though. You like cars?"

  "You ask that after seeing what I drive?"

  "Just because you have a ten-year-old Honda doesn't mean you can't admire."

  "You're right," Cathy said. "But I'm not picky, really. I prefer one with four wheels and an engine that runs. Of course, I wouldn't mind extras like comfortable seats, power to accelerate, and good handling." She sighed. “Maybe when I get all my educational loans paid off.”

  At the steakhouse, they were conducted to a quiet booth near a corner. The candle on the table shed a soft radiance that enhanced Hammond's beautifully-formed features. They bantered over trivialities—the food, the weather, her job, and the local political scene—while they ordered and then ate the salads that preceded dinner. Hammond cocked an eyebrow when she asked for a Coca-Cola; he had a glass of burgundy.

  "I should have warned you I don't drink when I have to go back to work. Not that it makes much difference. I've got pretty plebeian tastes, anyway" she admitted.

  "No problem." A dazzling display of highlights in his blue eyes backed the words. While they demolished the steaks and accompanying baked potatoes, they talked their way through sites they'd seen while traveling around the States on vacations. He'd wandered far more widely than Cathy, but he didn't talk down or condescend. In fact, he was one of the easiest people to converse with she'd ever met. And one of the cleverest. He could ramble on indefinitely, entertaining and amusing, but never giving away any solid information about himself or his background. However carefully Cathy tried to probe.

  "Where did you grow up?" she asked finally, straight out.

  "A place so small it doesn't even rate a pinprick on the map. You could hardly find this burg with a magnifying glass. The town was so little it had "Welcome" painted on both sides of the sign. The mayor was married to the police chief and everyone over the age of eighteen who lived there sat on the town council. All twelve of them. Not a bad place to grow up, I suppose, but deadly dull on a Saturday night. I was the black sheep, anyway; I got bored and left."

  He continued to ramble, telling her about what he did afterward
, his drifting through several colleges and a variety of jobs, none of them seeming to last very long, but all adding to his stock of amusing stories. By the time he stopped a minute and she realized he'd never answered her original question, there wasn't any graceful way to return to the issue.

  Once they finished dinner and decided to skip dessert, heading straight for coffee instead, he looked at her and asked, "Ready to get to business?"

  "More than," she answered. "Whatever you want to know, you didn't have to feed me quite this well to get it."

  He looked at her oddly, the most serious expression she'd seen on his face. "You have a suspicious mind, Cathy Bennett."

  She drained the last of her Coke. "Occupational hazard, I suppose."

  "In any case, you're right this time." He stopped and reached into an inside pocket of his sport coat, pulled out a leather wallet, flipped it open, and placed it on the table where she could read the identification card in the pocket.

  "You're a private investigator?"

  "So it says." He reclaimed the wallet and tucked it back away. "Don't get the wrong idea, though. It isn't anything like what you see on television."

  "I don't watch much television."

  "In the movies, then. Sam Spade I'm not."

  "You wanted to see me this morning. It has to do with Bobby Stark, doesn't it?"

  "Always a pleasure to deal with an intelligent, logical person," he said. His smile had a definite affect on her pulse. "I meet a lot more of the other kind in my line of work. Yes, it's about Bobby Stark. I can't tell you very much, I'm afraid. My client wants this kept in strict confidence, but there's something going on, something... Well, I can't explain very much. But Bobby was helping us out with it, and I think he found something. Something that got him killed, damn it. I wish the kid had never gotten involved in this mess. Too late for regrets now, I know, but I hate to think his work and his death may all be in vain if we can't find what he had."