A Question of Fire

by Karen McCullough

  Peter's home was a small redwood and glass structure in an upscale neighborhood. She found it without difficulty, and the key to the front door was on the same ring with his car keys. The hardest job was getting Peter himself into the house. Fortunately, there were only a few steps up to the door as Peter was heavier than he looked.

  They struggled into the house, with Cathy hoping none of the neighbors were watching. The front door opened into a spacious, elegantly simple living room; beyond she saw a spotless kitchen. To the right, a corridor led back, probably to the bedrooms. She steered him that way.

  There were two rooms off the corridor, one a sort of library-study, the other a bedroom. She took him into the latter and dumped him on the bed, where he promptly went out again. She loosened his tie and pulled off his shoes. His blond hair was thoroughly rumpled, falling across his forehead and into his eyes. Cathy brushed it back, enjoying the soft, silky feel of it. That wasn't the only thing she was enjoying. Disheveled like this, he seemed very different from the neat, almost fastidious man of daylight hours. It was an interesting thought and she had to rein in her galloping imagination.

  She walked back to the kitchen, invaded his refrigerator, and poured herself a glass of orange juice, which she took back to the living room. She had a decision to make. Should she drive his car back to her apartment and arrange to exchange cars in the morning? Or would it be better if she spent the night here and let him take her back? Neither option appealed.

  Rather than choose, she sat and let her mind drift over the events of the evening. Now that she had peace and time to think them over and put things together, a frightening logic began to emerge. She'd completely forgotten Peter's comment about the odd-tasting wine. So... Peter hadn't had too much to drink, someone had put something in it.

  The drugs in the car were part of the set-up, too. Somebody had planned to get Peter drunk or drugged and have him stopped by the police. Did the cops routinely search the cars they pulled? They hadn't with her, but then they'd decided she was clean. If it had been Peter, at least two and a half sheets to the wind? She didn't know, but remembering how unconcealed the packet had been, sitting on the floor next to the seat, she thought it would have been seen even without a search.

  It had nearly worked, too. Whoever was responsible made one mistake and had a bit of bad luck. Whatever they'd given Peter, they'd used too much. One good drink had put him beyond any possibility of driving himself home. The bad luck was that, for the first in a long time, Peter hadn't gone to the party alone.

  Still, it was a good plan and had almost come off. What would have happened if Peter had been driving the car when the police had stopped them? He would have been arrested for driving while intoxicated, and probably for possession. The possession charge could get him a prison sentence; at the least he'd lose his driver's license, be discredited, and possibly disbarred. It would also, she realized, virtually destroy any possibility of his successfully defending Danny Stark. Probably a lot of other clients as well.

  It was possible tonight's plot had nothing to do with the Stark case, but Cathy doubted it. Bobby had been murdered to keep him from telling where his proof was; two nights ago, Danny had been beaten to discourage him from making any further attempts to find it. Peter was the next logical target, if not for murder, then for some way to get him off the case.

  That conclusion frightened her, but at least it helped her reach a decision. She wasn't going out again tonight, and certainly not in Peter's car. Nor did she feel comfortable leaving Peter alone in his current vulnerable condition.

  She took the empty glass back to the kitchen and put it in the sink, checked the locks on both kitchen and front doors, then went back into the bedroom to look in on him. He hadn't moved and was snoring lightly. She put her fingers on his wrist to feel for his pulse which she found reassuringly strong and regular. Finally she went back to the living room and settled on the couch for what remained of the night.

  She woke to the sound of an alarm clock buzzing electronically. After a few minutes, it was switched off and she heard water running in the bathroom. Cathy shook off her lethargy, got up, straightened her clothes as best she could, and went into the kitchen to start coffee brewing. She needed some now, and expected that need to get worse shortly.

  The coffee was dripping and she was rummaging through a cabinet when Peter came into the kitchen. He wore a white, terry cloth robe and the thick, dark-rimmed glasses that hid his eyes. His hair was damp from the shower.

  "What the hell—" He stopped short when he saw her. "What are you doing here?"

  "Looking for breakfast. Don't you have anything other than Grape-Nuts and All-Bran?"

  "I wasn't expecting company. That didn't answer my question." He sat in one of two chairs that flanked the kitchen table.

  "I know, but I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet, and I don't do explanations before breakfast. Do you remember anything about last night?"

  "I think so. We went to a party..." He pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "What happened? I can't seem to remember much about it, but, Lord, I've got a headache. Had my contacts in all night, too."

  "Don't think for a few minutes," she advised. The coffee had finished dripping, so she poured them each a cup. "I presume you actually eat this for breakfast?" She held up the box of Grape-Nuts. He nodded and she put the box on the table along with a pair of bowls and spoons. She found a carton of milk—skim, naturally—in the refrigerator and got it out.

  "There's orange juice in there, too. Would you pour me a glass while you're at it?"

  She did as he asked, pouring herself some as well. He was already tucking into the cereal when she sat and gloomily poured a bowl of Grape-Nuts for herself. He handed her the sugar bowl without comment. Even with its assistance, the stuff was barely palatable, but Cathy was hungry and it was the only game in town.

  He finished first, but sat patiently sipping his coffee while she ate. Unsatisfying though it was, the cereal filled her stomach, and the combined effects of juice and coffee prodded her brain into motion. She felt ready to talk.

  Peter was a good listener, silent and attentive while she related the events of the previous night and her interpretation of them. He interrupted only once, to get up and refill both coffee cups. When she finished, he remained silent for a moment, staring thoughtfully out the kitchen window. Finally he looked back at her, though the glasses made it nearly impossible to read his expression. "It appears I have a lot to thank you for." The words were gracious, but his tone was stiff. She wondered why thanks seemed to be so hard for him. He continued, "You saved me quite a bit of embarrassment at the least. At worst, who knows? And it wasn't easy."

  "It wasn't," she agreed. "It was bad enough to find that bag in your car, but when the police pulled me over, I was a nervous wreck."

  "You carried it off, though. Did it occur to you to wonder if I'd left the bag there myself?"

  "Not really. You're not the type, Peter. And even if you were, you're too intelligent to leave something like that sitting in your car in the open where anybody could see it."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence. What did you do with the stuff, by the way?"

  "It's in my pocketbook right now. I wanted to ask you what I ought to do about it."

  "Give it to me; I'll take it to the police. I suppose your fingerprints are on the bag?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Can't be helped." He stood and looked at the clock over the refrigerator. "I have to be at the office at eight-fifteen. Give me a few minutes to get dressed and I'll take you home."

  She nodded, gathered the dishes, rinsed them and stacked them in the dishwasher while he was out of the room. She tried to wash away her unreasonable feeling of disappointment as well. What kind of reaction had she expected? Gratitude? She had that; he'd told her he was grateful. If she'd hoped for more effusive praise or thanks, she should have known better. She wiped up the crumbs from the table and irritably shook them out into the tra
sh can. Then she went back into the living room to wait.

  There was a small mirror on one wall; seeing her reflection didn't improve her spirits. Retrieving a comb from her pocketbook, she tried to get her hair back in some order but was only partially successful. On a low table nearby sat a framed photographic portrait of an attractive blonde young woman holding a little girl, about four. The child looked a lot like Peter.

  "My ex-wife and my daughter." He chose that moment to come back into the room. He'd exchanged the robe for a blue suit, and the contact lenses were in place as well. "Are you ready to go?"

  "Yes. Here's the bag." She used a tissue to lift it out of her pocketbook and hand it to him. He opened the briefcase he carried, put the bag into a pocket, then closed and locked it.

  When they were in the Datsun on the way to her apartment, she ventured to ask, "Do you see your daughter very often?"

  "No." Apparently, he knew his answer was too brusque. "Sharon remarried and moved to Texas with Melissa. I've gone there a couple of times, and I've flown Melissa back here, but it's a long way."

  "That must be hard for you. I'm sorry."

  He shook his head as though it were something he couldn't bring himself to talk about. Then he changed the subject. "One of my appointments this morning is someone who called to say he might know something about the person Bobby saw the day he died."

  Cathy turned to him, excited. "Did he sound for real?"

  "How can you tell from a phone conversation? I'll call you later this morning. Will you be in?"

  He was pulling up to her apartment.

  "Yes. I have things I need to catch up on. I expect I'll be around until three-thirty or so. That's when I usually leave for work."

  "Okay, I'll let you know if this turns out to be anything substantial." He paused for a moment. "Cathy, I know I've been ungracious this morning. I want you to know I really am grateful for everything you did last night. It's just that... well, dammit, I'm supposed to be rescuing you, not the other way around. I suppose my pride is a bit wounded. And the circumstances were embarrassing. My machismo is smarting. Probably good for me, it certainly is uncomfortable."

  Cathy smiled, then nodded. "Let's just forget about it." She started to get out of the car when he put a hand on her arm. She turned back and he moved his hand from her arm to the back of her neck. He pulled her to him and kissed her. The kiss took her by surprise, over before she could gather herself to respond, but it lasted long enough to let her decide it was an experience she wouldn't mind repeating. Wouldn't mind at all.

  "I'll call you later," he reiterated as she got out of the car.

  -18-

  Thursday

  The call came around eleven-thirty and caught her in the midst of cleaning her refrigerator. It was a task she despised, ranking right next to scouring the oven on her list of least favorite chores, but every few months she forced herself to dispose of the collection of inedible leftovers that reproduced in the back while the door was closed. The assortment of mold and fungus accumulating there might delight a biologist, but Cathy had to hold her nose and try not to look while she scraped them into the disposal unit. She'd just dumped a particularly nasty mess growing on a bit of meat loaf she couldn't remember making and was relieved to get away from the job for a while.

  "Cathy?" It was Peter. "I think this may be something solid. Can you come to my office at twelve-fifteen? I don't want to talk about it over the phone. We'll have lunch afterward. Oh, and I've asked Danny; I need to talk to him about this, too. I didn't think you'd mind."

  Shows what a lot you know, she thought, but he didn't need to hear that. "Fine, I'll be there at twelve-fifteen."

  She put the dishes she'd scraped into a pan of soapy water to soak, congratulated the rest of the little containers on their reprieve but promised them their turn would come, then went to clean up.

  She got to the building at twelve-seventeen and met Danny on the way in. He wore a dark blue work coverall with the name of an automobile and motorcycle dealership on one sleeve and his name sewn above the pocket; a motorcycle helmet hung on his left arm. He looked better than he had the last time she'd seen him; bruises still showed on his jaw and below his right eye, but the swelling was gone. The cut on his temple was healing cleanly.

  The blank, remote expression seemed to be his habitual way of facing the world, but it did soften slightly when he saw her, and his greeting was respectful if not warm.

  They walked into the building and down the hall to Peter's office. Cathy was disconcerted when Danny reached around to open and hold the door for her; she hadn't expected the gesture from him. Walking beside him, she was aware for the first time that he was taller than she, and of the masculine grace in his movements. She had known before, of course, but only now really became aware that he was close to being a man. What kind of man still hung in the balance.

  The receptionist wasn't at her post, so they walked on. Peter was staring out the window, apparently lost in thought, when they walked in, but turned around to smile at them both.

  "Sit down," he suggested, then picked up a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to Danny. "Does this name mean anything to you?"

  Danny stared at the paper for so long Cathy began to wonder if he could read it, but after a while he looked up with no change of expression, and said, "No. Who is he? Someone Bobby knew?"

  Peter shook his head but didn't answer. Danny started to hand the paper back to him, but Peter gestured for him to give it to Cathy instead. There was just one name written on it: Joe Townsend. No bells rang, and she also shook her head negatively as she passed the slip back to Peter.

  "Joe Townsend was almost certainly the person Bobby went to see the day he was killed," Peter announced. "And that's all I know about him. Whether he gave or sold Bobby information he had or directed him to someone else, I don't know. At this point, I don't even have an address or a phone number."

  "You've checked the phone book?" Cathy asked.

  "There are two J. Townsends listed. I've got both addresses and telephone numbers here."

  "Do you have a residential directory in the office?"

  "No," he answered.

  "We do at the newspaper. I'll check it out this afternoon."

  "Thanks. There's something else you ought to know." He looked at Danny. "Your case has been set for a week from Tuesday."

  Cathy saw the slight tightening of his features that was Danny's only reaction. "That's not much time, is it?" she asked.

  "No." Peter pushed hair back off his face. "We’ll get a continuance. And maybe if things break right, that'll be enough. If this lead to Joe Townsend proves out, for instance, or if you're right about where you think Bobby hid the evidence. Even that pattern of fires you think you've got could prove substantial enough that we can go into court with a real case."

  Danny turned to her, dark eyes momentarily alight. "You know where Bobby hid it?"

  "Maybe," she cautioned. "Right now, it's just a suspicion. No, I'm not going to tell you just yet; let me see if it pans out first."

  "What's that pattern Mr. Lowell's talking about?" he asked.

  "There's been more than one suspicious fire in this area in the past two years," she answered. "Ten likely cases of arson, in fact. In one of them, a man was accused of setting the fire. On the surface, at least, his story sounds somewhat like yours."

  She saw surprise and a brief flare of hope in his eyes. It didn't last long; hope was a luxury Danny couldn't afford to indulge.

  "Did they send him to prison?" he asked.

  Cathy found she didn't want to say it, didn't want to see the change in his face, but he had a right to the truth. "Yes."

  Peter stood up suddenly. "Enough. Let's get something to eat. Danny, what's your preference?"

  "Pizza."

  Peter looked pained, but sighed in resignation when he saw Cathy's reaction. "All right, I asked for it. Where?"

  "The Pizza Palace," Cathy suggested.

  "Do th
ey have anything other than Pizza?"

  "Sandwiches and salads, I think."

  "Let's go."

  Cathy rode with Peter in the Datsun; Danny followed on the motorcycle since he'd have to go directly back to work after lunch. In the privacy of the car, she asked, "Realistically, what are Danny's chances?"

  He sighed. "As things stand now, not good. Pray something breaks right." He slapped the steering wheel with his palm. "It's frustrating. Ninety-nine out of a hundred of my clients are guilty, and all they want is someone to get them off with the lightest possible sentence. Here I've got a client I'm pretty sure is innocent, and not a shred of evidence to prove it. Cathy, I don't have any kind of defense at all."

  She heard the edge in his voice and wanted to soothe it away. “Something will break, Peter, I'm sure of it. Look at all the possibilities we've got. Something's bound to come of at least one of them."

  "I hope you're right." He changed the subject. "Did you know your friend Hammond has checked out of the Hilton?" he asked. "I tried to see him a couple of days ago."

  She wasn't overly surprised. "Did he leave an address?"

  "No."

  She thought about it. "How did he pay for the room?"

  "Sharp," he said, but she couldn't tell whether the compliment was for herself or Hammond. "Cash. You don't sound very surprised; I thought you were falling for the man."

  "Give me some credit," she said. "Just because he's got a good line and a face a movie actor would kill for doesn't mean I turn my brain off."

  "So?"

  "I know Hammond's in this up to his pretty eyeballs and probably on the wrong side, too. I suspected it last Friday; I became sure on Tuesday. I was hoping you'd be able to find him and pump him."

  "You knew? How?"

  "Logic, believe it or not. Bobby was killed last Wednesday, and the killer and his cohorts immediately began searching for the evidence he'd hid. But, early Thursday, the only people who knew about Bobby's last words were myself, Ray, and the police. When the killers searched the apartment that morning, they didn't look in the air conditioner. I asked Patty, she was pretty sure it hadn't been disturbed until the police checked it later that day. Why should they if they didn't know about the clue?