Lethal People: A Donovan Creed Crime Novel

by John Locke

  “One cowboy with spurs, no Tommy; a mayo club, cremated, and hold the grass!” he said.

  “What on earth?” Kathleen asked.

  I beamed. “It’s authentic diner talk. The ‘cowboy with spurs’ is my Western omelet with fries. ‘No Tommy’ means I don’t want ketchup. ‘Cremated’ means toast the bread. And ‘hold the grass’ means no lettuce on your club sandwich.”

  “How do you know this stuff ?” she asked. “And why would you want to?”

  “Say it,” I said.

  “Say what?”

  “I’m fun.”

  She looked at me until a smile played around the corners of her mouth.

  “You are fun,” she said. “Now tell me why the open attic window means something, and tell me what else you think you found.”

  “Okay. First of all, a fire requires three things to burn: oxygen, a fuel source, and heat. That’s called the fire triangle. An arsonist has to tamper with one or more of those elements to fake an accidental fire. For example, this fire was set at the end of January and the attic window was open. Who leaves a window open in January?”

  “Maybe the firemen opened it after the fact.”

  “No. The arsonist opened it to provide an oxygen source.”

  On the juke in the booth across from us, Rod Stewart was singing. Maggie May had stolen his soul and that’s a pain he can do without.

  “Tell me you’ve got more than the open window,” she said.

  “In the basement there were at least two points of origin. Also, in the floorboards in the master bedroom, under the bed, I saw some curved edges. I found some more in the hallway, and I’d bet the stairwell was full of them.”

  “So?”

  “So I think someone used a circular drill bit to drill holes in all those floorboards. That’s what created the air flow to feed the fire and make it spread much faster than it should.”

  “Well duh,” she said. “If a guy was traipsing all over the house, opening windows and drilling holes, especially under the bed, don’t you think Greg and Melanie would have heard him?”

  “The prep work was done earlier, before they got home. They wouldn’t have noticed the open attic window or the drill holes under the bed. The steps were carpeted, so those holes were hidden. The arsonist probably broke into the basement before they got home so he wouldn’t have to chance waking them up later. I noticed the attic access doors were open, and that’s something Greg and Melanie would have noticed when they tucked the kids in for the night. So the arsonist must have waited for the family to fall asleep. Then he sneaked up the stairs and opened the attic doors and doused the carpet in the kids’ room with gasoline.”

  “What? Excuse me, Columbo, but how do you know he doused the carpet?”

  “I pulled some of it up and guess what I saw?”

  “A stain that looks like Jesus on a tricycle?”

  “No, I found char patterns.”

  “Char patterns,” she said.

  “When you pour a liquid accelerant on carpet, it soaks into the fibers. When it burns, it makes concentrated char patterns on the sub-floor.”

  Kathleen frowned, still unconvinced. “What was all that with the neighbor guy and the color of the smoke?”

  “The color of the smoke and flames tells you what’s making it burn. Wood makes a yellow flame, or a red one, with gray or brown smoke.”

  “So what’s the problem? The neighbor guy said he saw a yellow flame.”

  “Right, but he also said black smoke.”

  “So?”

  “Black smoke means gasoline.”

  The waiter brought our orders and set them on the table. I tore into my omelet, but Kathleen just stared at me. Her face had turned serious.

  “Donovan, all these details, this isn’t your first rodeo,” she said. “You obviously know a lot about arson. You said this guy tried to hire you a couple years ago.”

  “So?”

  “To kill people.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I waited for her to speak. She gave me a look like she wanted to ask me something but wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

  When my daughter Kimberly was eight, she started to ask me about Santa Claus. Before she voiced her question, I looked her in the eye and said, “Don’t ever ask me anything unless you’re ready to hear the truth.” Kimberly decided not to ask. Kathleen, on the other hand, had to know.

  “Have you ever done this to someone?” she asked. “Set their house on fire?”

  “You should eat,” I said. “That sandwich looks terrific.”

  She didn’t respond, so I looked up and saw her eyes burning a hole into my soul. “Have you?” she repeated.

  I signaled the waiter and handed him a twenty. “Before you do anything else,” I said to him, “I need a roll of duct tape or sealing tape.” He nodded, took the bill, and moved double-time toward the kitchen. To Kathleen, I said, “I’ve done some terrible things. Things I hope I never have to tell you about, and yes, I’ve been trained to set fires. But no, I’ve never done it.”

  “You swear?”

  I swore. Happily, it was the truth. Still, I decided not to tell her how close I’d come a few times. And I was well aware that by swearing on the past I hadn’t ruled out the future.

  She stared at me awhile before nodding slowly. “I believe you,” she said. “Look, I’m sure you’re a world-class shit heel. It wouldn’t even surprise me if you’d killed people for the CIA years ago, and God help me, I might even be able to live with that, depending on the circumstances. But since I started working with the kids at the burn center … well, you know.”

  I did know.

  Kathleen’s club sandwich had been cut into four pieces. She picked up a wedge and studied it. “What about the fire chief?” she asked. “If you’re right, that makes him wrong, and he’s the expert.”

  I speared a couple of fries and popped them into my mouth. There’s nothing like the taste of diner French fries. “They put hamburger grease in the oil,” I said. “Makes the French fries burst with flavor. You want some?”

  “No. What about the fire chief?”

  The waiter returned with a thick roll of clear sealing tape and said he’d be right back to refresh our drinks. I nodded and began taping the fingers on my right hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure I don’t splay my metacarpals.”

  She showed me her bewildered look and watched me tape my wrist. After doing that, I removed a thin sheet of plastic from my wallet and began fitting it to the bottom part of my palm, from pinky to wrist. “Can you wrap this for me?” I asked.

  “You’re insane,” she said, but she wrapped the tape around the palm of my hand, covering the plastic and holding it in place. I flexed my hand to test it and decided it would do. “What about the fire chief?” she repeated.

  “He’s in on it.”

  “What?”

  “They paid him off after the fact. They didn’t want to, but they had to.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This arsonist was good. The only reason he appears sloppy is because the fire department got to the scene so quickly. Four minutes and twenty seconds, if you can just imagine. Another five minutes and the fire would have killed all the evidence. The chief knew it was arson, some of his men probably knew. So whoever ordered the torch—I’m guessing Joe DeMeo—had to get to the chief.”

  “You said the chief was talking about his retirement.”

  “It’s all he talks about.”

  “So this Joe DeMeo character, he gave the chief enough money to look the other way?”

  “I expect the money was a bonus, like a reward for doing the right thing. DeMeo probably got the chief’s attention by threatening his wife, kids, and grandchildren.”

  The composite plastic affixed to the edge of my hand was invented by an engineering team at the University of Michigan in mid-2007. It’s strong as steel and as thin and pliable as a small sheet of p
aper. Made from clay and nontoxic glue, it mimics the brick and-mortar molecular structure found in seashells. The nanosheets of plastic are layered like bricks and held together with a gluelike polymer that creates cooperative hydrogen bonds between the layers. It takes several hours to build up the three hundred layers needed to make the thin sheet I kept in my wallet at all times.

  Kathleen watched me studying my hand. She said, “If Chief Blaunert’s involved in the cover up, why didn’t he destroy the evidence? It’s been two weeks.”

  “I’m guessing he hasn’t had a chance, what with all the press coverage, candlelight vigils, and people coming day and night to place shrine items on the lawn.”

  “But he must have known the insurance company would send someone to investigate.”

  “That’s the thing. He told me he wasn’t expecting anyone this soon, which tells me no one has filed the claim yet. Or if it’s been filed, someone at the insurance company has either submitted a phony report or they’re delaying their investigation.”

  “Are you sure this DeMeo guy has that much clout?”

  “That much and more.”

  Again she looked at the piece of sandwich in her hand but didn’t taste it.

  “There’s something bothering you,” I said. “What is it?”

  “Are you in danger?” she asked.

  “I could be. The chief probably called DeMeo this morning right after my guy set the appointment. DeMeo probably told him to meet me and find out what I was up to.”

  “Doesn’t DeMeo know you’re with the government? Doesn’t he know you’ll turn him in?”

  I smiled. “These things aren’t as black and white as you might think. Taking Joe DeMeo down won’t be easy. He’s killed enough people to fill a cemetery.”

  Kathleen’s eyes began to cloud up. “Are you going to die on me?”

  “Not on purpose,” I said. “But nine million dollars is a lot of money, even to Joe DeMeo.”

  “What will he do?”

  “Send some goons to try to kill me.”

  She put her uneaten sandwich wedge back on her plate. “Donovan, I’m scared. What if he really does send some men to kill you?”

  “I’ll kill them first.”

  “You can do that?”

  I smiled. “I can.”

  “Are you sure?” she said. “You aren’t even scared?”

  “Not even,” I said, trying to sound not even scared. Then I asked her to help me tape the fingers and wrist of my left hand.

  “Why are we doing this?” she asked.

  “Don’t turn around,” I said, “but DeMeo’s goons are here.”

  A look of panic flashed across her face. “What? Where? How many are there?”

  “Two in the parking lot, one in the kitchen.”

  “Jesus Christ, Donovan! What are we going to do?”

  “The right thing.”

  “What, call the cops?”

  “No. The right thing in this situation is kill the guy in the kitchen first.”

  “Kill him?” Her words came out louder than she’d intended. I noticed the couple across from us glancing in our direction. Katherine lowered her voice. “Why would your first thought be to kill him?”

  “I don’t want him sneaking up behind me while I’m attacking the others.”

  “You’re planning to attack the others? Trained killers? No way,” she said. “I’m calling the cops!”

  I put my taped hand on her arm, shook my head. “Don’t make such a fuss. This is what I do.”

  She looked … everything at once. Angry. Frightened. Exasperated. The businessman at the table across from us got to his feet. He put a little menace into his voice for my benefit while speaking to Kathleen. “Are you okay? Do you need any help?” She looked at him and back at me, and we locked eyes. She smiled at the man and shook her head no. Then she settled back in her seat, took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. When she spoke, her voice was small but steady. “Okay.”

  “Ma’am?” the businessman said.

  “I’m fine. Really,” Kathleen said, and the guy eased back into his seat, much to the relief of his wife. He did the right thing, too: stood up for a woman in distress, impressed his wife. If all went well, we’d probably both get laid tonight.

  “You okay now?” I asked.

  “I trust you.”

  I nodded and looked back at my plate. It was harder to finish my greasy fries with my hands taped up, but I managed it. Then I asked, “You going to eat that sandwich?”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Care for any desert today?” Our waiter looked nervous.

  “What’s your name, son?” I asked.

  “Jared, sir.”

  I passed Jared a Franklin and asked if he’d seen the big guy in the kitchen, the one in the dark suit with the black shirt who kept peeking through the glass every thirty seconds. Jared’s face clouded over. He tried to give me back the hundred. “I really don’t want to get involved in this,” he said.

  “Don’t look toward the kitchen,” I said. “Just answer me. Where is he standing in relation to the door?”

  “When you go through the door, he’s on your right.”

  “The door pushes open to the right,” I said. “So when I first walk through, he’ll be hidden from view, yes?”

  “Yes, sir. What are you going to do?”

  “Has he caused any trouble yet?”

  Jared lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’s got everyone scared. He’s got a gun.”

  “Anyone call the cops?”

  “They don’t dare. And I don’t blame them.”

  “Good,” I said. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”

  “We, sir?”

  “That’s right, son. You’re going to be a hero today.”

  I told Jared and Kathleen my plan. She asked, “What’s a Glasgow Kiss?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Assuming it works,” she said.

  “It’ll work. These aren’t DeMeo’s best people.”

  “How do you know?”

  “First, I know his best people, and they’re in LA, guarding him. Second, there are three guys here.”

  “So?”

  “If they were really good, he’d only need two. The one in the kitchen is the least experienced. He’s related to one of the goons in the parking lot, probably his kid brother. I can tell by the resemblance. That bit of knowledge will work in our favor.” I removed my belt and measured a space about twelve inches from the buckle. I pushed the tip of my knife there and worked it enough to create a small hole. Then I draped it loosely around my neck. To Jared I said, “Ready son?”

  He looked at my hands. Swallowed. Looked at Kathleen. She shrugged. He looked back at me. I nodded. He said, “Yes, sir.”

  I waited until the goon checked the window again. When he ducked back behind the door, I jumped to my feet. Jared began walking straight to the kitchen door, deliberate pace, me right behind him. As he pushed the door open, I spun around and backed into it. Everything else happened in real time, in sequence, and though I didn’t see it all happen, I heard or felt it playing out around me. Jared lowered his head and ran full speed through the kitchen, screaming at the top of his lungs. A waitress shrieked and fell to the floor in a dead faint. The cooks waved their hands and ran in all directions. I ducked under the roundhouse right my grandmother would have seen coming.

  Jared’s job was to run into the parking lot screaming, “Oh my God, he’s dead!” That would create a diversion and force the parking lot goons out of their plan. This was important because the fundamental lesson every successful street fighter learns is you do not want to fight your opponents the way they are trying to attack you.

  I trusted Jared to do his part and began focusing on mine. While the kitchen goon was off -balance, trying to recover from the haymaker he’d launched in my direction, I straightened to my full height and slammed the top of my forehead down into the bridge of his nose full force, instantly shatter
ing it.

  The Glasgow Kiss.

  I’d done this in the gym a thousand times, though maybe only twenty in real life. The Glasgow Kiss always works, even against experienced fighters, provided they’re not expecting it. I would never attempt to lead with my head against a real pro, but this guy was easier to hit than the heavy bag in my gym.