The Devil Close Behind

by Janet Dawson

  I headed for the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, then washed and refilled the cats’ bowls. After a shower, breakfast was a piece of toast with jam. There wasn’t much else to be had. I’d let the refrigerator empty out before leaving on my trip and I certainly needed to buy groceries. I scribbled a list while I finished the rest of the coffee, then tucked it into my bag and headed for my office.

  * *

  Along with the law firm of Alwin, Taylor and Chao, I’d recently moved Howard Investigations into the one-story building near the corners of Twenty-seventh and Valdez streets, an area known as the Valdez Triangle. My friend Cassie Taylor was the law firm’s middle principal. For years we’d all had offices in a building on Franklin Street near Oakland’s Chinatown. Last fall the landlord had sent out notices of a rent increase, one large enough to make me consider a move. Cassie and her partners had the same reaction, spurred not only by the rising rent but the need to expand their firm. Their solution was to buy the new building, with the law firm taking up two-thirds of the office space and leasing the rest of the offices to tenants. I was their first tenant, and after we’d moved into the space in January, the other offices had filled with more tenants, including an accountant and an architect.

  So now, instead of looking out my window to the roof of the building next door, as had been the case with my old building, I had a window that looked out on some landscaping, which included rhododendrons in bloom and some large succulents in pots. Though not as close to downtown, where I could walk to the Alameda County Courthouse in one direction and the Friday farmers’ market in Old Oakland in the other, my new building had the advantage of a parking lot in the back, which meant I no longer had to pay for space at a lot. I parked in my designated spot and let myself in the back door.

  A few of the law firm’s associates were working, even though it was Saturday. I collected my mail and headed to my office, where I had my own coffeemaker. After I started a pot brewing, I turned on my computer and began sorting through the mail. I was midway through my second cup when someone knocked on my door, and then entered.

  Cassie, wearing jeans and a T-shirt instead of her usual lawyer suit, strolled in and sat down in the chair in front of my desk. “You’re back. I saw your car in the parking lot. How was New Orleans? You stayed longer. I thought you were going to be home a few days ago.”

  “Something came up. Hey, it’s Saturday. I’m here because I have to catch up, but what are you doing here?”

  “Just came in to pick up a file so I can work on it at home. Tell me about your trip.”

  “Dad and I had a great time.” I told her about my adventures with Dad in the Big Easy, adding that I’d extended the trip as a favor to a friend. I didn’t give her any details about the case and, as an attorney, she understood.

  After we talked for a while, she got to her feet. “I’d better get that file and get home. My husband’s looking after the baby and he has a date with some of his guy friends. Good to have you back.”

  When she had gone I poured myself another cup of coffee and got back to work. Having dealt with the regular mail, I turned my attention to the email. While in New Orleans, I’d used the computers in the hotel business center to keep up with the email, but that was no substitute for working in my own office, with access to my own files and resources. I worked a while on an ongoing investigation for a longtime client, an Oakland insurance company. Several times I stopped and called the phone number for Millicent Patchett that had appeared on Slade’s rental application. I also looked up her address in Lafayette, finding a number for Millicent and Byron Patchett at that location. Both numbers netted me voice mail and an invitation to leave a message. I hung up instead. Then I went to my computer and initiated a background check on both Millicent and Byron.

  My cell phone rang. It was Antoine, reporting in. He’d contacted a fellow investigator in Austin to see what he could find out about the car fire Luis Ortega had told us about.

  “It happened a month before Slade left Austin for New Orleans,” he said.

  “Same pattern. A fire in Austin and he leaves town. Then the fire in New Orleans, the one that killed Brixton, and he leaves town again.”

  “Yeah. He was playing a gig with another guitarist named Dave Simmons. They got into some sort of disagreement. Nobody knows what it was about, but Slade was really mad at the guy from all reports. Told Simmons he’d be sorry. Simmons had just bought a new car—well, a newer used car. A few nights later, the car was parked in front of Simmons’s apartment building and somebody lit it up. My buddy sent me the report. Looks like it was some sort of a device with a timer or a fuse.”

  Antoine had also received an email from Cam Gardner, the guitarist who had played with the Flames. Gardner was touring with a band, playing gigs all over the southeastern part of the country. “I’ll forward it to you,” Antoine said. “Cam says that Marsh is Slade’s cousin, they grew up in the same town, he thinks, in Contra Costa County. He said he didn’t see much of Slade once they were in Austin. He did say he got impatient with them. They had a cavalier attitude toward being in the band, which Cam started, and weren’t always interested in practicing. It goes back to what I said a few days ago. If you’re going to be a serious musician, you need to practice and work at it. Sounds like Slade and Marsh weren’t interested in working.”

  “Thanks, I’ll look forward to receiving that email. I started a background check on Millicent Patchett. It will take a few days to get the results.”

  When we ended the conversation, I went back to the report I was working on. After I finished it, I called Davina. “I’m back from New Orleans, got in last night. I’d like to talk. Are you available?”

  She sounded subdued. “Yes, we do need to talk. I can be available as soon as I finish up something. I’m at the law school. Meet you at Caffè Strada in half an hour.”

  “I’m at my office. Let’s call it forty-five minutes.”

  Caffè Strada was at the corner of College and Bancroft avenues on the southeast corner of the campus in Berkeley. It was a popular spot, where students and professors alike gathered. On this Saturday afternoon, there wasn’t a table to be had, inside or out. I didn’t want any more coffee, but cookies called to me. I selected a large chocolate chip and an oatmeal raisin. Davina ordered coffee and a brownie. We crossed Bancroft Avenue and sat on the low ledge circling the fountain on the other side. To our right was Kroeber Hall, site of the School of Anthropology. Behind us was Wurster Hall, site of the College of Environmental Design, where Madison was working on her degree. Up the hill to our left was the university’s law school, Davina’s home away from home.

  I started in on the oatmeal cookie. “Have you heard from Laurette?”

  “I did. Yesterday. She called and sent some pictures.” Davina set her cappuccino on the ledge and pulled out her phone. She opened the app and showed me the pictures.

  I scrolled through them and stopped at one. “Denver.”

  Davina looked bemused. “Yes. How did you know?”

  I used my fingers to make the photo bigger, focusing my attention on a building in the photo’s background. It looked like an angular, pointed spaceship that had come to rest on a cobbled plaza. “That’s the Denver Art Museum, part of it, anyway. The newest building, designed by Daniel Libeskind. And in the background here—” I scrolled to another photo. “You can just see the Colorado state capitol, with the gold dome. The road trip continues. What’s their ultimate destination? Are they heading for the Bay Area?”

  She took a bite from her brownie. “Laurette didn’t say. But yes, I’m guessing the Bay Area. They’ve been to Texas, New Mexico and now Colorado.”

  If they were headed to the Bay Area, it would take a few days to get here, depending how long they stayed in Colorado. It was a day’s drive from Denver to Salt Lake City, Utah and another day to Reno, Nevada. From there, a good five or six hours to Oakland.

  Neither of us said anything as I took another bite of my cookie. Then Da
vina sighed. “Laurette seems to be all right. When she called a few days ago, she sounded really upbeat. Maybe she just needed to get away for a while. I guess I was hasty in getting you involved in all of this. What worries me now is thinking I might be hasty in deciding it’s all over and everything is fine.”

  I finished the cookie and dusted the crumbs from my hands. “Maybe it is fine, but Davina, I’m not sure that’s the case. While I was in New Orleans, Antoine and I found out some things about Slade. I really need to bring you up to date on that.”

  I laid it out for her, everything that Antoine and I had learned about the fires that seemed to follow in Slade’s wake. First there had been the car torched in Austin after he’d had a dispute with a fellow musician. Then there was the warehouse fire after Slade had been fired. And finally, the apartment fire after Slade’s eviction, the most serious of them all, because Ray Brixton had died in that apartment.

  “My God,” Davina said, her coffee and brownie forgotten. “It sounds like he’s a firebug.”

  “The operative phrase is ‘sounds like,’” I cautioned. “It’s all hearsay, thirdhand information. We have no way of proving Slade’s involvement in any of these fires. Though I agree, I found out enough about him to be concerned. In the meantime, I’ll continue looking into this. I’ve started a background check on the woman who is his emergency contact. Evidently she’s his mother. I’ll let you know if I find out anything. And you let me know if you hear from Laurette.”

  * *

  After leaving Davina, I got home at three-thirty and stretched out on the sofa, my feet up. I was immediately joined by Abigail and Black Bart. Abigail wanted to sit on my lap and Black Bart snuggled by my side. I had plenty of time before Dad arrived.

  I’ll just rest my eyes a bit, I told myself.

  Rest my eyes indeed. I fell asleep.

  When I woke up it was five-thirty. Dad was due at my house at six.

  “You were supposed to wake me,” I told the cats. Abigail, coiled into a tight ball on my stomach, grumbled at me as I struggled into a sitting position. She moved to a sofa pillow. Black Bart blinked, yawned, and took the other pillow.

  I went down to my bedroom and bathroom, on the lower level of the house. After washing my face, I ran a comb through my hair and quickly changed clothes and put on shoes. I was at the front door when Dad knocked.

  “What are you in the mood for?” I asked after greeting him with a hug.

  “How about a big old juicy burger at Barney’s?”

  “Sounds good to me.” I locked the door and we set out, walking down Chabot Road. I asked him about his friend who hadn’t been able to go to New Orleans and was told that he was healing from his injuries. Dad and I crossed College Avenue and went into Barney’s, a chain with outposts in the Bay Area and southern California. Seated at a table for two, we ordered drinks, a basket of fries to share and burgers, with bacon and cheddar for me. He opted for grilled onions and swiss cheese. The fries arrived and we helped ourselves.

  He wanted to hear all about my last few days in New Orleans, of course. I told him as much as I could, that Laurette was on a road trip with Slade and that I thought they might show up here to visit Davina.

  As the server delivered our burgers, we switched to other topics. He mentioned that my mother was planning to visit my brother, Brian, and his wife, Sheila. They lived in Petaluma with their two children and had been going through a bad patch in their marriage. They had been in counseling since last fall and Dad thought things were better between them.

  I hoped so. I was divorced and so were my parents. It would be nice if one of the family marriages survived a bad patch. Dad and Mother were still friends despite their breakup. Dad had stayed in the Bay Area. Mother had returned to her hometown, Monterey, to pursue her dream of opening her own restaurant. The grown-up in me understood her making that choice. The little kid that lurked underneath resented Mother for doing it. I’d been upset about it for a long time and it had affected my relationship with my mother. We were on good terms now.

  “When is Dan coming home?” Dad asked, setting his burger on the plate. He wiped his hands with a napkin and reached for his beer.

  “He didn’t say. I talked with him last night.” I’d told Dad that Dan and I had agreed to consider the possibility of marriage. My marriage had been brief but Dan’s had been of longer duration, and he had a couple of kids who lived with their mother and her second husband.

  “Where is he now?” Dad asked. “I know he was in Santa Fe for a while.”

  “Yes. He’s got a friend who lives there, so he had a place to stay. He told me he left and went up to Los Alamos. He’s staying there while he hikes at Bandelier National Monument.”

  “Interesting place, Los Alamos.” Dad segued into a discussion of the Manhattan Project, the development of the atomic bomb that took place at the remote and secretive community up at Los Alamos. He’d taught history for years, and he was interested in all aspects of the history of the west, both recent and farther back. That led him to the subject of historical novels. His sister Caroline, my aunt Caro, writes them. Her latest book was about the California Gold Rush. She’d finished it earlier this year and according to Dad, was laboring on the copyedited manuscript.

  He, too, was planning to head up to Petaluma to see Brian, Sheila and the grandkids, probably while Mom was there. He figured he’d also see Caro and her husband, Neil, who was retired from the planning department in Santa Rosa.

  “I’ll try to get up there, too.” I said. Then I waved to the server. The burger was delicious but it was too much. I’d take it home with me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Back at work Monday morning, I sent a text message to Gary Manville, letting him know I was back in town. I worked at my desk until nine-thirty. I had a ten o’clock meeting with a new client in Berkeley and I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get to her office. I had just locked my door, heading for the back entrance and the parking lot, when my cell phone chimed. The text was a response from Gary. It read, “Lunch, 1 p.m., Zacky’s?”

  I responded, “See you there,” sent the message and headed for my car. I returned to the office a couple of hours later and spent some time making notes on the meeting, determining how I would proceed with the new client’s investigation. At a quarter to one, I locked my office again and left the building, this time to walk the few blocks to my lunch destination.

  The pace of change in Oakland over the past few months was breathtaking. Despite the efforts of preservationists, the old round building on the corner of Twenty-seventh and Broadway that had for years housed Biff’s Coffee Shop was gone. Now the whole block was a construction site, just like the surrounding area. Buildings were going up all over the Valdez Triangle, and there was more construction all along Broadway between downtown and the Oakland hills. Down on the waterfront, the Brooklyn Basin project on the Embarcadero was rapidly rising from what had once been abandoned industrial land.

  The pattern of development was retail on the first floor, with apartments on the upper floors. We certainly needed more housing. Places to live were in short supply and rents, both commercial and residential, were skyrocketing. Before moving into my garage apartment, Madison, like many of the students at Cal, had been paying an enormous sum to rent a room in an apartment.

  A couple of years ago there had been a huge fire at one of these sites, a building under construction at Twenty-fourth and Valdez. The fire had gutted the partially constructed building, known as the Alta Waverly project, destroyed nearly 200 apartment units and over 30,000 square feet of retail space. Residents of neighboring buildings, some 700 people, had been temporarily displaced. The fire had poured ugly black smoke, full of soot and ash, into the air. It took days to extinguish the hot spots. As far as I knew, it was still under investigation, by local police and fire departments as well as the ATF, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.

  The prevailing opinion was that the fire had been arson. So
had several other fires, here in Oakland and over in Emeryville. The fires had hit construction sites, destroying buildings in progress and causing grief not only for developers and investors, but residents of nearby apartment buildings who had to evacuate due to the danger of the fires, many faced with damage to their own buildings.

  As far as I knew, investigators had not yet determined who had started the fires, or why. There was a theory, one I’d read many times, that the fires had been set by people who were upset about ongoing gentrification. If that was the case, it was an extreme tactic, one that endangered people and, as far as I could see, was ineffective. I wasn’t convinced that was the reason.

  Due to all the construction, I had to take a circuitous route. I walked over to Broadway, where I saw another sign of changing times. A young woman in a business suit, with a short skirt and sensible but stylish shoes, wearing a backpack and a helmet, zipped past me in the bike lane, riding one of the electric scooters that were taking over the city streets.

  Zacky’s Tavern was a new addition to the area, located on ­Twenty-third Street, a block or so from the Oakland YMCA building. It was also just a few blocks from the Manville Security office on Telegraph Avenue. The place had good food, along with lots of beers on tap, many of them brewed locally.

  I went inside and looked around, spotting Gary at the bar. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his mid-forties, with pale blue eyes in a square face and short blond hair. He was dressed in his usual uniform of gray slacks and a knit shirt, green today. The word uniform suited, since Gary still had what people call military bearing. He’d spent two decades in the Navy, retiring a few years ago to start his own business. We met last fall, when I was looking into the death of Cal Brady, Madison’s father. Cal and Gary had served in the Navy together and when Cal, an alcoholic, had sobered up, Gary had given him a job as a security guard at his new firm. Gary didn’t like me at first, but he’d thawed and now he called on my services from time to time.