by Janet Dawson
Gary waved at me, then spoke to one of the servers as I walked over to join him. The server grabbed a couple of menus and led us to a booth near the back, somewhat secluded. Gary had something on his mind, I guessed, given his phone calls to me while I was in New Orleans.
I was tempted to get a beer to go with my grilled chicken on focaccia. But I had another client meeting later in the afternoon, so I decided against it. Gary opted for non-alcoholic as well. After the server brought us a round of iced tea, he asked where I’d been.
“New Orleans, with my father,” I said. “I stayed a bit longer than I’d planned.”
“It’s a great town,” Gary said. “I spent some of my Navy time in Pensacola, over in the Florida panhandle. Used to head over to the Big Easy on weekends. I love the music. And the food.”
We chatted about New Orleans until the server brought our lunches. After a few bites of my sandwich, I wiped my hands on a napkin and said, “What’s on your mind, Gary?”
He eyed me over his Reuben sandwich, then set it on the plate. “Arson.”
Fire. It seemed to be an ongoing theme, this week and last.
“What happened?”
“Another fire at another construction site,” Gary said. “One that Manville Security was guarding. A couple of my guards were injured and someone died. A homeless guy who’d put up a tent on the back side of the site.”
“I hadn’t heard about that,” I said with a frown.
“No reason you would, you being out of town. There was a lot of news coverage, of course. You can look it up when you get back to the office.” Gary paused and drank some tea. “The building was about halfway done. Four stories, with retail on the bottom, apartments on the other three floors. It was located on San Pablo Avenue near Forty-seventh, in that area near the Oakland–Emeryville border.”
“Which is where some of the other fires have occurred,” I said.
He nodded as he picked up his sandwich again. “Yeah. The fire happened eight days ago, late Sunday night. Fire department got the call around midnight. I had two security guards on the site at the time. One of them was Nathan Dupree. The other was a guy named Cisco Fernandez. Nathan called in the fire around midnight. Then he and Cisco tried to do what they could with the equipment they had. Then they had to let it go. They both wound up with some smoke inhalation and minor burns.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I like Nathan. He’s a good guy.”
“One of my best guards,” Gary said. “They’re both gonna be all right but they’re off work for now. The homeless guy that died, last I heard he hadn’t been identified. There have been a handful of suspicious fires in the past few years. Not the only fires, of course. There’s the Ghost Ship, but that’s in another category altogether.”
Neither of us said anything for a moment. Memories were still raw concerning the Ghost Ship fire in the Fruitvale neighborhood a few years back. That conflagration broke out during a concert in a warehouse that had been illegally converted to a live-work artists’ collective. Thirty-six people died at the Ghost Ship. It was Oakland’s deadliest fire ever.
The construction site fires Gary was talking about were troubling as well, especially now that they had claimed a life. All of them were arson, deliberately set. All of them had occurred in Oakland and Emeryville. The Alta Waverly project on Valdez, near my office. And before that, two fires in Emeryville, at the same location. That project, with 105 apartments and 21,000 square feet of retail space, had burned in midsummer and again ten months later. In one of the Emeryville fires, I recalled seeing grainy video footage of a man in a hoodie climbing over a fence.
All of these fires had been at partly constructed buildings, and at a time when construction was most vulnerable. Studs, joists and rafters—all wood—piled the sites, and fire protections, such as flame-resistant Sheetrock and sprinkler systems, were not yet installed. Empty stairwells became chimneys, funneling the hungry flames.
I brought up the theory that the fires were being set by people who were opposed to gentrification. “I’m not sure I buy into that one,” I told Gary. “At least not all the way. It seems like such a drastic thing to do. Besides, there’s also the theory that someone is benefiting financially from the fires.”
“I could believe the gentrification thing, but not sure about the financial benefits,” Gary argued. “This latest fire, for example. Bay Oak Development is the outfit that was bankrolling this project that just burned. They are upset, big time. Millions of dollars up in flames.”
“Insurance,” I countered. “Who gets the payout from the insurance company, and how much?”
“Early days on insurance. The fire was just last week and it’s under investigation. I’ll bet they don’t see a penny for a long time.”
I went into devil’s advocate mode, taking the other side of the question. “On the other hand, I know a lot of people don’t like all the changes happening in Oakland, on the waterfront and along the Broadway corridor. It’s changing the character of the city. A lot of what’s being constructed is housing, but it’s not affordable housing. It’s market rate. People who can afford an apartment in an older building aren’t going to be able to rent a place is one of these new buildings. So yes, there’s a lot of resentment. And we do have a lot of people in this area who I’d say are capable of torching a building because of gentrification.”
Gary sighed as he finished off his sandwich. “Whether it’s anti-gentrification radicals or guys out for insurance money, what I will say is that it feels methodical. I think there’s a plan, some sort of agenda. It’s sure as hell making people jumpy. Raising construction costs, making investors think twice about putting their money into developments. I hate to say it, but it’s been good for my business. Developers are increasing their spending on security. They’re outfitting construction sites with video cameras, fencing, alarms, lots of lighting and security guards, round the clock. But none of that helps if I’ve got two guards off the job because they’ve been injured in a fire.”
“And the man who died.”
“Believe me,” he said, his expression grim, “I’m not forgetting that.”
I had finished half my sandwich and decided to take the other half with me. I wiped my hands with a napkin and looked at Gary. “So why am I here?”
“I want you to take a look at the situation,” he said.
“Surely the fire department and the cops are all over this one. And I’m sure they have information they aren’t sharing with us civilians.”
“I want another pair of eyes. And I want you to come to a meeting with me.”
“What meeting is that?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, a printout of an article from the San Francisco Chronicle. The headline read reward targets east bay construction-site arsons. I read through the article. A group of developers and local business people had joined forces, announcing a reward leading to the conviction of the person responsible for the fires.
“This group is having a meeting on Wednesday. With a task force that includes law enforcement from Oakland and Emeryville. I’d like you to come with me. Another pair of eyes, another set of ears.”
I wasn’t yet convinced that I could offer anything to the investigation that was already going on, but it might be worth attending the meeting. I pulled my phone from my bag. “Wednesday, where? And what time? I have another meeting that day, at one.”
“This one’s at three o’clock,” Gary said. “It’s in a conference room at Bay Oak Development. They’re located in that office building at Broadway and Grand.”
He rattled off the street address as I put the information on my calendar. “My one o’clock is in North Berkeley so if I’m a bit late, don’t worry, I’ll be there.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate it. And to show my appreciation, I buy lunch.”
I grinned at him. “Thanks, I’ll let you.”
Chapter Seventeen
On Tuesday afternoon, I g
ot the results of my background check on Millicent and Byron Patchett, I opened the file, gave it a quick once-over, then printed it out for a deeper read, jotting notes on a lined pad next to the papers spread out on my desk.
As I’d guessed, Millicent was Slade’s mother. The surprising note was that Byron Patchett, Slade’s stepfather, was a local developer. In fact, he was the chief executive officer of Bay Oak Development, the company whose latest project had burned last week in the fire Gary Manville told me about the day before. Bay Oak was a member of the coalition of developers and businesses offering a sizable reward for whoever was responsible for the spate of construction-site fires.
Another fire in the family, I thought. It was an interesting coincidence. Or was it? Was that just me being suspicious every time I heard about a fire? After all, Slade wasn’t here when the fire happened. At least it didn’t appear so.
I pushed the thought aside for now and focused my attention on the report, and the information it provided about Millicent and her son.
Eric Charles Slade, aka Slade, was twenty-seven, the only offspring of Millicent and Walter Slade. The Slades had divorced fifteen years ago, when Eric was twelve. Both had remarried after the divorce. Walter and wife number two, a woman named Linda, lived in one of the suburbs that had sprung up east of Sacramento, the state capital. Byron was Millicent’s second husband.
The Patchetts jointly owned a house in Lafayette, a city of about 26,000 people located in Contra Costa County, on the other side of the hills that rose to the east of Berkeley and Oakland. That part of the East Bay was not as urban as my location, and it was full of grassy meadows, rolling hills and woodlands. Lafayette was one of the wealthier communities in that area and the population demographics skewed white. It was a place where even a bare-bones, mid-twentieth-century ranch-style house sold for well over a million dollars, and sometimes double or triple that.
Millicent also owned property in Walnut Creek, the large city that bordered Lafayette on the east. It was a condominium, and it looked like she’d bought it right after she and Walter had divorced. It appeared she’d lived there for a year or so, with her son. After she married Byron, she kept the condo, using it as a rental property. I did a search on the address and came up with a listing on a real estate site, showing the place in photos and on a map. The monthly rent on the two-bedroom unit made me glad I was out of the rental market. It was a good thing I’d bought my house a few years ago.
In addition to her rental property, Millicent owned a business. She and another woman named Rosalie Benson had filed a fictitious business name statement for a retail store called Bluebird, also with a Lafayette address. I couldn’t tell from that name what the business entailed, so I plugged the name and address into my search engine. I came up with a website heavy on images of bluebirds, with text and photos that told me the shop sold vintage clothing and jewelry.
I had no more appointments today, so I closed my office and collected my Toyota from the lot in back of the building. It was the middle of the afternoon and the eastbound traffic on Highway 24 moved relatively well, far better than it would in an hour or so when the commuters began driving home. I drove through the Caldecott Tunnel, whose four bores pierced the steep slopes of the Oakland hills. On the east side of the tunnel, the highway curved as it went downhill to the town of Orinda. A few miles beyond were signs indicating that the next three exits led to Lafayette. I took an exit near the BART station and headed into town.
Hawthorne Drive was south of Moraga Boulevard, not far from the downtown business district. The street wound through a residential neighborhood, the street shaded by tall pines and mature oak trees. I drove slowly up the street, past one intersection with a blue postal service mailbox on the corner. Midway up the next block I found the Patchetts’ address, a sprawling one-story house with a cream stucco exterior and brown trim. The front yard sloped upward, as did the driveway that led to a double garage. Rhododendrons—pink, white and purple—banked the front of the house, and planter boxes held red and orange tulips. It didn’t look like anyone was home.
I parked at the curb and explored, hoping one of the neighbors didn’t get curious and call the police. I walked up the driveway and down a walkway where the garbage and recycling bins were lined up. At the gate I peered into the backyard, seeing a covered patio with contemporary rattan furniture.
I retraced my steps and headed down the driveway to the street. Just as I reached the sidewalk I encountered a woman who appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties, with short, silvery hair visible under her purple billed cap. She was dressed in cropped denim pants and a bright purple T-shirt that matched her cap. The small shaggy terrier with her bounded toward me, checked by the leash she held.
“That’s Razzle,” she told me. “He’s really friendly.”
“I can see that.” I was hoping she was friendly, too, willing to share some information about her neighbors. The end of the leash was in one hand and the other held several envelopes. Evidently she was walking down to the mailbox I’d seen near the corner. I leaned down and let the little brown-and-white dog sniff my hand, and surreptitiously glanced at the label in the upper left corner of the top envelope. The name on the return address was Bonnie Redeker.
After giving me a friendly lick, the terrier concentrated his attention on my shoes and the hems of my slacks. “I have cats. He must smell them.”
“We have cats, too,” Ms. Redeker said. “He likes cats. I saw you at the Patchetts’ house. I imagine they’re at work. Millicent has a shop downtown and Byron has an office in Oakland.”
“I’ll try the shop next,” I said. “Since I do want to talk with Millicent.”
“Well, tell her Bonnie said hello. She works so much I hardly see her, and we just live three doors up the block.”
I pointed at the Patchetts’ house. “Have they lived here a long time?”
“Oh, yes. More than fifteen years,” she said. “They moved in when they got married. It’s a second marriage for both of them.”
“Yes, I know. Blended families, right? That can sometimes be a problem.”
“Oh, yes, it certainly can. Especially with her son.” Bonnie Redeker’s voice took on a gossipy tone, just dishing the dirt, the two of us. “Byron’s son and daughter were just as nice as they could be. Of course, they never lived here. They were in Southern California with their mother. But they used to visit and they were so polite and well brought up. But Eric, Millicent’s son, he was, well, troubled to say the least. My daughter Carrie was in the same class at Acalanes High School. She says he was always getting into trouble.”
I nodded, encouraging her. “So I heard. Acting out. I guess that’s what they call it.”
“It seemed like he and that cousin of his were always getting up to something,” she added. “That boy was a year or two older than Eric. He lived in Walnut Creek. His mother is the sister of Eric’s father. What was his name?” She thought about it for a moment. “Marsh, I think.”
Marsh Spencer, I thought. In his email, Cam Gardner, the bass guitarist for Slade’s defunct group, the Flames, had told Antoine and me that the group’s drummer, the one with all the restless energy, was Slade’s cousin.
“Maybe Eric resented his parents getting a divorce. It happens.”
She nodded in agreement. “It certainly does. Divorce is just hard on kids, that’s all I can say about it.”
“What kind of trouble did Eric get into when he and your daughter were in high school?”
“Well, I probably shouldn’t be talking about this,” she said.
Oh, please do, I thought.
“Carrie said…” Her voice trailed off, as though she was considering whether she’d revealed too much. “There’s always the usual stupid stuff teenage boys get into. But Carrie always said it was more than that. I can’t remember any specifics, but I do recall something Carrie said that stuck with me. She said the kids in school didn’t want to get on Eric’s bad side, because he’s on
e of those who likes to get even. You know what I mean?”
I had a pretty good idea. “Was there a particular incident?”
“Oh, yes. There was a fire.”
Another fire.
Somehow, I wasn’t surprised. Slade had left a trail of ashes that extended from Texas to New Orleans. How long was the trail here in California?
“A fire? Really? I hadn’t heard about that. Was it an accident? Or deliberate?”
“Oh, deliberate,” Ms. Redeker said. “At least that’s the story that was going around. Carrie said at the time it must have been Eric’s fault. I heard other people say that, too. It was a school night, I remember that much. Late spring. In fact, it was just a few weeks before high school graduation. It was after dinner, later in the evening. Just getting dark, I think. We heard sirens and went outside. That house—” She gestured at a two-story stucco next door to the Patchetts’ house. “That’s the one. The garage was in flames and the fire trucks were heading up the street. Something like that is so dangerous, with all the trees around here. And who knows what they were storing in the garage, if my garage is any indication. My husband was one for keeping old cans of paint and varnish, that sort of thing.”
“Why did your daughter say it must have been Eric’s fault?”
She gestured at the house again. “Well, according to Carrie, Eric and the man who lived there got into some sort of a fight, a dispute. I don’t remember what it was about, or if I ever knew. But it escalated. You know how these things happen. Carrie said that Eric threatened the man, said he would make him pay. I don’t know when that happened, but then that man’s garage went up in flames and the rumor going around was that Eric set the fire. I didn’t believe it at first, but Carrie was sure it was true. That’s when she told me about Eric getting even.”
“Does the man still live in the house?”