by Janet Dawson
“Absolutely confidential. I’m just trying to get some background information on the guy. I spoke with your mother and she mentioned that you and Eric were in the same high school class. I thought you could give me some insights. As for anything specific, I’m interested in a fire that happened a few weeks before you graduated. A fire in the garage of a house belonging to a man named Darren Luo.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I remember the fire,” she said finally. “I told my mother at the time I would bet that Eric and Marsh had something to do with it.”
“Why is that?”
“I knew what they were doing, climbing over the fence and using the Luos’ swimming pool and hot tub late at night, after the Luos had gone to bed. Or times when they weren’t home. Mr. Luo was touchy about it. Especially after Eric and Marsh caused some damage. Not that I blame him. At the time I thought he was overreacting. Now that I’m older, well, I get it. Anyway, next thing, I heard that he’d set up some cameras and caught them in the hot tub. He went over and read the riot act to Mr. and Mrs. Patchett, threatened to call the police, all that stuff. Eric’s mom was always making excuses for him. But his stepfather—whew! He was livid. Very angry, that’s what I heard. And I did hear part of it. They were out in the front yard arguing. Eric got into his car and just peeled away.”
She paused, then went on. “It was a few days after that when the garage caught on fire. I think it was around eight o’clock in the evening, maybe later. Getting dark, anyway. I was outside with a friend of mine and we heard some sort of bang, like an explosion. I saw smoke coming from under the garage door. There was another neighbor, he ran across the street. He had his cell phone, he’s the one who called it in. Then he grabbed the hose from the front of the Luos’ house and started spraying water. The fire engines arrived not too long after that. Then Mr. Luo. He and his wife and kids were out that night and the neighbor with the hose called him. He was really upset. Who could blame him? It was a scary fire, lots of smoke and flames.”
“Any idea how it started?”
“He had been refinishing this big piece of furniture. I heard that it was an accident but then Mr. Luo was telling everyone that Eric and Marsh started the fire. I told my mother I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they had.”
“Why is that?”
“They liked to get even,” she said. “If something happened at school, with Eric, you had to watch your back. He might shove you or leave some nasty surprise in your locker. I know there was this guy, when we were juniors, he and Eric had some sort of disagreement. Eric booby-trapped his locker. With a firecracker.”
Fire again, I thought.
“What about Marsh?”
“I didn’t know Eric all that well,” Carrie said. “Just enough to steer clear of him. And Marsh even less. They were together a lot. Eric didn’t have any friends. Even the worst loners usually have someone, but he didn’t. The only person he palled around with was Marsh. And get those two together, you just didn’t want to mess with them. Eric getting even with anyone who crossed him was bad enough, but add Marsh to the mix, and it was worse. Marsh was, well, he’s kind of a loose cannon.”
She didn’t have much more to say. I thanked her and ended the call.
Chapter Twenty
Bay Oak Development’s main office was located in the section of Oakland known as Uptown, on the fifth floor of a new office building on Grand Avenue at Valley Street, a block off Broadway. I’d taken to calling it the blue building, because of its facade, a dark blue-gray tile, and the plate glass windows that had a blue tint. In fact, I had a client here, on another floor.
Gary Manville was waiting for me in the lobby. We took the elevator to the fifth floor, where a set of double glass doors with the Bay Oak logo led into the development company’s reception area, furnished with bland gray carpet and low chairs in a lighter shade of gray. The walls were covered with photos of the developer’s projects. After checking in with the receptionist, a woman who was also bland and gray, we were directed to a large conference room with a wall of windows that looked out on Grand. In the center of the room was a huge oval conference table made of some highly polished and no doubt exotic wood. A table on one wall held large bowls filled with ice, with bottles of water and soft drinks inside, cooling.
Another set of tables held several large-scale models of Bay Oak’s developments, showing the structures as they were supposed to look after they were finished, right down to the fake miniature landscaping. Gary pointed at one of the models. “This is the one that burned, at San Pablo and Forty-seventh. They have several other projects going up in the Valdez Triangle and along Broadway. And my firm is providing security guards for all three.”
The area called the Valdez Triangle wasn’t really triangular, according to the maps I’d seen. In fact, there was one such map framed and hanging on the wall near the table that held the models. The name came from Valdez Street, where my office was located.
The area that interested developers stretched from Grand Avenue, past the Interstate 580 overpass and the Kaiser medical complex, to West MacArthur Boulevard, encompassing city blocks on either side of Broadway. It was sometimes called Upper Broadway or the Broadway Corridor and in years past had been known as Auto Row, because of the car dealerships that lined both sides of the street. Many of the dealerships were gone but there were still car-related businesses, where one could get windows tinted, brakes tested, and collision damage repaired. Added to these were some corner markets and cafés as well as a couple of grocery stores. Interspersed with the existing businesses were the closed dealerships and other defunct businesses that were rapidly being torn down, replaced with construction sites.
While Gary talked with one of the other attendees, I turned my attention back to the models on the table. In addition to the construction site that had been hit by fire a week and a half ago, Bay Oak Development had three projects in the works, one on Twenty-sixth Street between Broadway and Telegraph, another on Webster Street near Thirtieth, and the third, farther up Broadway, where it intersected with Brook Street.
All of these were within the boundaries of what the City of Oakland called the Broadway–Valdez District Specific Plan. The plan, according to what I’d read, sought to transform the area into a busy retail core, full of apartments, restaurants and shops. The brochures and news articles I’d seen touted the plans, using words like “prosperous” and “vibrant” to describe what the developers hoped would happen.
The plan had been moving along in fits and starts. The city’s goal, from what I’d heard was to create a shopping destination core in Oakland. People who lived here went elsewhere to shop. Walnut Creek had its own busy Broadway Plaza, Emeryville bustled with shops, and if I wanted to do big-time shopping, I didn’t go to a mall. I shopped in my neighborhood, Rockridge, which had plenty of restaurants and shops. Or I took BART to San Francisco’s Union Square. And let’s face it, these days, the Internet had changed the nature of shopping.
Of course, in years past, Oakland did have a vibrant downtown. People shopped at big department stores, such as Capwell’s, Kahn Brothers and I. Magnin. But those days were long gone. Blocks of businesses, small and large, and grand old houses and stately apartment buildings had been ripped up in the name of urban renewal to create the City Center complex on Broadway between Twelfth and Fourteenth. That area was busy during the day, when workers were downtown, but at night it was fairly deserted and anything but lively.
From what I’d read, a lot of people would prefer that the Broadway Corridor grow organically rather than have a solution imposed upon them. But developers would be developers. There was money to be made and the construction went on. And on and on, from what I could see happening on the streets around me.
I really should read that book, I thought.
Madison, my tenant, was a budding city planner and she’d been after me to read a book by Jane Jacobs called The Death and Life of Great American Cities. It had a lot to say about urban renew
al, gentrification and how cities evolve, according to Madison.
The fires that had destroyed some of the construction sites had readily been blamed on anti-gentrification activists, but as I’d told Gary, I wasn’t sure I bought that story.
Money was always a motivator. But who would benefit if a construction site went up in flames?
And what if the perpetrator simply liked to set fires?
Gary and the other man parted, and he and I moved toward the table that held the drinks. Before this meeting started, I wanted something to sip. I snagged a bottle of water, then turned and came face to face with my ex-husband.
The last time I saw Sid Vernon was two months ago, at a retirement party for his former partner, Wayne Hobart. Sid and Wayne had worked the homicide detail together, transferring to other departments, then back to Homicide. Wayne had decided to pull the plug, but Sid was back to work after being sidelined last summer by a knee replacement. He had remarried, to a fellow officer named Graciela Portillo, and it looked as though this third marriage was agreeing with him. His hair, once a tawny blond, now had a lot of gray. He was now in his mid-fifties, and he looked to be in good shape, though he’d put on some weight in the middle. Still, he filled out his tan suit very well.
Sid greeted me with a gruff “What are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are, I suspect.”
“I’m representing the department. Who do you represent?” Sid gave Gary a once-over.
“An interested party,” I told him. “Gary, this is Detective Sid Vernon, Oakland Police Department. Sid, Gary Manville, of Manville Security.”
“Manville,” Sid said. “Your company was guarding the site at this last fire.”
“That’s right,” Gary said. “And two of my guys were hurt.”
“I hope they’re doing better now,” Sid said, inclining his head.
“I expect them back at work soon.”
Someone else came over and drew Gary away. “So what’s this about?” Sid asked.
“Gary wanted me to attend, another pair of eyes and ears. Between the two of us, how goes your investigation?”
Sid gave a humorless chuckle. “Not much progress. A lot of the people in this room are sure it’s some radical, wild-eyed activist who hates gentrification and hopes to drive away the developers. But we haven’t found any conclusive evidence to that effect. Then there’s the follow-the-money motive. But I can’t see that. The companies affected by the fires have gotten insurance payouts, sure, but it’s not enough to offset the hassle of having to deal with their construction sites going up in smoke. All the time, all the planning, all the permits. Getting started takes a lot of time before they even start digging the foundation.”
“Any theories?” I asked.
“Theories? From me? Or the people in this room?” He waved his arm, encompassing the attendees in his gesture. “Everyone here has their own theories. But there’s not much evidence. All the trails are either too faint or leading nowhere. We just don’t know who is setting these fires. And now someone is dead.”
“The homeless man,” I said. “What do you know about him?”
“He’s been identified but we haven’t released his name, pending notification of his next of kin. I can tell you he died of smoke inhalation. Before that, he sustained a blow to the head. So either he fell and hit his head, or someone hit him.”
“Potential witness,” I theorized. “The guy saw something and could have raised the alarm. Or identified the perpetrator.”
“Either way, he’s just as dead. Just between you and me, we’re looking at more than one perp. The fires are in different locations in Emeryville and Oakland and they’ve targeted construction sites. But the fires have started in different ways. Some were cases of just lighting the match. There are lots of things on a construction site that will burn. In one case, it looks like someone threw a Molotov cocktail over a fence. A couple of the others were started with timing devices. That gave the arsonist time to plant the device and get off the site before it ignited. Of course, things like that are tricky. Sometimes they don’t perform the way the perp wants them to.”
“Copycats?”
“Possibly,” he said. “People with different agendas, different reasons for burning developments. That’s why it’s so hard to get a handle on this thing.”
I took a sip from my water bottle. “What if there is no agenda? What if it’s just a firebug, someone who likes to start fires?”
He nodded. “Lighting matches for the sake of watching things burn. Yeah, they’re out there. We’ve considered that.”
“What do the Feds say? I know ATF has been involved in the investigation.”
Sid smiled. “The Feds are, as usual, playing it close to the chest. They don’t as a rule like to share information.”
“What’s the deal with this meeting?’
Now Sid rolled his eyes. “You know how I feel about meetings.”
“That they accomplish little and give everyone a chance to pontificate. Yeah, I hear you and most of the time I agree.”
“I think all the developers would just like to vent and find out what we’re doing. After that, they’ll tell us it’s not enough. That guy over there—” He pointed. “He’s from the fire department. And there are people here from the Emeryville Fire and Police Departments.” Sid looked at his watch. “I hope they get started soon. I’ve got things to do back at the office.”
“Do you know which one is Byron Patchett?”
Sid looked around the room, then pointed. “That’s him over there, in the gray suit.”
“Thanks. It’s good to talk with you. Say hi to Gracie from me.”
“Will do.” Sid moved off to talk with his counterpart from the Oakland Fire Department. I stood to one side, examining Slade’s stepfather. He was short, with close-cropped gray hair, dressed in a lightweight gray suit with a pinstriped tie and a white shirt. Right now he had a pleasant manner as he talked with another man in a suit. Then he became aware of my scrutiny. His face took on a speculative look, as though he was sure he’d seen me, or my photograph, at one time. He may have. Some of my investigations had resulted in news coverage. Now he walked over and introduced himself.
“Good afternoon, I’m Byron Patchett, Bay Oak Development.”
“Jeri Howard. I’m a private investigator.”
His smile dimmed a bit. “I know who you are. Stephen Cardoza is a friend of mine. Their company is now on the ropes because of what you did.”
“A man is dead because of what they did,” I countered, keeping my face pleasant and my voice even.
The man who’d died was Cal Brady, Madison’s father, who’d been a friend of mine, and Gary’s. Because of some shady dealings by the Cardoza development company, Stephen and his brother Brice were facing jail time, and an Oakland City Council member might not get reelected—at least I hoped not. The case, last year, had also revealed information on another suspicious fire at a site on the Oakland waterfront, a fire instigated by the Cardozas.
Patchett had no answer to my comment. Instead he gave me a withering look and stalked off.
Slade had a point, I thought as I watched him go. I didn’t much like his stepfather either.
One of the Bay Oak Development people called the meeting to order and the people around the table introduced themselves. I wasn’t at the table. I elected to stand at the back of the room, listening and examining faces as Sid and the representatives from the Oakland Fire Department and their Emeryville counterparts talked about the investigations that were ongoing and the leads that had come in since the news went out about the reward. As Sid had indicated in our own conversation, even with all the investigating and the tips, the authorities were no closer to figuring out who was responsible for the fires and why they were being set.
Sid brought up the man who had died, telling the attendees what he’d told me, that he’d been struck in the head and the death was being treated as a homicide. A man in an expensive suit,
one of the developers I’d seen talking with Patchett, made a flippant remark. “It was only a homeless guy. Who cares about him?”
I fixed him with an icy stare and he dropped his gaze. Only a homeless guy, I thought. And the more market-rate apartments you developers build, the fewer people in this town will be able to afford a home.
The guy from the fire department segued past that rough spot and talked about how hard it was to fight fires at construction sites. Such sites had a huge load of flammable materials. Added to that was the lack of water supply and the likelihood of the structure collapsing.
I’d heard enough. I signaled to Gary that I was going to leave. He joined me at the conference room door.
“I’m not getting any insights here,” I told him. “Looks like they’re stumped. If they have any clues as to who is doing this, they’re not saying.”
“Agreed,” Gary said. “I wondered if this meeting would be a waste of time.”
Not a complete waste, I thought as I went through the Bay Oak office and headed out to the elevator. At least I met Byron Patchett.
Chapter Twenty-one
I had walked to the meeting. Now I left the office building and headed up Broadway. I crossed the busy thoroughfare at Twenty-seventh Street. When I reached my building I didn’t go inside. Instead, I headed for the parking lot. By now it was past four. I figured I’d just go home.
Then my cell phone pinged. I reached for it. A text message from Davina, a short one that read, “Call me asap.”
I had her number stored in my favorites, so I pressed her name and listened to the phone ring on the other end. She answered right away.
Before I had a chance to speak, she began talking. “Hey, thanks for getting back to me. I’m home from class now. I did go to that meeting we talked about and I got some handouts for you. But you’ll have to come by and pick them up soon. I’m going to dinner with my sister and her friend. They’re here right now, visiting from New Orleans.”
