The Devil Close Behind

by Janet Dawson

  “What do you mean when you say Byron tried to be a dad to Eric, at first? They don’t get along?” Having overheard what Slade had said about his stepfather, on Tuesday as well as Wednesday, I was sure they didn’t. But I wanted to hear Rosalie’s take on the relationship.

  Rosalie was shaking her head. “Oh, no. They don’t. When Eric was a teenager they would just go at it hammer-and-tongs. Byron wanted Eric to behave, do well in school, have some manners. And Eric just wasn’t having any of it. If Byron said something, Eric would push back and do the opposite. It was an awful tug-of-war between the two of them, with Millie caught in the middle.”

  “What happened the last time Eric stayed with them?” She looked startled at my question. “When I was here on Tuesday, I overheard the conversation between Millicent and Eric.”

  “Eavesdropped, you mean,” she countered.

  “Yes. That’s what I do. Anyway, Eric said something about staying with her and she said no, not after what happened the last time. So, what happened?”

  Rosalie sighed. “It was about two years ago. Eric had been living over in Marin County, playing music over there, or so he said. Then he didn’t have a place to stay. Got kicked out of his apartment is my guess. He moved in with Millie and Byron. They went away for a long weekend, Eric had some friends over, including Marsh, of course. Things got out of hand. They trashed the den, the kitchen, the guest room. Millie had to replace some flooring and drapes, along with glassware that got broken. Byron put his foot down. He told Eric to get out and said he was no longer welcome to stay at the house. It was hard on Millie. She gave Eric money, of course. She’s always giving him money. Even when he left to move to Texas. It’s a real sore point between Millie and Byron.”

  “It sounds like Millicent was hoping Eric would stay in Texas.”

  “She was.” Rosalie tore off another bite of her Danish. “She was relieved when he told her he was moving to Austin. And a lot calmer this past year when he was gone. She hoped that he would find his footing and stay away. Now he’s back. Watching her on Tuesday, the same old pattern, giving him money. It was like I could see her stress level and blood pressure going through the roof.”

  I steered the conversation back to the cousins. “Tell me more about Eric and Marsh.”

  “They were always running around together when they were growing up. I think Millie viewed that in a favorable light at first, since they were so close in age. I guess she figured it was good for Eric to have his cousin as a friend. She changed her mind when those boys were a little older. Because Marsh, I swear, that kid’s a bad seed. He really is. As soon as Marsh was able to drive, he’d pick Eric up and they’d go off and do stuff together.”

  “Sounds like what most teenaged boys do,” I said.

  “It was more than that.” Rosalie shook her head. “They would get caught shoplifting. Or speeding. Get traffic tickets, things like that. Trying to get someone to buy liquor for them. And I know Marsh got caught with drugs a time or two, as a juvenile. God knows what kind of record he has as an adult. I know—” She stopped again, her face taking on a wary look, as though she felt she was saying too much. Then she took a deep breath and went on. “Millie says that Marsh liked to set fires.”

  I sat back in my chair. “Did he?”

  Had Slade acquired his propensity for setting fires from hanging around with his cousin? Was Marsh still lighting matches?

  “I’m afraid he had a really bad influence on Eric,” Rosalie said. “There was an incident, right before he graduated from high school—” She stopped again, reluctant to go on.

  “If it’s about the neighbor’s garage,” I said, “I’ve already heard about it.”

  “There’s more.” Rosalie sighed. “The man whose garage got burned up, he wanted to press charges against Eric. That would have been serious, because Eric had just turned eighteen. But Millicent told me there wasn’t enough evidence to connect him with the fire. Besides, she was sure Marsh was involved, too. But Eric is the one who got blamed, because he’d had some sort of run-in with the neighbor. The police came to the house and interviewed him.”

  I made note of this new information. I’d have to get a copy of the police report concerning the incident.

  “By that time, Byron had had it with Eric,” Rosalie continued. “It’s a good thing he was graduating from high school. He went off to college and I think that was good for Millie, to have him out of the house. Of course, he moved in with Marsh. The two of them shared an apartment in Oakland while Eric went to school at Cal State down in Hayward.”

  “Getting back to the fires,” I said. “Have you heard of any other instances where Eric might have been involved in setting fires? I mean, if Marsh was setting fires, stands to reason that Eric could have picked up the habit.”

  She thought about it for a moment, frowning. “Yes, there was another fire. At a club where Eric used to play. I think it was in Oakland. I have no idea whether he was involved. Or Marsh, for that matter. But it happened right before Eric decided to move to Austin. His decision to leave was so out-of-the-blue that I’ve always wondered if that’s the reason he left. To get away from something, I mean.”

  She broke off and looked up and past me, shock on her face. I turned and saw Millicent standing in the doorway. Her eyebrows were drawn together and she looked upset. Upset enough to make me think she’d overheard a good bit of my conversation with Rosalie.

  “Millie! I thought you were going to be late today,” Rosalie exclaimed.

  “My dental appointment got canceled,” Millicent said, staring at me. “What in the world are you doing? Talking about Eric behind my back? And to a stranger? How dare you? I thought you were my friend.”

  “I am your friend.” Rosalie scrambled to her feet and went to Millicent, putting a hand on the taller woman’s arm. Millicent shook her off. “I’ve been your friend for ages, and always will be. But Millie, I’m worried about you. I saw you when Eric was here yesterday. I saw you give him money, as you have so many times before. After he left, you looked awful. But you wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “So you’re talking to this person?” Millicent gave me a withering look. Then she narrowed her eyes. “You were in the store on Tuesday, hanging around. What were you doing, spying on me? And what are you doing here now?”

  I stood up and took out one of my business cards, deciding the truth was the best approach. “I’m a private investigator based in Oakland. I’m working on a case that involves your son.”

  She took the card and looked at it, turning it over in her hands. When she spoke, there was resignation in her voice, and the expression on her face was tinged with fear. “What has he done now?”

  “I don’t have proof that he’s done anything.” Which was true enough. My suspicions weren’t absolute facts. “I can’t talk about the details of the case. But it involves a young woman he’s traveling with.”

  She frowned, her words coming slowly. “He said he had a friend with him. Is that the young woman?”

  I nodded. “It is. Her family is concerned about her. And her relationship with your son. I haven’t talked with either of them yet.”

  Millicent walked over and sat down heavily in the chair I’d vacated. “Do you know why Eric left New Orleans?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s possible he and the young woman are on a road trip and that they will return to New Orleans.” At least I thought it possible that Laurette would go back, eventually. I wasn’t sure about Slade.

  “I understand that your son has been in some trouble in the past,” I said.

  Millicent didn’t say anything at first. Then tears slid from her eyes. She put her hands up to her face and cried.

  Rosalie was on her feet, alarmed. She tore a tissue from the box on her desk and held it out. “Millie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn. But I’m so worried about you, ever since I saw Eric on Tuesday.”

  Millicent took the tissue and used it to blot the te
ars on her face. “I had a fight with Byron. A big one.”

  “What happened?” I asked, though I suspected I knew the answer.

  “Eric called last night. He was asking for money. Byron overheard. He put his foot down, told me I can’t continue giving money to my—as he put it—deadbeat son. We argued about it. And Eric’s upset with me. He’s my son. I love him. And I worry about him. If he could just settle on something.”

  I doubted that he would. Slade had gotten used to his mother’s financial subsidies. He wasn’t about to step away from that. It made me wonder what he’d do next. The money he’d been counting on from Marsh wasn’t enough, according to him. Though I had no idea what constituted enough.

  “Getting back to my earlier comment,” I said, “I understand that Eric has been in trouble in the past.”

  Millicent’s lips thinned. She blotted her face again and squared her shoulders. “He has. But I blame Marsh. His cousin has been a bad influence on him for years.”

  Millicent was in deep denial when it came to her son. That much was clear.

  It couldn’t all be Marsh’s fault. My theory was that Eric and Marsh fed off each other’s unhealthy energy, the way a fire tornado feeds off the heat generated by the blaze. Were they still at it? Was Slade aware of this energy? Was his move to Austin and then New Orleans an attempt to get away from his cousin?

  I pressed her for more information. “What sort of trouble?”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather not talk about that. It’s all in the past.”

  Yet when I’d introduced myself as a private investigator, she’d asked what her son had done now. I tried another tack.

  “As Eric was leaving, I overheard him say something about collecting some money that Marsh is holding for him. Do you know anything about that?”

  Alarm, quickly suppressed, spasmed across Millicent’s face. “No, I don’t. That’s news to me. Look, Eric left the Bay Area a year ago. He hasn’t had any contact with Marsh. Not as far as I know,” she added. “Besides, if Marsh has money for Eric, why is Eric asking me for money?”

  Because you can’t say no, I thought.

  Time for a change of subject. “Has Eric always wanted to be a musician?”

  Her expression softened. “Yes. He loves music. He took piano lessons when he was younger. And then he got into playing the guitar. After he graduated from high school he went to Cal State down in Hayward. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to study. His grades weren’t very good, so after a while he dropped out. He worked then, and played music. He had gigs all over the East Bay. Then he came to me and said he wanted to try his luck in Austin, because of the music scene there. He said it was much better for musicians down there.”

  I had been looking at Rosalie’s face while Millicent talked. She’d heard it all before, her face said, listening to her friend make excuses for her son.

  “It’s ten o’clock,” Rosalie said, getting to her feet. “Time to open the shop. I’ll walk you out.”

  She placed a hand on my arm and steered me out of the office, through the shop. She unlocked the front door and turned the sign from closed to open.

  Then she turned to me. “Herkimer’s. That was the name of the club in Oakland, the one that had a fire before Eric left for Austin last year. Look, Millie has been in denial about Eric his whole life. I hate for her to get hurt over things her son has done. I don’t know what it is you’re investigating but I have a feeling there’s more to it than this girl he’s traveling with. Is he in serious trouble?”

  I thought about Cindy Brixton back in New Orleans, accusing Eric of murdering her brother. No proof of that as yet, but—

  I nodded. “He could be.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Herkimer’s had been an Oakland fixture for years, a venue for all sorts of music—blues, jazz, bluegrass, rock. I’d been to the club several times, though not recently. The nightspot was located in Oakland’s increasingly trendy Uptown district, on Telegraph Avenue at the corner of Twenty-third Street. And it had been closed for a year, after a fire that had seriously damaged the building.

  Back in my office, I turned to the Internet and began clicking my way through the links that popped up on my search. I located a few online images of the club’s calendars and looked at the lineup of musicians for the weeks just before the fire. Among them was a popular Bay Area act, Lavay Smith and her Red Hot Skillet Lickers, that played jazz, blues and swing, fronted by the sultry Lavay. That same week, a bluegrass group had been featured, along with a blues singer and an R&B duo. On Sunday nights, the club had what they called Open Mike Nights, where anyone who had a yen to get up on stage with a microphone was given the chance to perform.

  The blaze happened on a Monday night in April. The club had been closed that night. That was fortunate. No one had been killed or injured.

  The fire at Herkimer’s was on a much smaller scale than the blazes at the construction sites, or the Ghost Ship debacle. The club was primarily a bar and performance venue, but it had served food. So there was a kitchen, and it appeared that the fire had started there. Initial news coverage said the fire’s cause was unknown, but under investigation. Later reports said it was arson.

  Rory Davis, who owned Herkimer’s as well as another bar and two local restaurants, vowed that Herkimer’s would reopen. But thus far, the club was still closed. A couple of news articles outlined Davis’s plans for a bigger and better club, but talked about delays due to the fire investigation, insurance woes, design reviews, and the permitting process.

  I searched for contact information on the owner. I found a phone number and made the call, expecting to get voice mail. Instead I got Rory Davis.

  “My name is Jeri Howard,” I said. “I’m a local private investigator and I’d like to ask some questions about last year’s fire at Herkimer’s.”

  “Why is that?”

  “There’s a possibility the club fire could relate to a case I’m working on.”

  A few seconds of silence as Davis thought about it. “Sure. I’ll be at one of my restaurants within the next hour. It’s Temescal, on Telegraph at Forty-fifth Street. Come on over, we’ll talk.”

  I locked up my office and went out to the parking lot, getting into my Toyota. Before going to the restaurant, I drove over to Herkimer’s. I found a parking space on Twenty-third Street, next to a fenced-off area where the BART tracks came out of a tunnel that led back to the underground stations at Twelfth and Nineteenth streets. To the northeast, paralleling the elevated section of the Interstate 980 freeway, was the above-ground MacArthur BART station. As I glanced down into the right-of-way, with its twin tracks, I heard the rumble of an approaching train. Then a moment later, the first of several silvery cars emerged from the tunnel, heading toward the station.

  I turned and walked in the direction of Telegraph. This block had a funky urban vibe, partly residential, partly business. To my left were several apartment buildings and on the other side of the street, a parking lot. I reached the corner. The one-story building that housed Herkimer’s had a stucco exterior that had once been pale green, with darker green trim on the windows. Now the walls were blackened with soot that had withstood a season of winter rains, the grime ingrained with the stucco. The windows were boarded up and covered with graffiti. So were the display cases that had held posters. The marquee above the front entrance was wrapped in duct tape and a layer of protective plastic that had come loose at one corner.

  Standing at the front of the building, I noticed the location of two security cameras affixed high on the building, both angled toward the entrance. When I retraced my steps to the side of the building, I saw another camera pointing at another door which led into the building, presumably the kitchen.

  I turned and looked across Twenty-third Street. On the opposite corner was a Mexican restaurant, an order-at-the-counter burrito joint that was doing a brisk lunchtime business. It, too, had a security camera.

  Where there were cameras, I thought, th
ere had to be some video footage. I headed back to my car.

  * *

  Temescal, the restaurant where I was meeting Rory Davis, was named after the neighborhood where it was located. The eatery had opened within the past year and I’d been meaning to try it, since the reviews were good. The dining room and bar had a trendy industrial look, with concrete floors and a high open ceiling that bounced with noise, shiny stainless steel fixtures and lots of varnished pine. The counter fronted on an open kitchen. It was after one o’clock and the lunch crowd was thinning out. A man and woman at a nearby table had just been served—a fried chicken sandwich with sweet potato fries for him and for her, a generous salad of mixed greens, scattered with cranberries, blue cheese, walnuts and slivers of roast chicken. At another table, two men were working their way through enormous burgers.

  A young woman stood at a small front counter that held menus and a reservation book. Like the servers, she was attired in black jeans and a black T-shirt.

  “Table for one?” she asked.

  “I have an appointment with Rory Davis.”

  She nodded and picked up a phone, making a call. Then she said, “This way, please.”

  I followed as she led the way past the bar to a hallway that led back to the restrooms. Beyond this we went through a swinging door and the woman pointed me toward a small square office off the kitchen. Seated at a desk with a computer and the usual peripherals was a short, compact woman in her fifties, with a sun-browned complexion and brown hair, silvered at the temples. She wore it short, showing off a pair of dangling silver earrings that went with several silver chains around her neck. She had a habit of twining her fingers in the chains as she talked. She was casually dressed in blue slacks and a bright pink pullover.