by Janet Dawson
As I made my way along the back of the construction site, I heard a noise coming from the darkness beyond the spill of light. My nerves went on alert. I pulled the flashlight from my pocket and shined it toward the brambles. A pair of eyes stared back at me from a black mask on a gray-and-white face. I saw pointed ears and snout, large canines visible as the raccoon opened its mouth and hissed, warning me not to get any closer. It gave me a once-over and turned, disappearing into the bushes. Looking for a trash can to raid, I thought.
I stuck the flashlight into my pocket and continued walking along the back fence, turning the corner and heading back toward Brook Street, with the security fence to my right and a small apartment building to my left. Here the path was narrow, with the building’s driveway and Dumpster separated from the construction site by a low fence and a couple of feet. I saw movement inside the construction site and made out a uniform jacket. It was one of the security guards. Then I heard a crash, coming from the street, followed by loud voices. The security guard inside the site started running toward the gate. I rounded the corner onto Brook Street and headed the same way.
There was some sort of altercation taking place in front of the gate leading into the construction site. A man wearing layers of ragged clothing was reeling against the fence. He appeared to be drunk, and belligerent. He was cursing loudly as he reached into a bag and took out a glass bottle. Then he threw it at the fence. The glass broke. It wasn’t the first bottle he’d lobbed. The sidewalk was littered with shards.
All three of the security guards had gathered just inside the fence and Nathan was talking, his voice steady.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“This homeless guy just showed up a few minutes ago,” Nathan said. “He’s drunk, throwing bottles and cussing a blue streak. Hey, man. Give it a rest. Move along.”
The man with the sack of bottles lurched toward me and I backed away. He was muttering curses. Then I caught a glimpse of the man’s face. He didn’t look drunk, I though suddenly. In fact, he looked as though things were going just the way he’d planned.
Why would he—? I was already moving as I shouted, “Nathan! It’s a diversion.”
Nathan let loose with an expletive and began running along the inside of the fence, between the chain-link and the structure. I headed down Brook Street on the outside of the security fence, reaching the corner I had turned a few minutes ago. I turned and ran up the path between the security fence and the driveway of the apartment building. I spotted two men, in dark clothes and hoodies. They’d shoved the apartment building’s Dumpster close to the fence and now they were using it to climb over the top. They jumped down, inside the construction site, illuminated by the overhead lights. As I pulled out my cell phone they ran into the partially constructed building.
After I dialed 911 and reported the incident, I called Gary. “Brook Street,” I yelled.
“On my way!”
So was the fire department. Already I could hear sirens in the distance.
Nathan came running up on the inside of the fence. “You were right. The homeless guy took off running as soon as you hollered. My guys have seen him around before, though. We can find him. You see anything?”
“Two men. They ran into the building. Over that way.” As I pointed, flames flickered to life, deep inside the structure.
Then came an explosion, loud, deafening. A flash lit up the shadows inside the structure. It caught me by surprise. I’d expected a slow burn, similar to the other arson fires, especially since Sid had told me some of them had been started with timing devices.
But this had the force of a bomb. Nathan backed away from the blaze as the other security guards came running. Then I saw a figure wearing a hoodie streak out of the burning building. Nathan and the other guards moved to intercept him, but he dodged past them with agility born of fear, or panic. He sprang at the fence and was up and over it, falling onto the Dumpster with a thud. He seemed momentarily stunned. As I ran toward the Dumpster he scrambled to his feet and jumped down onto the apartment building driveway, shoving me aside. I stumbled, then regained my feet, running after him as he pounded down the street.
He had almost reached the end of Brook Street, where it met Thirtieth, when he changed direction to dodge a car. I recognized the vehicle. Gary Manville’s SUV screeched to a halt and he got out, joining me in pursuit, trying to cut off the running figure. The man in the hoodie sidestepped Gary, got away from me, and cut away from the street, heading up the driveway between two houses. He put on a burst of speed. So did I.
I overtook him and tackled him in the driveway. A couple of dogs in the house’s fenced backyard rushed and jumped against the chain-link barrier, providing a counterpoint of serious, intruder-alert barking. Gary appeared beside me, adding his own weight as we held down the struggling figure in the black hoodie. A light went on above the back porch and the homeowner, a middle-aged man swathed in a bathrobe, opened his back door, yelling, “What the hell is going on out there?”
I reached up and tugged the hood from the head of the man we’d caught. “Hello, Slade.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Gary and I stood at the end of Brook Street and watched the Oakland Fire Department pour water on the construction site. We were too far away to feel the heat from the flames, but watching the blaze was sobering.
“That building’s going to be a loss,” Gary said. “This is the second Bay Oak Development project to burn in less than a month. Those folks are going to be pissed.”
“Byron Patchett will be beyond pissed when he finds out his stepson set that fire.” I looked past Gary at the Oakland Police Department cruiser parked at the intersection of Brook and Thirtieth. Slade was in the backseat, handcuffed. Gary and I had turned him over to the officers who’d first arrived on the scene, saying he was a suspect in the arson blaze.
Slade had been defiant at first. While he was fighting to get away from Gary and me, I said, “Marsh didn’t make it out.”
He stilled. That took some of the bravado out of his eyes.
“You’re going to have to live with that,” I said. “Just like Ray Brixton in New Orleans.”
Now he was still, almost motionless. “You know about that?”
“Yeah, I know about it.” Though I wondered if I’d ever find out the full story. “I know about that, the fire at the warehouse in NOLA, the car fire in Austin. And Herkimer’s. You see, Slade, I’ve had my eye on you for a while.”
After the police tucked Slade into the cruiser, Gary and I turned and saw Nathan and one of the other security guards walking toward us. Between them was the homeless man who’d been throwing bottles earlier. “We found him around the corner, on Broadway,” Nathan said. “Grabbed him and hauled him back here.”
I leaned toward the man, saying in a conversational tone, “You better talk, man. You’re in a world of trouble, helping those guys set this fire.”
The guy drew himself up and glared back at me. “I didn’t help anybody set no damn fire. You can’t put that on me.”
“Then why were you throwing bottles at the gate? And cussing at the guards? You were pretending to be drunk, but you’re not.”
“Okay, okay.” The homeless man shook himself and shifted, trying to pull away from Nathan and the other guard as he tried to explain his way out of the situation. “I didn’t have nothing to do with that fire. It was like you said when you ran off. A diversion. Those two guys, the ones wearing hoodies, they gave me money. They said, Just go up there to that gate. Make noise and yell, throw bottles. Make a lot of noise, make it look good, make it look like you’re drunk and wanting a fight.” His voice took on a pleading tone. “Honest to God, I thought it was a joke. I didn’t know they were going to torch the place.”
“Fine,” I said. “We’re going to go right over to that police officer and you’re going to tell him what you just told us.”
At a signal from Gary, Nathan and the other guard propelled the man over to the crui
ser. He repeated his story. He, too, earned a ride downtown.
Sid showed up just then, wearing jeans and a jacket, showing his ID to the cops who’d cordoned off the street. “I heard you caught the bad guy.”
“One of them, anyway.” I briefed Sid, telling him about the possibility Slade was responsible for Brixton’s death in the New Orleans apartment fire, as well as the fire that destroyed Herkimer’s. “I’ll send you a more detailed summary of what I found out in NOLA.”
“Thanks. In the meantime, you and Manville will need to go downtown and give statements.”
“Will do. Slade and his cousin set this fire,” I added, “but there’s no evidence that I’ve uncovered that ties them to the other construction site fires.”
Sid nodded. “I wonder if we’ll ever find out who’s torching those.”
* *
“I can’t believe you were spying on me!”
Laurette was angry. She was taking it out on Davina—and me. Her dark hair was in disarray as she ran her hands through it, and her eyes flashed as she railed at us. “How dare you sic one of your private eye friends on me? Invading my privacy, butting into my life.”
It was Saturday morning. The utilitarian motel room that Laurette had shared with Slade since their arrival in the Bay Area was furnished in shades of orange and brown, the queen-sized bed unmade, the coverings tossed here and there. Laurette hadn’t slept well. She was red-eyed from crying and there were dark circles under her eyes. Worry had etched shadows on her face.
Slade hadn’t returned to the motel Friday night. He was in jail, having been arrested on suspicion of arson. But if he’d made his one phone call, it wasn’t to Laurette. She didn’t know what had happened until Davina and I told her. Emotions bounced all over the room, most of them coming from Laurette. Her worries about Slade turned into anger, the room barely large enough to contain her as she paced the worn carpet in front of the bed.
“We were concerned about you,” Davina argued, giving as good as she got. She was sitting on one of the chairs grouped around a small round table, leaning forward, hands gesturing. “What the hell were we supposed to do? You quit your job, gave up your apartment and just disappeared, without a word. Mom and Dad were frantic. You weren’t communicating—”
“Because I’d lost my phone,” Laurette interrupted. “As for leaving without a word, I did that because I figured you’d all do exactly what you did. I’m a grown woman. You all think I can’t be trusted to take a little break from my boring, routine life.”
I’d been hanging back, leaning against the long dresser which was scattered with Laurette’s bag and toiletries. Now I stepped forward, hoping to act as peacemaker, although it was my investigative activities that had Laurette fuming, holding both her sister and me responsible.
“Let’s get some perspective,” I said. “Your family was worried. I was in New Orleans, on vacation. Since I was already in town, Davina asked me to get involved, to see if I could find out what happened to you. So I started looking. I thought that finding information about who Slade is would help me find out where the two of you had gone. You got in touch with your family before I figured out where you were. However, I did uncover a few things about him that concerned me.”
Now Laurette transferred her animosity to me. “What sort of things? That he’s a musician and he moves from job to job? Musicians do that.” She shook her head. “I knew Mom and Dad would hold that against him. I knew they didn’t like him moving in with me.”
I glanced at Davina, then back to Laurette. I hadn’t yet told Laurette about Slade and the fires. I was waiting, choosing my moment. Better to let her anger burn itself out before hitting her with that.
“There’s more to it than that,” Davina said. “More than being a musician and more—” She broke off and looked at me for support, then back at her sister. “Laurette, he just wasn’t the right guy for you.”
“Who are you to decide if he’s the right guy for me?” Laurette shot back. “Okay, he wasn’t the ideal man. He had his faults. I will concede that. But I enjoyed being with him. It was exciting. I felt like I was finally coming out of my cocoon. And whether he was the right guy or not, I have the right to make my own mistakes. Lord knows you’ve made plenty of them.” With this last remark, she skewered her older sister with a look.
“Yes, I have.” Davina’s voice was subdued. “But you’re my baby sister. You’ve been through a hard time with losing Chris and the baby. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
Laurette stopped pacing and sat down on the bed, as though her sleepless night was catching up with her. “I’m so tired of everyone wrapping me in tissue paper, like I’m going to break. I’m not as fragile as you think.”
No, I didn’t think she was. There was a hint of steel in her eyes. And I could understand what she was saying. She had a point, I thought, looking back on my own part in this situation. There was a fine line between being concerned and overreacting, one that had perhaps been crossed. But sometimes it depends on who you’re with when you’re making those mistakes. Slade was more than the wrong guy. In my opinion, he was dangerous. And Laurette had been in danger while she was with him. I was convinced of that.
“Do you know where he is?” Laurette asked now. That question had gotten pushed to one side while she vented about being the subject of an investigation.
“I do.” Earlier she’d asked what sort of things I’d found out about Slade. It was time to tell her some of the seamier facts of Slade’s life. “Slade is in jail. And it’s possible his cousin Marsh is dead.”
The color drained from her face. I continued. “He was arrested last night. He and Marsh are suspected of causing an arson fire here in Oakland. Slade got out of the building. Marsh didn’t.”
Laurette raised her hands to her face, horrified. “He told me Marsh was kind of crazy. Likely to do anything. But Slade? I don’t understand. Why would they do that?”
“It’s not the first time Slade has been suspected of setting a fire,” I said. “When I was in New Orleans, and back here, looking for information about him, I discovered a few things that I think are disturbing.”
“What did you find out?” Laurette took a deep breath and straightened, preparing herself for the worst. “What is it? Tell me what you found out that’s so disturbing.”
I laid it out for her, as unemotionally as I could, in chronological order, starting with the fire in the neighbor’s garage in Lafayette, then the Herkimer’s fire, the car fire in Austin, and the fire at the New Orleans warehouse where Slade had worked, then the apartment fire that had killed Ray Brixton.
I watched the expressions on Laurette’s face change as she took it all in. As it turned out, she had witnessed the confrontation between Cindy Brixton and Slade on that afternoon when Brixton waylaid him outside Laurette’s apartment building. “I wondered what that was about,” she said now, looking subdued. “I thought maybe she was an old girlfriend.”
When I stopped talking, Laurette slumped on the bed, looking stunned, as though my words had sucked out all her energy. Davina propelled herself from the chair where she’d been sitting. “You can’t stay here in this motel room. Come home with me. I know my place is small, but you can stay as long as you like. While you sort things out.”
Laurette shook her head. “I have to be here in case he comes back.” She waved a hand at Slade’s guitar, propped up in one corner of the room. “What about his guitar? The rest of his stuff?”
“We take it with us,” Davina argued. “We can stash it at my house, until—” She broke off and looked at me.
I didn’t think Slade was coming back any time soon, but I said, “I think that’s a good idea. I’ll relay the information that Slade’s things are at Davina’s.” Besides, I thought, it was likely the police would want to take a look at his belongings. And I was sure they’d want to talk with Laurette.
In the end, Davina and I prevailed on Laurette and she agreed to move. We packed up the contents of th
e room, loaded everything into the Ford and Laurette checked out of the motel. She left, following Davina’s car out of the parking lot as they headed for Berkeley.
Eventually Laurette would figure out what she wanted to do. My guess was that she’d head back to New Orleans. Maybe. It would take some time for her to sort it all out.
I had silenced my cell phone earlier and now I took it out. I had a couple of text messages, as well as a voice mail from Sid, asking me to call him. We’d had two conversations already, one last night and another early this morning. Last night I’d shared with Sid the information that I’d uncovered in New Orleans, that Slade may have set the fire that caused Ray Brixton’s death. I didn’t know what would come of it, but this morning, Sid told me he’d gotten in touch with the New Orleans Police Department. Maybe Cindy Brixton would find some closure concerning her brother’s death. Sid had also looked at the videos tying Slade and Marsh to the fire at Herkimer’s and he was following up on that, along with the summary of all the information Antoine and I had discovered in New Orleans.
As for Marsh Spencer, he added, he never came out of the partially constructed building that he and Slade had set on fire. The assumption was that his burned body was still in the ashes. Slade, shaken by the incident, was talking, though not much.
