by Lyn Cote
She walked away quickly without looking back.
Despite all his sensible intentions, he admired the view of her, her head held high and her gentle sway as she walked away.
This fascination with Connie Oberlin had to stop. I’ve got to find out what happened to Troy Nielsen and get done with this case. I have no business taking pretty young lawyers out for afternoon strolls. Especially not Ms. Constance Oberlin.
After leaving O’Neill, Connie marched down the street toward the main fire station. Saved by the bell…well, cell phone. “Maybe he’ll forget what I said,” she muttered to herself. “Why did I go to him?” She cringed. “He must think I’m some pathetic clinging vine—” She broke off her monologue.
Fire Station Number One loomed ahead of her. The doors were open. Rubber-booted firemen were washing already gleaming red fire engines. Some good-natured water-spraying elicited shouts and laughter.
Connie stood and watched, feeling the faint sprinkle of water on her face and then her ankles. The cheerful scene only made her feel more disheartened by contrast.
“Ms. Oberlin?” A strong voice hailed her over the melee.
She glimpsed a man in a fire chief’s uniform, framed by an inner doorway and beckoning her. Must be the man I’m looking for.
To allow her to pass, the firemen pointed their hoses down, beaming at her. She walked past them to the fire chief and ignored the firemen’s muted wolf whistles. She understood it was merely an extension of their high spirits. She was glad someone was enjoying this flawless summer day.
The fire chief accepted her hand and shook it firmly. “Let’s go into my office.”
Inside, he showed her to a seat on the other side of his vast desk and sat opposite her. “What can I do for you, Ms. Oberlin?”
“First, thank you for giving me some of your time. I’m—”
“No problem,” he interrupted the gracious intro she’d prepared. “How can I help you?”
“I’ve studied the state fire marshal’s report on the Depot Street fire. I was hoping you could help me understand better some of the notations he made.” And maybe some hope for evidence that would help my client.
The fire chief nodded once. “I’ve studied that report myself. What do you need?”
Connie reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out her small leather planner. She flipped to the notes she’d made in anticipation of this interview. “First of all, the marshal mentions a plant. The context of the report led me to believe that in using this term he thought that the fire had been set.”
“Correct.”
She waited but he didn’t elaborate.
“But when I went to the fire scene,” she continued, “it was fairly obvious to me, as it was to the fire marshal, that the point of origin of the fire was the antiquated fuse box.”
“Yes.”
A man of few words. “But how could someone start a fire in a fuse box? I mean, apart from the old penny trick, which the fire marshal mentioned as unlikely.”
The fire chief veered away from her comments unexpectedly. “I wonder how Sanders got fire insurance for that building.”
“What?” She paused with her pen in hand.
“That building was scheduled to be torn down this year.” The fire chief folded his hands on top of his desk and stared at her. “I heard Sanders didn’t want to spend the money necessary to bring it up to code.”
“But…” She fell silent as congealing cement settled in her midsection. Sanders insured a building slated for demolition. And he thought he could get away with torching it? That obviously was what this man was informing her of.
“Ms. Oberlin, as I said, I went over that report myself before you came. I know you’re trying to find an out for your client.” His voice became sympathetic. “But too much is against him.”
“But—”
The fire chief held up his hand, silencing her.
She closed her mouth, realizing she didn’t know what to say next.
“First, the smoke was black.” The chief began ticking off points on his fingers. “That means a trailer, probably petroleum—”
“What’s a trailer?” Connie scribbled this term into her planner.
“An accelerant. In this case, gasoline, which witnesses smelled at the scene.”
“People? You mean firemen?”
“Firemen and a few passersby.” He continued to the next finger, hammering another gaping hole through her case, through her. “The smoke was black. That tells us that gasoline was present.
“Second, the fire spread rapidly, more rapidly than a wood fire should have. By the way, a wood fire would have put out white smoke. Again, this points to an accelerant. Do you want me to go on?”
Acceding defeat, Connie shook her head and rose with all the dignity she could manage. “I won’t take any more of your time.”
“Ms. Oberlin, you probably touched on arson cases in your law school courses. But maybe you don’t realize that very rarely does a district attorney choose to prosecute a suspected arson case.”
“Why?” she asked the natural question. Why didn’t this surprise her?
“Because often the D.A. finds it hard to prove arson beyond a reasonable doubt to a jury. So if the D.A. is bringing this to trial, he is sure of his grounds.”
So numb she had trouble feeling her feet touch down, Connie nodded and walked to the door. He opened it and she left with only a murmured, “Thank you for your time.” For destroying my hope of finding something wrong with the fire marshal’s report.
The firemen had finished their washing and were busy shining chrome. I have to come up with some possible suspects, someone else who might have profited from the fire or had a motive to set it. Feeling hollow inside, Connie walked outside and lifted her face to the warm sun, closing her eyes. I’d rather be anywhere, doing anything else today. Can’t anything go right, Lord?
“Hey, pretty lady!”
Connie opened her eyes and saw Chuck O’Neill jogging toward her. She groaned silently.
“How about a cup of coffee? The deli will be quiet now.”
She took a step back from him. “No—”
“Come on,” he coaxed. He hooked her elbow with his and tugged her to the curb. “You look like you need a cup of coffee and a few jokes.”
“No.” She couldn’t argue with his take on her mood, but she had to return to the office. Even if I don’t want to get back before Grove and Maureen have left for the day.
“Having a rough day?” Chuck murmured, letting go of her arm.
She nodded, arrested by his sympathetic tone.
“How about I walk you back to your office? Unless you’re headed somewhere else?”
“No, I’m going…” She stopped. “How do you know where my office is?”
“I’m a detective, remember?” He claimed her arm again and they walked across the street together.
Connie allowed him to persuade her. If she let him walk her to the office, she wouldn’t be left alone with her unruly thoughts—all of which seemed negative today.
“We’re both the new kids on the block.” Chuck let go of her arm when they stepped onto the opposite curb. “Are you getting a lot of razzing?”
“Not exactly.” No, I’ve just got stuck with an impossible case and a suspicious client and doubts about one of the senior partners. No big deal. But there was something irresistible about Chuck’s upbeat way. “What about you?”
“Shaving cream in my desk drawers and a tack in my chair aren’t going to spook me.” He chuckled. “We’ll get through this.”
“I’m glad you can be so optimistic.” She wished all she had to deal with were childish pranks. The aching dead weight in the pit of her stomach hardened, clenched.
“We can’t let it throw us. We’ve got what it takes.”
She shook her head, grinning in spite of herself.
“Hey, someday this will all be behind us. That’s what my mom says all the time. Don’t sweat the small stuff.�
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Troy must be found. But how? She had to defend Floyd Sanders. But how? Connie couldn’t stop herself from asking, “What if it isn’t small stuff?”
“Mom would tell you, in this life, most everything is small stuff. Mom has an eternal perspective.”
Connie absorbed this. “I’ve heard of that, but sometimes it’s hard to look that high or far.”
“Then she’d remind you that God’s eye is on the sparrow and all that stuff.”
Connie closed her eyes for a moment, hearing the hymn play in her mind. Thanks for the reminder, Lord. “Your mom’s right.”
“Seen my brother lately?”
“Oh, I see him around,” she said.
“Well, I was glad I saw you today because I wanted to see if you’d double with me and Sheila.”
“Double?” She stopped and looked at him in astonishment.
“Yeah, you and Rand and me and Sheila go to a movie, grab a bite to eat.”
“Your brother and I aren’t a couple. He’s the detective and I’m a friend of the victim. That’s it.”
“I know he’s working on that case about your missing friend, but that doesn’t mean you can’t watch a movie together. You’re not directly involved in the case. Not a witness or friend of a defendant. Your firm isn’t involved at all.”
“How do you know all of that?” She quickened her pace. This is crazy. Her office building sat ahead on the corner.
He shrugged. “I checked. My brother acts like I don’t understand about conflict of interest, but I do.”
She sped up. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Don’t make a snap decision,” Chuck continued, unabashed. “I want to impress Sheila on our first real date. My big brother the detective and the loveliest new lawyer in town.”
Connie ignored his hyperbolic flattery. “Who’s Sheila?”
“A very nice patrol officer. Very nice,” he reiterated with a smile. “Anyway, she finally said she’d go out with me but only with another couple. So what do you say?”
Connie shook her head, opened the door to her office building and tried to step inside.
Maureen stood in the doorway, obviously on her way out.
“Oh.” Connie pulled up short. “I didn’t see you there.” Were you standing there watching, waiting for me?
Maureen gave her a friendly smile and walked out between Chuck and Connie.
“Hey, I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” Chuck tapped Connie’s arm. “Think it over. We’d go out this weekend on Sunday night. Both Sheila and I will be off duty.”
Barely listening to Chuck, Connie’s face burned. Why had she let him escort her here? She recalled Maureen’s advice about making friends with Rand. Would Maureen recognize Chuck as Rand O’Neill’s brother? And what if she did? I’m getting paranoid.
“Hey?” Chuck waved a hand in front of her face.
“I don’t think so.” Connie hurried inside. When had all that she trusted, all that was normal, left her life?
He crept into the darkened church, lit only by flickering candles at the feet of saints. He rubbed his face with his hands, feeling the stubble on his chin and cheeks, smelling his own sweat, his sour breath.
He watched a priest come out of a door at the front of the sanctuary. He slid down silently and then under the old wooden pew. The marble floor underneath him was hard and cool. The priest’s footsteps retreated and then the sound of a door shutting echoed through the cavernous space.
He wondered why he’d come. I don’t belong here of all places. But it was cool and dark and empty. He let himself stretch out on the unyielding floor like some stray animal. How did I get here? How do I get home again?
Chapter Seven
“Hey, what’ll it be?” the bartender asked with a welcoming grin.
“The usual,” Rand said, testing to see if the man had finally put him down as a regular. To this end, Rand had been a steady but not flashy tipper. Tonight made two weeks since he’d started coming frequently to the sports bar of Troy’s choice and nearing three weeks since the man disappeared. Had he won the barkeep’s acceptance?
“Comin’ right up.” Soon, Rand’s nonalcoholic brand slid in front of him.
With satisfaction, Rand nodded and ran his finger down the side of the cold, icy mug. He was in.
The place was still filling up for the night. On the big-screen TV, talking heads were discussing prospects for that night’s baseball game. The barkeep wiped the bar in front of Rand.
Time for him to do what’d he’d endured all these nights to do. “I see a guy can place a bet here,” Rand said low, holding his glass in front of his mouth.
The barkeep looked up, assessing. “Yeah, a sheetmaker for a bookie works the place. The boss doesn’t like people betting over their heads though. We don’t want no trouble.”
“No problem. I just enjoy a bet now and then. Makes the game more exciting.”
The barkeep nodded.
“Do I need an introduction?” Rand asked.
The man slapped the bar with his washcloth. “I’ll tell him to give you a tumble when he comes in.”
“Appreciate it.” Rand turned his attention to the TV.
Again, he thought about Troy Nielsen. With all the places to go in Chicago, what kind of dad brought his little boys to a bar while his pretty little wife stayed home to study? And Rand’s family wondered why he took a dim view of most people.
Connie’s face came to mind. If I told her that’s what Troy had done, that was why the boys came here last week, she’d deny it. What is it with her and the canonization of Troy Nielsen? He felt the familiar burn in his stomach that thinking of Connie and her hero worship of Nielsen always brought. That’s why getting involved with someone in a case was stupid.
Over the blare of the TV and voices around him, he replayed his mother’s parting words to him last Sunday night—I hear you had a pretty woman at your place Friday night?
He’d perused her, but hadn’t replied. Anything he’d have said would have given her something to comment on.
“That look won’t work on me any more,” she’d gone on. “It’s time you got on with your life. Don’t be mad at Chuck or Molly for trying to nudge you along.”
Without commenting, he’d kissed her soft, lined cheek, thanked her for the meal and left her on the porch waving goodbye. He wished she’d just left things alone. Connie had come to his house only because of Troy Nielsen and for no other reason. He should thank heaven.
His stomach burned hotter. The pre-game jabber continued on the screen. He turned to it and made himself look deeply interested while he waited. Finally, the sheetmaker slithered inside and then around to his regular customers. He finally stopped to buy a drink at the bar.
Rand kept his eyes forward as though oblivious to the barkeep talking and nodding toward Rand. Within minutes, his prey dropped onto the bar stool beside him. “Hear you’re looking for some action?”
Rand nodded. “Yeah, I’m Kennedy,” Rand announced his alias as he shook the man’s hand. “What’s your point spread on the game tonight?”
The sheetmaker introduced himself as Bert and quoted the figures. “Make up your mind quick. I’m calling my bookie. The pitcher’s on the mound.”
“How about twenty on the Cubs to win?”
“Too low.” Bert shook his head. “I can’t take anything lower than fifty.”
“That’s a bit steep.”
“Take it or leave it.” Bert shrugged.
Rand considered. He doubted this was true, but maybe the guy was testing him. “Okay.” Rand took out his billfold and handed Bert two twenties and a ten. “After last year’s play-offs, I think the Cubs are going to bury the Marlins tonight.”
Bert grinned. “Okay.” The sheetmaker scribbled a number on a grubby pad of paper. “See you after the game.” He headed to the wall phone by the entrance.
Rand returned to the game. He wondered what a string of fifty-dollar bets could have done to the Nielsen budget. Ha
d Troy gotten in even deeper? Had he borrowed money to cover his bad debts from a loan shark?
That could explain his disappearance but Rand wondered again. Had Troy been trying to pay off gambling debts? Had the wife gotten any clue to where the money was going?
A commercial came on TV. The model advertising a new car wax had a face that reminded him of his sister Molly. He pictured her again as she’d burst in on Connie and him Friday night last week. She’d counted on his not objecting to the intrusion because there had been a stranger present. Why can’t they just leave me alone?
He knew the answer already. When Cara had been murdered, he’d been forced down a harsh, black-as-Hades path his family didn’t understand. They’d watched with concern from the sidelines, but had not walked it with him. No one could. It was a solitary trail one walked alone.
Would he find Troy Nielsen? Or would Nielsen’s innocent little wife be forced to deal with betrayal, be thrust down a similarly soul-destroying path?
He sipped the cool liquid comfort, pushing stark memories away. He couldn’t sit there and not drink. His excuse of having to drive home had covered his drinking nonalcoholic beer. I’m here because this is my job. What about you, Nielsen? Had Troy sat at this bar, drinking up and betting away cash his wife and kids needed? What would you think if I told you that, Ms. Connie Oberlin?
The game started at last and Rand watched it. The Cubs lost. But Rand was thankful it had wound up in only nine innings. He was grateful that this wouldn’t come out of his pocket, but out of the department budget.
Bert came in and headed to Rand first. “Sorry, you should know the Cubs by now.”
Rand gave him a rueful smile.
“No hard feelings?” Bert offered his hand.
Rand stood up. “No, you’re not on the team.”
Bert chuckled. “Nice doin’ business with you. Place a bet with me anytime.”
Rand nodded, threw his parting tip onto the bar and walked out. Yes, everything’s very friendly as long as I’m losing and paying up promptly. Did you have trouble doing that, Troy? How far over your head did you bet?
