“I’m Guy Mallon,” I said. I had to bend my head way back to see his face against the black sky.
“So?”
“Detective Macdonald called me and said to come down, she wants to see me. This is my warehouse. My business is in there.”
The cop’s face softened and he nodded. “Was,” he said. “I’m sorry. Come with me.” Then he called into the cluster of uniforms and slickers gathered at the side of the foundation, “Hey, Rosie. Man here to see you.”
A tall woman separated herself from the others and strode over to where I was standing with the cop. She wore a yellow slicker which was open in front, revealing a striped work shirt. She also wore rubber pants and rubber boots. She had a steno pad in one hand. She held out her other hand and said, “I’m Rosa Macdonald. You’re Guy Mallon?”
“I am,” I said as I shook her hand. “You must be hot in that suit.”
“Comes with the job,” she answered. “The worst fires are always on hot nights like these.”
“Not in the daytime?”
“Not the ones I investigate.”
“How did you get my name?” I asked.
“The night security watchman of the parking lot called in the fire. He told me your name, and also the name of another man.” She checked her notes. “Mister Herndon? He also uses this building for his business? Used, I mean?”
“That’s right. Roger Herndon.”
“Do you have any idea how to get in touch with Mister Herndon? He doesn’t seem to be listed in the phone book.”
“I understand he’s out of town on business,” I said. “He’s been gone for over a week, I don’t know where. Somebody over at the Kountry Klub might know. He’s a part owner, I think. I’m not sure about that.”
Detective Macdonald revealed a bit of disgust in her face when she said, “That strip club? Are you involved with that place too?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I’m a book publisher. Listen, what about my partner, Carol Murphy? That was her red Volvo. The night watchman saw that car?”
She nodded. “It was the only car in the lot when he drove by about nine o’clock, and it was still here when he drove by at ten. It wasn’t here when he drove by again at eleven. By that time the fire had started. Her name again?” She took out a ball-point pen and opened the steno pad.
“She’s not responsible for this fire,” I said. “I can assure you of that. She hasn’t returned since then, huh?”
“Her name, Mister Mallon?”
“Carol Murphy.”
“And do you and Carol Murphy own this building, or did you?”
“No. It’s owned by Fritz Marburger, Marburger Enterprises. You’ll find that number in the phone book.”
She took notes and then checked the watch on her wrist. “It’s going to be light soon, and I’m done here for now. How about you and I go get an early breakfast at the Comeback Cafe? I have a bunch of questions I need to ask you.”
***
“So how are you so sure it was arson?” I asked. “Couldn’t it have been faulty wiring or something?” I shook a Vicodin pill out of the bottle and downed it with orange juice.
“Yeah, or a mouse chewed on some Lucifer matches; I’ve heard that one before, too.” Rosa Macdonald was a nice-looking woman in her mid-thirties. A big woman, looked Hispanic, which matched her first name. She had a pleasant smile with fleshy lips and big teeth, but she also had fierce Frida Kahlo eyebrows. By the way she shoveled down her fried eggs and gulped her coffee, it was clear that she was used to having her meals interrupted by emergencies. “No,” she said, “this was a set fire. No question about it. Whoever torched that building wanted it to burn down in a big hurry. The structure was old and made of wood, and we have a Santa Ana condition, but still, when a building that big goes down in three hours, you know somebody did it on purpose, and did it right. Where were you this evening, Mister Mallon? Fire started about ten-thirty, we’re pretty sure. Where were you at ten-thirty?”
“Surely you don’t think—”
“Easy, easy. I’m just asking a few routine questions. It’s my job.”
“It’s just that my whole business was tied up in that building. I’ve just lost hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of inventory, so—”
“Insurance?” she asked.
“No.”
“No?” Her dark eyes widened. “Why not?”
“I’m not much of a businessman,” I said.
“Okay.” She mopped up what was left of her egg yolk with what was left of her toast. “More coffee?” she asked, holding up her hand to summon our waitress. “By the way, what the hell happened to you? Looks like you got run over or something. That happen tonight?”
I shook my head. “Last Monday,” I said. “Labor Day.”
“You got worked over, all right. What happened?”
“Bunch of books fell on top of me.”
“In your warehouse?”
I nodded.
She nodded back. “So can I call you Guy? I’m Rosa, by the way. Okay? Good? So tell me, Guy, where did you say you were last night about ten-thirty, eleven o’clock?”
“I’d rather not tell you,” I said. “Not until I have to.”
“You’re going to have to eventually. Probably.”
“There are other people involved,” I explained.
She raised her brows: one strong, questioning line arched over those large brown eyes. “None of my business, I gather,” she said.
“It wasn’t what you’re thinking.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking. What I’m thinking is, if there are others involved, you’ll have an alibi if you need one. Okay, that’s good enough for now. Let’s try another approach.” She opened her steno pad and laid it on the table beside her empty plate. “Know anybody who would be glad to see the old DiClemente Avocado warehouse burned to the ground?”
Oh brother. How was I supposed to answer a question like that? Tell nothing? Tell all?
“I see I hit a nerve,” Rosa said.
“Okay. But what if I get sued for slander?”
“That’s not an issue,” she said. “Trust me.”
“‘Trust me’ is an oxymoron.”
Rosa tapped her pen on the steno pad and said, “Let’s go. Who? And why? Go.”
“Well,” I began, “the owner of the building told us he wants out of the warehouse business. He wants to put up condos on that lot.”
Rosa consulted her notes. “Fritz Marburger,” she said. “Okay, who else? How about Roger Herndon?”
“I don’t think so. He’s got a gold mine in that business, I mean he had a gold mine in the business he ran out of that warehouse. Besides, he’s out of town.”
“So you told me. Anybody else?”
“I really feel bad about this,” I said, “but one of my authors doesn’t like her book anymore. She’s ashamed of it. I can’t imagine she’d do anything so destructive, though.”
“What’s her name?”
“Lorraine Evans.”
Rosa looked up sharply. “The singer?”
I nodded. “But I’m sure she didn’t do this. She’s not that kind of person.”
“How about your partner?” Rosa asked. “Carol Murphy. Did she have any reason to want to see the building burn down?”
Carol? Want the building burned down? Carol hated Herndon, she hated Fritz Marburger, she hated the publishing business, and I’m afraid she also hated me.
“None whatsoever,” I replied.
Rosa balled up her paper napkin and dropped it onto her plate. “Okay, Guy. Let’s go. I have to get back to the fire scene. I’ll drop you at your car.”
We left the Comeback and she let me into her squad car, which was parked in a yellow zone. I was glad to be done for the night.
But as we were driving through the State Street underpass below the 101, Rosa’s shirt pocket jingled. She took out her cell phone and flipped it
open with one hand, then used her teeth to pull out an antenna about four inches long. “Yo.”
I watched her face in profile as she listened to this contraption the size of a blackboard eraser. I have no idea how those things work. Come to think of it, I don’t know how real telephones work either. But as I watched her face turn dark I realized that the problem had just gotten far more complex.
“We’ll be right there,” she told the phone. She snapped it shut and stuffed it back into her shirt pocket. “Well, Guy,” she said, “looks like I’m not done with you yet. I hope you have a strong stomach. We’re going to see if you can identify what’s left of a tall male.”
***
Any romance the crime scene might have held in the klieg lights had gone out with the dawn. Daylight made the remains of the building look just plain ugly. The crowd had been dispersed, but the yellow tape was still stretched across the entrance to the parking lot. A fireman let us through. We parked and got out of Rosa’s squad car.
“Where’s the crispy critter?” she asked.
“Behind. Medical will be here in a few minutes.”
“Ready, Guy? You willing to do this?”
“Okay. I’m numb enough, I guess. I can take it.”
She took a tube of goop out of her pocket and squeezed some onto her finger, then smeared it on her upper lip. She handed the tube to me and said, “Want some?”
I smeared goop on my upper lip and my nose filled with dizzying eucalyptus odor. “That’s pretty foul.”
“Wait till you smell the competition,” she said. “You’ll want to hold your nose.”
We walked around to the back of the building, to the corner where Roger’s office had once been. The crew had carefully removed the debris from the floor in the area between two melted filing cabinets and the carcass of an office chair, leaving a circle of bare concrete around the long black body. What was once a man was lying on what was once his back. I started to retch.
“I told you to hold your nose.”
I did as I was told, but it wasn’t the smell. I got control of myself and nodded.
“Look familiar?” Rosa asked.
I opened my mouth to speak but started to gag. A cop passed me a plastic bag, where I heaved my breakfast. Then he gave me his water bottle. I drank as much as I could, then heaved again, this time missing the plastic bag.
“Careful,” Rosa said. “You’re contaminating the scene.”
I don’t know why that made me laugh. Shit. Okay. I was up for it. “How do you expect me to recognize that?” I asked. “It’s naked and it’s so badly burned I have no idea how you know it’s a male.”
“Well, he’s six-two and his hips are too narrow for a woman that tall. We’ll be doing a dental check,” Rosa said. “I was just hoping you could save us some time and some trouble.” She turned to one of the firemen and said, “Find anything else we can work with?”
He picked up a plastic box and opened it for her. “We collected a few metal objects in the near vicinity of the body,” he said.
“Set it down,” she said. “Tongs.”
He set the open box on the cement and Rosa squatted and peered inside. The fireman slapped a pair of tongs into her right hand and she gently dug around among the treasures. She pulled up a chain with two metal loops. “Handcuffs?” She looked up at me. “Ring any bells?”
I shook my head. She put the handcuffs back into the box. One by one she pulled out an assortment of scorched and misshapen screws, drawer handles, a stapler, a pair of scissors, and then something that puzzled us all. An odd shape, about three inches by two. “Gimme a rag,” she said.
She rubbed the object clean and revealed a two-dimensional babe leaning back on her arms, her knees up and her breasts pointed at heaven. “What the Christ is this?” she wondered aloud.
Oh God. “It’s a belt buckle,” I told her. “It’s made of Monel.”
“No wonder it’s in such good shape,” Rosa said. “Monel has a very high melting point. What else can you tell me about this belt buckle? Whose, for example?”
“Herndon’s,” I answered. “Roger Herndon. This was his office. That was his belt buckle. And that thing was his body.”
***
Rosa Macdonald walked me back to my car. We didn’t talk until we were leaning against the car. I wiped what was left of the goop off my upper lip, but I couldn’t erase the necrotic phantom of burnt flesh from inside my sinuses.
She spoke first. “So one suspect down. Now we’re dealing with an arson murder. Double-header. So, Guy, who hated Herndon?”
I shrugged.
“Any enemies? He was in the strip club business, right?”
“Well, he was mainly a publisher. Or a printer. Or both. Actually neither, if you want to get technical.”
“You’re tired, aren’t you?” she said.
“I’m a basket case,” I confessed. “I just barfed my Vicodin, and I’m not supposed to have another one till about ten o’clock. I’m beat to shit. My warehouse is a roach. My business is toast. I’m sorry to babble.”
Rosa patted my shoulder. “Go home and get some sleep, my friend,” she said. “Take a shower. You stink. Here.” She handed me a business card. “Come see me in my office first thing tomorrow morning. We have to talk. Meanwhile, don’t talk to anybody about what you just saw. And don’t leave town or you’re in deep shit.”
I got into my car and started the engine. She tapped a knuckle on my window, and I opened it.
“You okay to drive?”
“I don’t have far to go. I’m okay.”
“One more question,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Where were you last night between ten and eleven o’clock?”
I drove away without answering her. I also didn’t mention that I had a pretty good idea who murdered Roger Herndon.
Chapter Thirteen
I slept for five hours.
When I woke up, I padded into the bathroom and took a Vicodin. I stripped and took a long, hot shower. After I dried off, I wiped the steam from the mirror. My face was there all right, all purple and orange, but there was no soul behind it.
I flushed what was left of the Vicodin down the toilet.
It was after noon when I left the house. I drove along Cabrillo Boulevard, where Sunday tourists flock to Santa Barbara to beep and creep along the seaside street.
***
The marina parking lot was full, as it always was on Sunday mornings, but I found a place in front of Brophy Brothers’ Restaurant. I went in and was offered a chance to go upstairs and wait in the bar forty-five minutes for a chance to eat lunch. I gave the hostess my name and said I’d wait outside. She told me I had to be back in the bar when she read my name or I’d get scratched. I told her I understood.
Forty-five minutes of free parking. I walked out of the restaurant lot and across the marina lot, where I noticed three old red Volvo station wagons, and one of them even had a strawberry blonde in the driver’s seat, but the blonde wasn’t Carol and the Volvo wasn’t her car. I’d been spotting blondes and red station wagons all over town for a week, always the wrong ones.
The harbor was a forest of masts. Boats were squeezed in, tied up to berth after berth. Big working boats with tires hanging off the sides, fishing boats with giant spear guns in the bow, and pleasure boats—yachts, schooners, sloops, and dinghies. The colors of the craft and the tall reach of their masts were reflected in the still harbor. Seagulls swooped and scolded. The marina smelled deliciously of salt, fish, and spilled oil. Water calmly chuckled against the sides of the boats.
I went into the office, jingling the bell on the door. A young woman in jeans and a tee shirt stood up from her desk and came to the counter with a smile. “Help you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m looking for my friend Bob Worsham. He’s staying here in the marina. In his boat.”
“Transient or liveaboard?”
“Transi
ent, I guess. He’s from Newport Beach, just up for a month or so.”
“Transient. You know what berth he’s in?”
“No. Can you tell me?”
She brought a wooden box up from below the counter and thumbed through it, then pulled out a yellow registration card. “Oh yeah,” she said. “Him. He arrived September first. He’s in J-18. Paid up to the end of the month. He’s a friend of yours?”
“You sound dubious.”
She shrugged. “Takes all kinds. Whoa, man, pardon me for mentioning it, but that’s quite a shiner you got there. You get in an accident?”
“Your friend Bob Worsham did this to me,” I said, grinning.
“Your friend, not mine. J-18.”
“Thanks.”
I jingled the bell again and went out into the hot afternoon. I walked along the main pier until I reached J, which stretched out to the left. I walked out onto pier J until I came to berth 18. It was vacant.
A wiry man was leaning over the side of the schooner in the next berth, painting the wooden paneling with marine varnish. I waited until he pulled himself back onto his deck, set down his brush and paint can and lit a cigarette. He sat on the railing, his back to me.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He twisted around and looked down at me, then stood up, scratched his beard, and stretched. He wore cutoffs and a sleeveless gray tee shirt and an old sailor hat. Took a drag on his cigarette and said, “Tsup?” His face was lined and leathery from too much time in the sun, and he squinted like Popeye.
“The guy in this berth here,” I said, pointing at the empty space. “You seen him today?”
“Shit. He a friend of yours?”
It didn’t look as if this old salt wanted me to say yes to that one. “As a matter of fact, he beat me up in a bar last week. I came to collect.”
“You got a lot of balls to come back for more,” he told me. “You’re lucky he ain’t here, man. What an asshole.”
“So he’s gone sailing for the day, I guess. You know when he’ll be back?”
The old salt flicked his cigarette butt into the water. “That asshole doesn’t sail,” he told me. “He’s strictly motor, and he can’t do that any good either.”
Vanity Fire Page 10
