by G. K. Parks
I continued down the block and stopped in front of the house. Three of the men eyed me suspiciously. The fourth might have been asleep or blasted.
“Good morning.”
No one spoke, but one of them scratched his junk.
“Did you guys happen to notice anything strange last night?”
Again, utter silence.
I held my fist beneath my mouth and tapped on it with my other hand. “Is this thing on?”
One of them snorted before looking away. “What do you want?”
“There was a break-in last night.”
“We don’t know nothing ‘bout it.”
“No, of course you don’t. But the police are investigating, and they’re going to hang around and make a nuisance of themselves until they find some evidence. The sooner they solve the case, the sooner they’ll get out of the neighborhood, and the sooner you can get back to business.”
“Whatever,” the one with the itchy crotch said. “We don’t talk to cops.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not a cop.”
The one to his left snickered. “Who are you?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“You don’t look like a dick.” Obviously, Itchy Crotch was the leader of the pack.
“Thanks, but I can’t say the same about you.”
The other two cackled, and the one who might have been asleep gave them a slit-eyed death glare.
“You wanna say that again, bitch?” Itchy Crotch got out of the chair and took a step off the porch. I could see the bulge of a gun tucked beneath his shirt. Regardless, I knew he wouldn’t shoot me in broad daylight in front of a police cruiser.
“Come here,” I crooked my finger, “I want to tell you something.”
He ambled down the cracked and stained walkway until he towered in front of me. “What?”
“Unless you want twenty-four hour surveillance outside your house and every single one of your friends to get pulled over and searched before and after they leave, I suggest you tell me what you know. Otherwise, no one’s going to come here to party. Understand?”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“I’m not threatening you. I’m warning you what the police are planning. I just spoke to a detective, and he said they’re going to have units ready to roll in on your visitors tonight. I wanted to give you the heads up.”
“Why?”
“Because they think you’re involved. But I don’t. If someone got a little too wasted and threw a brick through a window, just say so. It’ll save us both a lot of trouble.”
“That’s not what happened.” Itchy Crotch leaned closer, probably so his friends wouldn’t hear him. “Some car we’ve never seen before drove up. It had plenty of horses and was flashy as fuck. Two guys got out. One went around the back. The other grabbed something out of the trunk. Next thing I know, the front door’s open, and the car’s burning rubber.”
“Did you get a plate or a description of the men?”
“Nope, but they ain’t part of my crew, and they ain’t none of my friends. You feel me?”
“Yeah, I feel you.”
“Good.” He slapped my ass and spoke loudly. “Now get goin’ unless you want to see what my dick does.” I’m guessing whatever it did would explain the constant need to scratch.
I turned and headed back to Easton’s house while listening to the whistles and catcalls from the peanut gallery. The last part was about posturing and saving face with his pals. Itchy Crotch didn’t want to be deemed a snitch by cooperating, but he wasn’t an idiot. He knew the damage a constant police presence would have on his business, and he was cautious enough to buy into my lies. Unfortunately, what he said didn’t help much.
Voletek waited for me beside the car. “Do you have a death wish?”
“You asked me to speak to the neighbors. You didn’t specify which neighbors.”
“Did you get anything useful?”
“Two men in a muscle car surrounded Easton’s house. One threw the brick and probably breached the front door. The other went around back, presumably to do something to the food truck.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the camera in the kitchen?”
“It’s Renner’s case. It’s his decision.”
“You should have called as soon as you found it.”
“Sorry.”
Voletek considered my apology. “Bennett Renner said you used to be an FBI agent. How’d you end up with Cross Security?”
“Look, Detective, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. But now’s not the time for a heart to heart. Did Bennett tell you Cross Security’s suspicious about Easton’s ex-wife?”
“He did, but he doesn’t buy it.”
“I’m glad you’re up to speed.” I palmed my keys, watching as the window repair van and the home security van pulled to a stop in front of the house. Renner introduced Easton to the men and instructed the team where to get started. “Are you sticking around, Bennett?”
“At least until everything’s installed. I’m waiting on my car guy to check out the truck.”
“Do you think the bastards from last night sabotaged it?” Easton asked, joining us in the driveway.
“We want to make sure they didn’t,” Renner said.
“What should I do?” Easton asked.
“Nothing to do. We just need you to hang tight a little longer.” Renner glanced at Voletek, who agreed.
Easton rubbed his forehead. “Fine. I have to contact my vendors. Let me know if you need me.”
“What are you going to do?” Renner asked me.
“I have meetings with various arson investigators, and I might drop by Reeves, Almeada, and Stockton for a consult.”
“Parker,” Renner warned, “I thought you didn’t want to ruffle Lucien’s feathers.”
“No ruffling, just a quick trip. Honestly, I don’t think Bridget Stockton has anything to do with this, but I want to make sure.” I turned to Voletek. “Can you send a photo of the car to Cross Security? I need to print a hard copy.”
“Once we sort through the auto body shops’ records, I’m sure we’ll get details on the lights. There’s no reason for you to stick your neck out,” Voletek said. “I got this.”
“That’s not what you said a few days ago,” Renner mumbled.
“I’m glad you got this,” I said, “but I’d still like a copy of the footage or at least a still of the muscle car. Y’know, something to commemorate working our first case together. I’m nostalgic like that.”
Voletek glanced from Renner to me. “Fine.”
I smiled sweetly. “Thanks, Jake, but if you really want to do me a favor, you’ll question Chef Strader and find out where he went last night. His prints are in the system, but two men came here last night. And since Strader left Bouillon in the middle of a shift for some unknown emergency, he’s still my prime suspect.” Even though I couldn’t link the car to Easton’s rival, my gut said Strader was involved. We just had to prove it.
“I’m way ahead of you. We have an appointment at noon. I’ll tell you what I learn on one condition.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The two of you,” he pointed to Renner and me, “will share your findings with me.”
“No problem,” Renner said.
Fourteen
“Ms. Parker?” Lou Hutton stepped into the opening between two partitions. “You wanted to speak to me about a claim I paid.”
“Yes, sir.” I glanced around. For an insurance firm, I expected nicer offices, not particle board cubicles.
He grabbed a folding chair from where it leaned against an actual wall. “Step into my office, and please excuse the mess.”
I entered the office, not surprised to find press-wood furniture and cheap equipment. Most insurance companies made money hand over fist, but if the décor was any indication, this one must issue payouts like lollipops at the bank. Perhaps I should consider switching, like all those commercials insisted. A hal
f-eaten submarine sandwich and an open bag of chips sat on the desk next to a can of diet cola with a pink reusable straw.
Lou came up behind me, opened the chair, and plopped it down before brushing crumbs from his desk and taking a seat. “I’ve never gotten a complaint about a payout before. This is new territory for me.”
“It’s not a complaint, just some basic questions.” A rotting apple core caught my attention, and I crinkled my nose at the odor it produced. Covering my disgust with a fake sneeze, I decided it’d be best to breathe through my mouth. “Do you remember the fire at Sizzle?”
“Sizzle,” he wiped his greasy palms on his pants and blew the crumbs off the keyboard, “that’s a terrible name for a place that burned down.”
“I don’t think Mr. Lango expected that to happen when he named it.”
Lou looked up at me. “No, of course not. We don’t think this was arson.”
“Why not?”
He appeared even more distressed by that question than the possibility he accidently implied Easton intended the restaurant to burn to the ground. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. How did you determine it wasn’t arson?”
“It was electrical.”
“You’re positive?”
“Um…yeah?”
“Is that a question or your answer?”
He sputtered. “Ms. Parker, we reviewed the reports we received from the police and fire department. I walked through the scene with the arson investigator. He showed me the source of the fire and the burn patterns on the walls. It wasn’t arson.”
“If it had been, would Easton Lango be entitled to a larger payout?”
“If he set his own restaurant on fire, he wouldn’t get a dime.”
“What if someone else set his restaurant on fire?”
Lou chuckled uneasily, as if I were making a joke. “Assuming the resulting investigation concluded a third party was acting on his own volition, Mr. Lango would eventually receive whatever his policy covered, which is what he received from us after we made our final assessment.”
Legal hadn’t found any hidden clauses or alternate pay schedules, but I figured it didn’t hurt to ask. “Why didn’t you hire an arson expert to assess the situation?”
“We don’t employ anyone with those qualifications full time, and hiring an expert in that particular field is costly and time consuming. Since the fire wasn’t suspicious according to the fire department’s arson investigator and the police officers who worked the scene, we performed a final assessment and wrote it off.”
“Great.” Ready to leave, I stood. “Thanks for your time.”
“Wait a sec.” His eyes darted to the opening between the cubicles. “Why does Cross Security think it was arson?”
“We don’t, but our client does.”
Lou nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “Ah.” Then his brow furrowed. “Why would Mr. Lango insist on that? Is he confessing to the crime?”
I blinked, wondering if the fermented apple fumes and mold had affected his brain. “He believes an unknown third party set the fire.”
“Oh, that makes more sense.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Do you think that’s true?”
“I guess we’ll find out.” I nodded at him. “Thank you for your time. I’ll let you know if I have any other questions.”
He extended his hand, so I faked another sneeze. And he retracted his hand. Turning on my heel, I walked through the opening in the partitions and out of his office. I didn’t want to be rude, but the last thing I wanted was a greasy handshake. I had to get to my next interview, and shaking hands with one of the city’s bravest with secondhand potato chip grease wouldn’t endear me to him.
* * *
Lt. Ted Payne wore the dress shirt and insignia of the city’s fire department proudly. His shirt was crisp with pin-straight pleats lined up perfectly with the pleats in his slacks. His desk was neatly organized, despite the towers of files covering the top. He stood, leaning forward and offering me his hand.
“Detective Parker?”
“Just Alex,” I said. “I work private investigations. We don’t get titles.”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It was the only indication of his age, aside from some slight greying at his temples. I guessed he was probably around forty. He was Lou Hutton’s polar opposite. “You have a question about an investigation?”
“The fire at Sizzle.”
Payne’s eyebrows knit together. “When did it happen?” I gave him the exact date and address. He read the tabs on the stack of folders. “Is this an open investigation? I’m not seeing it here.”
“No, sir, your office already concluded it was electrical.”
“Oh. Okay. Come with me.” He led the way out of the office and down the hall to the records room. He opened the door to a small room jam-packed with filing cabinets. After locating the proper drawer, he removed a thick file and put it down on a desk beside a computer. “That was one hell of a fire.”
He showed me the photographs. The structural damage led to a partial collapse. Ash, dust, and rubble covered everything in a thick, chalky layer of charcoal. I flipped through the images, recalling scenes of explosions, but I never worked a fire investigation. The OIO didn’t deal with those sorts of issues.
“See this?” Payne flipped back to the last photo I looked at and pointed at a charred outlet. “We see these a lot in electrical fires. Appliances require a lot of energy, and given the building’s age, the wiring installed probably wasn’t meant to withstand the amperes of a modern-day commercial kitchen.”
“Shouldn’t the inspection have flagged this?” I asked. “Easton Lango had the building inspected several times. It passed all the necessary checks and met the required standards.”
“The city’s standards are decent, but they could be better. Most fires occur inside inspected buildings.” He saw the look on my face. “Scary, I know, but that’s why we give lessons on fire safety and what to do in the event of a fire.”
“Stop, drop, and roll.”
“Among other things. Baking soda is a good fire retardant for small fires.”
“Great. I’ll buy some on my way home.”
His forehead crinkled, unsure if I was being serious or flippant. “Anyway, based on the burning and scorch marks, we know this was the point of origin. The fire started here, at this outlet. The sparks probably ignited a towel and traveled.” He pointed to a large scorch mark against a different wall. “That’s from a flare-up, most likely from cooking grease. These other flare-ups were probably from pantry items stored in polypropylene bags, liquor bottles, or oil containers. It’s hard to say for certain. We found remnants of all three at the scene.” He pointed to downed metal shelving on the floor. “Each is commonly found in commercial kitchens and restaurants.”
“Mind dumbing that down for me? Polypropylene bags?”
“Polypropylene bags are petroleum based, and if the contents are heavy in carbs and fats, like cheese puffs or potato chips, you basically have a cocktail for disaster once ignited. Here’s a tip. If you’re ever camping and can’t find kindling, use potato chips. They’ll burn for a few minutes which is usually long enough to get a fire going.”
“I thought you were in the business of putting out fires, not starting them,” I teased.
He laughed. “I have to know how they start in order to prevent them.”
That reminded me of the PSA commercials when I was a kid with the bear in the woods, but I kept my mouth shut. “Okay, so the fire started at the outlet and spread throughout the kitchen.”
Payne nodded. “If it had been extinguished immediately, it might have been contained to this area, but unfortunately, it spread into the dining room.”
“Shouldn’t that have taken time to burn and spread?”
“The kitchen went up quick.” He pointed to more photos of the destruction. “There should be a fire barrier between the kitchen and the rest of the restaurant,
which is why we think it spread through the walls, possibly the ceiling. Once it hit the dining room, it would have taken longer to burn. The furniture and décor have to be flame retardant, but fire is unpredictable. Anything can happen. Maybe the front door or an open window attracted the flames and fed the blaze.”
“How long did it take firefighters to respond?” I pointed at the collapsed front wall. “I would have thought the building could have been saved. Is damage like this typical?”
“They arrived within the normal estimated window. It’s not their fault. It’s an old building. Unfortunately, we see this a lot. The contractors might have cut corners and skimped. Until something like this happens, we have no way of knowing how put together a building really is.”
“Lovely.”
“Isn’t it?” Payne said with an equal amount of sarcasm. He narrowed his eyes at the photographs, pointing out water and smoke damage before reaching for a magnifying glass to study a piece of the crumbled wall. He flipped past the photos to the report at the end and reread the findings. “The drywall acted like tinder paper. It’s why the front wall came down.”
“Is that normal?”
Bewildered, Payne said, “Not at all.”
“Is the building still there?”
“What’s left of it. The city didn’t demolish it. The remaining structure is stable. Basically, the dining room is what collapsed, but the interior walls are strong enough to support the rest of the building and what little remains of the roof. After venting, chunks of it crashed through the burning building.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“No incident reports were filed. The responding firefighters weren’t injured.” He checked the page a second time to make sure the details were correct and offered me an encouraging smile, despite the terrifying images. “We’re trained for this, ma’am. Fires are dangerous, but we do our best to minimize risk.” He continued scanning the page. “Easton Lango called 911 and reported the fire. According to this, he was treated for burns to his hand.”
