Burning Embers

by G. K. Parks

  The heat had partially melted the thinner portion of the door handle, where it rested against the thick wood frame, but most of it remained intact. The firefighters had breached the door, splintering the frame and causing even more destruction. Based on the remnants, there would be no way to tell if the arsonist forced his way into the restaurant via the front door, but maybe the lock could tell us something.

  “What did you find?” Voletek crossed to me and helped wrestle part of the door free from the debris. He eyed the blackened lock and handle.

  “No signs of forced entry out back,” I said.

  “We can’t say the same for this one.” Voletek examined the charred, splintered edges. “I’m not even sure it was standing when the fire department arrived on scene. Do you recall the reports?”

  I’d read them dozens of times. “It’s my understanding they breached the door and the wall came down after they arrived. They couldn’t save it. Lt. Payne said they responded within the normal estimated window, but their efforts weren’t enough to save the building or stop the wall from crumbling.”

  “They busted it down,” Haskell said. “It’s protocol. They had to check for survivors.” He brushed some soot off the surface. “I doubt there’s anything left to recover.”

  “What if you remove the lock? The blaze might not have damaged the interior. It could be disassembled and examined for signs of tampering. Bump keys are notorious for destroying the internal mechanisms,” I said. “The heat from the fire could have caused the metal to expand, making the door appear to be locked even if it wasn’t.”

  “Good call.” Voletek picked up the two-foot piece of door. “I’ll have the boys from the crime lab come and collect this. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky.” He looked around what remained of the dining room. “The lard’s the real kicker, but this could help. My money’s on Strader. He’s the lard king, but Dante helped him pull it off. I’m sure of it. If nothing else, Dante concealed Strader’s crime. At best, he’s an accomplice. At worst, he’s our firebug.” Voletek reached for his phone and made the call.

  “What do you think?” I asked Haskell.

  The consultant checked the standing walls one more time. “It sounds like the detective has this under control. This should help further your investigation, right?”

  I nodded. “My client will be pleased. He wanted someone to prove the fire wasn’t an accident, and I must admit, after speaking to Lt. Payne yesterday, I was having doubts.”

  “Teddy’s a good guy. I trained him. He knows his shit, but he’s got a lot on his plate. This job takes it out of you.” Haskell rubbed his chest absently. “Like you said, Alex, grease is common in restaurants. No one would bat an eye at lard inside a kitchen, especially with an air vent that close to the supply shelf. If I still worked at the BFI, I doubt even I would have caught it, but now I have the time and staff needed to really dig in deep. It struck me oddly, and since it’s my job to find inconsistencies, that’s all I look for.”

  “I’m glad you do.”

  “I probably wouldn’t have found them if you and Ted hadn’t asked for my help.” Haskell narrowed his eyes at the wall. “I still don’t know why sealant would react the way it did to the fire, but we may never know.”

  “What about Ames Bros? You said you thought they could be involved.”

  “I know they’re shady. Sound commercial construction work doesn’t collapse because of a kitchen fire, especially an exterior wall. I’ll keep digging. If they’re putting lives in danger, someone needs to stop them.”

  After conducting hours of research last night, I didn’t find any proof to Haskell’s assertion, but gut instincts couldn’t always be proven. Although, in this case, it appeared Easton Lango’s had been, and no one believed him the first few times he said it either. “Talk to Lucien Cross. He might be able to open an investigation.” I had no idea how far out on a limb my boss would go for one of his expert consultants, but it couldn’t hurt to ask. “In the meantime, I’ll keep my eyes open for anything strange.”

  “Thanks. You also might want to check into the inspection guidelines. If Ames Bros only met the minimums, that could explain this.” He waved his hand at the rubble. “I’ve been telling the city they need to have more stringent fire regs, but they never listen to me. They might listen if it comes from someone else.”

  Voletek hung up and joined us just outside the roped off area. “CSU is on the way, but since the crime scene has been unprotected for months, any evidence we uncover might be contaminated and thus inadmissible. Still, it’s best to make sure we’re not missing anything. I just wish we thought to look sooner.” The detective squinted at the burned out building. “Can you meet me down at the precinct, Mr. Haskell?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay,” Voletek turned to me, “anything else you want to add?”

  “Keep me looped in.”

  “Besides that.” The corners of Voletek’s lips twitched. He thought he had me figured out. Cocky bastard. I shook my head. “You did a good job, Alex. No wonder everyone sings your praises.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I have to speak to Chef Easton again, but rest assured, I won’t give up until I figure out exactly how that lard got inside his vent.”

  “Do you believe he’s a suspect?” I wondered why Voletek wanted to question Easton again.

  “As a rule of thumb, everyone’s a suspect. But no, I don’t think he’s to blame, but maybe he’ll remember Dante or someone else bringing odd ingredients into his kitchen. You never know.”

  “Fingers crossed.”

  Now to call Renner and give him the good news. Our involvement in the case had ended and just in time for my vacation. Martin would be ecstatic and relieved, and Easton would be pleased, as would Cross. At least, that’s what I was counting on.

  Twenty-seven

  “Are you sure that’s everything?” Martin asked. He offered a hand up and backed me against the bed until my calves bumped against the mattress. The movers had already taken the frame. Just the mattress, box spring, and bedding remained.

  “Everything but what we need for the morning. Maybe it’s stupid to stay here tonight. It would make more sense to box everything up now and go back to our place.”

  “Since when are we that practical?” He tried to toss me onto the bed, but I shifted my weight and wrapped my limbs around him, wrestling him onto the bed with me. “Damn, you’re feisty today. You’re like a playful kitten.” He nipped my earlobe. “I didn’t expect you to be in such a good mood.”

  Truthfully, I wasn’t, but it was easier to pretend and let Martin distract me for the rest of the day. The packing was done. One box remained open, and in the morning, I’d throw my sheets and blankets into the box along with our clothes. Aside from a few pieces of furniture and half a dozen boxes, my apartment was empty. Tonight wasn’t that different from the first night I spent in this place. I was about to embark on another journey; the unknown spread out before me.

  After gorging ourselves on leftover takeout and enjoying one final hurrah, as Martin put it, I stared at the ceiling while memories of the last eight years played through my head. I spent more than half of my twenties in this apartment. This was my first home. I’d miss it. I worked a lot of cases under this roof, from federal investigations to private sector gigs. How many times did I have to spackle and repaint the living room wall because I’d hung up case notes and photos? Ten? Eleven? It might have been more than that.

  My mind got derailed on that point, and my thoughts shifted to the fire at Sizzle. How many times had those walls been repainted or wallpapered over? The restaurant had changed hands a number of times in the last thirty years. Most restaurants flopped within two years, so it probably had gone through ten or twelve renditions before Easton Lango bought it. That was a lot of different coats of paint, wallpaper, and paneling. Could that have had anything to do with why the fire burned so hot in localized areas? Maybe it wasn’t the sealant. Maybe it was the layers of chemicals and p
aper or some type of interaction among the different chemicals and cleaners.

  Reaching for my phone, I typed myself a note and tried to go to sleep. We had to get up in two hours to catch our flight, but thoughts of other recent area fires kept me awake. What if it wasn’t the construction crew who used substandard materials? What if it was one of the companies that provided the décor?

  Martin rolled to face me. “Hey,” he brushed a strand of hair away from my face, “are you all right?”

  “Yeah, just thinking.”

  “It’s not too late. You can change your mind.”

  “No, I want to come with you on your business trip.”

  He chuckled. “Not about that. About the apartment. You didn’t renew your lease, but your landlord will give you another month to decide, if you want. If you’re having second thoughts, it won’t hurt to pay for another month, just to be sure.”

  “That’s not necessary. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  He stared at me through the dim lighting. “Okay, if you’re positive.”

  “I am.”

  He propped a few pillows against the wall and leaned back. For the next two hours, we reminisced. Martin said he’d miss this place as much as I did, though he spent a lot of time complaining about how tiny and cramped it was. I suppose nostalgia always gave things a lovely rose tint.

  When the alarm blared, I got up, dressed, and finished packing. The best thing about not sleeping was avoiding that tired, dragging feeling first thing in the morning. With everything packed, I sat at the counter, staring at the spot where the coffeemaker used to be.

  “Coffee will be waiting on the plane.” Martin yawned.

  “Did you sleep at all last night?” I’d been so consumed by my internal thoughts that I didn’t notice what he’d been doing until he spoke to me.

  “A little.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He waved the thought away. “No worries. I’ll sleep during the flight. I don’t have anything official to handle until my lunch meeting, but I’d like to get some things done once we arrive. I could always take a nap if I need to. We’ll see how it goes. At these conferences, I tend to play it by ear.”

  Marcal, Martin’s valet, arrived to pick us up and take us to the airport. Marcal went over our itinerary and promised, after he dropped us off, that he’d return to my apartment and wait for the movers. By this afternoon, my apartment would be completely empty.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Anytime, Ms. Parker.” He smiled at me from the rearview mirror.

  Martin asked about the beach house, and they went over instructions and an estimated timetable while I stared out the window at the buildings zooming by. In no time, we arrived at the airport, the wheels in my head spinning over nonsensical facts and random exhaustion-fueled musings. Marcal unloaded our luggage, wished us a safe trip, and promised to call if any problems arose.

  Once we were airborne, Martin settled down on the sofa. Just one of the perks of private jets. He closed his eyes and within minutes fell asleep. Either he was appropriately exhausted after last night or getting out of the city erased the stress he’d been carrying with him for the last two months. I was safe and away from danger, and it appeared that’s all he needed to believe in order to sleep.

  My job was going to kill one of us. I always thought it’d be me, but after these last few weeks, I feared the stress might do him in first. He needed to relax. He needed to realize nothing had changed. It was always like this and probably always would be. Hopefully, the time away was exactly what he needed.

  When we landed almost seven hours later, though with the time difference the clock said it was less than four hours later, Martin was raring to go. Frankly, I was surprised he didn’t drop to the floor to do push-ups in the airport. By the time we got into the waiting town car, he was already on the phone with his associates.

  I stared bleary-eyed out the tinted windows at the desert sun, fighting back a shudder. I didn’t like the arid heat. However, by the time the car pulled up to the hotel, there wasn’t much sky left to see among the skyscrapers and neon lights, though they didn’t look quite so neon in the bright sunshine. I stepped out of the air-conditioned vehicle, the dry heat suffocating as it stole my breath. Martin tipped the driver who helped the hotel staff load our luggage onto a cart.

  He spoke to the bellhops, who obediently trailed behind us. The hotel clerk handed us each a room key. I snickered at the PH written on the sleeve. Of course we had the penthouse. Martin didn’t believe there was any other way to travel. Admittedly, he wasn’t wrong.

  “Thank you.” Martin smiled graciously, dazzling the hotel clerk with his charm and sophistication, or at least that’s how the manager appeared, though I suspected a fair amount of botox had probably frozen the man’s face into the shape of utter adulation. It probably helped when dealing with irate guests or angry, newly broke, and drunk gamblers.

  “Mr. Wingate left a message.” The clerk handed Martin an envelope. “He’s waiting for you in the private dining hall.”

  Martin tore open the envelope and skimmed the note. “Alex–”

  “Go. I’ll get us settled upstairs.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart.” He pressed his lips to my temple. “Text if you go out or leave me a note in the room.”

  “Sure.”

  The clerk gave me a rundown of the casino, the restaurants and hours of operation, the locations for the indoor and outdoor pools, fitness center, and a few brochures detailing headliners performing here and at the sister establishments. I didn’t care. I just wanted to get some sleep.

  The bellhop took me upstairs, unloaded our bags, practically offering to unpack and turn down the bed. Did I tell him I was tired, or was he just astute? After tipping him well, I unzipped Martin’s garment bags and hung his suits in the closet. Having fulfilled my duties as loving girlfriend, I sunk onto the bed. Now to sleep, except, as usual, my mind was racing.

  “Stop it,” I snarled. Reaching for my phone, I sent a message to Renner. Since it was Monday, the chefs would be arraigned and released until their next court date. I had to make sure Easton was safe.

  Spoke to him earlier. Bridget helped him file a TRO. Cross Security will continue to keep an eye out.

  I snorted at the response. The ex-wife wasn’t as hands-off as she wanted me to believe. I wondered if she reached out to Easton or vice versa. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t cupid, and based on what I’d seen, they were better off apart.

  After exchanging a few more texts concerning my revelation last night, Renner assured me he’d run it by Detective Voletek. Aren’t you on vacation?

  I glared at my phone and put it down, not dignifying the question with a response. It was my vacation. I could do whatever I wanted, except sleep. The case had me too wound up, so did the move. When we returned home, my life would be irrevocably different.

  Oh god. My breath caught, and my heart rate skyrocketed. I’d been through enough panic attacks to know what this was. I also knew it was stupid. Nothing was different. Not really. I hardly ever used my apartment. I didn’t need the extra expense. I didn’t need the safety net. I was safe with Martin. He was my home.

  Blowing out a few steady breaths, I dialed down the emotional turmoil to a more tolerable level. I needed to relax and stop thinking about everything. Turning on the TV, I flipped through the channels until I found a classic cartoon station. Nothing could distract like a moving picture box featuring a cat chasing a yellow bird. Eventually, I sprawled out on the bed and closed my eyes. Thoughts of fires were the furthest thing from my mind.

  A few hours later, Martin let himself into the room. I rolled over, watching him dig through his bag. He pulled out a travel case and put on his fancy watch and Harvard business school ring. Even though Martin always appeared cool and charismatic in business settings, he was nervous but concealed it well. He’d never admit it, but he wanted to make sure his qualifications and success were obvious. He hid behind those trinkets to bols
ter his confidence and encourage others to be reassured by his words.

  “Hey,” I slurred, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, “if you don’t get mugged, you’ll be great.”

  “The word you’re looking for is magnificent.” He turned to the mirror and fixed his hair. When he stopped fussing over his appearance, he asked, “Have you been in the room all day?”

  “It’s my vacation. I’m sleeping in.”

  “Okay, but think about joining me later for dinner. I’d like to know one person in the audience isn’t secretly hoping I flub my speech or plotting to steal my watch.”

  Climbing off the bed, I gave him a peck on the cheek. “Knock ‘em dead. I’ll help you hide the bodies afterward.”

  Twenty-eight

  I didn’t make it down to dinner. In fact, I didn’t leave our hotel room for the first three days of our trip. Martin was so consumed by the conference I didn’t think he noticed. At least, I hoped he didn’t. Aside from a few trips upstairs to grab notes, change clothes, or see what I was up to, he was gone fourteen to sixteen hours each day. He was in his element, which meant I had to find other ways to entertain myself.

  In the city of sin, that shouldn’t have been hard, but instead of gambling or stuffing singles into bright orange g-strings, I did what I always do. I kept digging into the fire at Sizzle.

  Despite Renner’s proclamation that the case was closed, I knew there was more to it. Detective Voletek couldn’t get a confession out of Galen Strader or Dante Bisset. They copped to everything but the fire. When confronted with the tub of lard, Bisset clammed up, unlike Strader who told the police he had given several ingredients, including the lard, to Bisset two weeks prior to the fire. When asked why he did it, Strader said he wanted to teach Bisset the fine art of pie crust making as a reward for some insider recipe information.