Combustion

by Martin J. Smith

  By the time the last guests were gone, Paul’s casket had been loaded into the hearse waiting at the curb. It was trailed by two limousines, doors open. Shelby urged Chloe, Paul’s mother, and her parents into the lead car and started to join them.

  “Mrs. Dwyer?”

  The voice was familiar. Shelby considered walking on, not turning around. She did, though, and greeted the police chief with a forced smile. Just the two of them remained on the church steps. “Thank you for coming, Chief—I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Kerrigan,” she said, extending a hand. “Donna Kerrigan. On behalf of the city, I wanted to be here to extend our deepest sympathies.”

  Shelby offered a limp handshake. This time there was no compassion in the woman’s eyes, no hint of goodwill or empathy. Nothing personal, Shelby knew, just business. “Nice of you to come,” she said. “You’ll let me know if there’s any progress in the investigation, won’t you?”

  Kerrigan delivered her answer without a smile. “Certainly, Mrs. Dwyer. And of course, if you have more information that might be a help to us, you’ll make sure to let us know?”

  “Of course.”

  Car doors thumped shut behind her, and Shelby turned. Only one door, in the lead limo, remained open. She felt no need to say goodbye as she descended the church steps to join her daughter and the others for the ride to Emerald Hills. She gave only a moment’s thought to the single, dense cloud that hugged the horizon. It hung there, dirty white, in the bright blue sky to the west.

  28

  Barbaric was his real name. Starke found him in the phone directory. The listing included a street address, too, and at the moment Starke was standing outside the house on the outer fringes of old Los Colmas, wondering if he had the right place. He’d seen better-maintained meth labs.

  The yard was choked with weeds, and at its center was a battered plywood skate ramp. Or at least Starke assumed it was plywood; its sides were covered by skate stickers. The garage door was off its track and hung like an uneven window shade. A pale green Datsun B210, something vaguely Carter Administration, was parked in the driveway. Its rear window was sheet plastic fastened to its frame with red duct tape, and its left front tire was nearly flat. He jotted down the license number out of habit. Even as he did, he smiled at the absurd notion that it might be stolen.

  At least there’s no pit bull staked out front, he thought, stepping onto the cracked concrete walk that led to the door. The house seemed to throb with the sound of Metallica blaring from serious speakers somewhere inside. He pounded hard. Harder.

  The music stopped, and seconds later the front door creaked open. Starke stood face to face with a young man, maybe twenty, wearing the chinos-and-blue-polo-shirt uniform of a video-rental chain currently working its way through bankruptcy. The chain’s logo adorned his chest.

  “Hi,” the kid said.

  He was about six foot three, maybe 160 in his clothes, with the fish-belly-white complexion of someone who spent far too much time indoors. His posture was downright nightmarish.

  “Eric?”

  “Was the music too loud?”

  “You’re killing a lot of brain cells with that stuff.”

  “I’ll keep it down. My bad.”

  “That’s not why I’m here, though.” Starke offered his ID. “Got a minute?”

  Eric Barbaric looked like a squirrel caught in traffic on the center stripe of a wide, wide road. “For what?”

  “You’re not in trouble or anything.” Starke smiled. “You know Jason Samani down at Silicon Recycler, right?”

  Barbaric still wasn’t breathing.

  “He gave me your name,” Starke said. “He says you sometimes buy and sell Apple computers around here, and I’m trying to track one down. One in particular. He also said you might know if there’s anybody around here who might collect old tech stuff. So, got a minute to talk?”

  Barbaric looked at his black Casio. “I was supposed to be at work, like, ten minutes ago.”

  “Video Depot?”

  “Yeah.”

  If Starke was reading him right, he looked a little embarrassed. “Can’t believe that place is still in business. I used to rent from them back in the VHS days.”

  “Not everybody has an iPad. Gotta feed the need.”

  Starke nodded. “Good place to work?”

  Barbaric shrugged. “It’s a Joe job.”

  Starke immediately recognized the term—and an opening. He tried his best Mike Myers impersonation: “‘I’ve had plenty of Joe jobs. Nothing I’d call a career. Let me put it this way: I have an extensive collection of name tags and hair nets.’”

  Barbaric finally relaxed. Even grinned. “Wayne’s World. A classic.”

  “Oh yeah.” Starke let a moment pass. “So, can I come in?”

  Barbaric swung open the door and led him into a house every bit as ruined as the front yard.

  “Nice place,” Starke said, stepping over a small, crusted, meat-smelling bowl of dog food.

  “My dad’s house,” Barbaric said, clearing a spot on the couch for Starke to sit. “He died two years ago, so now it’s mine.”

  “Live alone?”

  Barbaric nodded. “Just me and Churchill. Dad left me his house and his pug, and no money to take care of either. I hate the dog, but what am I supposed to do?” He looked at his watch. “I really need to get to work, though. Can we make this quick?”

  “Sure thing,” Starke said. “I’m looking for this one computer that someone traded in with Samani a little more than three weeks ago, Eric. Nice high-end iMac. He buys Apples, but says he resells them to you to refurbish and re-resell, because his customers are all PC people. That right?”

  Barbaric nodded. “Maybe a dozen or so per month. Not many. But yeah, I grew up with Apples and make a few bucks refurbing.”

  “So what happens when you buy one of these used computers from Samani?”

  “Wait.” Barbaric looked wary again. “This isn’t about my taxes or anything, right?”

  Starke already had the feeling that any conversation with Eric Barbaric would be an elliptical journey. “Guy’s entitled to make a few bucks off the books, far as I’m concerned,” he said. “I just want to know what might’ve happened to this computer I’m looking for.”

  “I don’t sell it myself, I parts it out. Video Depot doesn’t exactly pay a sweet wage.” He shook his head. “You have any idea what taxes on a place like this run? Effing thanks, Dad.”

  Starke tried to stay low-key. “You may remember this computer. Big-ass thing. Top shelf. Nothing wrong with it, as far as I know. Just a trade-in, so it was probably in great shape.”

  Barbaric stood suddenly and walked into what Starke assumed was a bedroom. He returned with a laptop. “What about something like this? It’s a thoroughbred. Fast. Elegant.”

  “No, no, I’m not just looking for any computer.” Starke removed his notebook from his jacket and flipped back through its pages. He shook his head. “This one I’m looking for is a desktop, big screen.” He found the page where he’d scribbled the model number Samani gave him.

  “Oh yeah,” Barbaric said. “Had a few of those last month. Sweet machines.”

  “What are the odds of finding this one in particular?” Starke said. “See, there may still be information somewhere in its memory that could help us on a case. It’s important. That’s really all I can tell you.”

  Barbaric looked disappointed. “Must be fun to be a cop.”

  Starke tried a different tack. “When you ‘refurb’ a computer, Eric, what exactly do you do to it?”

  Barbaric shrugged. “Same as Jason. The nicer ones, I just reformat the hard drives and sell as is.”

  “Which would erase everything in its memory, correct?”

  “Right. The ones with problems I sell as parts to some of the techs I know. So this one, depending on what I did with it, may or may not still have any memory at all. Its hard drive already may be in another machine somewhere. Y
ou got a serial number or anything?”

  Starke reached for his wallet, opened it, and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. Barbaric’s eyes got wide.

  “Could you at least check around for me on this?” Starke said. “Think of this as your finder’s fee. If you locate it and need to buy it back from somebody, I’ll pay you twice what it costs you.”

  “What if I can’t find it?”

  “You keep this for your trouble.” Starke handed the cash to a very pleased looking young Video Depot associate. He also gave him his Los Colmas PD business card.

  “I might need a couple of days.”

  “Sooner’s better,” Starke said, “before somebody erases what still might be on there. Like I said, it’s important.”

  “Are you deputizing me?”

  “You might call it that.” Starke stood up. “By the way, one of the tires on your Datsun went flat.”

  Barbaric rushed to the front window. He shot a panicked look at his watch. “Noooooooo!”

  “Tell you what, I’ll take you,” Starke said. “I go right by the store on my way back to the office. Might even pick up a couple of flicks while I’m there. Suddenly got a hankering for Wayne’s World.”

  Barbaric grabbed his wallet from the kitchen table and flung open the front door. He grinned. “Party on, Wayne.”

  Starke stepped outside. “Party on, Garth.”

  29

  Starke had been looking forward to his Wednesday afternoon interview with Deacon Beale, the long-time executive director of the Paul W. Dwyer Foundation. Beale’s name had come up twice in early interviews, before Dwyer turned up dead. Both sources had mentioned an unintentionally public shouting match between Beale and Dwyer that unfolded behind closed doors in the foundation’s board room.

  Both told Starke it was about a woman.

  “He’s expecting me,” Starke announced to the foundation receptionist, after pushing his card across her desk.

  He turned around and for the first time absorbed the splendor in which Dwyer’s charitable arm operated. Like the Dwyer home, the lobby of its headquarters bore Shelby’s understated but elegant design touch. Daylight streamed from overhead skylights that ran the length of the room, giving the space an outdoor feel. Even as staffers moved through the thick-carpeted reception area, it was as silent as a church. The modern architecture provided the perfect canvas for the industrial sculptures that stood against angled walls. For contrast, the curator had hung stunning examples of primitive art along the white walls between the sculptures, adding a touch of humanity. Starke fixated on an oversized mask suspended directly across from where he stood. About the size of a bicycle wheel, it was a collection of tree branches, twigs, and dried, dark brown mud shaped into a face that was both appealing and horrifying. Its one intense eye was made from the dark bottom of a broken beer bottle. It was unforgettable, if a little creepy.

  “Sir?”

  Starke turned. The receptionist handed him a security badge. “I’ll buzz you through. Just follow the corridor to the end, and Mr. Beale’s assistant will meet you.”

  “Pretty tight security, eh?” he said.

  The woman said nothing. Starke clipped the badge to his belt and moved on. Beale’s executive assistant had the storky, high-waisted legs of a classical dancer. Her face was model perfect, with short brown hair like Rosaleen’s that Starke felt the sudden urge to reach out and touch. Starke guessed she was in her early thirties, but there was a timeless quality to her. “I’m Anna Esparza,” she said. “May I offer you anything? Water? Coffee?”

  Starke thanked her, but passed.

  “Then go right in.”

  Beale stood as Starke entered. He reminded Starke of Dwyer himself, same slim athletic build and silvery hair, same winning smile he’d seen in countless charity grip-and-grin photos over the years. Maybe there was something healthy and energizing about giving away vast sums of money for a living?

  “Detective, thanks for postponing this until after the funeral this morning,” Beale said. “Shelby asked me to be one of Paul’s honor guard, so for that and a thousand other reasons I needed to be there. But that’s past us. What can I do for you today?”

  Starke began with the simple stuff. Dwyer and Beale had worked closely together for a number of years, first at the company and then at the foundation. Was Beale aware of anyone who might have had reason to harm Dwyer? Was he aware of any unusual contacts or incidents leading up to Dwyer’s disappearance that suggested what was to come? Had Dwyer talked to him about any concerns about his safety? Beale seemed to wrack his brain for anything that might help.

  “Paul wasn’t just a colleague and friend,” he said. “He was my mentor. In so many, many ways.”

  Starke riffled the pages of his notebook back to the beginning, to the first conversations he’d had with people in Paul Dwyer’s orbit in the days after he disappeared. From those conversations, Starke also knew the two men, along with executives from Dwyer Development, sometimes partied like Italian prime ministers, hosting “hospitality” bacchanals for key contractors on company projects, and at least one annual “golf” weekend for major foundation figures, all male, at a rented private home in Palm Desert. He doubted any of the guests brought their clubs.

  “Let me ask you about something else while I’ve got you,” he said.

  “Certainly.”

  Starke mentioned a date about six weeks ago. “What can you tell me about a fairly heated discussion you and Mr. Dwyer had in these offices on that day?”

  Beale’s left eye twitched, but his smile didn’t dim. “Sorry, that date again?” he asked.

  “Did you have more than one heated discussion?”

  Beale pushed away from his desk, crossed the room, and closed his office door. He sat back down, his posture suddenly relaxed. “So that’s what this is about?”

  “What happened that day, Mr. Beale?”

  “I can clear this up very quickly.”

  “Great.”

  Beale sat stone still. He seemed to be reconsidering. “The truth,” he said. “This is the God’s honest truth.”

  Starke waited.

  Finally: “My wife died eighteen months ago. Ovarian cancer. A long, brutal battle. Just hope you never have to go through something like that, detective. It’s hell. Pure acid hell.”

  At least you know why, Starke thought, but said nothing.

  “Took me a year to come out of it, this deep, deep depression,” Beale said. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever been through, like thrashing around underwater for a long time, trying to breathe. Then one day I broke the surface. I don’t know why, or what changed, but I just somehow knew it was time to stop grieving.”

  The foundation leader cocked his head toward his office door. “You met Anna,” he said. “She’s really the only one who had any idea what I was going through. She watched me struggle every day, saw me close my office door for hours at a time. Covered for me on the days when I just couldn’t face anybody. And then one day about six months ago, I realized how she’d been there for me all along. She’d given me the space to work through it all without asking a single thing in return. She’s just a very special woman. I hadn’t even considered another relationship until then, but suddenly there it was.”

  Starke jotted some notes, still not sure where this was headed. “Just to clarify, then, you’ve been seeing your secretary, Anna, for about six months?”

  “My executive assistant. Yes. She’s worked with me here for about three years, but during my years at Dwyer Development I dealt with Esparza Construction—her family’s business—for a couple of decades. ”

  “I guess I’m a little unclear about what that has to do with—”

  “Paul, as you may have heard, had an appetite for beautiful women. Surely I’m not the first to tell you that.”

  Starke acknowledged nothing. “You and Paul Dwyer traveled together quite a bit. For business.”

  Beale studied him. “We did,” he said at last. “Both
for the company and for the foundation.”

  At least twenty seconds passed while Starke waited for Beale to break the silence, but guys like him weren’t easily rattled. Starke let it stretch another ten, to make sure Beale was wondering exactly what Starke had heard about their way of doing business.

  “Any other questions?” Beale prompted.

  “So, you were saying about the women?”

  Beale reached for a black mug on his desk and took a sip. “Did Anna offer—?”

  “She did. Please go on.”

  Beale swiveled his chair toward the wide office window for a moment before turning back to Starke. “Not many people knew about us, meaning me and Anna. We’d told almost no one, because of the awkwardness of the work situation. But Paul knew. I’d told him, and assured him that we were working to find Anna a new position at the foundation so that I wasn’t in a direct supervisory role over her. So he was about the only person who did know. And he knew the whole story, why I’d fallen in love with her, which is what made him… his behavior, I should say, so difficult to understand. It put me, and her, in an impossible situation.”

  Now Starke understood. “So he was pursuing Anna as well?”

  “Relentlessly. Almost irrationally. Calling and texting her three times a day, trying to convince her to see him. Sending flowers to her here at the office. Why would he do that? To either of us? To Shelby?”

  The story fit the generally unflattering profile of Dwyer that Starke was piecing together in the wake of his death.

  “But Paul was a man used to getting everything he wanted, right now. He could be flat-out childish sometimes, and God forbid if you had something he wanted. It was no holds barred.”

  “He had that reputation in business, I know. That carried over to women as well?”

  Beale nodded. “It was painful for those of us who worked closely with him. We all know Shelby. We all love her deeply. She was so dedicated to Paul, and remains dedicated to the work of this foundation. There just aren’t many like her. Of course, that didn’t stop Paul.”