“We're trying to establish how Professor Linney happened to be at the Fuller house. So what you're telling us is helpful. It corroborates a pattern.”
“Miss Blume loves patterns,” Porter said.
I smiled at him and silently invoked a Yiddish curse: May you grow like an onion, with your head in the ground. Maybe that's what the Mona Lisa was thinking, too.
“Did Professor Linney tell you why he wanted to go to his daughter's house?” Hernandez asked.
“No. But when he was pounding on the door, trying to get in, he said that he hoped she didn't hate him, that he'd done what he had because he loved her. He was crying.” I felt a wave of sadness for the old man.
“What do you think he meant?”
“I have no idea.” I wondered again whether Bolt knew. I debated telling the detectives that Linney hadn't wanted to return to his son-in-law's house but decided not to sic Porter on Reston.
“You told us Linney was pounding on the door,” Porter said. “He didn't have a key?”
“He said he forgot it.”
“Did he seem lucid, Miss Blume?” Hernandez asked.
“Lucid, but confused. He thought his daughter still lived in the house. And as I said, he was agitated.”
“Did he say anything else?” Porter asked in that same grating tone that made me grit my teeth.
Hank's a mean son of a bitch. I shook my head. Partly because Porter was getting on my nerves. Partly because I suspected there was more to Hernandez's questions than he'd admitted. Intuition, a sixth sense. It's worked for me before. Other times, of course, it's led me nowhere.
“You mentioned that Mr. Reston was at the HARP meeting,” Hernandez said. “Was he pro or anti?”
“I don't know. I didn't have a chance to ask him. I overheard him telling a woman that he'd come to the meeting because he'd promised to give Linney a report.”
“Was he wearing a jacket, by the way?”
I pictured Reston. “He had a black leather jacket and an oversize sweater. I remember thinking it made him look larger than he was.”
Hernandez flipped a page of his notepad. “You interviewed many people for your article. Did any of them speculate as to who was responsible for the vandalisms?”
I shook my head. “Are you assuming that the person who placed the bird started the fire in the Fuller house?”
“It's a strong possibility. You probably didn't use all your interview material in your Times article, correct? Something in your notes might give us a lead.”
I didn't like where this was heading. “I don't think so, but I'll check them again.”
“If we could take a look . . . I'm sure you want to help us apprehend the person responsible for Professor Linney's death.”
“Absolutely.” I nodded. “But I'm not comfortable handing over my notes.” I had nothing to hide and no one to protect, but my notes were as private as my underwear.
Hernandez looked disappointed but not angry, unlike Porter, who was glaring. “At some point, Miss Blume, we may have to insist,” Hernandez said, a pleasant but unapologetic warning in his musical voice. “So please take good care of your notes. Thanks for your time.” He stood. “If we have more questions—”
“About Professor Linney,” I said. “Tim Bolt told me Margaret Reston disappeared several months ago. What's happening with that case?” I'd accessed the Times archives yesterday but had found only a few small paragraphs in the “California” section stating the bare facts and asking anyone who had information about the missing woman to contact the police.
“After five months, the trail is cold. But of course, if we get any leads, we follow up.”
“Do you think she's dead, Detective?”
“Probably. But without a body, we can't be certain.”
“Is her husband a suspect?”
“I can't discuss the Reston case, just as you can't share your notes.” Hernandez smiled. “I'm sure you understand.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“IF YOU HAVE ANY MORE PATTERNS, YOU SHOULD consider taking up knitting,” Connors said when I finally reached him on the phone a little after two.
I hadn't talked to him since Thursday morning. He hadn't been at the station today when I'd stopped by on my rounds for my column, and he hadn't returned any of my calls. I knew he was pissed.
“I didn't mention that the chairpersons were being targeted, Andy.” I filled a glass with tap water and downed half. My fourth glass of the day—I was trying to be good but felt like an inflated flotation device.
“I asked you not to mention the bird, Molly. I asked you not to mention the board members at all.”
“I did what I thought was right.” There was no point in beating a dead horse—or bird, in this case. And that wasn't why I'd phoned. “I had a visit from Vince Porter and Enrico Hernandez this morning. Do you know Hernandez?”
“I know Rico. He's a good man.”
“They wanted to know all about the HARP meeting. And they asked me about the man who died, Oscar Linney.”
“Why would they ask you?”
“Porter didn't tell you? I gave Linney a ride to his daughter's house the other day.” I sighed. “I can't get the old man out of my mind, Andy.”
“You see dead people,” Connors said in a droll monotone. “How'd you know Linney?” he asked, more serious.
“I didn't know him. We met in front of my car.” I gave Connors the details. “Bolt told me it wasn't the first time Linney showed up looking for his daughter. I imagine he told Porter the same thing. So I'm wondering why he and Hernandez are asking so many questions.”
“Ask them.”
“I did. Hernandez said they're trying to establish how Linney got to Fuller from his son-in-law's house Friday.”
“There you go, Molly. Mystery's solved. We return you to our regularly scheduled program.”
“I had the feeling there was more to it. Did Porter tell you what's going on, Andy?”
“He's Wilshire, I'm Hollywood. Believe me, I have enough on my own plate.”
Not really an answer. “But the vandalisms crossed divisions, Andy. Are you telling me you haven't talked to Porter since the fire?”
Connors hesitated. “I've talked to him.”
“I heard that the accelerant was lighter fluid. Is that true?”
“No, it's not.”
That surprised me. “It's not? What was it?”
“You really should talk to Porter, Molly. It's his case. The fire department's, actually. But Porter and Hernandez are helping.”
I frowned. “Why are you shutting me out, Andy?”
“Maybe because I don't want to read about it in tomorrow's Times. Maybe I like my job and being able to pay the bills.”
“I won't write anything until you say I can. You have my word.” I paused to give my promise weight. “What was the accelerant?” I downed the rest of the water. “Andy?”
“Paint thinner.”
Interesting. “Where was Linney when they found him?”
“At the bottom of the staircase. His cane was in an upstairs bedroom. From the impression on the bed, they're guessing he was asleep when the fire started.”
“I wonder why he didn't call the fire department.”
“You said he had Alzheimer's, right? He was probably confused. He panicked and fell trying to get downstairs. If he'd stayed up there, he probably would've been okay. There was very little damage to the second story.”
That made his death even sadder. “How do they know he wasn't hurrying up the stairs to get away from the flames?”
“From the position of the body and the injuries. Possible broken neck. They found contusions on his face and bruises on his legs. The M.E. is doing the autopsy, probably tomorrow morning. Until they get the results, they won't know what killed him, the fall or the fire.”
I pictured the old man as he got into my car. I saw the robe open, the exposed bony knees. “The bruises were there when I met him.” I told Connors what I'd s
een.
“Tell Porter or Hernandez, not me.”
With my ironing board set up in my bedroom and Elton John belting out “Rocket Man,” I tackled the first of half a dozen blouses I'd laundered the other day. My sisters think I'm crazy, but I'm one of those people who find ironing relaxing. I also—don't laugh—derive pleasure from turning something wrinkled into something lovely, if only temporarily so. Plus I do some of my best thinking when my mind wanders and my only concern is not burning my fingers.
I ran the hot Rowenta over a striped sleeve (if you're going to spend quality time with an iron, use a good one) and reviewed my session with Porter and Hernandez. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that they hadn't come to ask me about the HARP meeting. It was Linney they were interested in.
I finished the blouse and phoned Connors.
“All the questions Hernandez and Porter asked me?” I said when he came on the line. “‘What did Linney say? What was he like?' They're wondering whether Linney happened to be at the house when it was torched, or whether the house was torched because he was there.”
“Molly.” Connors sighed.
“It's because Margaret Reston disappeared, isn't it? Linney's daughter, but I assume you know that. She's gone, presumed dead. Now he's dead, too.”
“The two incidents aren't necessarily connected.”
“Linney doesn't fit the pattern, Andy. Why would the vandal strike the Miracle Mile area a second time?”
“Why wouldn't he? Porter told me Linney headed the HARP board, so he definitely fits the pattern.”
“Linney chaired the board a year ago. How would the vandal have known that?”
“The information's not hard to get. He could've found it on-line. You did. Or he could've asked a HARP member.”
“And waited a year to strike?” I flipped another blouse onto the board and ran the iron across the collar. “Excluding Linney, six chairpersons' homes were vandalized. Plus Fennel, who was chair until his term was up a month ago. The first chairperson was vandalized a month ago, too,” I continued, thinking it through as I spoke, “so when the vandal made his target list, Fennel was on it.”
“And Linney wasn't.” Connors sounded thoughtful.
“No, but someone tried to make it look like he was part of the pattern. Whoever torched the house took advantage of the fact that someone was targeting HARP board members, but he didn't know that the vandal was targeting the chairpersons.” The significance of what I'd said hit me. A copycat. My fault. I think the knowledge was there from the moment I'd watched Linney's house burn. I just hadn't wanted to face it.
Connors was silent. The iron hissed steam.
“I know what you're thinking,” I said. “If I hadn't written the article, if I hadn't mentioned the board members . . . Linney might be alive.” Tears smarted my eyes. I bit my lips.
“You're being hard on yourself, Molly,” Connors said quietly, his kindness worse than an I-told-you-so. “You're assuming he was the target. This could be the work of the same guy who vandalized the other places. Maybe Linney just happened to be there.”
“A man's daughter disappears, and five months later he dies in a fire started by arson? Porter and Hernandez are suspicious. I would be, too. So are you.”
“I've heard of stranger coincidences, Molly.”
“He didn't want to go up the stairs,” I said.
“What?”
“I just remembered. The day I drove Linney to his daughter's house? The neighbor invited him to rest at his place, and Linney said he didn't want to climb the stairs because he was afraid he'd fall and break his hip. So what was he doing in an upstairs bedroom Friday night?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WALTER FENNEL EYED ME THROUGH THE PRIVACY window of his front door. “What did you say your name was?” he asked again in a squeaky voice that needed oiling.
“Molly Blume.” I said it louder this time.
“I know that name. Have we met?”
He was either a James Joyce fan or he'd read my article. I hoped it was the former. “I don't think so. I'd like to ask you a few questions about Professor Linney.”
“Are you a police detective? I talked to two of them today. A tall blond fellow and a Latino.”
“No, I'm a writer.” So Porter and Hernandez had been here. Porter may be annoying, but he's no slouch.
“I'll bet they're sorry they didn't take the vandalism to my house more seriously.” He grunted with satisfaction. “Let me see some ID. Slide it under the door, would you? It's hard to see anything through this damn window.”
I took a business card from my wallet and did as he asked. A few seconds later the door opened and I had my first look at the neighborhood watchdog.
Hangdog was more like it. He had a thin, bony face with folds of loose skin that disappeared into the wattles of his scrawny neck. He was mostly bald, except for a yellow-white fringe at the back of his pink scalp that looked like dandelion fur. Porter had said the old man was five-six, but his hunched posture sliced off a few inches.
“I've seen you before.” His pale brown eyes studied me through gold-tone bifocals lowered on his long, sharp nose.
“My sister lives across the street,” I said, speaking a little louder than normal. “Mindy Wollensky?”
“You don't have to yell, young lady. That's what these are for.” He pointed to his hearing aids. “Sometimes I turn the damn things off and pretend they're not working well. Don't tell my wife.” He winked at me. “Your sister just had a baby. A boy after two girls, right? How's the little guy doing?” His tongue made a sweep of his thin upper lip.
The FBI had nothing over him. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Fine.”
“Who are you talking to, Walter?” a woman called. A moment later she was standing beside him, wearing a navy velour sweat suit that strained across her chest and hips.
She was a large woman with a full face and a set of chins that looked like nesting tables. The fullness, along with her tinted brown hair and a touch of pink lipstick and blusher, made her look years younger than Fennel.
“Her name is Molly Blume,” he practically yelled. “She's a writer.” He did that tongue-sweeping thing again.
“Are you selling magazines?” she asked. “We have too many as it is.”
“She's here about Linney. She's Mrs. Wollensky's sister.” He faced me. “I see your sister pushing the carriage sometimes. She's a lawyer, right?”
“You're the reporter!” The wife pointed an accusing finger. “You wrote that article in Friday's Times.”
Fennel pushed his glasses high up against the bridge of his nose and frowned. “You called us Harpies.”
I was blushing as though he'd caught me buck naked. “I reported what some people are saying, Mr. Fennel. I didn't mean to offend you.”
“Well, they can say what they want. I won't apologize for trying to keep this neighborhood from being destroyed. I'll bet you thought that was funny, someone throwing a pumpkin and eggs at our house.” He scowled at me.
“I thought it was nasty. Who do you think did it?”
Another sweep of the lip. It was something he did every few seconds, like a metronome. He studied my face, as if trying to determine whether I was telling the truth.
“I thought I knew,” he said. “Now I'm not sure. Why do you want to know about Oscar Linney?”
“She's going to write about him, Walter.”
“Let the girl talk, Winnie. Well, are you?” he asked me.
“I don't know. I drove Professor Linney to his daughter's house last week. I feel terrible about what happened and want to know more about him. I'm hoping you can help me.” I didn't add that I was tormented by the possibility that I'd contributed to his death, that I hadn't been able to think of much else since talking to Connors.
“Well, Molly Blume. I was about to take my daily walk. You can come with me if you want.”
Apparently, I'd passed some sort of test. He put on a h
eavy gray wool jacket and, at Winnie's insistence, wrapped a red shawl around his neck.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked him.
“Planning to sneak your lover into the house?”
“Two of them. Go on, now!”
She gave him a playful shove that almost knocked him over, pecked at his wrinkled cheek, and stood in the doorway watching us. Fennel was using a cane, but he scurried down the walkway, and I had to hurry to keep up.
“I walk two miles a day,” he told me as we headed toward Second. “I'm probably in better shape than you are.”
No contest. He could have ripped the light fixture off of Strom's wall and used his cane, with its three-pronged base, to do it. I wondered if Porter had seen the cane.
“Have you lived in the neighborhood long?” I asked.
“Only fifty years.” He smiled proudly and flashed me a look. “I take it you're Orthodox like your sister, but you're not wearing anything on your head. So I guess you're not married. Most of the married Orthodox women around here cover their hair.”
Most, but not all. Something else to factor into the Zack equation. “I'm divorced.”
“How long were you married?”
“A year and a half.” I sensed his disapproval and fought the temptation to tell him I'd had good cause.
“Young people today don't work at marriage. Winnie and I had our fifty-fifth anniversary in September. We went on a cruise to Alaska. Any children?”
“No.” I'd been eager, but Ron had wanted to wait. He was probably too exhausted conducting his romantic trysts and keeping his lies straight. At the time I'd been disappointed, but I believe God was watching over me.
“You're lucky.” Fennel grunted. “One of our granddaughters is divorced, with a two-year-old boy. She moved back in with her parents until she can afford to get a place of her own.”
We were heading toward Second when he stopped suddenly and glared at The Dungeon.
Dream House Page 8
