Someone Always Knows

by Marcia Muller

  I was about to phone him when the cell vibrated: Chelle Curley.

  Chelle’s voice was unsteady. “My boyfriend—Nemo? You just met him? I think he might be in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “He’s been acting so strangely—well, actually he’s always been strange, you know the kind of guys I’m attracted to—but tonight, God, I don’t know.”

  “Strange in what way?”

  “Um, obsessive, maybe.”

  Great. “Obsessive about what?”

  “That house on Webster Street. Ever since he joined the rehabbers and found out I was trying to buy it, he’s been after me about it. Tonight your friend Chad called and told me he was thinking about accepting my offer. Nemo was all excited, told me it was as good as ours. Which it isn’t—it’s as good as mine, and only mine. We had a fight, and he took off, and I think he was going over there. With all those weirdos who hang out in it, I’m afraid for him.”

  “Did he say why he wanted to go there?”

  “No. And he told me in no uncertain terms not to follow him.”

  “Why the urgency?”

  “I don’t know. He got a call on his cell, and then he just went manic.”

  “What’s his cell number?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a new one, and he never told me.”

  Oh, Chelle…

  “Can you intercept him and keep him safe?” Chelle asked. “Please!”

  “He didn’t give you any indication of who the caller was or what the call was about?”

  “No. He can be so secretive sometimes. He’s hooked on spy novels.”

  “Chelle, how long have you known this guy?”

  “Not very. Maybe about a month. He answered one of my ads for rehabbers. I kind of…betrayed my professional standards. No messing around with the help, you know?”

  “Yes, I know. Does Nemo have a car?”

  “An old Toyota Camry. Gray and beat-up, with a big dent on the passenger side. But last I knew it was in the shop.”

  “Okay, don’t worry. I’ll go over and see if he shows up. If Nemo should call, tell him I’ll be there.”

  11:03 p.m.

  Parking was plentiful near the derelict house, but as I cruised by looking for the Camry Chelle had described, I couldn’t spot it. Maybe it was still in the shop and Nemo was coming on public transportation. I pulled to the curb and looked for any sign of the freelance operative who was supposed to be on the job tonight. There was none. Last time I used him, for sure.

  No lights showed within the house, and there was no one visible on the property. The entire block was quiet too, except for the usual nighttime barks of dogs and honks of horns and screeches of tires on pavement. Tendrils of fog were sweeping in. Before long the mist would blur and distort my view of the house.

  Maybe Chelle had misheard or misinterpreted what Nemo had told her. Or had she overreacted? She did have a lively imagination. Still, I’d promised her I’d wait for him. I’d have to loiter here until he showed or it became obvious that he wasn’t going to.

  The headlights of a passing car briefly illuminated the chain-link fence across the street, and I thought I saw something bulky move in the misty darkness near the hole in the fence. Someone coming out. A kid who’d been in the house looking for creepy kicks? An adult squatter on his way to buy food or drugs? It could even be an animal, perhaps one of the raccoons whose dominance in the city was being challenged by coyotes, foxes, and even bears driven from their natural habitats by drought and incursions by humans.

  I rolled down the window for a better look. Human, not animal. A blocky figure just emerging through the hole in the fence. The figure was tall and had a long stride, probably a man but I couldn’t tell for sure—

  There was a sudden flare of light in one of the house’s front windows.

  The dark figure didn’t pause or look back, but instead broke into a run.

  I flung myself out of the car, just in time to hear a whooshing noise come from inside the derelict building. The flare brightened behind both front windows, flickering wildly.

  Fire!

  The running figure was a third of the way down the block now. I didn’t hesitate, but took off after it. My cell was in my coat pocket; I pulled it out as I ran, dialed 911. No immediate answer—the emergency response time was slow as usual. Behind me the foggy night was now stained a dirty red-orange and billows of smoke rolled skyward.

  The fleeing man reached the corner ahead and turned west. I couldn’t close the gap between us; running in high-heeled suede boots with a cell pressed against your ear is no way to win a footrace. Emergency answered, put me on hold. I switched off the phone as I neared the corner, shoved it back in my pocket. No need for me to tie up the line now.

  Others would have called this in.

  I turned the corner just in time to see the figure cross the street and veer into a narrow alley between a closed bakery and a dry cleaner. Who the hell was he? A squatter or neighborhood kid who’d set the house ablaze by accident? Nemo, who’d arrived before I did and been in the house all along?

  Clattering, clanging noises sounded from the alley as I neared it—the fleeing person banging into and upsetting something like a garbage can. I pulled up at the alley’s mouth to catch my breath. More sounds in the misty blackness ahead, not as loud. Then silence, except now I could hear the oncoming wail of sirens. All I could make out in the alley was vague shapes: garbage cans, piles of cast-off junk. No way could I catch up to the fleeing person now. I’d probably break my neck if I tried to rush blindly through the cluttered passage.

  Damn!

  The sirens’ wails grew louder as I made my way back to Webster Street. By the time I neared the derelict house, firefighters were on the scene and more were arriving. The house was sheeted in flames, burning fast and hot the way old firetraps always do. There was no way I could leave; fire trucks and helmeted men unrolling hoses had my car blocked. All I could do was stand off at a distance among the usual rubberneckers that seem to come out of nowhere whenever a disaster happens. A few hecklers were there too, trying in their malicious stupidity to disrupt the firemen’s efforts.

  Why? I wondered, as an ambulance pulled up. Was it that they enjoyed being part of wanton destruction of property?

  Don’t contemplate the human condition now, McCone.

  Those firemen who weren’t manning the hoses were holding the spectators back and setting up barricades. A pair of police cars, sirens screaming and lights flashing, joined the melee, and the officers took over crowd control.

  There wasn’t much the firefighters could do except prevent the blaze from spreading to neighboring houses. It wasn’t long before the derelict building’s roof caved in with a loud booming crash, sending up showers of sparks and embers. The rubberneckers made the kind of excited noises the Romans must have made during the gladiator matches in the Colosseum.

  Suddenly I was drawn back to the night my own house on Church Street had burned down. I leaned back against something—a wall, a stoop? I couldn’t tell through the numbness that set in.

  Images flickered before my eyes: choking smoke, rising flames, frightened cats under the bed where I couldn’t reach them. The first breath of fresh air as I yanked the outside door open. The searing pain when a post from the upstairs deck railing fell on my arm. Lying there in the damp grass and staring up at the smoke-filled sky as the flames claimed my home and almost everything I cared about. All because of a disgruntled client from years ago, whose case—except to him—hadn’t been all that important or cost him any more than he deserved.

  Now the acrid smoke and odors of burning wood and fire retardants made my eyes and throat hurt. The heat from the glowing remains seared my skin. The hissing of streams of pressurized water, the cries of firemen, cops, and onlookers rang in my ears. There was nothing I could do but keep on standing there, watching the old house die the same fiery death mine had.

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 12

 
2:15 a.m.

  The first thing I did when I got home—naturally—was feed the cats.

  Before they would go to their bowl, they sniffed suspiciously at me, and Alex retreated under a table while Jessie’s tail puffed up. People claim cats have short memory spans, and maybe they do, but the odors that clung to my clothing and hair must have called forth visions of the fire in which the three of us had nearly lost our lives.

  Next I got on the phone and called Chelle’s mobile unit. She answered groggily, sounding as if I’d awakened her.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “In my own bed at Mom and Dad’s,” she replied in a sulky tone. “Nemo stood me up, the asshole.”

  “Where were you supposed to meet him?”

  “At a friend’s place in the Sunset. She gave me a key and told me to use the flat while she’s visiting her folks in Indiana.”

  The lives of young people like Chelle and Nemo struck me, as they often had before, as nomadic. Few possessions, no permanent addresses, no connections except through electronic devices that might or might not work. Granted, I myself hadn’t lived a conventional life, but I’d always felt grounded. Maybe younger people like Chelle and Nemo felt grounded in their freedom. But where had Chelle gone when Nemo hadn’t shown up? She’d left the borrowed flat in the Sunset and gone home.

  She seemed to come fully awake then. “Did you see Nemo?”

  “Uh, no. He didn’t show.”

  “Then he’s a double-dog asshole.”

  “I wouldn’t say so. Chelle, there was a fire. The house burned down.”

  She gasped. “My God, was anybody hurt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nemo…he didn’t have anything to do with it, did he?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “Then why hasn’t he called me?” Her voice was spiraling upward in pitch.

  “There’re plenty of good reasons—”

  “Shar, I’ve got to stop talking about this. I’ll call you back later.” She broke our connection.

  I went upstairs, stripped off my clothes, and stuffed them in the hamper. Then I took a shower, vigorously washing my hair. A good comb-out, body lotion, and a touch of the Allure perfume Hy had given me for my birthday last month, and I felt back to normal. That is, as normal as a woman can feel when she can’t contact her husband, has just witnessed a horrific fire, and has a maniac breathing down her neck.

  Thinking of Hy, I went to my laptop and dashed off an e-mail to Craig, asking him to contact his former colleagues at the FBI to see if any of them knew about Hy’s presence in D.C. and why a deputy director had summoned him there. Then I crawled into bed. Five minutes later the landline rang. I picked up, hoping to hear Hy’s voice.

  Gage Renshaw.

  “Out late, McCone.”

  So he’d been trying to reach me, but not leaving messages. Or he’d been watching the house and waiting for me to go to bed. “I had business to attend to.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “None of yours.” Quickly I depressed the control Hy and I have on our home phone for recording calls.

  He said slyly, “Putting out fires, maybe?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Renshaw.”

  “I’ll give you a hint: Webster Street.”

  “What about it?”

  “Are you tracing this call?”

  “We don’t have that capability on this line. Now what about Webster Street?”

  “You were there.”

  “How do you know that?

  “I know a great many things that you wouldn’t expect me to.”

  “Are you following me? Or having me followed?”

  He cackled in that annoying way he had. “Hell no. Why would I do something like that?”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past you, if you had something to gain.”

  “But I don’t. Or do I?”

  “Damn you! Why don’t you tell me what it is you’re after?”

  “Because I like to keep you guessing.”

  “Guessing games are for children. I don’t have time for them.”

  “My, you’ve turned into a sour bitch since I first knew you.”

  “Don’t call me again until you’re ready to talk sense. No more games!” I clicked off the phone.

  7:02 a.m.

  As I was having my first cup of coffee, Mick called my cell. “You seen the news?”

  “You know I don’t watch TV news in the morning.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  “Well, turn on CNN and call me back.”

  “If this is about the fire last night, I was there—”

  “Just check it out, okay? Sounds like it was arson.”

  When I turned on the TV, CNN was reporting on a suicide bombing somewhere in the Middle East. A collapsed building, an old woman crying, a child bleeding in his mother’s arms. I looked away from all that misery until I heard the anchor’s voice say, “In other news, the investigation continues into the fire that consumed a deserted house in the Fillmore district of San Francisco last night, killing one.”

  Killing one.…

  I looked back, listened more intently. The anchor was one of those perfectly made-up, every-hair-sprayed-into-place women, and she was smiling. Actually smiling!

  The picture switched to the house sheeted in flames.

  “Fire chief Danielle Albin said the cause of the blaze has not yet been identified, and arson has not been ruled out. A body found early this morning by fire inspectors sifting through the site was burned beyond recognition.…”

  A body, burned beyond recognition. It wasn’t only the house that had died in the Webster Street conflagration. Someone trapped inside it had died too.

  Who? A squatter? One of the neighborhood thrill-seekers? Nemo? For Chelle’s sake I hoped not.

  8:10 a.m.

  I picked up my cell and called Chaz Witlow, an old friend from college who was on the city’s fire commission. As I’d expected, because of last night’s fire, he was in his office.

  “I was just about to call you,” he said. “You were spotted by a couple of our personnel at the fire on Webster Street last night—how come you were there? On a job?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “Come on, Shar, this is me you’re talking to.”

  “All right. I have a client who owns that house and we were running a surveillance on it because it had been plagued by intruders. From what I heard on the news, it sounds as if you’ve already decided it was arson.”

  “There’s evidence that points that way. The house was an open invitation to firebugs.”

  “I agree. When I toured it, there were piles of debris all over the place. One flick of a Bic, and fire would spread very rapidly. Did your investigators find any evidence of accelerants?”

  “Not yet. But the fire appeared to have several points of origin. If it wasn’t arson, I’d be very surprised.”

  “And what about the body that was found there?”

  “No identification yet. It was a real crispy critter.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “That bad.”

  “Chaz, there must’ve been two people in that house when the fire started. I saw somebody running away from it just seconds before the flames flared up.”

  “You get a good look at them?”

  “Not good enough to identify him.”

  “But you say ‘him.’ Are you sure it was a man?”

  “Reasonably. He had a man’s stride.”

  “Height? Weight?”

  “Over six feet. He ran like a heavy man, but I couldn’t tell because he was bundled up in a dark parka and jeans. He wore running shoes.”

  “Like half the men in this city. Any markings on the parka? Team or club names?”

  “None that I saw.”

  “All right. We’ll get onto it. I’ll keep you posted, and if you remember anything else, call me.”

  9:2
2 a.m.

  Kendra nodded at me when I entered the offices, and returned to whatever she was typing. I went down the hall to my private space and curled up in my chair under Mr. T., contemplating the brilliantly green Marin headlands. Until recently the hills had been browned off from last summer’s heat and drought, their oaks and eucalypti and bay laurel standing out in sharp relief against long grasses that resembled wheat. Now patches of green showed through. It was another nice day. The morning commute was winding down, although cars moved slowly on the bridge. Waldo Grade was backed up in both directions as people left the city and vice versa. Used to be the heavy traffic was inward bound in the morning and outward bound at night, but in recent years the volume had become about equal, as many businesses had spread to the suburbs.

  As I sat there, I began to feel lower and lower by the minute. I missed Hy. There had been no news of him from Craig. I wished we were together at the ranch or the seaside. But then I’ve wished for any number of things; some hadn’t happened, but a lot more had. Not bad, on the average.

  10:07 a.m.

  A knock on my office door. Mick stuck his head inside. “May we come in?” Then he walked in anyway, bringing a short, wispy-haired man in stained cargo pants and a rumpled T-shirt with him. The man looked nervous; he twisted the Giants baseball cap he held in his thick fingers.

  Mick said, “This is Lester Harwood. He’s…he used to be a serial arsonist, and has written a book about his experiences called Firebug.”

  I blinked. “Uh…great. Please sit down.”

  Mick motioned the man toward one of the sofas. “Les decided to give up his profession before his luck ran out. His book is a tell-all under a blind pseudonym that will be published next spring.”

  Harwood remained standing, as if at attention. “Should’ve gotten a bigger advance,” he said in a rusty voice.

  Where, I wondered, did Mick find these characters?