Someone Always Knows

by Marcia Muller

Harwood cleared his throat and went on. “You’re probably wondering why I agreed to talk to you, Ms. McCone. It’s not that I expect payment. But if the details of our conversation and a plug for my book should appear in the local media, I would be grateful.”

  Publicity hounds bark constantly in our society. I glanced at Mick; he nodded encouragingly.

  “I can’t guarantee it, Mr. Harwood, but I do have contacts with press people.”

  “So Mr. Savage here told me. You want information on arson, I’m your man.” He sat down, seeming to gain confidence. “You know there are two kinds of arsonists?”

  “Amateur and professional?”

  “Right. In my lifetime I’ve been both. Now I’ve turned into a truly legitimate professional.”

  “And what does a truly legitimate professional arsonist do?”

  “Former arsonist. I’m a consultant for three of the biggest insurance companies in the country.”

  Talk about turning a criminal activity into an asset!

  Lester continued, “Let me go back to when I was an amateur—eight years ago, as I recall. I always knew I was ready to start a fire when my fingers started to tingle.”

  “Tingle.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes I’d see something that reminded me of fire, and the old tingle would start. I’ve always been fascinated with it.”

  “With the tingle?”

  “No, fire.”

  “What about fire fascinates you?”

  “The way each blaze has a personality all its own. How it spreads in certain ways, and not always like you expect it to. It’s as if it thinks. It’s got power.”

  “And does creating fire give you a feeling of power?”

  He pondered that. “I do feel more powerful after I set a blaze—I mean, I used to. But now I got this good legit job and my book coming out. I guess I owe it all to fire, huh? I mean, before, I had no high school diploma, no family, no friends. No woman either. What kinda woman was gonna look at me? They all thought I was a nerd.”

  I did too—a dangerous one—but I said kindly, “I’m sure they didn’t all think that way.”

  “Yeah, they did. A couple of them even told me so.”

  “And your reaction to rejection was to set fires.”

  “Why not? At least it was something I liked to do.”

  “What about the people you might have hurt?”

  “I always made sure that the buildings were clear beforehand. Never made a single mistake.”

  “What about the occupants’ possessions?”

  He looked blank for a moment. “That’s just stuff. You can always replace stuff.”

  I thought of the irreplaceable things I’d lost when my house on Church Street was torched: old photographs, scrapbooks, diaries, love letters, and much more. No, you can’t always replace “stuff.”

  With an effort I kept my voice even as I said, “You have any things you’d really miss if you lost them, Lester?”

  “Listen, lady—until I got this consultant’s job I lived on the second floor of an abandoned warehouse. Never mind where. I’d heat up cans of baked beans and hash and soup on my so-called neighbor’s little gas burner. I’d share my food with him because it was his propane I was using. The cans came from wherever I could five-finger ’em. My clothes I stole from Goodwill. You think stuff matters to me?”

  Evidently not. His small eyes watched me. I wondered if Mick had told him about my history with arson, and he was deliberately goading me.

  “Right,” I said, “so you set fires for pleasure and power, not for money.”

  “Used to set fires.”

  “And how did you get this job with the insurance companies?”

  “My upcoming book. And word gets around, who’s a good torch. Insurance companies like the bad guys on their side. Believe me, I been approached by all sorts of policyholders to torch their property—some of ’em pretty high-toned.”

  “Such as?”

  “Uh-uh. I protect my clients—former clients.”

  “Then your book isn’t a tell-all?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t name names or give locations.”

  I glanced at Mick; he was leaning, arms crossed, against a file cabinet.

  “Ever set a fire on Church Street?” I asked.

  Too quickly, Lester said, “No.”

  “How about Webster Street?”

  “Wasn’t me.”

  “Do you know who might have set it?”

  “Not anybody I’d care to name. On the surface it seems like an amateur’s work, but professionals sometimes arrange the scene so it looks like an amateur’s work.”

  “Let’s go back and pinpoint the differences between amateurs and professionals more thoroughly.”

  “Pros try to select a point of origin where the fire will have sufficient fuel and ventilation. Piles of flammable materials, open windows—they’re good sources for a blaze that’ll spread real quick.”

  I thought back to my walk-through of the house. Remembered the debris and the broken windows. Of course they didn’t mean the blaze had been started deliberately—the person I’d seen running away from the house could have been someone who’d inadvertently set the fire by dropping a cigarette or match. Or someone who’d ignited it on the spur of the moment, for whatever reason. Wouldn’t a pro have used a timing device that would ignite the blaze when he wasn’t around?

  When I voiced the question, Lester had an answer: “Sophisticated ignition devices are mostly seen in the movies. A flick of a Bic on fuel-soaked items is enough. Timers leave debris that makes it easier for investigators to pinpoint where the fire started, and may give away the identity of who put them together.”

  “How?”

  “Every torch who works with timers has a method of building them—they call it a signature—that law enforcement catches on to and looks for.”

  “So how did Mr. Savage find you, Lester?”

  “You better ask him. Guy’s got smarts. You oughta keep him around.”

  “I intend to.”

  Lester stood and winked at me. “I like this neighborhood. Think I’ll scout around, see if there’re any places that’re ripe for a hot burn.”

  11:41 a.m.

  Mick said, “Shar, he didn’t mean it!”

  “How do you know?”

  “He was joking.”

  “Was he?”

  Mick shrugged, his expression conflicted.

  I asked, “Was Lester the one who torched my house? Instead of the other firebug who went to prison for it?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I asked him. The guy, in case you didn’t notice, is a piss-poor liar.”

  “You’re right about that. Where on earth did you find Lester?”

  “He was hanging around outside of that old bar we used to go to on Valencia Street—Rusty’s, remember? Looking forlorn because the place is dead, and watching all the affluent techies pass by on the way to the clubs. I felt sorry for him, so I went up to him and we talked about how the neighborhood has changed.”

  That was Mick for you. He’d been one of the first “affluent techies” in the city. He and a few others like him had fueled a revolution that had vastly changed San Francisco’s culture.

  “Anyway,” he added, “Les and I went for beer at one of the neighborhood’s last dives, and we’ve been tight ever since.”

  “Tight? You and that creep?”

  “He’s got possibilities as an informant. In spite of his new legit job, he still likes the old green.” He made a motion with his thumb and fingers as if passing on a bill.

  1:51 p.m.

  I was enjoying a couple of slices of pizza—pepperoni, Italian sausage, and mushrooms—downstairs at Angie’s Deli. Thank God Angie’s a purist; pineapple, kale, goose liver, wine-soaked cherries and other such embellishments have never been allowed to touch her thin beer-batter crust. A tiny woman who emigrated from Genoa decades ago, she’s a fierce defender of her native cuisine.r />
  Enter Patrick. I looked up at him in surprise and said, “What’re you doing here? I didn’t tell anybody at the office where I was going.”

  “I’m psychic.” He sat down and ordered a glass of wine. “I had some free time this morning, so I did some research on the Webster Street house. You know I’m a member of the Old California Society?”

  I nodded. The society is an association of history buffs.

  “Well, I went to our members-only site and checked up on the place. There’s a little-known rumor that things of value might have been hidden in there.”

  “Credible rumors?” I asked.

  “Mostly.”

  “What kind of valuables could’ve been hidden in a place like that?”

  “Nobody agrees on that point. Gold, silver, cash, valuable paintings—although I kind of doubt that paintings would last, because of the dampness.”

  I thought this over. It seemed far-fetched. Still, it was a possible explanation for all the recent interest in the place.

  “Okay, fill me in on the rest of the story.”

  The rumors of hidden valuables, Patrick said, began in the mid-1980s. Two men, claiming to be representatives of a corporation called SIW, and their attorney had appeared in the city’s civil court and petitioned for ownership of the Webster Street house. The proof they presented was skimpy and their request was turned down.

  “You have court records?” I asked Patrick.

  “On my computer. I’ll shoot them over to you.”

  “Who was the judge?”

  “John X. Williams.”

  Williams, who’d died a few years ago, had had a reputation as a strict interpreter of the law. My friend—well, former friend—Glenn Solomon had been a buddy of his. Perhaps Williams had discussed the case with him. Problem was, Glenn and I hadn’t spoken in quite a while, ever since he’d lured me into a case and then deliberately neglected to provide me with important details.

  Glenn…one of the foremost criminal lawyers in the country. Big, white-haired bear of a man. Married to a special woman, Bette Silver, an interior designer. They’d been my good friends, a go-to couple like Rae and Ricky, Anne-Marie and Hank, until I’d found out he’d lied to me, compromised one of my investigations—and nearly cost me my life. And he hadn’t thought he’d done anything wrong.

  That was what still hurt the most: he hadn’t thought he’d done anything wrong.

  Bette had tried to bring us back together, but we are both stubborn people and her efforts didn’t work. Finally she withdrew from the fray, not exactly siding with her husband—she was not one for favoritism—but lost to me anyway. I missed her friendship every day.

  “I can’t talk with Glenn,” I said to Patrick.

  “I know. I can.”

  “Will you?”

  “No problem.”

  “Thank you, Patrick.”

  “You’re welcome. Mick asked me to tell you there’s a file on your e-mail. More background on the Webster Street place.”

  As it turned out, there was a lot more background.

  In the late 1980s, William Acton’s only living daughter, Chrysanthus Smithson, her husband Nathan, and their son Adam were planning to move from an apartment on Clay Street to the Webster Street house. Furnishings and major appliances had already been delivered, but the Smithson family didn’t appear on the appointed date. A later investigation revealed they’d been last seen crossing the US-Mexican border in their old VW bus. The reason for their disappearance quickly became obvious when Smithson’s San Rafael firm, Diverse Investments Management, reported the theft of three and a half million dollars’ worth of bearer bonds that had been under Smithson’s control.

  A massive search had been mounted for the missing family and the bonds. There’d been no trace of them, or evidence that the bonds had been cashed in either the United States or Mexico. Swiss and offshore banks, in spite of their strict privacy requirements, had stretched their limits to assure authorities that the bonds had not been deposited with them. Someone had to know where those bonds were.…

  4:50 p.m.

  “Nothing so far on Hy’s whereabouts,” Craig said when I stopped into his office, “but I’ll keep on it.”

  “Thanks. I’m not in panic mode yet, but…”

  “I doubt it’s anything serious. Things get muddled at the Bureau; one hand often doesn’t know what the other’s doing.”

  “But how can they lose the whereabouts of a whole person? And why hasn’t Hy contacted me?”

  “I admit the lack of contact isn’t like him. It could be the kind of sensitive assignment that calls for strict silence. Or it could be a Bureau foul-up. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday they lose the director himself.”

  I snorted. “Fine folks we’re entrusting our interstate crimes to. Anyway, I’ve got something else to ask you: what do you know about bearer bonds?” Craig was my best advisor on governmental affairs, and while with the FBI had been assigned to numerous cases involving the Treasury Department.

  “Hmmm.” He paused thoughtfully. “Unregistered securities—meaning they belong to whoever possesses them. Very easily negotiated. But mostly a thing of the past: the government became aware that they were being used by tax evaders and money launderers, so in 1982 new issues were banned. As of last year, most of those bonds were extinct.”

  “But if I had some now…?”

  “If they were issued within the past fifty years with a long maturity date, you could redeem them at a cooperative bank or processing center. Otherwise you could use them to help you kindle a nice fire.”

  “Could they be redeemed in another country? Such as Mexico?”

  “Depends on the bank. And the credentials of the bondholder.”

  “What if they were stolen from a large securities company?”

  “Circulars must’ve gone out from the securities company and the government when the bonds were found missing. But then, as we know, people don’t always read them until it’s too late. Or they don’t read them at all.”

  “Interesting. Thanks, Craig.”

  Those three and a half million dollars in bearer bonds had once been inside the house on Webster Street. I’d have staked my reputation on it.

  6:10 p.m.

  I’d read through the file Mick had e-mailed me several times, and waited around the office hoping Patrick had been able to speak with Glenn Solomon and would report back on their conversation. But it was nighttime and full dark: time for folks to tuck themselves into their homes, remote controls close to hand, or order out for pizza or Chinese, or stand in line for stage plays or first-run movies, or glam themselves up for an evening on the town.

  None of which appealed to me.

  I shut off my desk lamp and swiveled to look out at the Bay and Marin headlands. In the darkness lights winked on and shimmered, as if infused by sudden heat. The scene failed to entrance me as it normally did. I felt a stirring of the old restlessness that had initially lured me into my profession.

  Where to go? Whom to badger with my endless questions?

  I called Chad Kenyon’s home and cellular numbers. Office number just in case he was a workaholic like me. No answers. What could he be doing? Eating. Where? At Bella.

  8:01 p.m.

  He was seated alone in what the maître d’ had told me was his “exclusive” booth, a half-full bottle of Chianti and a single glass in front of him. His face drooped in unhappy folds, and he stared down at the table. When I slid into the booth, he didn’t seem surprised to see me.

  “You bring Sweetheart?” he asked.

  “No, just me.”

  “Ah, what the hell, you’re an old married lady. I can do better—anyplace, anywhere.”

  Yeah, sure.

  “I know,” I said. “And I’m not here to come on to you.”

  “Thank God. Then why, huh?”

  He didn’t seem very interested in an answer. Instead he motioned to the waiter. “A glass for the lady, please. And another bottle too.” H
e fell silent for a moment, then looked up at me and sighed. “You’re here about the fire, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “I didn’t think you had.”

  “Hell of a thing to happen.”

  The waiter placed a glass in front of me, and Chad filled it nearly to the brim. “Drink up,” he added.

  To please him I sipped. “Chad, a few days ago you told me that you didn’t want to sell the Webster Street house. But then you called Chelle Curley and told her you might consider it. Why’d you change your mind?”

  He shrugged. “The kid seems so eager and ambitious. She reminds me of myself when I was young.”

  “When you bought it, did you know about the stolen bearer bonds that might’ve been hidden there?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “How’d you find out about them?”

  “We’ve got an excellent research department.”

  “Well, yeah, I knew. Truth is, that’s one of the reasons I bought the dump. It’s an old urban legend. I didn’t really believe it, but it kind of intrigued me. I’ve been waiting for this workman I trust to finish up a big job so I could bring him in to renovate it and look for the bonds. If the rumors were false, I’d just sell the place to the kid at a small profit.”

  “And now it’s too late.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Chad, where did you hear this legend?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. I get around. Sooner or later I hear most things.”

  A sudden inspiration came to me. “Since you hear so much around town, have you recently heard of someone who’s out to get Hy and me? Someone who’s been out of town for a long time, part of it in South America?”

  He frowned. “You guys’ve got a lot of enemies. So do I. I mean, anybody who’s successful is bound—”

  “No, I mean somebody who’s carrying on a big vendetta.”

  “South America?” He frowned again. “This wouldn’t be one of your husband’s former partners, would it?”

  “Yes—Gage Renshaw.”

  “That sleazeball? I thought he was dead.” Pause. “Well, maybe I’ve heard that he might not be quite as dead as some people claimed he was.”