Skies of Ash

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  The attorney flopped onto the purple plastic-covered sofa.

  Colin hunkered on the matching plastic-covered armchair across from him.

  With no other seating option available, I perched next to Ben Oliver on the couch. “How is Mr. Chatman?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t know the full extent of what’s happened,” Ben said as he rubbed his chest. That hand thumped to his side, and he gave a heavy sigh. “And, in a way, that’s preferable. He needs to regain his strength. What he’s about to endure… It won’t be easy.” His eyebrows gathered and his hand returned to his chest.

  “How long have you known Mr. Chatman?” Colin asked.

  “All my life. We were born and raised in this neighborhood. Me in this house, him next door. We both attended UCLA as undergraduates. Then, UCLA Law for me and Anderson for an M.B.A. for him.”

  “I went to UCLA Law,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “Class of 2000.”

  “And now you’re police.”

  “I wanted to save lives, and lawyers… are people, too.”

  He smiled and rubbed the top of his lip.

  “So you and Mr. Chatman are something like best friends, then?” Colin asked.

  “The bestest.”

  “And what firm are you with?” Colin asked.

  “Kensington, Scott, and Merrill in Century City.”

  “And Mr. Chatman,” I said. “What now is his métier?”

  Ben Oliver cocked an eyebrow with my correct usage of the ten-dollar word. “He’s a commodities broker.”

  “Nice living,” Colin said, still uncertain what the hell that was.

  Ben Oliver leaned forward. “He’s more than a money man, though. He’s an honorable man. And my heart aches for him. Juliet was a marvelous woman, and the kids… Chloe… This—the fire, the deaths, talking to police… This is just… surreal.”

  “When did you hear about the fire?” I asked.

  “Early this morning,” he said. “I was on my way home from the airport when my grandmother called and…” He jammed his lips together, and his body tightened. He dropped his head and covered his face with his hand. His shoulders shuddered for several seconds. Then, he went still and his breathing slowed. “I apologize,” he said.

  Head still down, he pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket and dried his face. He exhaled, then straightened in his seat. “My grandmother called,” he said, looking at me, “and at first, I didn’t understand what she was saying—she kept screaming, ‘They’re gone, they’re gone!’ ”

  “Do you live nearby?” Colin asked.

  “I’m about three miles away,” he said, that baritone not so smooth now. “In Westchester.”

  “Some neighbors mentioned seeing a strange man around,” I said. “Black guy, midtwenties, wearing an orange hockey jersey, carrying a backpack. You see him?”

  Ben Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. “Haven’t seen anyone fitting that description. But I’m only here for a few hours a week to check on my grandmother.”

  “Are you aware of the recent arsons in the neighborhood?” Colin asked.

  The attorney nodded. “I’m very aware. I’m representing one of the families whose home was torched two weeks ago. Their insurance company, no surprise, is haranguing and deceiving them.” He cocked his head, then held out his hand. “Wait a minute. This hockey jersey—did he set—?”

  “We don’t know anything yet,” I said, shaking my head. “Who this man is, who did the arsons, if this case is even related. That’s why we’re here: to gather as much information as possible.”

  Ben Oliver pounded a fist against his thigh. “I’m just trying… I’m trying to hold it together.” He squeezed shut his eyes, then opened them again. “To make sense out of the nonsensical.”

  “When was the last time you saw the Chatmans?” Colin asked.

  He stared at the coffee table as he thought. “Took my daughter Amelia and Chloe to get frozen yogurt on Sunday. I saw Juliet on Monday morning. And I had lunch with Christopher back on Wednesday? Maybe Thursday?”

  “How old were the Chatman kids?” Colin asked, writing in his pad.

  “Cody was turning thirteen in March, and Chloe…” He bit his lip, inhaled, then slowly exhaled. “Nine in July.”

  “Were Juliet and Christopher fine before the fire?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know where to even begin answering such an open-ended question. I only know what Christopher tells me.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let me back up. Tell me about your relationship with him.”

  “Well”—he waved his hand, dismissing what he was about to say—“we compete. More him than me. But that’s what men do, right?” He asked this of Colin, who also had a penis.

  “Especially lawyers and bankers,” I said. “That’s a lot of ego in one area code.”

  He threw me a glare but couldn’t refute my observation. “When I bought my wife—”

  “You’re married?” I asked, just noticing the gold wedding band on his ring finger.

  He smirked. “Disappointed?”

  “No,” I said, unblinking. “We may need to talk to your wife. And what does she do for a living?”

  “She’s now home with our daughter,” he said. “But in a previous life, she also practiced law.”

  “Insurance?” I asked.

  “Mergers and acquisitions.”

  I nodded. “You were saying about competition…?”

  Ben Oliver offered a slow smile. “When I bought my wife a new SUV, Christopher—”

  “You always call him Christopher?” Colin asked. “Not Chris?”

  “He doesn’t like his name shortened,” Ben said. “Anyway, my wife, Sarah, always asks, Why can’t you be more like him? And I always ask her, Do you want me to work twenty-hour days and consume Maalox by the gallon?” He chuckled. “Her answer is always yes.”

  “She sounds… delightful,” I said. “So Mr. Chatman works all the time is what you’re telling me.”

  “Which is why he wasn’t home when the fire started.” Ben tugged at his right ear. “He has to keep unconventional hours. That’s just the business, especially in this economy. He has to be aware of everything all the time. Too many typhoons in Indonesia and a drought in Nebraska affects the prices of rice and wheat, which then affects his clients, which ultimately affects his firm’s bottom line. But he enjoys trading, and, more than that, he loves providing for his family.

  “But I know he despises himself right now. Because he had been working late when…” His nostrils flared, and he tapped his fist against his thigh again.

  I waited for him to gain control of his emotions, then asked, “Is Mr. Chatman the jealous type? Is he possessive? Quick to anger?”

  Ben Oliver gawked at me. “Christopher? Absolutely not. He’s far from possessive. He worships Jules, and he dotes on the children. Gives them everything they need and deserve.” He covered his mouth with his hand, then whispered, “Past tense.”

  “Excuse me?” Colin said. “I didn’t hear…”

  A sad smile overtook the attorney’s face, and his eyes brightened with tears. “I’m talking about Juliet and the kids as though they’re still… here. I don’t know what Christopher will do—he has no one now. I don’t know what I’d do. No. I do know—I wouldn’t want to live. And I can’t see Christopher wanting to live, either. Juliet and the children were his world, and I hate to say this, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I found my best friend… if I found him dead.”

  8

  BEN OLIVER APOLOGIZED FOR ENDING OUR INTERVIEW AND SUGGESTED THAT NEXT time we make an appointment. “I don’t want to be a jerk about it,” he said, rushing down the walkway to his car and totally being a jerk about it, “but my days are labyrinthine. Next time, call my secretary, Dawn—she’ll set up an appropriate time.”

  “Actually,” I shouted after him, “you’ll need to come down to the station to give an official statement.”

  “Cert
ainly. Soon. Promise.” Then, he slipped behind the Jag’s steering wheel, started that V-8 engine, and roared down Don Mateo Drive like Mario Andretti.

  One last brake-light blink from the Jag’s ass, and poof! Gone.

  No cars, trucks, or busses jammed Sepulveda and Wilshire boulevards. A small miracle. It took only forty-five minutes to drive from Baldwin Hills to UCLA Hospital. By then, dark clouds the color of dingy socks and second-day bruises had rolled in from the west. Would it rain or were those just Hollywood clouds? Nice fronts with nothing behind them.

  Beneath those stormy skies, the college town looked deserted, as though the rain had already beaten down the city and washed away its people.

  No crowds meant better parking, though. And better parking meant less walking. And zippity-do-da, I pulled into a parking space only seventy-six miles away from the hospital.

  Colin, driving his own car, did not share my luck and found a spot two rows farther back.

  “Preordered your hubby’s new game yesterday,” Colin said as we marched toward the entrance. “Zombies and big guns and Bible stuff? Sounds kick-ass.”

  “Good for you. He’ll love to hear that,” I said, checking my phone for any voice mail left by said husband.

  “Ha ha,” Colin said with a smirk. “Hashtag Sarcastic Lou.”

  “That was so sincere, it hurt,” I said. “Gregory Norton loves the love and the attention. One fan, a million fans, doesn’t matter. As long as he’s being adored, he’s happy. He’s a puppy in that way.”

  No voice mail messages from the puppy.

  I called the puppy’s two phone numbers. He didn’t answer either, so I left a message on his cell’s voice mail. “Hey, still working. Just calling to check in. Talk to you later.” Frowning, I disconnected and ignored Colin’s, You okay? What did he do now? gaze. I tossed my partner a strained smile. It’s all good. Carry on.

  Patients and their families and all of the Westside filled the lobby, occupied every chair, and took up every empty space available. And everyone coughed or sneezed or oozed liquids the colors of infection and/or imminent death.

  “I can feel the Ebola,” Colin said as his eyes darted from the snotty-nosed toddler to the old man who wore a face mask not over his mouth but on his forehead. “Tell my mother I love her.”

  I didn’t speak—I didn’t want to open my mouth. But the air that managed to creep through my nostrils and hit my taste buds tasted more like swine flu.

  We held our breath as we rode the elevator up to the third floor—and we exhaled as soon as the door opened to a calm, deserted waiting room that smelled of Listerine and soap.

  “Where is everybody?” Colin asked. “His people, I mean.”

  I, too, had expected throngs of well-wishers sitting shivah with Christopher Chatman.

  A nurse pointed us thataway to room 303, and a minute later we stood in the doorway.

  A middle-aged Lena Horne lookalike sat in the room’s visitor chair and peered at the screen of her iPhone. She had a café au lait complexion, and her hair had been captured into a shiny chignon. Her thin, pinched nose, inherited from a European grand-someone, nearly grazed the corkboard ceiling. That nose… Until now, I’d never witnessed anyone actually holding her nose in the air. This woman did, and I marveled at that more than I marveled at her plum wrap dress and red-bottomed heels.

  Both shoes and dress kicked the repressed fashionista in me, the one that now stank of sweat and firemen.

  The woman looked at me, then at Colin, then, nose high, returned her attention to the phone. She was over us already.

  Christopher Chatman lay in bed, beneath a light-blue blanket. His big brown eyes were at half-mast. Blood had pebbled and dried on his bottom lip. His left arm was wrapped in a sling, and bandages plastered his face and the back of his skull. Complicated machines flanked him, monitoring his heart rate, blood pressure, and hydration levels.

  “May I help you?” A pretty Indian woman dressed in pink floral scrubs touched my elbow. Her name tag said RAMA.

  I badged her, introduced Colin, and then asked about Christopher Chatman’s injuries.

  “Minor fracture to his left arm,” she said. “Minor concussion. Cuts and bruises.”

  “So he’ll live?” Colin whispered.

  She nodded.

  “A few of his friends expressed concerns about his mental health,” I said. “They worry that he may attempt to end his life.”

  Rama frowned. “We’ll keep watch for that. He does show signs of distress, which is common in this unfortunate situation, and also common with brain injury. But suicidal?” She shook her head.

  “Can we…?” I pointed inside the room.

  “You may. The woman sitting with him now is Sarah Oliver, a family friend. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

  Sarah: Ben Oliver’ wife, ex-lawyer and driver of the SUV.

  “Does Mr. Chatman realize what’s happened?” I asked the nurse.

  Rama glanced over to her patient. “Not yet.”

  I stepped across the threshold and into the room.

  Sarah Oliver slipped the phone into her purse.

  We both watched as Rama tut-tutted over the man in bed. We watched her slip a blood-pressure cuff over his right bicep, then watched her adjust his pillows.

  Christopher Chatman stirred and croaked, “Jules?”

  Sarah Oliver hopped up from her chair.

  Rama moved aside to let the woman come closer.

  Sarah Oliver whispered into her friend’s ear.

  “Wha’?” he mumbled. “Wanna see her.”

  Sarah Oliver, eyes bright with tears, peered at me, bit her lip, then whispered in his ear again.

  My heart jumped. Crap. Is she telling him they’re all dead?

  Christopher Chatman’s eyes widened. “I wanna see my wife,” he shouted, waving his free arm. “Where’s my son? Where’s my boy?” He tried to sit up, tried to leave the bed, tried to yank away the tubes. “Where’s my boy? Where’s my wife? Where’s—?”

  A male nurse a little bigger than Goliath lumbered past us and joined Rama in restraining their patient. Rama reached into her smock pocket, pulled out a syringe filled with clear liquid, then stuck the needle into the IV feed. Seconds later, Chatman melted back into the pillows. The tension in his face dissipated—mouth slack, eyes dull, oh, the magic of medicine.

  I followed Rama out to the hallway. “When will he be released?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” she said. “He’ll be staying with Mr. and Mrs. Oliver.”

  Before climbing back into my Crown Vic to attack rush-hour traffic, I darted to the bathroom. As I was leaving, though, Sarah Oliver, red-eyed and pink-nosed, was entering.

  She gasped seeing me standing at the paper towel dispenser. She was as tall as me, lesser-boobed, and smelled of lilacs and vanilla.

  I introduced myself and offered my hand.

  She offered her name and took a moment to appraise my hand.

  Finally, we shook. And as we shook, her nostrils flared as much as they could. Touching in a bathroom did not thrill her.

  “Is Mr. Chatman resting now?” I asked, very couldn’t care less about her thrills and mildly hoping that she thought I had skipped soap and water.

  “Yes, he is.” She sighed, then rubbed her right eyebrow. “I can’t understand. What happened? Ben told me that some monster in a hockey jersey did this. Is that true?”

  “We’re still trying to figure that out,” I said. “It’s too soon to say how the fire started.”

  Her face darkened, and a small teardrop rolled down her cheek. “I called Juliet’s parents to let them know since Christopher… He’s come undone, and I don’t know why… I don’t know why…”

  I waited for the strings and tinkling piano to fade in, for her to look up to the fluorescent lights and warble, Don’t know why, there’s no sun up in the sky… Not that I disbelieved her single teardrop. But the woman who had tossed me That Look back in Chatman’s hospital room did not weep in public rest
rooms like the woman who now stood before me.

  She crossed her arms to hug herself. “Any minute now, I’ll wake up. I’ll wake up and I’ll hear Coco laughing with my daughter. That’s what I keep telling myself. That this is all…” She squeezed her elbows, then whispered, “Because I just saw them. Not even twenty-four hours ago.”

  “Around what time was that?” I asked.

  “Six,” she said, letting her arms fall to her sides. “I stopped by to see if Juliet wanted to go to Zumba with me. And I dropped off an Architectural Digest. They were remodeling.”

  “Did she go to Zumba?”

  Sarah Oliver stared at the badge clipped to my hip. “She didn’t feel like it—she had been fighting the flu since the weekend.”

  “So you went to class alone?”

  She nodded. “Before I left, though, I sat and chatted for a few minutes. Then, I kissed the kids good-bye, kissed Juliet good-bye, then left.” Her cheeks flushed, and she regarded me with sad, wet eyes. “Juliet was like a sister to me, and Chloe like another daughter. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Not right now, but I will need to talk to you formally.” I gave her my card.

  “About?”

  “Everything.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I know some people will take this as a chance to say awful things.”

  “About?”

  Her lip trembled. “Cody. About how he would set fires. Harmless—the fires he’d set… He was just…” She closed her eyes and dropped her head. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Mimi that Coco… Amelia gave her that nickname because she couldn’t say Chloe when they were babies. Mimi and Coco wanted to do everything together. Sleepovers, tea parties, vacations. Sometimes, I had to tell her, ‘Honey, Coco has her own family. She can’t be over here all the time.’ ”

  Another tear slipped down her smooth cheek. “The girls had these shirts that matched and”—she swiped her face and exhaled—“they wanted to be in each other’s weddings when they grew up. And for someone to take that away… Whoever did this needs to pay.” She straightened and lifted her chin. “Juliet and Christopher, Chloe… They deserve justice. My daughter deserves justice. I’m sure you’ll see to that, Detective Norton.”