Skies of Ash

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  Eli Moss bustled into the living room with his camera. “Thanks for waiting.”

  The attorney glanced at his watch with irritation. “Another last-minute interrogation, Detective?” he asked me. “Many of us have been up since four o’clock this morning.”

  I leaned forward and glared at him. This is my meeting, not yours.

  Usually, men shrank under that glare. Ben Oliver, though, also leaned forward and blossomed under my glare like a sunflower on the first day of summer.

  Damn. I would have to consult my witch’s spell book for a glower just for him. Something frosty enough to kill sunflowers.

  “Let’s start with an easy question,” I said. “What was Juliet’s state of mind, say, last week this time?”

  Several confused moments of silence before Delia said, “She was happy.”

  The room buzzed with murmurs of approval. Good answer, good answer.

  “She was never sad,” Nora added. “Never, ever, ever sad.”

  “She was a devoted wife,” Ruby volunteered as she plopped onto the piano bench. “An excellent wife is the crown of her husband, Solomon wrote, and Juliet was definitely Christopher’s crown.”

  “She adored her children,” Delia Moss continued. “She went beyond loving them.”

  “Are any of you familiar with Melissa Kemper?” I asked.

  Blank stares from everyone… except from Ben, who had narrowed his eyes.

  “No one?” I met the gaze of each person sitting before me.

  A breeze suffused with the aroma of fried meat wafted through the room and twisted into my nostrils. Light-headed now, I felt my stomach rumble louder. “Okay. Back to Juliet. And I’ll be blunt just to save us some time. Did she ever talk to any of you about wanting to die?”

  Ruby shrieked, “What?”

  Nora clutched her neck. “Jules was probably the most well-adjusted woman on our block. How could you ask something so—?”

  “Nora, please,” Micah Galbreath said. He was the hatchet-faced black man who had stood with Ben Oliver.

  “So intrusive,” she complained. “Intrusive and totally disrespectful.”

  “These questions,” Delia Moss said, “it’s too soon to be asking these questions.”

  “I know that this is difficult,” I said, “but I’m asking because we found two notes in the back apartment.” I flipped through the pages in my pad, then read, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. Our life is a lie. It will be over soon and what we are will no longer be. We believe this note may have been written by Juliet Chatman.”

  Ruby cocked her head. “I know the first part of that, about vanity. It’s from the book of Ecclesiastes. It basically means everything we do is in vain and is meaningless.”

  “What about the rest?” I asked. “The part about it being over soon?”

  Everyone shrugged.

  “The second note we found,” I said, “was written by the mysterious Melissa Kemper. Dear Juliet, you need to know some things. I don’t want to bring it up in a letter—you’ve ignored my other ones so far—so please stop ignoring me and pick up the phone and CALL ME. It’s a matter of life and death!!!”

  Ben Oliver cleared his throat. “Melissa is a friend of ours.”

  “What kind of friend?” Colin asked.

  “A good one.” Ben glared at Eli and the video camera. “Must you record this?”

  Eli kept the camera trained on the attorney.

  “Was Christopher cheating on Jules with this Melissa?” Delia asked.

  Micah rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”

  “This is absurd,” Ben said, his voice an octave higher, his hands clasped behind his head to negate any anxiety. “What makes you think…? They, we, were friends.”

  “And why would he cheat on Jules?” Micah asked. “She’s beautiful. Well, she was beautiful before she got sick and started losing all that weight and… But she was beautiful.”

  Eli chuckled. “Show me a beautiful woman. I’ll show you a man tired of fucking her.”

  The men—even Colin—laughed.

  Ruby smacked Eli’s head. “This is a Christian house, hear? We don’t use that word.”

  The chastised filmmaker rubbed his head, but the frat-boy grin stayed on his lips.

  “Detectives,” Delia said, “what does Melissa Kemper have to do with the fire?”

  Ben Oliver waved his hand. “She has absolutely nothing to do with the fire.”

  “Mr. Oliver may be correct,” I agreed. “We just want to make sure we talk with everyone who may help us understand what happened.”

  “I know for sure that she’s not involved,” Ben Oliver said.

  “Okay,” I said. “So who is she?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter,” I retorted, “and it’s my job to find out. Wouldn’t you want me to talk to everyone about this awful situation?”

  All eyes turned to Ben. Well? Wouldn’t you?

  The lawyer sighed. “Melissa Kemper is the ex-wife of Ron Kemper, and Ron is also a friend of ours. We all attended UCLA. He’s now a partner over at Gibson, Dunn & Crutcher. Before the divorce, Mel worked as a publicist at Paramount Pictures. When they divorced this summer, she moved to Las Vegas with their son. Again: none of this is pertinent to the fire.”

  “I found her.” Delia passed the iPad to me.

  And there she was: Melissa Kemper in Los Angeles Confidential, a magazine you never knew existed because you weren’t important enough to know that it did.

  This picture had been taken in April 2013 at the Carousel of Hope Ball benefitting diabetes research. Kemper stood with her now-ex husband, a tall and tan white man with wavy silver hair. She should have been gorgeous—she had bright green eyes, long auburn hair, and gigantic knockers that strained against her emerald cocktail dress. But she wasn’t gorgeous or pretty or even cute despite all the nips and tucks and layers of expensive makeup. Her face had been pulled back so much that her smile had become a grimace; her brow stood so high, she would look surprised even after death.

  Ruby peeked over my shoulder, grunted, then moved back to her seat on the piano bench. “This the Gila monster Christopher chose?”

  “He didn’t choose her, Ruby,” Ben said with exasperation. “You know Christopher is totally devoted to Juliet.”

  Nora frowned. “I cannot believe he’d betray Jules for this… this… Joker in drag.”

  “Nora,” Ben said, “he didn’t—”

  “Maybe she has a sparkling personality,” Delia quipped.

  “Personality?” Nora said. “She probably takes it in the—”

  “Okay, okay, okay,” Ben said, clapping his hands. “That’s enough.”

  “We should move on,” I said, not wanting to move on, not really. “I’m not asking about Melissa Kemper to accuse Mr. Chatman of doing anything… questionable. I just need—”

  “Why are we even going down this road?” Micah asked, arms spread. “His family just died not even twenty-four hours ago.”

  “Yeah,” Eli said, “can the man grieve? Geez.”

  But the women of Don Mateo Drive weren’t done—there was still meat left on the bone.

  I elbowed Colin: my evil plan was working.

  “Why do men do shit like this?” Nora asked, arms crossed.

  Eli pointed at the real estate agent, then gawked at Ruby. “She gets to curse, but I don’t?”

  “My house, my rules,” Ruby said. “Now hush up.”

  “It’s never enough,” Nora complained, shaking her head and glaring at her husband.

  “Cheaters should be castrated,” Delia mused. “Slowly, and with a rusty, dull scalpel.”

  I felt Colin’s muscles tighten. “We should move on,” he croaked.

  Nora gasped. “You think Jules knew?”

  Again, the room turned to Ben Oliver. Well? Did she?

  The attorney rubbed his face, then touched his forehead. “There was nothing for Juliet to know. And Juliet didn’t suspect anything because
there was nothing to suspect. This is a snipe hunt, folks. Can’t you see what Detective Norton is doing? She’s trying to make it so that she can arrest Christopher for murder. Or maybe even blame poor Cody, just twelve years old. Which also means that the insurance company won’t have to pay his claims.”

  “Again,” I said, “you bring up insurance issues. Mr. Oliver, this is not about you and what you do for a living. We’re here in this room because a fire—”

  “Cody ain’t had nothin’ to do with this fire,” Ruby said.

  “He was just a boy,” Nora said, wringing her hands.

  “Ma’am,” Colin said, “we’re not sayin’ that Cody—”

  “We’re here,” I said, tamping back anger, “to try and find out who murdered two children—”

  “And you’re trying to pin it on my best friend,” Ben Oliver interrupted. Then, he waved his hands at the people in the room. “Our friend. Our family.”

  I nodded. “And I understand—”

  “No, you don’t understand.” He slowly pointed to each person in the room. “Many of you mentioned seeing a suspicious person wearing an orange hockey jersey. Has Detective Norton even looked into this? Of course not. She’s colluding with MG Standard to cheat our friend of life, liberty, and the money he’s entitled to, on the policies he’s paid on for thirteen years. This way, she’ll get to close the case and get a promotion.”

  “Again,” I said, sensing the room tilt to his side, “I’m not here to argue with you, Mr. Oliver.”

  “Because you know I’m right,” he said, relaxing in his chair. “I know about the insurance investigator that MG Standard sent out this morning. Dixie Shipman: a disgraced arson cop fired two years ago after she was caught receiving kickbacks from insurance companies.”

  “Three people,” I said. “Three people that you all loved died in a fire early this morning. I’m only interested in finding out who is responsible for their deaths. I’m only interested in—”

  “Last year,” Ben interrupted, “MG Standard Insurance Company and companies like them collected one trillion dollars in premiums.” He gazed at me and light beamed in his eyes—it was the satisfaction that came with cornering prey. “One. Trillion. Dollars,” he repeated.

  The people in the room gasped.

  “Incredible.”

  “Crazy.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  The Inner Lou also said, Holy crap, that’s a lot of money.

  “Each day,” Colin said, “one in three women are murdered by their partners. And half of the men who abuse their wives also abuse their children.”

  I elbowed my partner. Wrong stats, man. Wrong stats.

  “Are you saying that Christopher is a wife beater?” Micah cried. “That he beat his kids?”

  “No,” I said. “We’re saying that early this morning, a woman and her children died—”

  “Have any of you been fucked by the insurance industry?” Ben asked.

  “I’m not through,” I spat.

  His eyes narrowed. “How about the police? Any cops fuck you over?”

  Colin started to rebut, but I shook my head. Let the asshole finish.

  The room fell into silence—the only sound was Ruby’s daughter singing a Rihanna song.

  Finally, Eli said, “Our house got broken into, and some crackhead took every piece of electronics that wasn’t nailed down. We only got three hundred dollars for our claim.”

  “A cop stopped me last week,” Micah shared. “Said I looked like a suspect. How many suspects wear Brooks Brothers suits and drive BMWs?”

  “When my mother got cancer,” Ruby said, “the insurance company wouldn’t pay because she had a preexisting condition.”

  Mouth dry, I sat on that couch with my soul hunched over until the storm passed.

  “She could be lying,” Eli suggested as he stared at his pudgy hands.

  “Who?” I asked. “Me? Lying? About?”

  “About all of this,” the man said. “Cops say shit to make you say shit but their shit ain’t true. But they use your shit to twist the case any way they want. My buddy Ross got stopped by a motorcycle cop over on Wilshire who said he had made a left turn after seven o’clock. But it wasn’t seven; it was 6:54. So the cop’s lying, right? Ross went to traffic court to fight the ticket. He brought in charts and pictures to prove his innocence, and the cop didn’t even show up. Ross found out that the cop had a history of making shit up. Lying.”

  Ben’s smile broadened. “Denying people the help they need: isn’t that what the LAPD is about? To serve and protect? Maybe to serve and protect each other, but certainly not the people of this city.”

  Case closed.

  Blood and pressure surged at my scalp as though I stood upside down.

  “What about Christopher Chatman’s mental state?” Colin asked as though the last ten minutes had not happened.

  “What about it?” Ben sniped, that smile of his sent back into hibernation.

  “Last week this time, was he depressed?” Colin asked. “Sad? Angry? Erratic?”

  “No, four times,” Ben said.

  “Sir,” Colin said, “we asked you already. I want someone else’s opinion.”

  But the others in the room said nothing.

  Colin glanced at Ruby. “No trouble ever at the Chatman house?”

  The woman, arms folded tight against her large bosom, shook her head. “Nope.”

  He found Eli next. “No cops called? Ever?”

  Eli said, “Nope.”

  “So everything was A-OK,” Colin said.

  Fuck the police from sea to shining sea.

  I closed my notebook, aware now that Ben had presented a pretty convincing argument against lying cops and the cheating insurance companies that they protected. “We’re only here to help,” I said, pulling myself from the couch. “We’re only here to find the person or persons who committed this horrendous act. Unfortunately, that means we’ll have to keep asking hard questions until we get the truth. And that means you all will be seeing us again.” To Ruby Emmett, I said, “I’d like to talk to the kids now, please.”

  Sighs and groans followed Colin and me up the stairs and down the hallway.

  We found the teens in the boy’s stuffy bedroom. Posters of baseballs and basketballs—no athletes to worship, just balls in motion—along with maps of the world and Afro-Jesus had been tacked to the walls. The boy, LaTrell, sat on the carpet, game controller in his hands and a bag of Cheetos Crunchy on his thighs. His eyes were glued to the thirty-inch television on the dresser. His sister, LaTanya, lay on the bed, controller in her hands, and a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos near her elbow.

  Ruby stood in front of the television. “Turn it off. The detectives got some questions.”

  The girl aimed the remote at the TV, and the boy tapped the swirling green power circle on the Xbox console.

  “How old are you guys?” I asked.

  “Fourteen,” the twins said together.

  “You both know what’s going on across the street,” I said. “We’re trying to figure out how it happened. We hear that Cody’s set fires before. Do you know about that?”

  The boy and girl regarded each other, then looked back at me.

  She said, “Yeah, he used to do that.”

  LaTrell folded his arms and dipped his chin to his chest.

  “Boy,” Ruby growled, “you better get right, right now.”

  He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He scrolled through his digital photo album, found a picture, tapped it, then handed me the phone. “It’s a video.”

  Cody Chatman had been sitting in a park when he reached into his grungy black backpack. He pulled out a piece of clothing and shook it out: a man’s blazer. “This cost, like, one grand,” he said, his voice deep and hoarse.

  “Nice,” LaTrell had wheezed. “Your daddy’s a baller.”

  “My daddy’s a punk,” Cody Chatman had snapped. He pulled an orange Bic from his pack, the
n held the flame to the jacket’s sleeve.

  “That’s cold,” LaTrell had said.

  “That’s beautiful,” the boy said and tossed the lit blazer on the grass. He smiled at the phone’s camera, then stuck out his tongue.

  “He did that kind of stuff all the time,” LaTrell told us now. “He’d take something from his mom or dad—”

  “Or from Chloe,” LaTanya said. “He’d take, like, her dolls and stuffed animals and everything. And then he’d burn them up.”

  Colin and I looked at each other. WTF?

  LaTanya bit her lip, then said, “And he used to bully—”

  LaTrell tilted his head back into his sister’s chin.

  Ruby saw this, and growled, “Boy…”

  LaTanya gazed down at her brother’s head, then sighed. “Cody used to bully his cousin all the time.”

  I cocked my head. “Cousin? Who—?”

  “Mimi,” she said. “Guess she’s really his play cousin. He hated her, and he’d take her stuff and hide it, and she’d start cryin’ and he’d fake cry, and that made her cry harder. One time, he locked Mimi and Coco out of the house. Remember that, Momma?” she asked Ruby.

  The woman nodded solemnly. “We were coming home from the store and the girls were sittin’ on my porch, just weeping.” She pursed her lips. “Cody thought it was funny.”

  “Did he get in trouble?” Colin asked, spots of color high on his cheeks.

  “His dad took away his skateboards,” LaTrell said. “That’s when he did this.” He held up his phone.

  LaTanya nodded. “And Mimi was sad cuz her momma wouldn’t let her come over anymore by herself.”

  “Anything else you can tell us?” Colin asked.

  LaTrell said, “His best friend’s name is Parker McMann. He goes to the same school. He ain’t that nice, either.”

  “Skateboards and fire, too?” I asked.

  The twins nodded.

  “Thanks for talking to us,” I said.

  “As you were,” Ruby told her children.

  Almost immediately, the Xbox fan whirred and the bags of Cheetos crumpled.

  * * *

  Back at the Crown Vic, I took several breaths and waited for the nausea to pass. Then, I opened the trunk and threw in my bag. “I need a drink after that.”