“Why didn’t they just sell it?”
“It’s his house, and he wanted to keep it. Give it to his boy when the time came. Juliet didn’t care nothing about no heritage or none of that. And she never stopped scheming to move.”
My fingers numbed. “Interesting word you used. Scheming.”
“I says lots of interestin’ words.”
I grinned. “So how did she scheme?”
“She’d clog up the pipes on purpose. Sprinkle sawdust around, like they had termites. Silly things like that. She wanted a bigger house is all. A newer house over where Benji and his family live. She always talked about how beautiful the houses were up there.
“But the kids loved their house. The attic and the backyard. That girl… She wasn’t ever satisfied, no matter how much money Christopher gave her to fix it up. New furniture. New paint… Paint: ain’t that what killed her?”
I gave a solemn nod, then asked, “Did she ever come to you for advice?”
“Of course she did,” the woman said. “I tol’ her to take her tail back to work. Tol’ her to make her own money and stop nagging Christopher to work more. That poor boy was already puttin’ in sixteen-hour days. But she ain’t want to work, and so she felt trapped and she hated it.”
I stared at my notes: “money,” “scheming,” “trapped”… “Trapped.” Juliet seemed to have used that word a lot. “So Cody Chatman—”
“Needed a few good wallops to his behind. He got too much, too soon, and so he was spoiled and bored. And mean. That boy was as mean as the days is long.”
“We heard that he’d bully Chloe, and when Amelia Oliver was over—”
“He’d mess with her, too,” Mrs. Oliver said, nodding. “Sarah hated that boy. And she ain’t care if everybody knew how much she hated him.” The old lady held up her hands and shrugged. “I ain’t like him myself, and I pray ’bout that cuz he just a child. Like I said, he need one good whuppin’ to set him straight.”
“We’re considering the possibility that he set the fire, either accidentally or—”
“No,” she said, shaking his head. “He loved his momma. He’d never wanna hurt her like that.”
“What kind of child was Chloe?”
Virginia Oliver smiled. “Friendlier than a box of puppies. I called her Angel Baby. Nothin’ like her brother. Had her daddy’s calm nature, you know. But Juliet was always picking on the girl cuz she was a little plump. Always puttin’ the girl on some kind of diet. The baby was only eight years old, but Juliet had her eatin’ them Lean Cuh-zine TV dinners.”
“What did Chloe think about her brother?”
“Loved him. Feared him. But loved him more. When he let her, she’d follow him around and watch him do tricks on that board of his. But then, an hour later, she’d run into the house cuz he said somethin’ crazy to her.”
“Would he hurt her?” I asked.
The old woman opened her mouth to speak but closed it and remained silent.
I closed the notepad and sighed. That was fine. Virginia Oliver’s other statements had already softly beaten me down—like millions of cotton balls falling onto my back, one by one, over a two-week span. “Would you say they were a normal family?” I asked.
The old woman pushed away from the table and carried the empty skillet to the sink. “ ‘Normal’ ain’t the word I would use.”
“Okay,” I said, so tired now. “What word would you use?”
Virginia Oliver gazed out the kitchen window. “What word…?” Finally, she turned to me and said, “Doomed.”
21
COLIN HAD SETTLED BEHIND THE CROWN VIC’S STEERING WHEEL.
Revitalized and freed from the onslaught of killer cotton balls, I slipped into the passenger seat. I turned to my partner with a tired grin. “Dude. I almost shot that old lady. She came to the door holding a freakin’ machete. Who owns a freakin’ machete?”
And then I told him about my conversation with Mrs. Oliver.
“Scheming,” Colin said. “Never satisfied.”
“Hell, sounds like every woman I know. Me included.”
“Yeah?” He smirked. “And how, may I ask, will you get some satisfaction?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I see someone’s taken his little blue pill this morning.”
“One blue will get you four.”
And we grinned at each other like a couple of goofs.
“Juliet Chatman sounds like a shrew,” I said. “Just like Christopher’s mother was a shrew. And they both henpecked that poor, dear man every day of his life.”
“Until early Tuesday morning,” Colin pointed out. “But now he’ll have you.”
“A surrogate shrew?” I asked.
“The best kind.”
I fastened my seat belt. “Mrs. Oliver isn’t breaking up into pieces over Juliet. Guess she feels that Saint Christopher will finally get some rest for the first time in his life.”
Colin plucked his little box of Tic Tacs from his pocket, then dumped hundreds of candies into his mouth. Between crunches, he said, “Dakota’s comin’ to California. She’s planning to”—his fingers formed air quotation marks—“ ‘visit friends’ in San Diego before Christmas. She wanted to ‘swing by LA’ just to say ‘hi.’ ”
“Girls don’t learn.”
“If an alpha like you won’t…”
My ears burned as the car sailed away from the curb. “You excited to see her?”
He grunted.
I tapped his knee. “Maybe you two will reconcile and live happily ever after. Go back to the Springs and make towheaded, bucktoothed babies.”
He glanced at me. “Is that what you’re doing? Reconciling? Living happily ever after?”
Blood filled my head. Was I doing that? “Yes. But my babies will have perfect teeth.” And then my iPhone rang. I hit the speaker button and said, “Yeah?”
“Are we on for happy hour?” Lena’s chirpy voice filled the cabin.
“Forgot about that. Umm… Not sure if I can. Oh, and thank you for the novel. And Colin’s here. Say hello, Colin.”
He said, “Hello, Colin.”
I took the phone off speaker and held it to my ear.
“You promised,” Lena was shouting. “You flaked on me last week when you went out with what’s-his-face instead.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please call Greg by his name.”
“I hate it when you do this,” she said.
“When I do what?”
“Go dumb over dick. You owe me, Elouise.”
“Fine. Where should we meet?”
“Kay and Dave’s.”
“Fine.”
“You mad? Don’t be mad.”
“What time?” I asked.
“Six thirty.”
“Happy hour?” Colin said. “Every time I ask you to go out and grab a drink, you tell me no. What’s up with that?” He turned left onto Hillcrest Avenue. “You’ve gone out with Luke and Pepe a million times. We’re partners. That’s it.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Just don’t feel like rockin’ the boat right now.” As we drove downhill, I threw a glance at my childhood home: mint-green apartments, boarded windows, sad grass. Cracked sidewalks where Dad had taught me to ride a bike…
“We’re gonna be partners for a long time,” Colin said. “He’s—”
“Immature like that, yes, I know. Again: not in the mood to teach life lessons to a grown man. It sucks, but we all do what we gotta do.”
“Whatever’s clever, Lou. Since when are you not in the mood to teach life…” Colin’s gaze moved past me. “Hey.”
I followed his gaze to the dreadlocked muscular black man sauntering down Hillcrest. The man wearing an orange hockey jersey. A battered, bulky backpack was slung over his right shoulder. There was a tattoo on his left calf. “Ain’t that the dude…?”
“Yeah.” Colin swerved over to the curb.
I rolled down my window. “What’s up, partner?”
Dude kept steppin’, tossi
ng a surly glance at us, and then he took a longer look—a white guy was driving a Crown Vic in this neighborhood. He realized that we were 5.0, and his eyes bugged. He muttered, “Oh shit.” And, just like that, he raced down the block.
“Motherfuck—” I jumped out of the car and took off after him, glad that I’d worn loafers today instead of heels.
The Crown Vic’s tires squealed.
Dude’s legs pumped him down to Santa Rosalia.
He’ll make a right. They always make a right.
At the intersection, he busted a right.
“Stop! Police!” I yelled, knowing that he wouldn’t stop.
He darted across the street and into the abandoned Santa Barbara Plaza breezeway. He slipped on newspapers and empty bottles, but he quickly recovered.
But in his faltering, I had caught up. “Stop! Police!” I drew my Glock and followed him into the field of closed shops. Sirens whirred, and static crackled from the radio on my belt.
He ducked left into an alley.
I skidded to a stop and listened to my panting. Held my breath to listen to him creep. Gun pointed to the dirt, I slunk closer to the alley, my pulse racing and my heart beating so loud, he probably heard me coming.
Broken glass crunched to the right of me.
I spun to my right, gun up, my finger on the trigger.
Nothing.
I smelled him, though. Sweat, patchouli oil, fear…
I stepped forward.
A bead of sweat dropped into my eye, blinding me for a moment. I ignored the sting and crept deeper into the alley, my arms locked and on fire.
Ten yards ahead, I spotted Dude’s backpack.
Sirens sounded closer.
“You hear that?” I shouted. “You ain’t gettin’ outta here.”
He burst from a corner behind me.
I whirled around and chased him back out to the open square.
He slipped, cutting his elbows and knees on broken glass.
I caught up to him and trained my gun at his chest.
He threw up his bloody hands. His neck tat writhed from his heavy breathing and racing pulse. Tears ran down his sweaty face. “I ain’t done nothin’.”
A patrol car sped into the empty lot, sirens and wigwags going, tires kicking up dirt.
Colin had abandoned the car and was now running across the field and holding Dude’s backpack. “You okay?” he asked once he reached me.
“Yeah.” To the uniform, a guy named Corleto, I said, “Watch it. He’s bleeding.”
Officer Corleto cuffed Orange Hockey Jersey and sat him on the ground. Then, he took Dude’s information. Afterward, Corleto retreated to his black-and-white to run the man’s name through the computer.
I finally holstered my gun and stood over my suspect. “What the hell, dude? Why’d you run? We only wanted to ask you a few questions.”
Colin lifted the heavy backpack. “Did you run cuz you got somethin’ in here?”
Dude closed his bloodshot eyes.
Colin unzipped the bag and peered in. “You kidding me?” He pulled out two DVD cases with yellow stickies on their fronts. In black marker, someone had scribbled, “Bat Man, the dark night returns.”
“Bootleg DVDs?” I asked Dude. “I busted my ass chasing you cuz you think I’m interested in some…? Where were you yesterday, about three in the morning?”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to say,” Dude muttered, avoiding my eyes. “I want my lawyer.”
I spun on my heel and stomped back toward the abandoned stores.
A minute later, Colin found me stewing in the front seat of Corleto’s black-and-white, guzzling a bottle of water.
“So,” he said, “TeShawn Shaw, twenty-two years old, last known address was some shithole on Nicolet. Last arrest was for trespassing on December tenth. He was in our own freakin’ jail on the night of the fire. Can you believe that shit?”
I gulped from the water bottle, my nerves still jangled from the foot pursuit. “He may not be the one hanging around Don Mateo. There could be some other dread-head in an orange…”
“True.”
“We’ll go back up the hill,” I said, screwing on the bottle cap. “We’ll ask Nora the Realtor, show her a six-pack, and have her choose.”
“Got it.” Colin trudged back to our car and muttered, “This fuckin’ case.”
Yeah. No witnesses. No true motive.
Yeah. This case.
22
AT ALMOST FIVE O’CLOCK, THE SQUAD ROOM HAD MORE CUSTOMERS THAN 7-ELEVEN on a Saturday night. Weeping witnesses were hunched over in chairs, clutching tissues or packs of cigarettes. Handcuffed suspects shuffled down hallways while exhausted detectives clutched the perps’ elbows and guided them to the Box or to a jail cell. Except for those wearing steel bracelets, everyone cradled in their hands foam cups filled with coffee, water, or soda. Somewhere in the bowels of the building, a man shouted, “I ain’t do it! I ain’t do it!”
There’s no place like home.
I collapsed at my desk, breathless, as though I had run there.
“What’s next on the agenda?” Colin asked as he plopped into his chair.
Nora Galbreath had positively identified TeShawn Shaw as the Guy in the Orange Hockey Jersey. Ruby Emmett had also confirmed that she had witnessed Shaw roaming Don Mateo Drive.
“Check on our outstanding warrant requests,” I told Colin now.
“Yep,” he said, logging on to his computer.
Juliet Chatman’s journal, found during the search of the converted garage and now stowed in evidence box 1, was waiting for me.
I flipped to another entry: November 20.
We had lunch today since she’s back in town for the moment. We talked about our boring husbands. Well, for her, ex-husband. Weird, but I feel sorry for the insufferable twit. Mel can’t help who she is. Born poor and thrown into high society and expected to miraculously have the manners of the Queen? She’s like me. Ha ha. As usual, she had too much to drink and got vulgar. After lunch, I sent her a bouquet of lilies, as is custom when something dies. To be served divorce papers in the middle of Pilates was wicked. Ron is a mean bastard.
Had Ben Oliver been truthful—were they all just friends?
I flipped back to an entry dated April 11.
My life is one big pile of crap. I loathe him. Totally. Completely. And the kids. I love them but I’m tired of them, tired of their noise, tired of their constant need. Tired of Chloe eating all the time. Tired of Cody setting fires and beating kids up and flunking school and just being an asshole. If there is a God (and with all that’s going on right now, I am doubtful), He should come back now or I will end it all because if He doesn’t do it soon, I will end it for Him. And then, quiet at last.
What did that mean? “I will end it for Him”?
CC is out in the back in the swing again. Upset. My fault. Of course. Because I made a crack about this precious house of ours (well, his house, don’t I ever forget it). I kissed his precious little forehead and apologized for being a cruel monster. For fuck’s sake!! Why can’t he MAN UP? Always getting his feelings hurt. And when will he let them go??? They’ve been dead for years now. And it’s perfectly normal for me to want a bigger house.
Colin rolled his chair over to mine and looked over my shoulder. “Whatcha reading?”
“Juliet’s journal.” I pushed away his face. “Your breath smells like bacon.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
Light-headed, I closed my eyes and tried to see nothing for a moment.
I will end it for Him.
Fail.
I opened my eyes. “The warrants?”
“Should be here any minute.”
I watched him—thinking about nothing, just enjoying the break—until my telephone blipped. I grabbed the receiver and answered.
“Detective,” the man said, “this is Christopher Chatman.” He sounded thick-tongued.
I jerked as though God had lit my fuse, then snapped my fingers at
Colin and mouthed, “Christopher Chatman.” I fumbled for the phone’s recording adapter, stuck the what’s it into the thingamabob, and hit the speaker button. “Mr. Chatman,” I said, “I was planning to call you.”
“The hospital discharged me this morning,” he said, “and I’m staying with my friend Ben for the moment. He said that you stopped by the hospital yesterday.”
“Yes,” I said. “But we didn’t want to trouble you until it was absolutely necessary. You’re recovering from a horrific ordeal.”
“It has been very difficult for me.”
“I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mr. Chatman.”
Silence.
I crossed my eyes at Colin.
“How soon will you complete your investigation?” he asked. “And I must admit: I’m still unclear about what you’re investigating. You are a homicide detective, correct?”
“I am, and I hope to be finished soon, sir. But I have several questions that still need answering.”
“Questions? Like?”
“Like how your wife and children were killed.”
He made a gurgling noise, then croaked, “Killed? I thought… The fire…”
“Yes, sir. The fire played a part in all of this, but just a part.” My pulse banged at the spaces behind my eyebrows. I pulled the small silver hoops out of my earlobes. Too heavy.
He coughed, then cleared his throat. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know, Detective. But tomorrow Ben’s having people over. And if they see me talking to you… I don’t want to have any visitors, having to explain and say over and over again, and with my head injury… Can you come over now? While I’m alone? While I can still think?”
I stifled a groan—Lena wouldn’t totally kill me. She preferred that I flaked because of work and not because of what’s-his-face. My husband. “Of course,” I told Chatman.
“Ben and Sarah are out. Come through the side gate. See you soon.”
I hung up, then slipped the silver hoops back into my ears. “So what should we ask?”
“Why were you at work so late, Mr. Chatman?” Colin said.
I added, “How come you were so broke that you needed to borrow money from Ben Oliver, Mr. Chatman?”
Skies of Ash Page 12
