Skies of Ash

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “Yep.” Colin stood from the love seat. “I’ll go do that.” He stomped out of the cottage and slammed the door.

  Chatman gaped at me with wounded eyes. “It’s just so hurtful. I mean, your partner just inferred… How would he react if some pencil pusher from the insurance company came looking for him just hours after his family died?”

  “You called the insurance company, Mr. Chatman,” I whispered. “Well, Mr. Oliver called on your behalf.”

  He blinked at me, and after a moment’s reflection, he nodded. “My head is killing me.”

  “I’ll let you rest now, sir,” I said.

  Christopher Chatman took a breath, but it caught in his throat. He threw out a congested rattle, then took another breath. “Really: I don’t mean to sound so harsh. You’re just doing your job. I’m not the guy who thinks he knows it all and deserves special treatment. I apologize, but I’m barely… here.” He peered at me. “You know how it feels… to experience loss. Your sister… And to have the cops tell you that you are the reason why…”

  Damn. The first time Detective Tommy Peet had interviewed my mother, he had done more than infer that we were to blame for Tori’s disappearance.

  At the front door, Christopher Chatman warned me to take care while navigating the slippery flagstones. “Before you go…” He leaned against the door frame. “My family. Were they…? Will I be able to see them?” His eyes grew bright and his nostrils flared. “Are they…?”

  “They are recognizable, sir,” I said. “But whether or not you’d want an open service is up to you.”

  He blinked rapidly. “They didn’t suffer, then?”

  If suffocating to death because your lungs were being twisted inside your chest wasn’t suffering… “I can’t answer that question, sir.”

  Chatman smiled. “Thank you for all that you’re doing, Detective Norton.”

  I crept up those steep stairs and tiptoed over those slick flagstones, passing the cocktail tables and high chairs. Once I reached the side gate, I glanced back over my shoulder.

  The commodities broker stood in the doorway of the guest-house, a dark figure lit from behind. He looked smaller now, and his tracksuit hung loosely from his body like molten skin.

  Talking to me had diminished him.

  I wanted to apologize to him and prepare him for the future: Didn’t matter if he killed his family or didn’t kill his family. By the end of this investigation, Christopher Chatman would be nothing.

  24

  THE AIR HAD GAINED TWENTY POUNDS OF WET WEIGHT, MAKING THE SCENTS OF lavender and night-blooming jasmine stronger and muting the dog barks, heels clicking on pavement, and car doors whooshing open and closing with thuds.

  Colin paced near my SUV. “Sorry ’bout that insurance remark. It just… popped out of my mouth.”

  I didn’t speak to him until I leaned against the passenger door of the Porsche.

  He stopped pacing and stood in front of me, his legs wide apart, his face tilted to the night sky. Heat rolled off his body in waves, and, like the jasmine and lavender, the foggy atmosphere had compounded the smell of his cologne.

  Nothing is more dangerous than a hard man in soft air after a long day.

  I dropped my gaze to the asphalt and stared at the toes of my shoes.

  “Guy’s a jerk,” he said. “He just hides it well.”

  “You’d know.”

  “Whatcha thinkin’?”

  “That maybe my next partner will be less of an asshole.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “The feeling was mutual.”

  “But he’s fascinated by you.”

  I smirked. “I do that to all the mourning husbands, sociopaths, and video-game geeks. It’s my wonder power.”

  “So what now?”

  “Off to happy hour with the ladies. I need a drink after today’s adventure. And you?”

  His neck reddened as he shrugged. His blue-eyed gaze focused beyond the bluffs.

  “See you in the morning, then?” I asked, meandering to the driver’s side.

  “Yep.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his 501s and moseyed back to his car. Seconds later, he zoomed past. He did not wave, nor did he blow his horn.

  I slipped behind the steering wheel and texted Lena. On my way. I turned the key to start the engine but didn’t immediately pull away from the curb.

  Christopher Chatman had googled me. Strange but… not. He knew about my cases and my sister. But then anyone who had read the Times this past summer knew about my sister. And Chatman seemed both innocent and guilty. Sometimes, the husband did it—Jean-Claude Romand, the Frenchman who had lied to his family about everything possible, then killed them and burned down the house with them in it. And sometimes the husband didn’t do it—the Connecticut doctor William Petit, who had been beaten with a bat by two psychopathic home invaders that had raped and killed his wife and two daughters and then burned down the house. While he was never a suspect and the murderers apprehended, some folks still wondered about Dr. Petit’s quick recovery from the assault and about his successful escape from the flames.

  Which husband was Christopher Chatman?

  I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror. The dark circles and bags beneath my eyes were filled with worry and overstimulation.

  Every cop—hell, every Angeleno—owned that same set of bags.

  * * *

  If you’re just gonna sit there and stare into space,” Syeeda said, tapping her boot on the ground, “me and Lena will hang out with the desperate housewives at the next table.”

  I snapped back to the here and now, and to my best friends. “Sorry. Just thinking about…” The cantina twinkled with crimson and turquoise lights, punctuated by the bright-white glints of cell phones and bleached-teeth grins. “This case…” I took a sip of sangria, my eyes on the giant bowl of ceviche in the middle of the table. The fumes from the cilantro and lime had already given me heartburn.

  Syeeda gulped the rest of her wine—she knew what I was thinking. “Wanna get something off your chest?”

  I smirked. “Why? So you can make it first-page news?”

  “Homeboy in the hockey jersey—”

  “Didn’t do it. Off the record.”

  “Is he the only homeboy in LA with an orange hockey jersey, though? I’m thinkin’—”

  I held up my hands. “Can we not talk shop right now? I’m not drinking enough as is.”

  With that, Syeeda grabbed the pitcher and refilled both our glasses. “One last thing and I’ll shut up. As you go about your day filled with fingerprints and gene sequencing and arson reports, I just ask that you don’t lose sight of the fact that two kids are dead and…”

  I blinked at her. “I can never forget that.”

  “Let’s move on, please,” Lena said. “I have something for you two.” She adjusted her torn-just-so sweatshirt, then rummaged through her giant Birkin bag, finally pulling out two envelopes. “One of these is ridiculous, and the other is totally awesome.”

  I pointed to the red envelope with the snowman stamp and Connecticut return address. “That’s the awesome one.”

  “Guess again.” She tossed the red envelope to me, then kicked off her fuchsia stilettos.

  I tore open the flap.

  “Can you believe this?” Lena spat.

  “Can we open the envelope first?” Syeeda asked.

  I pulled out the Christmas card. “Oh wow.” All the pressure and anxiety and tingly limbs from the meeting with Christopher Chatman burst into a shower of pink glitter. And I laughed.

  “Season’s greetings indeed,” Syeeda said, wide-eyed.

  On the front of the card was Lena’s ex-husband, Chauncey, wearing a red cable-knit sweater. He sat on a giant boulder beside his new husband, Brando, who wore a gray cable-knit sweater. Two Weimaraners, wearing black sweaters, lounged at the couple’s feet.

  I snickered. “It’s very sweet that your ex-husband and his husband thought about you during t
his time of giving.”

  “Am I supposed to be happy for him?” Lena screeched over the roar of the crowd. “Just cuz it’s Christmas? Am I supposed to hoist a rainbow flag even though this asshole dumped me for this other asshole?”

  “Brando’s eyes are very far apart,” Syeeda noted.

  “He looks like a hammerhead shark,” I said, peering at the picture. “A hammerhead shark dressed in L.L.Bean.”

  “This ain’t funny,” Lena muttered.

  “Oh, Lena.” Syeeda picked up the unopened envelope. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year. Parties and eggnog and holly and—” She slid out a slick pink card.

  “Diamond Heavenlick” had been written in white italics across the card’s top. In the picture beneath, Lena (I guess it was Lena) wore a black crop top, a way-up-to-there plaid schoolgirl’s skirt, black spanky panties, and fuck-me pumps with transparent heels. She had wrapped most of herself around a silver pole.

  “Okay,” I said. “This is wrong.”

  “So wrong that it’s right,” Lena said. “Sy, turn it over.”

  Wiggle with Me.

  And I laughed until I couldn’t breathe.

  Syeeda stared at the invite. “Who is Heaven…? Huh?”

  “It’s my first pole-dance recital,” Lena said, hopping in her chair. “Diamond Heavenlick: that’s my stripper name.”

  Syeeda and I gawked at each other.

  “I just ended my first three-month session,” Lena said, “and I feel as though I’ve finally accomplished something.” She touched my hand. “Sorry, Elouise. At Krav Maga, I only accomplished sleeping with Avarim, and to my great disappointment that was not worthy of a recital.” She picked up her sangria glass and sipped through the straw. “I’m discovering a new part of me. I’ve found my secret sexy.”

  “We thought you were doing this for kicks,” Syeeda said. “We didn’t think… recitals?”

  Lena giggled. “Lou, bring Taggert with you.”

  My face warmed. “Why?”

  She gave a sly smile. “I’m tired of Russia and Israel. I need to see America again: the Rockies and purple mountain majesty and amber waves of grain. And since you’re not being a patriot and hittin’ it, someone should, especially in today’s post-9/11 world.” Her eyes met mine. “Unless you are hittin’ it and you’re not telling us.”

  “Well, now,” Syeeda said, turning in her chair to face me.

  “I’m not,” I said, reaching for my drink.

  “Yet,” Syeeda said.

  “I’m not,” I repeated and crunched ice cubes.

  Lena spooned ceviche onto her plate. “You’re an idiot, then.”

  “Fine.”

  “I commend you trying with Gregory,” she said. “You want to be a part of something special. Pour toujours et à jamais.”

  “We’ve talked about this, Diamond,” Syeeda said, pouring sangria into our glasses.

  “He’s a chronic adulterer.” Lena pointed the spoon at me. “And he will never, ever change, and you, ma chérie, must accept that unfortunate truth.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Your Russian boyfriend is—”

  “Married,” Lena completed. “And I’m fine with that. And Olga is fine with that.”

  “Until one of you stops being fine with that,” Syeeda said.

  Lena scoffed and plucked Chauncey’s card from the bowl of tortilla chips. “After what this bastard in the sweater did to me, do you think that I’m ready for something meaningful?”

  “You’ll screw somebody else’s husband,” I said, “so that you won’t have to deal with all those yucky emotions and gooey commitment?”

  Lena grabbed her cell phone from the table and swiped her finger across its screen. “À bon chat, bon rat.”

  “Tit for tat?” I asked. “Whose tit? And easier for whom? Not for the wife. Or do we not matter?”

  Syeeda clapped her hands. “Okay, ladies. Let’s all stay in our lanes.”

  Lena rolled her eyes. “Build a bridge and get over it, Elouise. I’m just doing me.”

  “There’s a word or two for that,” I groused, glass to my lips.

  “Luckily, I don’t give a shit,” Lena spat.

  A lie—I could hear the panicky quaver in her voice.

  I sipped. “It’s all fun and games until somebody gets shot.”

  “Tha fuck, Lou?” Lena said. “This is different from you and Greg. Olga knows.”

  “Did she tell you that?” I asked. “Or did you take his word for it? The word of the chronic adulterer?”

  Lena folded her arms and dropped her chin to her chest.

  Syeeda broke a tortilla chip into tiny pieces.

  All around us, dishes clinked, women giggled, and men outshouted one another.

  Syeeda tapped the recital invitation. “We’ll come wiggle with you, Lena. Will there be strip-tinis and hors d’oeuvres? Shall I bring dollar bills, or is this an exhibition-type event?”

  Lena tried to meet my eyes, but her gaze skittered back to the bowl of ceviche.

  Under the table, Syeeda’s knee nudged mine.

  I didn’t speak.

  Syeeda kicked my calf.

  “We’ll come wiggle with you, Lena,” I parroted.

  Lena finally looked at me and forced a smile that didn’t reach her dark, angry eyes.

  I returned her smile with one of my own, one devoid of affection or forgiveness, one that lamented a friendship under siege.

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 13

  25

  MY MOTHER’S GREEN HONDA ACCORD WAS PARKED IN THE DRIVEWAY OF HER Inglewood townhouse. Martin’s Toyota Camry was not. She had probably kicked him out before my early-morning arrival. Sent him to pick up a bulb of elephant garlic at the farmer’s market in a tiny Romanian village just to keep me from knowing that he had stayed the night.

  But I was paid to spot little things: the single gray whisker in the bathroom sink that had not washed away with the others. The vial of Flomax in the medicine cabinet, prescribed for men with enlarged prostates. The bottle of Sam Adams on the fridge door (mom drank Chardonnay, never beer).

  Two months ago, during one of our weekly breakfasts, I had told my mother that I was cool with Martin living there, cool with him sleeping in her bed.

  Mom had blushed, then muttered into her cup, “Why do you say crazy things like that?”

  Nervous, I had salted my eggs until they’d become inedible. “I just hope you’re using protection. Yesterday, I read an article that said older people are getting bad cases of gonorrhea.”

  Mom’s big brown eyes had turned the size of turkey platters. “You say the craziest things,” she had grumbled. A week later, though, I spotted a grocery store receipt on the kitchen counter. I glimpsed Trojans Lubricated Condoms among A1 Steak Sauce and organic bananas. Left me satisfied. And horrified.

  This morning, Georgia Starr greeted me at the front door with a broad smile. She pulled me into a hug scented with ylang-ylang, coconut, and vanilla. She wore one of her favorite caftans—pastel flowers outlined in thick browns and greens. “You have a key,” she said as I followed her into the house. “Why did you ring the bell?”

  I sat my bag on the foyer’s tile. “Because if I walk in on you and Martin, I’ll have to get a lobotomy, and with half a brain, I wouldn’t be as great a cop as I am now.”

  She padded to the kitchen. “I like your pantsuit. I guess you’re not chasing any thugs through the alleys in those high-heeled boots.”

  “No, that was yesterday.” I pulled off those boots and left them in line with the other shoes there. Then, I futzed with the sharp crease in my gray slacks to avoid looking at the brass and sapphire cremation urn sitting on the fireplace mantel. I peered at the vase of pink stargazer lilies on the dining room table. “So sparkly, so gorgeous,” I said, tapping a white-edged petal.

  “Martin gave them to me,” Mom said. “We just celebrated our one-year anniversary.”

  I joined her in the kitchen, warm from sweet rolls in the oven, fr
agrant from coffee dripping into the pot.

  Mom’s face glowed as she eased from the cabinets to the refrigerator, pulling cups, sugar, and cream from here and there. A small smile played on her lips—she probably didn’t know that it was there. And her hair, a short bob now and completely gray, caught light from the kitchen overheads.

  “What are you staring at?” she asked as she divided the rolls onto two plates.

  I smiled. “So sparkly, so gorgeous.”

  She settled into the breakfast nook. “I feel blessed this morning.”

  It would have been a true Massengill moment between a mother and daughter, but I knew we would eventually discuss issues far more sensitive than feminine freshness. But we would, as is our custom, take the scenic route. And so beads of flop sweat pebbled on my neck as I sipped my coffee and waited.

  One… two…

  “How is Gregory?” she asked, her eyes burning into my forehead.

  “Slammed at work—big game release in May.”

  He hadn’t made it home in time for late-night dessert. At almost one o’clock, he had simply undressed and fallen into bed, snoring before I could count to ten.

  “And how are you dealing with that?” Mom asked.

  I shrugged. “With a job like mine, I can’t complain about his.”

  “With the budget cuts, aren’t they making you go home? No more overtime?”

  I nodded.

  She nibbled on a piece of roll. “Does that mean…?”

  That half-asked question made my heart, already skipping from caffeine, jump from skipping to full gallop. When she didn’t continue, I said, “Does that mean what?”

  She tore away another piece of roll. “I was just talking to Martin the other day and… I was thinking, you know… With the new year coming and…” She smiled to herself. “Wouldn’t it be nice, next year this time, to have a little one runnin’ around here?”

  The coffee started to burn a hole into my chest. “Aren’t you and Martin a little too old to have a baby?”

  “Ha-ha, very funny,” she said. “Fine. I’ll change the subject.” She sat up, back straight, and cradled the coffee mug between her palms. “Tori’s ashes.”