Skies of Ash

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “All for Juliet,” Luke continued. “He wanted to make her happy since his daddy couldn’t.”

  “So the boy just burned his daddy’s blazers in the meantime,” Colin said.

  “Practice,” I said with a nod. “Anything else, guys?”

  Pepe scanned his legal pad. “I’m looking at Juliet’s e-mails right now, and as you can imagine, it’s slow goin’.” He passed around stapled copies of paper. “These are just a few of the most interesting so far. On Monday, December 10, around half past eleven in the morning, the office manager from the kids’ school, a Mrs. Benewitz, e-mailed Juliet.”

  Sarah Oliver just retrieved Cody and will be taking him back to the doctor. Boys just never settle down, do they? After Thursday’s accident, I thought Cody would give that skateboard a rest, but I guess not. I wanted to send you the attached anyway. It is the Emergency Form for this school year. Please fill it out and return it to me as soon as possible.

  At 11:45 A.M., Juliet had responded:

  I filled out the form back in September. Nothing’s different. Thanks for your help and patience today.

  In less than two minutes, Mrs. Benewitz had replied:

  Hi, Mrs. Chatman. I consulted that form. But when we tried calling your husband’s office number today after not being able to reach you, the operator at the firm said he was no longer in that office. Maybe the phone number has been changed? Thank you again for your attention to this.

  “So Cody reinjured his arm on Monday,” I said. “The school called his parents, no one answered, and they called Sarah Oliver, who picked the kid up.”

  “Where was Juliet on Monday?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked.

  “Getting a CT scan that she never showed up for,” Colin said.

  “So we don’t know, in other words,” Lieutenant Rodriguez retorted. “Lou?”

  I looked up from the e-mails. “We don’t, but when we get the financials, we’ll figure out where she had coffee, what she ate for lunch, and everything else. When I called Christopher Chatman’s office yesterday, the same thing happened—the operator said he was no longer working there. I didn’t believe her, mostly because she sounded stupid.”

  Pepe nodded. “Juliet explains the office thing in the next message.”

  Oh yes. That’s right. They’re changing the phone systems and he has a new extension. The regular receptionist is out on sick leave and the new receptionist is a bit dim. She’s probably working with old information. Sorry about that. I’ll get the new number and correct the attached form. Thank you again.

  “Did she e-mail Mrs. Benewitz the new number on the corrected form?” I asked.

  Pepe shook his head.

  I flipped to the next printout.

  Weekly newsletter from the kids’ school… Credit card payment confirmation… Free books alert… A message from My Google Voice, (454) 555-2342, on December 10 at 1:15 P.M.

  I read the message aloud: “I don’t know what to tell you. Wish I did.” I glanced at Pepe. “Ruh-roh.”

  Her original message had been sent seven minutes before:

  I’m reaching out to you one more time. If you don’t respond, I’ll assume that we aren’t going forward with this. My heart is broken. Didn’t think I’d even have to ask you to respond after everything we’ve gone through. I shouldn’t put this in e-mail—you always remind me of leaving behind digital footprints—but after today, it won’t matter. I love you. There. I said it. Now what are you going to do?

  “Any response from My Google Voice?” I asked. “And whose account is it?”

  “No response,” Pepe said. “And it’s a Google anonymous account. To find the user, we’ll need another court order.”

  “Going forward with what?” I wondered as I reread Juliet’s message.

  “Everything we’ve gone through,” Colin said. “Digital footprints? Doesn’t sound like she’s talkin’ to her hubby.”

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” I said. “I’ll want to see everything you pull, Pep. Bill payments, the spam folder, the megillah, all right? And find all of these My Google messages.”

  “Gomez,” Lieutenant Rodriguez barked. “What about you?”

  Luke wiped crumbs from his mustache. “So I’ve started on Chatman’s cell phone.”

  “The one we found in the Jag?” Colin asked. “Or the legit one?”

  “The legit one,” Luke said, starting on his second concha. “So on December 10 at 11:06 A.M., Chatman receives a call from his wife’s number. A minute long, which means he didn’t answer. She left this message.” He clicked a sound file on his computer.

  Where the hell are you, Christopher? Juliet’s voice was deep, smoky, and pissed. Damn it, you are just… just… Fine. Call me. Immediately. Hate and loathing stuck from those words like shards of glass dusted with ricin.

  “At 11:27 A.M., Ben Oliver left him a message,” Luke said. “Asking Chatman to call him back. Around noon, Melissa Kemper leaves the same innocuous request: ‘Call me back.’ Chatman calls Mercedes-Benz Financial around 12:30. That call lasted twelve minutes.”

  “I want that recorded conversation with Benz,” I said.

  Luke took a big bite of pastry. “Thought you’d say that. Chatman calls Melissa Kemper back after the call with Benz, and they talk for two minutes.”

  “He ever call Juliet back?” I asked.

  Luke shook his head. “No more outgoing calls on that phone for the rest of the afternoon. But she does keep calling him every thirty minutes, one minute each. No messages left.”

  “Where the hell is he?” I asked. “Why didn’t he pick up his injured kid from school? Why isn’t he calling her back? A commodities broker without a cell to his ear? No way.”

  “Meetings,” Colin said.

  “Yeah, right,” I snarked.

  “Greg answers every time you call?” Colin asked. “Greg calls you back immediately every time you leave a message? And where was she? Why didn’t she pick up her injured kid? We know she wasn’t at the doctor’s office. A housewife without a cell to her ear? No way.”

  My cheeks burned, and every man—except Colin—studied his fingernails.

  Lieutenant Rodriguez cleared his throat. “Let’s, umm…”

  “Tread carefully, amigo,” Luke advised Colin. “Unless you won’t miss your balls.”

  “Just doin’ my job,” Colin said. “Just searchin’ for the truth.”

  I tried to swallow my anger, but it stuck in my throat like a chunk of carrot. “What about the morning after the fire? Say nine, ten o’clock that Tuesday morning. Chatman use his legit phone at all?”

  Luke said, “Nope.”

  “He was in the hospital by that time, remember?” Colin said.

  “Any calls from his cell like an hour or so before the fire started?” I asked, scanning the call log. “Like, between two o’clock and three?”

  Luke said, “Nope.”

  “He didn’t use the phone to set off a device,” Colin said. “If that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

  “He didn’t use this phone,” I pointed out. “There’s the secret cell.” To Luke, I said, “I want the calls off that second cell phone as soon as possible. Give me a list of everything: missed calls, contact lists, Web site downloads, how many times he played Bejeweled—I want it all.” I tugged at my earring. “I bet y’all a bag of sour apple Jolly Ranchers that he did all of his sexy talk on that down-low cell phone.”

  The men said, “Eh.”

  “Why the ‘eh’?” I asked, stunned. “Are you not entertained?”

  “Say Chatman was having a ‘thing’ with what’s-her-face in Vegas,” Colin said. “He still wasn’t there at the house when the fire started. You just saw the security tape. Not at the house.”

  “He didn’t have to be there at the house to start the fire,” I reminded Colin. “He still could’ve timed it either the old-fashioned way or by using that secret cell.”

  Colin brushed sugar off his chinos “Don’t think so. The most popular timed
device in arson is a cheap coffeepot. Leave the pot on, put a paper towel on or near the hot plate, let the pot burn ’til it’s hot enough to catch the paper towel.”

  “The fire report didn’t mention a coffeepot,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said.

  “Another popular way,” Colin said. “Frying chicken. Just leave the burner on beneath the pan, and the grease in the pan catches fire.”

  “But this wasn’t a grease fire,” Pepe pointed out. “And it didn’t start in the kitchen. Petroleum product in the bathroom.”

  “The Burning Man starts his fires with candles and lighter fluid,” Colin said. “And the Chatman fire—”

  “Started from the electrical outlet in the upstairs bathroom,” I said. “I know, I know.”

  “Last fact,” Colin said. “Women—mothers—are the usual suspects in fires that kill their children.”

  “Except those mothers usually survive,” I pointed out. “Juliet Chatman died with her daughter in her arms. Or have you forgotten?”

  “Elouise,” Luke said, “we can probably all agree that this Chatman guy is an asshole—”

  “ ‘Asshole’ is a pretty lenient term for someone who possibly poisoned and murdered Juliet and the kids,” I spat.

  “About that,” Pepe said. “Isn’t it possible that Juliet poisoned the kids? Say she did poison them, but then she changed her mind about it.”

  “Which is why she called 911,” Colin added. “But by then, the kids were dead and it was too late.”

  Luke nodded. “She was waitin’ for Chatman to come back home. She was holding that gun, ready to blow his ass to kingdom come. Her best friend told you she wanted to off him.”

  “But Chatman worked later than what she’d planned,” Colin said. “So she starts the fire and dopes up on Valium, knowing that we’re gonna look at him for all this.”

  “A mother would never do that to her children,” I said, even though I had implied a similar scenario to Dr. Kulkanis just a day ago.

  “Susan Smith,” Colin said.

  “Casey Anthony,” Lieutenant Rodriguez added.

  “Both of those bitches are still alive,” I pointed out. “They had no intentions of dying.”

  “But why would Juliet wanna live?” Colin asked. “Her kids are dead. And she’s dying—ovarian cancer, remember?”

  “She didn’t know she was dying,” I said. “Remember? And the kids didn’t die from the Valium—they died from carbon monoxide poisoning from the fire. And where the hell are her car keys?”

  Lieutenant Rodriguez cocked his head. “Why do the keys matter?”

  “She was trapped,” I said. “Someone took the keys and—”

  “Oh my Lord, really?” Colin said, rolling his eyes. “And now he’s taken the keys? You’re so freakin’ stubborn.”

  “Christopher Chatman isn’t innocent,” I said. “My gut is telling me that.”

  “He may not be innocent,” Colin said, “but that doesn’t mean he’s guilty.”

  After the team disbanded, after Lieutenant Rodriguez carried the box of remaining pastries to the coffeepot, Colin rolled his chair to my desk. “Just cuz we’re partners—”

  “Whatever, dude.” I logged back on to my computer. “I’m done with you right now.”

  “Show me somethin’ hard, Lou, and I’ll go to the mat with you about Chatman. But from what I’ve seen so far—”

  I swung around to face him. “No good mother would do that to her kids.”

  “No good father would do that to his kids.”

  “Who says he’s a good father?”

  “He was there, wasn’t he? The kids had everything they wanted, and Juliet didn’t have to work. So they argued about the house. So what? Greg cheated on you a thousand times, and even now you come in miserable because he said something crazy or went MIA for the day and so nobody can speak to you cuz he’s fucked your head up with his bullshit. But I don’t think he’d kill his kids cuz he was a jerk to you. Your father left—”

  I kicked my waste can. “Say one more word.”

  Sensing danger, Colin rolled away. “Look: you’re my partner, and I care about you.” He waved his hand at our small group. “We all care about you. Hell, I got issues with my daddy, too. And I’m sure my mother has issues with her husband. None of this is strange, all right? We’re all fucked up. But you’re gettin’ lost in this, and I’m worried cuz you’re a kick-ass detective. Better than all of us in this building. So I’m just sayin’… You warned me about wanderin’ off the beaten path, but here you are—”

  “Here I am, working my case,” I shouted. “Here I am, following a trail that will ultimately lead to Christopher Chatman because the first rule in a case like this is, ‘No one wants to kill your wife and kids except you.’ ”

  “I’m not sayin’ there’s no such thing as a killer husband,” Colin shouted back.

  “Then what are you saying?” I asked, standing from my chair. “That I’m so… so dick-matized by Greg that I can’t do my job? That cuz my daddy abandoned me when I was a wittle-bitty girl—?”

  “No,” Colin said, also standing. “I’m sayin’ that your judgment on this—”

  “Oh, you’re questioning my judgment?” I took a step closer to Colin.

  All commotion in the room stopped.

  “Oh shit,” Pepe said, coming to stand with us. He touched Colin’s shoulder. “Why don’t we—”

  “If you’re about to get us jacked up in court,” Colin snarled, “hell, yeah, I’m questioning your judgment.”

  Lieutenant Rodriguez had stormed out of his office and was now back in the squad room. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Colin knocked Pepe’s hand off his shoulder and started to pace near his desk.

  I ran my fingers through my hair, more yanking it than combing it. “Taggert’s being an asshole, sir.”

  “Fuck you, Lou,” Colin muttered.

  “Taggert, shut it,” Lieutenant Rodriguez snapped. He pointed to me, then pointed to the door. “Cool off. Be productive while you’re at it.” He pointed to Colin. “You’re fuckin’ up.”

  Colin gaped at the bigger man. “I’m fucking up? What did I—?”

  “Always back your partner,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said. “Especially if you have as much experience doin’ this shit as a Girl Scout. Don’t know how y’all worked in the mountains, but that’s how we roll in my unit. Got it?”

  “So I can’t have an opinion?” Colin asked, arms spread.

  “Opinions are like assholes,” our boss said.

  “And you’re an asshole,” I spat.

  “Detective Norton,” Lieutenant Rodriguez shouted. To Colin, he said, “She’s senior.”

  “And she can still be wrong,” Colin countered. “But I guess you folks don’t mind takin’ the hit—”

  “You hear that?” I said to our superior. “You folks?” As I grabbed my bag and the Chatman case file, I eyed my boss with bemusement.

  Lieutenant Rodriguez chuckled, then muttered, “Dios mío.”

  Colin shook his head in awe. “What kind of thin-blue-line, fascist bullshit—?”

  “Lou,” Lieutenant Rodriguez growled. “My office. Now. Please.”

  I stomped past him. “See you later, cowboy.”

  Always back your partner.

  But if Colin wouldn’t back me, then I would go it alone.

  It wouldn’t be the first time a man didn’t have my back.

  It wouldn’t be the last time, either.

  30

  LIEUTENANT RODRIGUEZ SLAMMED HIS OFFICE DOOR SHUT.

  My arms spread wide as I opened my mouth to say, “All I’m—”

  But my boss pointed at me with a single thick finger. “You’re fucking up.”

  I gaped at him, then cocked my head. “Excuse me?”

  He now pointed toward the detectives’ bureau beyond his closed door. “I will back you out there in the midst of those assholes, especially Taggert, but in here—”

  “What are you saying?”r />
  “That’s he right: you’re letting outside shit—”

  “No—”

  “Hey,” he shouted. “At ease, Detective.”

  Everything in me numbed, and weird prickling spread across my chest.

  Lieutenant Rodriguez exhaled, then crossed his arms. “Next time you’re in here with me means what?”

  Pangs of anger exploded behind my eyes like little bombs. “Means I’m off the case.”

  He glared at me. “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  I gave him a short nod, then left him to whatever he did at his desk all day.

  Everyone’s gaze followed me as I stomped out of the station and into the frigid night, out to the parking garage and to the Crown Vic. I was nauseated and light-headed, and it felt like an alien was clawing in my belly, trying to burst through and spray the world with acid.

  On every case, a detective decidedly depersonalizes all of it to stay sane. The dead victim ain’t my sister, the perp ain’t my husband, and the murder didn’t happen on my block. Yes, a cop brings her own experiences to the squad room and to a murder scene. She filters bullshit through her prejudices and bigotry. Tells herself, same shit, different toilet. She pushes the rock up the hill even when she knows the fucker will roll down the other side. But she’ll do anything for justice.

  So to be told that I couldn’t see because my boobs were blocking the view? That I couldn’t think correctly because the little girl inside of me was sobbing on the living room couch, waiting for her deadbeat daddy to make her whole again?

  I released a single primitive scream, and the alien pushed past my pancreas and lodged near my clavicles. Stuck.

  Be productive.

  That had been an order from my boss.

  Fifteen minutes later, I had parked a block away from Ben Oliver’s house. Just as I was about to leave the car, the Motorola blurped from the passenger seat.

  “Lou, you there?” the man asked.

  I smiled and grabbed the radio. “Now, you’re a voice I haven’t heard in a while.”

  “I tried you at the station,” Zucca said, “but Taggert said you went out in a huff.”