Skies of Ash

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “Bang-Bang, you’re here.” I switched the heavy Chatman case file to my other arm.

  He rolled his eyes, pretending that he hated his nickname. “Hello.”

  Just like that. Hello.

  No mention of my bruised face.

  No inquiry about my mental state.

  Just “hello,” in a tone that had less spice than vanilla and egg whites.

  I pointed at the Chatmans’ scorched laptop sitting on the desk. “I’m here about that—you were helping me cuz there were all those crazy passwords and minefields and cosmic dust and shit keeping me from getting a look-see and such.”

  “Yes.” He sat down his water glass. “Fire and water damaged a few things, but it’s up for the most part. We can look at the CPU on my screen for a better view.” He pulled over an empty chair. “Where do you want to start?”

  “How about his search history. Cookies and browsers and search terms, oh my.”

  Neil clicked here and there in the Firefox browser. “The most recent searches.”

  Fraud, sentencing, extradition, Bernie Madoff, Vandervelde Lansing, ischemia, suffocation, sarcoma, DNA paternity.

  “How recent?” I asked.

  “Last one—extradition—on December tenth.”

  “Just a few days ago. The Monday before the fire.” I tapped the pen against my lip. None of the terms related to fire deaths. Maybe “suffocation.” And “ischemia”? That came from constricting blood vessels, like suffocation. Juliet and the kids hadn’t died that way. And what the hell was up with “DNA paternity”? “Click on that one, please,” I asked Neil.

  A fussily designed Web page loaded on the screen. The DNA Doctors. A pretty woman peered into a microscope. A dad smiled with a girl—guess he was the father. A toll-free number and a page of FAQs.

  Why would Chatman visit this site?

  I wrote down the DNA Doctor’s contact information. “Let’s look at e-mail,” I instructed Neil. “The Gmail in-box here would show any e-mails he’s sent from his phone, right?”

  “Yes, it would.”

  Chatman’s in-box appeared on Neil’s screen. His last e-mail string, created just yesterday, had been between him and Adeline St. Lawrence, Juliet’s best friend.

  Hey, Addy. Just checking in on you to see if you’re okay. I know this is rough—we have to stick together no matter what, for Juliet’s sake. We have to preserve her memory and protect her honor throughout everything that’s about to happen. People are asking a lot of questions and I just want to talk to you about that. Hang in there. CC.

  Six minutes later, Adeline had responded.

  HOW DARE YOU EMAIL ME!!! YOU DID THIS TO HER! YOU TOLD HER THAT YOU WOULD GET HER BACK! IT TOOK YOU NINE YEARS BUT I GUESS YOU KEPT YOUR PROMISE. HER HONOR??? YOU ARE THE ONE WHO IS ASHAMED! YOU ARE THE ONE WHO REFUSED TO MOVE PAST HER MISTAKE! YOU ARE SELFISH AND HATEFUL AND AFTER THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA FRIES YOU, I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL FOREVER!! FUCK YOU!!!

  Neil’s face twitched and reddened. “She’s a little angry.”

  “They’re not friends,” I said.

  Hours after his e-mail to St. Lawrence, Chatman had e-mailed Randall and Maris Weatherbee, Juliet’s parents.

  Hi, Mother and Dad. Thank you for coming to see me today. Please understand that my lawyer has told me not to talk about all that’s happening, not even with you, and that breaks my heart. You are the only family I have and I feel so alone now. I know you have so many questions. They will be answered soon. I am not avoiding you and I don’t understand why you are accusing me of that. My phone was misplaced in all of the madness, and the landline at the house is down, of course. I have not hurt anyone, like you are accusing me of doing, and I would never harm my wife and children. The investigation at my job has NOTHING to do with ANYTHING. Please don’t let strangers influence you. I am constantly being bombarded by the police and I haven’t had time to grieve. I pray for your love and patience.

  “Do me a favor?” I asked Neil. “Give this a good scouring. Pull instant messages, e-mails, financial transactions, folder names, log-ins—everything. Basically, kill a tree.”

  “Found you.” Colin held a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf coffee cup in one hand and a file folder in the other.

  I took the cup. “We’re looking through Chatman’s laptop. First, though…” I caught him up on my call from Vegas and Melissa Kemper’s demise.

  He gaped at me.

  I said, “Yep,” then pointed at the folder in his hand. “What you got?”

  He pulled from the larger case file those check copies for Peggy Tanner, Sol Hirsch, and another client named Bill Levy. He placed the checks next to each other, endorsement side up. “Look at the signatures.”

  I looked. “Wait. That.” I pointed to the l in Sol. “That looks like those.” I pointed to the two ls in Bill. “And the y in Peggy,” I said, “looks like the y in Levy.”

  “Uh-huh.” He sat at an empty workstation, then logged in to public records. “Okay, there are 513 Peggy Tanners in the database, with 110 in California, five in LA, and one in San Fernando Valley.”

  “Let’s try the Peggy in the valley.” I pointed to Neil’s desk phone. “May we?”

  Neil’s eyes glittered—he was in on the action. “Please.”

  A woman answered, and she sounded as old as the creaking branches of a hundred-year-old oak tree.

  I identified myself as an LAPD detective. “May I ask you a few questions?”

  She confirmed that she was Peggy Tanner, that she had an account with Vandervelde, Lansing & Gray, and that, yes, Christopher Chatman was her broker.

  “Have you asked Mr. Chatman about your account recently?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, “but he sends me statements every quarter.”

  “When was the last statement you received?”

  “October, I believe.”

  “Any check come with that?”

  “Afraid not. The economy is just terrible right now.”

  “Has your experience with the firm been satisfactory?”

  “He can be hard to reach sometimes, but overall yes. He’s a lovely man. Just hope he makes me some money soon,” she said with a chuckle.

  Sol Hirsch sounded older than Peggy Tanner—the oak tree’s pappy. Almost deaf, he shouted the similar responses—Chatman was a nice man, he sent quarterly statements, was hard to reach, no return on investment—gosh darn that Obama.

  Just last week, Bill Levy had been placed in hospice and was unable to communicate. Another stroke. His son, Bill Junior, had seen no recent checks in the mail from Christopher Chatman or the commodities firm.

  “They’re all seniors,” Neil noted. “And no one’s been paid out yet.”

  I tapped the checks. “But those say Tanner got just over ten thousand dollars, and Hirsch got almost eight grand just months ago. Let’s add up all three check amounts.”

  Neil blinked and scribbled on his pad: $26,901.37.

  I narrowed my eyes. “I remember seeing deposit slips from Pacific Western… Oh.” The bank boxes stolen from the storage unit—that’s where I’d seen deposit slips.

  “Still,” Colin said, “I think you’re right. He stole their money. Twice. The initial investment he took from them, and then the money he made in the market and kept for himself. Money his clients are still waiting for.”

  “Hence, the SEC investigation,” I said, nodding.

  “Extradition, fraud, sentencing,” Neil said. “Those were his last search terms, remember?”

  Colin squinted at me. “That’s great for the feds, but what about us? How does this prove he had something to do with the fire?”

  I swallowed my smile and gathered the file. “Can’t say. But I’m gonna have to force Mr. Chatman to get off the ride.”

  51

  THE POLITE BIRD IN ME THOUGHT OF CALLING CHRISTOPHER CHATMAN AND requesting time to speak with him again. The rude-bitch cop in me, the one who hated liars, cheaters, and murderers, said, “Screw that. Catch his ass off guard.”<
br />
  “Door number two,” Colin hollered from his desk, two fingers in the air.

  I grabbed my bag and the case file. “Two it is.” I paused, then said, “We’ll have to be very careful with him.”

  “He poisonous or something?” Colin kidded.

  “No. He’s… he’s too… something.” I shrugged. “Just don’t wander off the path with him, okay? We’ll find ourselves in Oz with the Cheshire Cat and the Jolly Green Giant.”

  Colin waved a hand. “Stop bein’ a girl. We’ve handled worse.”

  In this city, there were always villains to chase. And some villains were more perverted and obvious than the others. But those bad guys, the obvious ones, didn’t scare me.

  The quiet ones, the secret sorcerers, the ones who whisked you away to no-man’s-land and beyond doing twisted shit to minds and bodies and souls en route. And you, the cop with the commendations and the impressive clearance rate and the stainless-steel reputation, if you were lucky enough to find your way back from no-man’s-land and beyond, you were not whole and not good for anything, especially anything requiring a gun, and so you became the cautionary tale, the “Did you hear what happened to…?” in the department.

  I had been a cop for thirteen years—that cop would not be me. I would not be the captured or the conquered.

  Not over my dead body.

  * * *

  Christopher Chatman’s already-googly eyes googled more seeing Colin and me standing on the cottage’s front porch. He looked fuller in his tracksuit than he had just two days ago. The bandages on his face and the back of his head had been peeled away, and his scratches had lightened. The arm sling remained, but the gauze on his hands had been replaced by lesser bandages. He smelled of soap and freshly ground coffee beans.

  Just another banker on a regular Saturday morn.

  “Did Eli do that to you?” he inquired, although my injuries didn’t surprise him as much as my standing in front of him without warning.

  “So you heard?” I asked.

  He nodded. “And I also heard that he passed the lie-detector test for murdering my family.”

  “Correct,” I said.

  Chatman placed his hand on his hip. “Surely you don’t believe that Eli’s innocent. Surely you’re not relying on his word.”

  I forced myself to smile. “So we were in the neighborhood, and we need to talk to you about some recent developments.”

  Chatman stepped forward, closing the door behind him. “I was just about to take a walk around the block—tired of being inside, and I need vitamin D. The party tents are gone—mind if we sit in the backyard?”

  Colin and I followed him to a patio that boasted rattan couches and chairs with lime-green cushions, glass side tables, and a bamboo area rug. All of it overlooked a blue and white mosaic-tiled pool, a redwood jungle gym, and a lush green lawn bordered by rosebushes.

  “Nice out here,” Colin drawled as he slipped on his aviators and plopped onto the couch.

  “Very peaceful,” I added, sitting next to him. “Are the Olivers home?”

  “They’re at the hospital,” Chatman said. “Amelia’s sick. They’ve been there all night.”

  “Hope she’s okay,” I said.

  “She’s much better—well enough that Sarah came home to shower, then headed back.”

  “Oh, I thought I saw her car.”

  “They’re using Ben’s,” Chatman clarified. “He stayed with Amelia—hasn’t left her side since getting there. He’d been at some important meeting last night when Sarah called. He came right away—he’s incredibly devoted to that little girl. She will always come first.”

  My face burned, and at the moment I was glad to be a darker hue.

  “What’s on your minds, Detectives?” Chatman asked.

  “Melissa Kemper,” I said.

  Chatman offered us a sad smile. “You’re aware…?”

  “Of?” I asked.

  “The accident.” He jammed his lips together and took a deep breath. “She’s… she…” He shook his head, then closed his eyes. “Too much is happening. Everyone who matters to me is dying.”

  “Guess you have that effect on people,” Colin cracked.

  Chatman frowned. “You really think this is funny? One of my dearest friends is now gone because of some jackass in a big rig, and you feel it necessary to make a joke?”

  Colin smirked. “So you don’t have that effect—?”

  “We had an extensive conversation with Melissa yesterday,” I interrupted.

  Chatman didn’t blink. “Oh?”

  “Oh?” Colin parroted. “That’s all you have to say?”

  Chatman cocked his head as a smile crept across his face. “Am I under arrest because I contemplated having an affair? Is there an almost-adultery statute in California’s penal code that I don’t know about?”

  Asshole. I gritted my teeth and exhaled through my nose.

  “She told us a lot before that truck rammed into her,” Colin said. “Like how you tried to kill yourself after Juliet rejected you.”

  Chatman startled but quickly recovered with a chuckle. “Stupid, right? Detective Taggert, I’m sure you’ve done absurd things in the name of love. Men do those sorts of things.”

  “Tell us what happened that night at the Bellagio,” Colin said, ignoring the bro moment.

  Chatman’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “Private medical matter, and no how related to this case.”

  “Tell us anyway,” I said. “Please.”

  Chatman released a heavy sigh. “I recalled my Shakespeare that night. On hotel stationery, I wrote to my wife, ‘Darling, my love for you shall never die. Before I shuffle off this mortal coil—”

  “Hamlet,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “I felt… dramatic. My marriage was essentially over, and there I was, alone in my room, alone with my thoughts. Years ago, my wife had cheated on me, and now Melissa hated me because I was still in love with my wife. I couldn’t handle it anymore.”

  “Who had Juliet been with?” Colin asked.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “This other man, though. He could be a suspect,” Colin pointed out.

  “You already have the killer in custody,” Chatman said. “Eli Moss: he murdered my family.”

  “Strange,” Colin said. “Both women resented you, and now both women are dead. And you say you were nowhere near them at the times of their deaths. That’s quite a magic trick.”

  Chatman’s eyes flashed with anger. “Are you seriously accusing—?”

  “So the night at the Bellagio,” I said, “you wrote the note, and then?”

  Chatman glared at Colin, then lifted his face to the sun. “I went to the sundries store in the hotel lobby. Bought some Advil and a bottle of raspberry-flavored vodka. Returned to the room and set about killing myself. Obviously, I’m awful at suicide.”

  From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a flutter from the gauzy white curtain in the guesthouse’s living room window.

  Maybe.

  “Mr. Chatman,” I said, eyes on the window, “are we alone back here?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “I thought I…” I shook my head. “So did you tell Juliet what you had done?”

  “I told her that I had a bout of food poisoning from the buffet,” Chatman explained. “I told her that I stayed overnight at the hospital but that I was better—no need to worry.”

  I squinted at him. “But why lie? Juliet didn’t have to know that you had taken pills. The hospital wouldn’t have called her if you didn’t want them to. Why did you feel the need to make up a story like that?”

  Chatman gaped at me as though I had just asked him a question in Klingon.

  “And you never confessed to Juliet about Melissa?” Colin asked.

  The banker touched his forehead. “Why would I do that? Melissa and I never happened in that way. Why would I destroy my marriage and break up my family over… nothing?”

  “Melissa Kemper
gave you a hundred thousand dollars,” I pointed out.

  “Yes.” He gazed at a ladybug that had landed on his thigh. The vein in the middle of his forehead banged beneath the skin. “And I invested that money. Cows.”

  “She needed it more than the cows did,” Colin said. “Plumbing.”

  “And I’ll make sure her son gets everything I owed her.” He flicked the ladybug off his leg, then ran his fingers across his scalp. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Now,” I said, “about your cancer diagnosis and treatment at Memorial—”

  Chatman cocked his head. “I’ve never told you that I had cancer.”

  “Ben and Melissa Kemper both—”

  “I’ve had back problems that required surgery. And I was prescribed Vicodin for the pain.” He scrunched his eyebrows. “Is that what you’re asking about?”

  “According to Ben,” I said, “you were treated at Memorial Sloan Kettering for sarcoma in your back. And during your treatment, you stayed with a cousin in New York.”

  “I had a surgery,” he corrected, “but not at Memorial Sloan Kettering and not in New York. And my cousin who lives in the Bronx works at that hospital.” He offered a small smile. “Wouldn’t a cancer diagnosis be in my medical and insurance records? Don’t you homicide detectives know all and see all?”

  I took a deep breath. “Have you received your family’s autopsy reports?”

  He swallowed. “I’m not ready to read them. Who would want to read about his kids’…? I’m not ready.”

  “Are you at least aware of your wife’s condition?” I asked.

  He frowned. “What condition?”

  “She had ovarian cancer,” Colin said. “Terminal. She was dying.”

  The banker paled, all smirk and smart-ass gone the way of the dodo.

  “You didn’t know,” Colin said.

  Chatman’s dark brown eyes hardened.

  “Do you need a moment?” I asked.

  “I’m fine,” he spat. “You’re making this investigation longer and more painful than it needs to be. My son… Chloe, they’re dead. Someone ended their lives, and I’ll never see them again. No more soccer games or X Games or… or…” His eyes filled with tears, and he scowled at us. “But then that’s what you people do, correct? The insurance companies, too. You all bullshit around until the person dies from their disease or the survivor shoots himself in the head. You don’t care—not about my wife, not about my son. You just want to thin the herd. And you sit here judging me. Excuse the metaphor, but that’s like Hitler judging pedophiles.”