A Passing Curse (2011) (48 page)

“I might have been wearing a wire.” Reese said. “I might have been wearing a wire when you okayed my midnight mission. Think about that.”

“Midnight mission,” the Chief scoffed. “I like that. If you were wearing a wire all that means is that we’ll be keeping each other company in jail. You any good at checkers?” The Chief pushed his thumbs inside his belt, and stood there, looking over the smoking rubble, like he might be thinking about writing him a ticket for littering. “The shotgun I gave you?”

Reese pointed to the ruins. “You’ll need a strainer to find it.”

The Chief shook his head. “Five years ago, I was entrusted with the safety of this town. I have made some mistakes. I lost Thomkins. Four civilians have been killed and I gave a man who is probably certifiable, even in California, a shotgun and night goggles. The main tourist attraction of this fine city has been destroyed. I could go to prison. And you claim the suspect is the town’s leading citizen and his butler.”

“You’ve lost more than four citizens,” Reese said. “Did you take care of Dean Everett? I’m curious how you are going to explain that. Didn’t he come to you for help? Didn’t he tell you what Ajax was up to?”

“He’s at the morgue. He was buried alive. Died of suffocation, according to Halloran. What about my night goggles?” the Chief asked. “I’m talking three grand. They’re fourth generation with the IR device.”

“Ajax killed Dean. I need another shotgun.”

“That’s a step down for you, ain’t it? The fire chief thinks someone shot at Ajax with a twenty millimeter anti-tank rifle yesterday. Tore hell out of his office. Ajax had some cock-and-bull story about a water heater exploding that no one is buying.”

“You’re doubting Ajax?”

The Chief ignored him. “I’ve confiscated Rupert’s anti-tank rifle. The only tank rifle I’ve seen, outside the army. Hell of a coincidence, No? I don’t suppose I’ll find your prints on it.”

“You better not.”

The Chief looked at him bitterly. “Ajax is having the governor and a few friends over tonight. The state marshals, the governor’s bodyguards, called and asked if anything suspicious has been happening in town, anything they should know about. I didn’t tell them that they ought to read the fucking newspapers more often. We’ve only had four killings and a major fire. I didn’t mention an ex-homicide cop on the loose. I don’t want you near that party.”

“The governor ought to know the kind of man he’s taking money from,” Reese said, thinking that the governor probably didn’t care as long as the money was green. “I’m going after Ajax.”

“Then you better have a good alibi.”

She was just up, drinking coffee from the room’s four-cup machine. She’d been exhausted yesterday, twenty millimeter shells had a way of doing that, and did not feel much better today, even after seven hours of good sleep. She was not only exhausted, but she was sore and stiff.

She’d tried to call Reese last night, but had gotten no answer. He’d probably fallen asleep in Ramon’s room. Quit worrying, she thought, he could take care of himself. He was a big boy. In the wastebasket, she saw the ball of burned and frizzled hair she’d combed out last night. She was afraid to look in the mirror and sat on the bed, staring at the curtains.

The phone rang. She watched it, letting it ring at least ten times before picking it up. After she said hello to her ex-boss, Ajax said, “I have your tools.”

“My tools?”

“To keep looters from taking them,” he said quietly as if she would know exactly what he was talking about. “Just a precaution since the mission burned.”

“What? The mission?” She opened the drapes. Smoke rose from the rubble. A helicopter hovered to the left. “Where’s Reese? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine, dear,” Ajax said calmly. “No one was killed. Miraculous isn’t it?”

“Do they know how it started? Was Reese involved?” She knew damn well he’d been involved, and now that he was safe, she wondered if he was being charged with anything.

“Reese?” Ajax asked sweetly. “No. It was an electrical fire. A short circuit ignited fireworks the priests were storing for their Fourth of July sale. I really would not worry too much about Reese. He’s fine. Slightly tinged by the fire, I’m afraid, but fit as a fiddle. He can take care of himself.”

That’s what everyone seemed to think, but she knew better. “You have my tools at your house?” She put down her coffee, shouldered the phone against her ear, and stepped into a pair of pants.

“I’ve sent a guard to fetch you.”

Before she could tell him she didn’t need to be fetched, someone knocked on the door. “Just a second.” She opened the door expecting Reese, but she saw a security guard, a thick-necked cretin with a shiny badge. Compared to Ted, though, he looked normal.

“I have the car waiting ma’am,” he said and touched his cap.

Reese limped into the elevator and limped off at the third floor. He’d replaced the huge hospital dressing on his thigh with gauze and a few strips of tape. His knee felt sprained and he limped.

He knocked once. When she didn’t answer, he let himself in with his key. Her clothes were there. Her few cosmetics. But she was gone. The bed was unmade and still warm. He saw the smoking mission through the open window. She knew.

He called the lobby and asked if she’d left a message.

No, the clerk said, no messages from Miss Webber. No, he’d not seen her leave. There was, the clerk said, one message from Professor Hamsun. Reese took down the number, hung up, and dialed.

“Is that you Reese?” Hamsun asked. “Did you hear about the fire?”

“I heard.”

“What happened? I understand the entire mission burned to the ground.” Hamsun paused, a suspicious note in his voice when he said, “Were you there?”

“Fireworks is the story.”

“The official story?”

“Yeah, the story.” He was in no mood to explain. He was in no mood to think about what he would have to do next. “You haven’t seen Rusty have you?”

“No. But I called earlier about the skeleton we recovered. I wanted to tell her that the bones are not as old as they first appeared. They don’t even date back to 1963.”

“I’m listening.”

“There was a ring on the left index finger of skeleton number three. A high school ring. Refugio High, 2009. It has a blue stone, aquamarine, set in 14k plate. No inscriptions.”

“That nails it, then.”

“Nails what?”

Reese told him about the three girls who had worked for Ajax temporarily as maids. All three of them had graduated from Refugio High in “09.

“It is convincing evidence of identity,” Hamsun said, “but hardly proves Ajax killed anyone. What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure, but I probably should have done it a long time ago.” He hung up. He didn’t know what to do. He’d already tried to kill Ajax twice. He smiled. He hoped he’d have better luck the third time around. It might be a charm.

When he got back to the mission, two more fire trucks were parked in front of what was left of the gift shop. Several TV stations had shown up with trucks, cameras, and dish antennas for the satellite. Some of the TV crew were busy laying out cables and setting up cameras, others were busy drinking coffee and eating donuts.

A bland TV reporter, his hair curiously spiked, was sitting in a high, canvas-backed chair having make-up applied and arguing with the producer.

The producer told the reporter that, as yet, no one was sure it was arson. He suggested meteorites or the fireworks that had been stored in the basement. And why were the priests storing explosives in the basement? the reporter asked, arguing that arson was the better story. Maybe the priests were radicals? Terrorists or something.

A make-up girl touched the reporter’s cheek with a small brush. The cheek turned red, and she rubbed the redness with the tips of her fingers, dulling it.

Finally ready, the reporter stood before the camera, smiled, and, gesturing behind himself, murmured “tragedy” a few times just to warm up.

Reese walked to the cemetery. The old wall was still standing, but the vines were charred and looked like steel wire waiting for flowers to be twisted on. The cemetery door was smoking. The skulls above the entrance were sooty and frowning. He kicked the door open. It fell flat off its hinges, hitting the ground and throwing up a cloud of ash that swirled up and joined like fingers above it.

The rotting, leaning tombstones were untouched. The radiant heat of the fire had scorched the vines trailing down the walls but inside was fine. A few bushes were brown edged.

None of Rusty’s tools remained. Everything had been cleaned up. All the holes had been filled, the ground leveled. Fat tire tracks led to a parked backhoe.

A patrolman walked up. “You shouldn’t be here.” Then he recognized Reese. “Oh.”

The cop was Thomkins’ age, but looked older. A black piece of tape was stuck across his badge. The edges of his shoes were white from the ash.

“You hear how the fire started?” Reese asked. He wondered what kind of rumors were spreading. Specifically, what kind of rumors the Chief was spreading.

“No.” The cop shuffled his feet and touched his night stick. “I heard theories. I heard you got burned. I heard you were here when the fire started.”

Reese wagged his bandaged hand.

The cop remained stone faced. “Talk is you set the fire. But the Chief stood up for you. He told us that you were definitely not a suspect. That you were not a firebug.”

“Thank the Chief for me,” he said, wondering if the Chief was going to cover for him right up until he killed Ajax. “Have you seen the girl? The archeologist?”

“The red head?”

“That’s her.”

“Haven’t seen her. The backhoe operator just left. He had orders from the Chief to fill in everything. The Chief said there wasn’t anything left to dig up.”

“The red head’s tools?”

“Ajax’s guards took them.”

“You’re a police officer guarding a crime scene and you let some rent-a-cop take what he wants? Just waltz in here and destroy crime scene integrity?”

The cop shrugged. Reese shook his head and walked out the door, past the reporters, and over to the arthritic looking tower. The turret had burned away leaving a hollow, blackened cylinder of twisted steel. The two-story wing to the right had collapsed, forming a three-foot high jumble of stone and smoldering timbers.

He fixed the location of Ramon’s room in his mind and stepped around a charred timber. The tile roof and second floor had fallen into the cellar, taking the bottom floor with it.

He saw a small hole leading down, barely enough room for one man. Lingering smoke drafted up through the hole before being sucked back down into darkness. He hoped it was a draft caused by the aqueduct. Tonight, he’d make his way through the wreckage. He’d make his way to Ajax. He heard a car door slam.

“There you are.” The Chief was twenty feet away, maneuvering daintily around piles of blackened wood. “You’ll be glad to know your landlord was killed by Rawlings.”

“You’re wrong. I’m not glad. I told you what happened.”

“Yes,” the Chief said. “You certainly told me what happened. But you’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and I think you miscalculated your times. You aren’t sure when you talked to Rupert.”

“Not likely.”

The Chief, changing tempo, hit his own sternum with a balled fist. “You also put six shots into a dead man’s chest, so maybe you were a little confused. You think?”

“I had no choice.”

“If he wasn’t dead, you’re the killer.”

“There’s dead and then there’s dead. But hey, do what you want. Arrest me, please. I’d like to see some of this nonsense come into the light of day. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t want to arrest you.”

“You couldn’t stand the publicity,” he said, guessing the only reason he wasn’t in jail was the Chief needed someone between himself and Ajax. And the Chief needed someone to kill Ajax, eventually. Dead men tell no tales and he guessed the Chief knew he couldn’t survive if Ajax lived.

“I had to make two cops, two firemen, and a paramedic swear that you did not shoot Rupert’s body. You know what kind of trouble that is? Desecration is the name for it.”

“He was alive, sort of. And he shouldn’t have been alive. You would have done the same thing.”

The Chief scratched his chin. “With these Santa Ana winds and what with a fire in this area being able to kill a lot of people, the locals don’t take kindly to fire bugs.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there’s been some talk you started this fire. Talk that I have been able to suppress, so far. As long as you stick to the fact that Rawlings was the killer.”

“Arson? That’s your leverage?” He wanted to laugh. The Chief was desperate.

“It’s an option.”

“And when the arson investigators discover a flamethrower was used? You can’t connect me to a flamethrower and the minute I step into your jail you’ll have half a dozen retired homicide cops, buddies of mine with a lot of time on their hands, up here sniffing around.” He doubted if he’d get help from his old pals, and the thought struck him that with everything else going on he had not bothered to look for Hernandez, who, by any stretch of the imagination, was not his pal. “The detective you saw earlier, Hernandez?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen him?”

“Nope.” The Chief shook his head as if the thought of another LA cop was too much to contemplate. “Why complicate things, Reese? This way everyone is happy. Rawlings killed Rupert. Period. The fire was started by a rat, or rats gnawing on fireworks.”

“Have it your way.”

The Chief patted him on the back. “I’ve always liked a team player.” Reese knocked the hand away. “I’ve always felt lone wolves only really give a damn about themselves.”

“I need a shotgun.”

The Chief opened the rear door of the station wagon and handed him a shotgun and box of shells. “My personal weapon. I want you to know I don’t just lend it out to anyone.”

“Have you seen Rusty?”

“I heard she’s with Mr. Ajax Rasmussen.” The Chief smiled his big smile. He was enjoying this. “Didn’t you and her have a thing going on? You sure looked cozy.”

Reese said nothing. He suddenly felt very hungry, like his stomach was weightless. If she was with Ajax she was probably in trouble and would be the last to admit it.