Bad Love (46 page)

“No,” she said. “What happened?”

“Don’t know exactly, yet — why don’t you talk to the captain — that gentleman over there? Captain Gillespie. He should be able to help you.”

After pointing to a medium-sized man up near the carport, he ran off. We made our way to the captain. His back was to us and I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned quickly, looking ready to snap. One look at us shut his mouth. He was in his fifties and had a deeply scored face that was almost a perfect square.

Tugging at his chin strap: “Owners?”

Two nods.

“Sorry, folks — out for the night?”

More nods. I felt encased in sand. Movement was an ordeal.

“Well, we’ve been at it for about half an hour, and I think we got to it relatively fast after ignition. Luckily, someone driving up the Glen smelled it and phoned it in on cellular. We’ve got most of the really hot spots out. Look for white smoke soon, Mr.—?”

“Alex Delaware. This is Robin Castagna.”

“Ron Gillespie, Mr. Delaware. Are you the legal owners or tenants?”

“Owners.”

Another pitying look. A whooshing sound came from the house. He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back.

“We should be able to save at least half of it, but our water does some damage, too.” He looked back again. Something creased his brow. “One minute.” Jogging over to a group of new arrivals, he pointed at my flaming roof and spread his arms like a preacher.

When he came back, he said, “You folks want something to drink? C’mon, let’s get away from the heat.”

We followed him down the road a bit. The house was still in sight. Some of the smoke had startened to lighten, pluming upward like an earthborn cloud.

He pulled a canteen out of his jacket and held it out to us.

Robin shook her head.

I said, “No, thanks.”

Gillespie opened the bottle and drank. Screwing the cap back on, he said, “Do you know of anyone who’d want to do this to you?”

“Why?”

He stared at me. “Usually, people say no.”

“There is someone,” I said. “I don’t know who — it’s a long story — there’s a police detective you can talk to.”

I gave him Milo’s name and he wrote it down.

“I’d better call him now,” he said. “Our arson investigators will be in on it too. This is an obvious intentional, we’ve got three discrete points of origin and we found a gasoline can out back that’s probably the accelerant — looks like the bastard didn’t even try to hide it.”

“No,” I said. “He wouldn’t want to do that.”

He stared at me again. I looked back without focusing.

Gillespie said, “I’ll go call that detective now.”

Milo spent a few seconds of silent comfort with us, then he huddled with Gillespie.

The fire went out, sending off columns of white smoke. Some time after — I still don’t know how long — Robin and I were able to tour the damage, accompanied by a fireman with a flashlight who looked out for our safety but hung back, diplomatically, as we stumbled and cursed in the dark.

The garden and the rear half of the house were a total loss, the air still hot and bitter. The front rooms were sodden and putrid, ash filled, already moldering. I ran my hand along scorched furniture, fingered hot dust, looked at ruined art and decimated keepsakes, TV and stereo equipment that had blistered and burst. After a while it got too difficult. I pulled the paintings and prints that looked intact off the wall and made a neat stack. Short stack. My Bellows boxing print seemed to have come out okay, but the frame was blackened around the edges.

Robin was across the living room when I said, “I’ve got to get out of here.”

She gave a dull nod — more of a bow. We carried the art out and took it to the truck.

Beyond the vehicles, Milo and Gillespie were still conferring and a third man had joined them — young, chubby, balding, with bristly red hair. He held a pad and his writing hand was busy.

“Drew Seaver,” he said, holding out the other one. “Fire Department arson investigator. Detective Sturgis has been filling me in — sounds like you’ve really been through it. I’ll have some questions for you, but they can wait a couple of days.”

Milo told him, “I’ll get you whatever you need.”

“Fine,” said Seaver. “What’s your insurance situation, doctor?”

As if cued, Captain Gillespie said, “Better be getting back — good luck, folks.”

When he was gone, Seaver repeated his insurance question.

I said, “I never really checked the details. I’m up to date on my premiums.”

“Well, that’s good. Those insurance guys are real sonofa’s, believe me. Dot your “i’ wrong and they’ll find a way not to pay you. You need any help with justification, just have ’em call me.”

He handed me his card. “That and a statement from Detective Sturgis should handle it.”

“What needs to be handled?” said Robin. “What do we need to justify?”

Seaver picked at his chin. His lips were thick, pink, and soft looking, with a natural turndown that made him look sad.

“Arson fires tend to be self-generated, Mrs. Delaware. In lots of cases, anyway. Like I said, insurance companies’ll do anything not to pay up. First thing they’re going to be assuming is you’re behind this.”

“Then fuck ’em,” said Milo. To us: “Don’t sweat it, I’ll handle it.”

Seaver said, “Okay . . . well, better be looking around some more.” Cracking a brief smile, he left.

Milo’s hair was ragged, his eyes electric. He had on a shirt and tie, but the tie was crooked and his collar was loosened. In the darkness his acne-scarred face looked like moonscape. His hand moved over it rapidly and repeatedly — almost ticlike.

“It’s okay,” said Robin.

“No, no,” he said. “Uh-uh, don’t comfort me — you’re the victims — goddamn protect and serve — some protection. I know it sounds like a crock but we
are
gonna get him — one fucking way or the other, he’s history. We’ll get free of this.”

The three of us walked back to the truck. Milo’s unmarked was parked behind it. None of us looked back.

The firefighters’ lights were going out, one by one, as some of the trucks pulled away. Sunrise was several hours away. Without the bulbs and the flames, the night seemed hollow, just a thin membrane holding back the void.

“Wanna go back with me?” said Milo.

“No,” I said. “I can handle it.”

Robin stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

“I found out what de Bosch’s sin was,” I said. I told him of Meredith Bork’s experience.

“You stab me, I stab you,” he said. “No fucking excuse.”

“Can we be sure this wasn’t the Iron Priests?”

“We can’t be sure of anything,” he said furiously. “But a thousand to one it’s not them. No offense, but you’re just not important enough to them — they want Raza blood. No, this was our bad love buddy — remember Bancroft’s comment about firesetters at the school?”

“You told me there was no record of any fires there.”

“Yeah . . . the kids behaved themselves there. It’s when they graduated that the problems started.”

I drove, but I felt as if I was being towed. Each segment of white line diminished me. Across the cab of the truck, Robin wept, unable to stop, finally surrendering to deep, wracking sobs.

I was beyond tears.

Just as I crossed into Beverly Hills, she took a sucking breath and pressed fisted hands together.

“Oh, well,” she said, “I always wanted to redecorate.”

I must have laughed, because my throat hurt and I heard two voices chuckling hysterically.

“What style should we choose?” I said. “Phoenix Rococo?”

Benedict Canyon appeared. Red light. I stopped. My eyes felt acid washed.

“It was a crummy little place anyway,” she said. “No, it
wasn’t
, it was a
beautiful
little place — oh, Alex!”

I pulled her to me. Her body felt heavy but boneless.

Green light. My brain said go, but my foot was slow to follow. Trying not to think of everything I’d lost — and everything yet to lose — I managed to complete the left turn and began a solitary crawl up Benedict.

Home temporary home.

The dog would run out to greet us. I felt inadequate for the role of animal buddy. For anything.

I drove up to the white gate. It took a long time to find the card key, even longer to slip it in the slot. Moving the truck up the drive, I counted cypress trees in an effort to settle my mind on something.

I parked next to the Seville and we got out.

The dog didn’t rush out to greet us.

I fumbled with the key to the front door. Turned it. As I walked through the door, something cold and hard pressed against my left temple and a hand reached around and clapped me hard on the right side of my head.

Immobilizing my skull.

“Hello, doctor,” said a voice from a chant. “Welcome to Bad Love.”

He said, “Don’t move or speak, pardon the cliché.”

The pressure on my temple was intense. Strong fingers dug into my cheek.

“Good,” he said. “Obedient. You must have been a good student.”

Dig.

“
Were
you?”

“I was okay.”

“Such modesty — you were a lot
better
than okay. Your fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Lyndon, said you were one of the best students she ever had — do you remember Mrs. Lyndon?”

Squeeze and shake.

“Yes.”

“She remembers you . . . such a
good
little boy . . . keep being good: hands on head.”

As my fingers touched my hair, the lights went on.

One of the couches was out of place, pushed closer to the coffee table. There were drinks and plates on the coffee table. A glass of something brown. The bag of taco chips Robin had bought a couple of days ago was open, crumbs scattered on the table.

Making himself comfortable.

Knowing we’d be gone for a while but would come back, nowhere else to go.

Because he’d used the fire to flush me out. Used the time to prepare the scene.

The ritual.

Choreographing death.

Firesetters and felons . . .

I considered how to get at him. Felt the pressure, saw only dark sleeve. Where was Robin?

“Forward march,” he said, but he continued to hold me still.

Footsteps on marble. Someone walked into my line of sight, holding Robin the same way.

Tall. Bulky black sweater. Baggy black slacks. Black ski mask with eye holes. Shiny eyes, the color indeterminate at this distance. He towered over Robin, gripping her face and forcing her eyes up at the ceiling. Her neck was stretched, exposed.

I gave an involuntary start, and the hand gripped my head harder.

Imprisoning it.

I knew where they’d learned that.

Bumping and scratching from the back of the house. The dog tied out there, behind drapes that had been drawn over the French doors.

Something else at Robin’s head besides a hand. Automatic pistol, small, chrome plated.

Bump, scratch.

The voice behind me laughed.

“Great attack dog . . . some tight security you’ve got here. Alarm system with an obvious home run, one snip and bye-bye. Fancy electric gate a dwarf could climb over, and a cute little closed-circuit TV to announce your arrival.”

More laughter. The tall man with Robin didn’t move or make a sound.

Two types of killing. Two killers. . . .

My captor said, “Okay, campers.”

The tall man shifted his free hand from Robin’s face to the small of her back and began propelling her down the hallway toward the bedrooms.

Swinging his hips. Effeminate.

Walking the way Robin walked.

A woman? A tall woman with strong shoulders . . .

I’d talked to a tall, angry woman this afternoon.

A Corrective School alumna with plenty of reason to hate.

I really don’t like you.

I’d called Meredith out of the blue, yet she’d been willing to talk to me — too eager.

And she had a special reason to feel rage over the Western Peds symposium.

Thanks, Dad.

I’d just stare at them, want to kill them, keep my feelings all inside.

Alone with Robin, now. Her appetites and anger . . .

“Forward march, fool.” The gun stayed in place as the hand moved from my face. No more pressure, but his touch lingered like phantom pain.

A sharp prod to my kidneys as he shoved me farther into the room. Onto a couch. As I bounced, my hands left my head.

His foot met my shin and pain burned through my leg.

“Back up — up, up, up!”

I complied, waiting to be tied or restrained.

But he let me stay there, hands on head, and sat down facing me, just out of reach.

I saw the gun first. Another automatic — bigger than Meredith’s. Dull black, a dark wooden grip. Freshly oiled; I could smell it.

He looked tall too. Long waist, and long legs that he planted firmly on the marble. A little narrow in the shoulders. Arms a bit short. Navy blue sweatshirt with a designer logo. Black jeans, black leather, high-top athletic shoes that looked spanking new.

The chic thing to wear for homicide — the avenger reads
GQ
.

His mask had a mouth cutout. A sharklike smile filled the hole.

The dog scratched some more.

Under the mask, his forehead moved.

He crossed his legs, keeping the big black gun a couple of feet from the center of my chest. Breathing fast, but his arm was stable.

Using his free hand, he reached up and began rolling his mask up, doing it deftly, so that his eyes never moved from mine and his gun arm never faltered.

Doing it slowly.

The wool peeled away like a snake’s molt, exposing a soft, unremarkable face with fine features.

Rosy cheeks. The hair brass colored, thinning, worn thicker at the sides, now matted by the mask.

Andrew Coburg.

The storefront lawyer’s smile was wide, wet — impish.

A surprise-party smile.

He twirled the mask and tossed it over his shoulder. “VoilÀ.”

I struggled to make sense of it — Coburg directing me to Gritz. Misdirecting me. Careful researcher . . . Mrs. Lyndon . . .