Secret Light (4 page)

Rafe nodded and took a card from his wallet. “Here’s my card. Perhaps you can call

to let me know when I can get that report?”

“Yes.” Ben couldn’t exactly put his finger on why, but Colman seemed reluctant to

say good-bye. Or maybe that was him, because he was feeling troubled, deep in his gut

as well.

Colman was almost as tall as Ben, and his features…
Christ. Like a movie star
. Wavy

blond hair, eyes like the sky. He’d looked much younger when they’d arrived, but he’d

gotten his bravado back, and now he looked clever and proud. Sophisticated.

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They stayed that way—just sizing each other up—for several seconds before he

heard a short blast from the cruiser’s horn, signaling Calhoun’s impatience. “I have to

go. You take care, Mr. Colman.”

“Fine. Call me Rafe, though, since you’ve earned Mooki’s respect.”

Ben shook his hand a little too long. Rafe cleared his throat and took his hand back.

Ben took off for the curb after Rafe waved a small good-bye.

The last good look Ben got of him, he stood on the porch, arms wrapped around

himself. The attitude was still there, that imperious demeanor. He mounted his porch

steps with confidence, his little dog trailing after him. But despite all that, Colman wore

a patina of indefinable sadness, and Morgan thought he looked utterly alone.

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Chapter Three

December 3, 1955

A week later, the air blew warm and dry as it often did, even in early December. It

seemed a bitter insult to late autumn—as confusing as it was unpleasant—yet it was a

reminder that Rafe lived in a city reclaimed from the desert by chicanery and sheer

force of will.

The haulers Spence recommended had come and gone, hefting what was left of

Rafe’s garage and those possessions he’d stored in it into a big old farm truck and

taking them away for a price that seemed not overly steep to him. There was nothing

salvageable; they’d had to break down pieces of the garage itself, those timbers and bits

of the roof that had caved and fallen in, to fit them into the vehicle. They made several

trips.

Rafe’s insurance company was preparing to pay out—eventually. There would be

the inevitable red tape in his near future, but in the meantime, he had enough savings to

rebuild the structure. He wasn’t a wealthy man, but he lived more frugally than anyone

he knew. In fact, he spent money only when others would think it odd if he didn’t—on

his car and business wardrobe, or when out with his coworkers. With no wife, no

children, and virtually no debt, he could afford a new garage if he needed one. For the

time being, he supposed he could cover his car with a tarpaulin, but what a nuisance,

having to take it off and put it on day in and day out.

The ultimate cost of the fire came to him in bits and pieces. He regretted the loss of

his indoor Christmas decorations—unretrieved from where he kept them stored on a

shelf he’d built specifically for the purpose as he’d been waiting until closer to the

holiday to purchase a tree. The small canvas tent and a rucksack he’d planned to use in

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an upcoming trip to Yosemite were gone. It wasn’t until he watered his lawn that he

realized all his gardening tools had gone up in smoke.

He was in such a sour mood it didn’t seem unreasonable to go back into the house,

pull a beer from the Frigidaire, and sit on the floor with Mooki as the early dark of

December encroached.

Mooki had been unhappy all day—insulted by the presence of workers who didn’t

fawn over her and assaulted by the acrid stench of burned rubber and other filthy

smells that caused her eyes to water and her delicate nose to burn. She’d sneezed

angrily whenever he’d taken her to the backyard to do her business, preferring instead

to drag him around the neighborhood looking for greener pastures. He tossed a small

hard rubber ball, and Mooki chased it across the room. The opportunity to play with

him seemed to soothe her and did much to restore his mood to normal as well.

He’d been just as unsettled as she was and had welcomed their walks. He’d become

quite a fixture anyway, carrying a toy shovel and a brown paper bag for her

emissions—no one would ever say Rafe Colman had left anything unpleasant on their

lawn—and a walking stick to ward off unleashed dogs. He had no doubt he’d become a

joke—that German nut who’d had his garage burned down. Still, he tipped his hat

politely to his neighbors and maintained a not-so-discreet hauteur.

The ladies still seemed to love him, anyway.

A light tap on the door brought his attention back to the present. He hauled himself

up and followed his excited dog to the foyer. She was surely thinking,
At last, here’s

someone who will give me the attention I deserve
.

“Ruhig, Mooki.” He opened the door a crack and found Officer Morgan there,

hatless, dressed in a suit and tie.

“Officer Morgan. This is a surprise.” Rafe stepped back to let him in, and Mooki

went berserk, circling their ankles and nearly tripping them up.

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“Good evening, Mr. Colman. I thought I’d stop by to see how you’re doing.”

Morgan fidgeted with his keys. He had competent-looking hands with square fingers.

For a moment, Rafe got lost looking at the fine hairs on the backs of his knuckles.

“Please come in.” Rafe backed out of the way. Morgan had seemed larger in his

uniform—but even without it, his was an intimidating presence. “What can I do for

you?”

“This isn’t an official call or anything. I wanted to let you know the detectives have

a possible lead on this. Probably nothing will come of it, but we’re keeping our fingers

crossed.”

“I see. No matter. Damage done.” Rafe motioned his visitor toward the kitchen,

where he planned to retrieve another beer. His bottle opener was still on the counter,

and he picked it up, holding it thoughtfully before speaking. Should he offer

something? Was that proper? “Would you care for some refreshment? I was about to

have another beer.”

“Thank you. That would be just great.” Morgan lifted a hand to his tie but asked

permission before he loosened it. “May I? I’ve just come from taking my mother to

mass.”

“Make yourself comfortable. You took your mother to church? What a gentleman.

You must make her very proud.”

“She’s an old-fashioned girl.” He shrugged off the compliment. Ben stuffed his tie

into his pocket and took a beer—served in a glass with the perfect amount of foam. “She

doesn’t like to go without family. After my father died…”

“You go every Saturday night?” Ben nodded. Rafe couldn’t help but smile. “You

are a very good son, Officer Morgan.”

“Please, call me Ben. I see you were able to begin the cleanup process.”

“Ah, yes. Thanks to fine police investigation, they completed the insurance report

on Thursday and gave me permission to have things hauled away. I am apparently

covered for arson.”

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“I’m glad.”

“I believe your partner thought I did it myself.”

Ben stopped in the act of bringing his glass to his lips. “You think?”

“My brand-new car was elsewhere when my garage burned. I don’t blame him, but

he isn’t a very subtle man.”

“No. He’s not. I’m sorry about that.”

“I did point out that if I wanted sympathy, I’d hardly put
heil Hitler
on the door.”

“Well, now…” Ben smiled. “You could be a spy of some sort.”

“You may laugh, but there was a time I passionately wanted to spy for the US

against Germany. I had the language; I was familiar with the countries involved.”

“But you said your heart…?”

“Yes. I didn’t even know I had a problem, actually, until they told me. I rarely

suffer from it. Occasional shortness of breath and palpitations, which I’d always

attributed to overexertion or nerves. I was far too young to serve as a spy, but I

imagined myself in the role. Then the war ended.”

“You might have made a good spy.”

“I would have been a
great
spy. I’m an excellent liar.” Before Rafe had a chance to

regret saying that to a police officer, he changed the subject. “Follow me if you’d like

more comfortable seating.”

Ben followed, and Mooki tagged along with them into the living room, her tapping

toenails silenced as soon as they left the wood floor and crossed over the Oriental rug.

Was it his imagination, or was Rafe nervous? Ben supposed it was the normal

reaction of having a policeman in one’s home. It was his experience that even his

relatives acted out of character; they watched what they said around him.

The fastidious Rafe—who poured beer into pilsner glasses and provided cocktail

napkins for his guests—sat in a wing chair, inviting Ben to take up a comfortable

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position on the couch. Ben placed his beer on a coaster on the coffee table between

them.

“This is a nice place.” Ben glanced around. “Two bedrooms?”

“Three.” Rafe shrugged. He took a pipe from the table next to him and held it up.

“Do you mind?”

Ben shook his head. “I like it, actually.”

Ben watched Rafe’s hands with interest. The act was precise and practiced. Rafe

packed his pipe, then removed a wooden match from a box bearing the name of a local,

swanky restaurant, He struck the match against the box, watching it flare for a second

before putting it to his pipe and pursing his lips. He drew a number of puffs to ignite

the tobacco, after which he blew out a thin stream of smoke with a deeply satisfied sigh.

“I work from home sometimes, and it’s ideal to have an office here.”

“It will be ideal for a family someday.” Ben watched him carefully when he said it,

but it drew not a flicker of response. “I take it there’s no imminent Mrs. Rafe Colman?”

“I’m afraid not,” came the easy reply. “For all my immense personal charm, I have

no luck keeping a young lady happy for long. Perhaps it’s because I can’t keep my eyes

in my head.”

“That could make a girl unhappy.”

“There are just so many lovely girls. Don’t you find?” Smoke billowed into the air.

Ben felt uncomfortable all of a sudden, as though Rafe was able to see right through

him. As if Rafe was filling the air with smoke to create a barrier between them. “Girls

are always ready to throw themselves at a man. What can one do?”

“Poor man,” Ben said, a little too sharply.

Rafe blinked. “I’m sorry. I don’t ever seem to say the right thing with you, do I?”

“Maybe it’s me.” Ben looked into his glass. Should he go?

“I make a very fine living saying the right thing to everyone. For the most part, it’s

like a running tap. It seems to shut off when you’re around.”

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Ben sipped his beer to hide his pleasure at this. He liked keeping people off balance;

it was in his nature to poke at things to see what the result might be. He’d been told his

curiosity was discomfiting, but it didn’t stop him. He thought he was more a stickler for

honesty than most. “That or I’m some idiotic, prickly bastard who shouldn’t be around

people much.”

“No. That’s not it.” Rafe’s face registered something like regret. “I think you may be

like one of those polygraph machines. You should be a detective, not a policeman.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m working on that.”

“Does that mean you will wear horrible, shiny suits and gum shoes?”

“Certainly. I’ve been reading detective stories all my life, and I’d be disappointed

not to.”

In the silence that fell between them, Ben found himself thinking about Dashiell

Hammett and how Rafe reminded him of Nick Charles—elegant and effortlessly

appealing—whereas he had more in common with Sam Spade. Sam Spade had seen

things. He knew things—about life, about people—that made him an outsider and, at

the same time, the ultimate chameleon. A neutral man in a black-and-white world. He

wondered if Rafe would agree with the comparison.

Colman drew him. He was urgently attracted to the dapper Austrian. He’d come

there that evening to poke at Colman, to drop the tiniest hint that they might have

something more in common than a crime scene. To convey in some perfectly harmless

way that he’d admired Colman’s composure, and more, that he felt connected to him

somehow, that he might have liked—might imagine—Colman felt that too.

Nothing short of survival held him back.

When he glanced back up at Rafe, he found him wary. Maybe Rafe was a bit of a

detective as well. If even the tiniest fraction of what Ben had been thinking showed on