Skies of Ash (36 page)

* * *

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 The arm sling remained, but the gauze on his hands had been replaced by lesser bandages.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.”

“I understand why you’re upset,” Colin said, unable to control his smile. “If you had waited just four or five more months, you wouldn’t have had to kill your wife. She would’ve died on her own. And your kids—I don’t know why you—”

“How the
hell
could I kill my family in a fire,” Chatman growled, “when I was forty miles away—?”

“About what you do at that office forty miles away.” I pulled the mystery envelope from the expandable file and plucked out the Peggy Tanner check copy. “You recognize this name?”

Chatman blanched as he reached for the copy.

I let him look for ten seconds before grabbing it and slipping it back into the envelope.

“Where did you get that?” he demanded.

“Why is this check important?” I asked.

He didn’t speak as he stared at the case file.

“If I were to call Ms. Tanner about her account with your firm,” I said, “what would she tell me?”

Chatman squared his shoulders. “She’d tell you that I’ve made her a shitload of money.”

“A shitload,” I said. “That’s, like, a lot, right? Another question: how did you spend your inheritance?”

“My…? Are you referring to—?”

“The millions you inherited once your parents died.” I lifted an eyebrow. “It may not be a lot of money to you, but to us poor folk raised on Top Ramen and hamburger… Three million in ten years. How did you do it?”

He cocked his head. “You’ve become acquainted with my wife since her death. She spent it trying to be people we weren’t.”

“So it’s her fault,” I said.

“I’d do anything to keep her happy. She and the kids mattered more to me than our budget.”

“Okeydokey,” I said. “Why haven’t you let us take your DNA sample?”

“I’m not canceling my doctors’ appointments just to convenience the LAPD,” Chatman explained. “You said that you all would work around
my
schedule, not vice versa.”

“When is the best time, then?” Colin asked. “You give us a date. Hell, we can do it right now. I got a kit in the car. A swipe here, a swipe there, and we’re done.”

Spit gathered at the corners of Chatman’s mouth, ready to be swabbed and analyzed. “I’ll look at my schedule.”

“What do you do all day anyway?” Colin asked.

“I don’t understand what you’re asking me,” the banker said.

“You visited the botanical gardens on the day before your family was killed,” Colin said. “You go there often in the middle of the day?”

“I do.”

“Why?” Colin asked. “Especially on
that
day? Shit gettin’ you down at…
work
?”

The widower glared at him but didn’t answer. He turned his attention to me. “Have any more questions for me, Elouise?”

“You callin’ this veteran detective by her first name now?” Colin asked. “You two close like that?”

“
Detective Norton
,” Chatman said, slower, “do you have anything else?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “Your wife made a 911 call the morning of the fire.”

Chatman paled. “She did?”

“In it, she says something about someone trying to kill her. Who do you think—?”

“I did not kill my wife,” he shouted. “I did not kill my family.”

“What was she scared of?” I asked, refusing to shout. “
Who
was she scared of?”

He took a breath, then slowly released it. Calmer now, he said, “They had nothing to fear.”

“Juliet bought a gun,” I countered. “She had packed the kids up and filled the Benz’s gas tank.”

He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it.

I continued. “She had that gun with her when she and your daughter were trapped in your bedroom. Chloe died in her arms.”

Chatman remained silent.

“No comment?” I asked.

We sat there, our eyes locked on each other. Finally, he said, “Any other questions?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Am I free to go?”

“Certainly,” Colin said.

He stood and scowled at us. “Then I will end this interview. I have my family’s autopsy reports to read, since you so politely and delicately told me that my wife was dying from a horrible disease.”

Chatman started toward the cottage but whirled back to face us. “When all of this is over, I’m having a long conversation with a friend of mine who works for the
Los Angeles Times
. Then, I’ll ring up a friend who works for the mayor. So let me congratulate you now—your names will soon be in print. If you’re lucky, you’ll get to work as security guards at IHOP.” Then, he stomped to the guesthouse, opened the door, and slammed it.

The sound echoed, and for a moment even the birds had been stunned into silence.

Colin stretched and yawned. “He forgot to validate our parking ticket.”

I gathered my bag and stood from the couch. “I actually
like
IHOP. The Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity? Dude, that’s art.”

We started to the stone walkway, and I threw a last glance at the cottage and its ivy-covered walls.

That curtain
had
moved. I
know
it had.

So who moved it?

And who was in there hiding from me?

I WANTED TO THROW CHRISTOPHER CHATMAN DOWN TO THE GRASS, YANK HIS
hands behind him, and cuff his wrists with a pair of steel bracelets. Then, I wanted to drive him downtown to Men’s Central Jail. But first I needed an arrest warrant explaining why he needed to be abandoned in the dankest prison cell in hell, the one with the broken toilet and weevils in the oatmeal. Unfortunately, there was no “
Nobody wants to kill your wife and kids except you
” box to check on a warrant-request form.