Once Burned

by Alexa Land

  We still had several hours before my overnight flight back to San Francisco, and Dad said, “This headache’s kicking my arse, so I think I’m going to lie down for a bit and see if that helps. Make yourself at home, son.”

  “Actually, there’s something I need to do before I leave. I’ll probably just be an hour or so.”

  “Would you like to borrow the car?” When I nodded, he tossed me the keys before heading to his bedroom.

  I had a hunch about who’d tried to burn down the pub, but without evidence there was only one way to find out if I was right. I drove across the river and parked in a posh neighborhood. Then I texted a number I’d memorized from my father’s contacts and waited. The message said: I found proof that you set the fire. Meet me at Doyle’s pub in exactly fifteen minutes, or I’m going to the police.

  An innocent person receiving that message would probably still meet me to find out what was going on, same as a guilty person. But what an innocent person really wouldn’t do was stumble out of the house in the process of pulling on a shirt, while clutching a suit jacket and one shoe. They also wouldn’t look around frantically for a cab, then run down the street with an expression of sheer panic.

  As Jack O’Dowd, my father’s oldest friend, barreled down the sidewalk trying and failing to get his arm in his sleeve, I stepped out of the car and into his path. He was wild-eyed, and it took him a moment to recognize me. When he did, he stopped short and demanded, “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I received a text from a U.S. phone number. I assumed it was you.”

  “Oh, it was.”

  He stared at me as he tried to catch his breath. “Why did you tell me to meet you at the pub, when you were right down the street from my house?”

  “Technically, it’s your sister’s house. But she’s been quite generous with you since her husband passed, hasn’t she? In addition to letting you stay with her in the lap of luxury, does she also give you an allowance? Is that how you’re able to afford those elegant, custom-made suits? It’s funny, just five years ago, you were opening a pub in a working class neighborhood with your best friend, and now look at you. Quite the big shot!”

  Jack narrowed his eyes, and his voice grew menacing as he snarled, “You don’t have any evidence, do you? What kind of game are you playing?”

  “I wanted the truth, Jack. I needed to know if you’d really stoop so low as to burn down your best friend’s pub, just because you knew it’d cast suspicion on my father and drive a wedge between him and your sister.”

  He pulled up a haughty expression and said, “You can’t prove anything.”

  “No, I can’t. Even if there’d been any evidence to find, it would have been thrown out of court, since I was working outside my jurisdiction. But I needed to know for my own peace of mind, and the way you ran out of the house confirmed my suspicions beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

  He pulled on his shirt and jacket over his white undershirt, then stuck his shoe on his foot as he glared at me. “I did what needed to be done in order to protect my sister. If you think I regret it for even an instant, you’re very much mistaken.”

  I started to turn away, but then I swung around and sucker punched him right in the gut. He tried to lunge at me, but my second punch connected with his jaw, and he stumbled off the sidewalk and dropped like a sack of rocks. Jack growled, “You’re just like your father!”

  “Thanks for the compliment.” I got back in the car and drove away, leaving him in the gutter where he belonged.

  *****

  That evening, as my father drove me to the airport, he said, “If I was to go visit Jack O’Dowd, would I find marks on him in the shape of your fist?” I hadn’t told him where I’d gone that afternoon, but apparently my bruised knuckles spoke volumes.

  I glanced at my father’s profile and asked, “How long have you known it was him?”

  “I didn’t, not for certain anyway, but he had the most to gain from Caroline’s and my break-up.”

  “There was no evidence to convict him,” I said, “so I handled it. Please don’t take it any further, Dad. I don’t want you winding up in jail for assault.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s not worth it.”

  He parked at the curb in front of the international terminal, and as he helped me retrieve my luggage from the trunk, I asked, “Are you going to be alright, Dad?”

  “Yeah. We Doyles are a tough lot. It takes more than a broken heart to get us down.” He stuck his hand out and said, “Thanks, son. I want you to know I truly appreciate you dropping everything and coming all this way to help your auld man.”

  Instead of shaking his hand, I surprised my father by grabbing him in a hug as I said, “I won’t stay away so long next time. I promise.”

  “Maybe you can come back in a couple of months and see the pub when it’s up and running. I’ll be turning sixty in February, and I figure I can either cry about it or celebrate. I think I’ll go with the latter, and you can help me.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Good. Bring the artist formerly known as Ignacio with you. I have every confidence that my son the police officer will track him down by then, because you always get your man. I know you’ll work it out, too, because it’s obvious you’re meant to be together.” I smiled at that, then watched as he got back in the car and pulled away from the curb with a little wave.

  After I checked in, I sat overlooking the tarmac and took the paper crane from my pocket. As I turned it over in my hand, I watched a jet taxi down the runway, and I whispered, “I don’t know where you’ve gone, Ignacio, but I promise I’ll find you. I have to. You’re everything to me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jayden opened the door for me and said, “Hey, Cam. I hope you’re hungry! Charlie and I made lasagna again, because we’re trying to perfect the recipe.”

  “I’m starving, and lasagna sounds terrific. Did you have a good Christmas?”

  The kid nodded and adjusted his glasses. “I’m bummed that winter break is almost over, though. I’ve been trying to do some painting, and there’s just not enough time to get stuff done when I’m in school. Speaking of painting, is Ignacio joining us for dinner? I wanted to show him what I’ve been working on.”

  As I followed him through the spacious living room, I said, “Oh. Um, no. Sorry. He’s not in San Francisco right now.”

  “That’s too bad. I’ve been feeling inspired ever since he gave me that lesson at Christopher’s gallery, and I wanted to get his feedback.”

  The delicious smell of garlicky marinara sauce greeted us when we reached the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, the space was immaculate and modern, with white walls and a light, earth-toned color palette that looked like the work of a high-end designer. It should have felt pretentious and formal, but somehow it just didn’t. Though beautiful and obviously expensive, it was the kind of home where no one would yell at you if you failed to use a coaster.

  Dante had his arms around his husband, and they glanced at me with matching looks of concern. Ollie had received an overnighted letter from Ignacio, basically telling him what he’d told me and apologizing for lying to him. It had been mailed from Dublin, and it said nothing about where he planned to go or if he had any intention of getting back in touch. Ollie told Dante about it, and when my friend had called me, I’d filled in the blanks as best I could.

  Charlie said, “Hey, Cam. We’re glad you could make it to Thursday night dinner.”

  “So am I.” There were already two bottles of wine on the sand-colored stone counter, and I added the bottle I’d brought to the line-up.

  As I took off my trench coat and draped it over the back of a chair, Jayden’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and read the screen, and then he sighed. “My brother’s not coming to dinner. Big surprise.” He jabbed the button to turn off his phone and said, “It’s going to be half an hour until the lasagna’s ready. Can I go to my room?” When Cha
rlie nodded, the kid left the kitchen.

  Once he was out of earshot, Dante said, “When I talked to you on the phone, you said you’d been able to gather a little information about Mondelvano. Or whatever his name is.”

  I pulled a thin packet of papers from the inside pocket of my suit jacket and handed it to him. It was a print-out of the information Seth had sent me. “My partner at the SFPD found Joe Martinez’s juvie records, along with a handful of convictions from his early-to-mid-twenties. Nothing too serious. For what it’s worth, I don’t get the impression he was a career criminal, or that he set out to scam Ollie.”

  As Charlie opened the bottle of Merlot that I’d brought, he said, “I always liked Ignacio. He was consistently nice to me, and to the rest of the family.”

  Dante leafed through the packet and said, “There’s no record of a legal name change. Why wouldn’t he make it official, when he was already living as Ignacio?”

  I just shrugged. “I guess it was never meant to be permanent.”

  Charlie filled three wine glasses as he murmured, “I wonder how he got paid if he was using a fake name.”

  “I actually called Christopher and asked him that,” I said. “He told me Ignacio always had his checks made out to ‘cash’. By the way, Christopher also got an overnighted letter with an apology, a lot like the one Ollie received. Ignacio asked him to donate the proceeds from the rest of his paintings to Nana’s transition shelter. I’d been hoping to track him through those payments, so I don’t know what to do now.”

  Dante folded the papers and returned them to me, and I stuck them in my pocket as he said, “I always liked Mondelvano, too. So did Ollie. The two of them went way back, and when Ollie married my grandmother a couple of years ago, Ignacio became part of the family. I never suspected he was hiding anything.”

  Charlie asked me, “How are you feeling about all of this?”

  “I’m stunned and angry. But that doesn’t change the fact that I love Ignacio, and I need to find him. I hate not knowing where he is, or when I’ll see him again, or if he’s okay. Damn it, why the hell did he run away?”

  Dante said, “I hope you get the chance to ask him. I have a few questions for Mondelvano myself.”

  “Unless he gets arrested or does something else that’s a matter of public record, I’m pretty limited in my options for tracking him down. What I need is someone with a lot of resources, who can work outside the usual legal channels.” I glanced at Dante and said, “You have the right kinds of connections to get the job done. Do you think you could help me find him?”

  “I already put the word out, after Ollie spoke to me,” Dante said. “Mondelvano, or whatever his name is, owes you and my family some answers. It’s going to be pretty fucking tough to find him, since he could be anywhere in the world. But no one can stay hidden forever.” There was something just a little dangerous in his eyes when he said that. It made me hope I found Ignacio before he did.

  *****

  There was so much of Ignacio in my apartment that it made my heart ache, from the arcade toys he’d left behind to the little tinsel tree that still sat on my kitchen counter. But in a way, that was good too, because it meant I had pieces of him I could hold on to. The biggest of these were downstairs in my storage closet, and I retrieved them as soon as I got home from dinner that night.

  I pushed the door open with my foot and pocketed my keys. Then I heaved the stack of canvases into my apartment and leaned them against the wall. I fished out the painting that detailed Ignacio’s tattoos and put it on my mattress. After I tossed aside my overcoat and kicked off my shoes, I found my computer and sat cross-legged on the bed.

  Ignacio had deleted both his email address and his account for the video chat program we’d used whenever we were apart. It was frustrating that he’d been so fucking thorough when he decided to disappear from my life. I logged on to the chat program anyway, so he’d see I was online if he had second thoughts and opened a new account.

  Since the tattoos were a road map of his life, I thought they might contain a clue about where he’d gone, and I studied the painting carefully. There were two problems with this theory: not all his tattoos were shown on the canvas, and there was no reason to think he’d revisit a place from his past, especially if his goal was to disappear. Still though, it was all I had to go on.

  I sat there for nearly an hour, not only poring over the painting but trying to recall anything he might have said about where he’d go if he was alone and upset. The only thing I came up with was the castle, which was in both the painting he’d done for the community center and there among his tattoos. He’d told me once that he’d found a place just like it in his travels, and I racked my brain to recall where that had been.

  Eventually, I remembered it was Portugal and searched ‘Portuguese castle’ on my computer. When I found an image of Santa Maria de Feira Castle, I knew right away it was the one he’d meant. In fact, it was so similar to his painting that a crazy little part of me actually considered traveling to Portugal just to see if he was there. Talk about grasping at straws. Even as I told myself to get a grip, I opened another window on my computer and checked flights to Europe. Then I decided I was losing my damn mind and set aside both the painting and the laptop before heading to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

  I wasn’t even sort of tired though, and I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours after I climbed under the covers. Ignacio’s clean, familiar scent surrounded me. It was comforting and depressing in turn.

  After a while, I got up and began to pace around my apartment. Then I decided I needed to do a lot more to burn off my energy, if I was going to have any chance at all of falling asleep that night. I’d gone to bed in sweats and a T-shirt, so I added a warm-up jacket and running shoes, and I pocketed my keys before heading out the door.

  It was nearly midnight, but that was a plus because it meant the city was quiet and uncrowded. I stretched a bit, then started off walking to warm up. After a few minutes, I began to run. I’d slacked off over Christmas, and I was definitely feeling it.

  I randomly decided to head west on Fulton Street, and after about ten blocks, my route brought me to the northern edge of Golden Gate Park. The right side of the street was lined with multi-unit buildings. Some of the apartments had Christmas trees in the windows, which seemed odd to me until I remembered Christmas had only been at the beginning of the week. It felt like months had passed.

  The left side of the street, where I ran, was lined with trees and bushes. With a little imagination, I could almost pretend I was in the country. Almost.

  Once I passed Arguello Boulevard, the streets were numbered, so it was easy to track my progress. It was fifty fairly level blocks from that point to Ocean Beach, which marked the westernmost edge of the city. Since I was a distance runner, the nine miles round-trip were usually no problem. But by the time I reached 40th Avenue, I was just done. The nervous energy that’d had me pacing around my apartment drained away, and I slowed to a walk.

  After another block, I pivoted around and headed for home. The late December night was cool and overcast, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when it started to drizzle. That soon turned into a downpour. I got cold fast, between the rain soaking through my jacket and the sweat cooling on my skin, so I started running again. At least that warmed me up, but I was drenched and miserable by the time I returned to my neighborhood.

  Even though the rain was relentless, I slowed to a walk the last couple of blocks. I had to. Exhaustion weighed on me heavily, since I’d barely slept in days.

  When I rounded the corner, I noticed someone standing beneath a streetlamp, directly across from my building. The man started to cross the street, but then he hesitated. After a few moments, he returned to the sidewalk. He didn’t seem to notice me.

  As I got closer, I realized there was something familiar about him, and I started to run toward him through the pouring rain. He turned to me, and the streetlight illuminated his face. My
heart stuttered, and I whispered, “Ignacio.”

  He looked stunned. I slowed to a walk, and when I was about five feet away, he blurted, “I’m so sorry.” I closed the gap between us and grabbed him in an embrace. His breath caught.

  As I held on tight, he threw his arms around me. He was trembling, and the black Henley he was wearing was completely soaked through. I murmured, “Where’s your coat?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I left it on the plane.” It sounded odd to hear him speak without a Spanish accent.

  “Where have you been?”

  “In a hotel near the Dublin airport. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I told you I’d stay away, but I just couldn’t.”

  I clutched him to me and stroked his wet hair as I said, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  He pulled back a few inches, and his eyes searched mine as rain streamed down his face. “I thought you’d be angry.”

  “Oh, I am.”

  “Then why are you being so nice to me?”

  I cupped his cheek and said gently, “Because I love you.”

  “You do?” I nodded, and he said, “Even after finding out I’m a liar?”

  “My love for you isn’t conditional, Ignacio.” Emotion clouded his features, and I took his hand. “Come on, let’s go inside. It’s freezing out here.”

  He let me lead him across the street and up the stairs. Once we were in my apartment, I cranked the heater before guiding him to the bathroom. I got the water running, and then I turned to him and said, “You can shower first,” as I brushed his wet hair back from his face.

  “You must be as cold as I am. Do you want to join me?” When I hesitated, he nodded and said, “I get it. Too much, too soon.”

  “I’ll make some tea while you shower, and I’ll find you some dry clothes. What happened to your luggage?”

  “I left it behind. Once I made the decision to come and see you, nothing else mattered.” He looked so lost.