by Rachel Ford
My phone dinged with an incoming text message. I tuned out of the conversation long enough to check it.
It was from Detective Clark. Got your message. Would you be available to meet in person?
I typed out a two-word reply. Yes. When?
I’m available this morning, if that works for you.
Yes.
Great. 10?
I checked the time in the upper portion of the screen: about ten to nine. Yes. Where?
Wherever you want.
So I sent the address of a coffeeshop in town, that had a dark roast I particularly liked. I didn’t want to go to the station today, and I didn’t want to meet at my place. Not with my investigation boards all over. I’d understated my interest so far, and I didn’t want to tip her off about the deception.
She sent back a confirmation, and I turned to Jason. “I’m going to have to head out soon.”
He nodded. “Right. I’ll get a couple of things.”
I frowned. “Why?”
He seemed confused. “I’m coming with you, aren’t I? I mean, I got to go get my truck. And I should pack enough so I can crash somewhere for a night or two if Meg doesn’t chill out right away.”
“Fine,” I said. “But I’m going to have to make a stop before we get the truck.”
He shrugged. “That’s fine. I’m on no schedule.”
Chapter Sixteen
I tried to get Jason to stay in the vehicle. But he protested that it smelled too bad. “I’ll get a seat on the other side of the room. You won’t even know I’m there.”
It did smell bad. I really did have to do something about that. In the meantime, though, I agreed.
We reached the rendezvous two minutes before the hour. I parked at the far end of the lot, where I had a space on either side. No one could accidentally open their door into yours if there was no one parked beside you.
“There were spots closer to the door,” Jason said.
“I know.”
“Okay. You been here before?”
“Yes.”
“They have a crazy good matcha latte.”
I had no idea what matcha was. I wasn’t particularly interested in learning. “Good to know.”
“You can get it with almond milk…”
It was at this point that I tuned him out. I focused on our surroundings instead. The lot was about half full, with six vehicles in total, not counting my own. There were a couple of hybrids and electric cars, a scooter and two dark sedans.
Detective Clark’s was parked near the entrance, empty. So she was inside already.
The other sedan was on the far end of the lot. I couldn’t see much of the occupant. Just a glimpse of light skin and short, gray hair.
But I could see his plates. And I recognized them. I didn’t remember where, exactly. But I’d seen them, and recently.
It was pattern recognition. My brain’s forte. I’d just seen that particular arrangement of letters and numbers.
“Owen?”
I glanced at Jason. He was staring expectantly at me. “What?”
“I asked if you wanted it iced or hot?”
“Wanted what?”
“A matcha latte. Duh.”
“Oh. Uh, I’m going to just get a regular coffee with milk.”
Jason waved this aside. The gesture reminded me of Megan, the night before, with her wine glass. I decided our next step was the truck: the sooner we parted ways, the better.
We rounded the building, heading for the door, and the sedan disappeared from my view. Jason was still going on about matcha. “Trust me, if you like coffee, you’ll love it.”
I could see Detective Clark now, at a table by the window. There was plenty of free space between it and the other tables.
Probably on account of the day. It was bright and sunny – the kind of bright and sunny that would create all kinds of glare on a screen. And aside from a guy in his mid-sixties who was sitting in an armchair reading a print and paper book, everyone else had some kind of device in front of them: a laptop, a tablet, and plenty of phones.
Everyone but Clark, anyway. She was sitting patiently, watching comers and goers. She spotted me immediately, and offered a nod of greeting. Her eye lingered on Jason as we stepped through the door. She nodded his way too.
“I’ll get us something,” he said. “You go talk to the detective.”
“Coffee,” I reminded him. “Nothing else. The bourbon barrel roast. Whole milk.”
He waved me off with a, “Yeah, yeah,” and headed to the counter. I headed to Clark’s table.
She gestured for me to take the seat opposite her. “Good morning, Mr. Day.”
“Owen.”
“So you and Jason are working together now?”
“God no. He needed a ride is all.”
“To the coffeeshop?”
“No. Back to his truck. It’s at my place. Long story.”
“Okay. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.”
She didn’t look like she believed me. Then again, she was no one to talk. There were new ruts under her eyes since the last time we’d met, and her skin looked a little gray. I had the impression she hadn’t slept since then.
“Good. So, what did you need to talk to me about?”
I told her what I’d found about Angela Martinez. “I know it’s a longshot. But if he put that much thought into the judge’s rhyme, there’s got to be a link we’re missing.”
A grimace flashed over her face – just a hint, and then it was gone.
“Speaking of,” I said, “how’s that going?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Was it really the nanny? The adult vic they pulled out of the fire?”
“I can’t tell you that until there’s an official announcement. And they didn’t pull her out of the fire.”
“They didn’t?”
“No.”
“Then how did she die?”
“GSW to the head.”
Gunshot wound to the head. “How did no one hear the shot?”
She took a long drink of her coffee. It was some kind of latte, with a leaf on top made of foam. It started to elongate as she drank. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Was she killed somewhere else?” I asked.
“She was the kid’s nanny,” she said. “She was in charge of them when their parents were out of town.”
“So she wouldn’t have been anywhere else.” I frowned. I hadn’t spent much time in Kennington Heights, but I’d driven through it a time or two. The houses had big lots and lots of trees between each other. A few acres of space, in some cases.
Enough to hide someone, but not enough to hide a gunshot. “A suppressor,” I said. “He used a suppressor.” Even if neighbors heard that, it would have sounded like a strange pop. Not a gunshot.
She said nothing. She just nodded into her latte.
“Did he shoot the kids too?”
“No,” she said.
“They died in the fire then?”
She said nothing. She just looked grim and troubled.
“Fuck.”
It was now that a young man showed up at our table. He wore a purple apron embroidered with the coffeeshop’s logo, and he carried my coffee.
Except, it wasn’t coffee. It was some kind of pale green thing. A slime monster in a coffee mug. “Enjoy,” he said as he set it down.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Matcha latte,” he answered, and headed back to the counter.
I stared at it, horrified. It looked like something that grew in a bog. Not something you drank.
“Matcha, eh?” Clark asked. “I pegged you more as the ‘coffee, black, no sugar, no cream,’ kind.”
I frowned at her. “I didn’t order this. Jason did. And I like milk in my coffee.”
She half-smiled at that.
I unwrapped the silverware packet beside me and stirred the strange concoction. Then I tapped the spoon against the mug to shake
any loose droplets away, and took a sip.
It had an earthy, vegetal flavor, with a hint each of bitterness and sweetness. Probably, like what a bog tasted like.
I wrinkled my nose and took a second sip. Not terrible, I decided. I turned back to the case.
“So he took the nanny out with a gun, because she would have interfered. She would have got the kids to safety, or called the fire department. But he left the kids to burn.
“Just like the rhyme. ‘Your house is on fire, Your children shall burn.’”
She nodded again. “I’ll put one of the guys on the Martinez angle. It is a longshot, but if we can establish a link between the rhymes and the victims, maybe we can trip this son-of-a-bitch up.”
“If she did get some kind of life insurance payout from her grandmother, that should narrow it down. There can’t be that many people who knew that.”
“Right. And the killings started with Martinez. Maybe she’s the one with the personal link to the killer.”
I nodded and took another sip of the latte. It wasn’t bad.
“Of course,” she said, “there’s another possibility. His killings might have got more complex as time went on. He might have started thinking them out more. There were weeks between Martinez and Anderson, remember. That’s a lot of time to plan. Maybe he got bolder as time wore on. More creative.”
I nodded and stirred the latte again. Most of the foam disappeared this time. “I know.”
“How’s the situation with the reporters at your sister-in-law’s place?”
“So far, so good. No one’s shown up again.”
“Good.”
I took another sip. It was alright, I decided.
She glanced behind my shoulder. I did too. Jason was approaching, in a state of some agitation. “We got to go, dude,” he said.
I glanced at Clark, and she glanced at me.
“I know, I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry to interrupt.” He thrust his phone forward, in front of my face. So close I could see nothing but a blur of green and blue text bubbles.
“Mais just texted. Megan told her to tell me she’s putting all my stuff out for the garbage. Either I get it or they do. And the garbage truck gets there around twelve. So we got to move. Now.”
I suspected most of Jason’s belongings would be right at home in the landfill. But I’d gotten as much as I would out of Detective Clark. At least, following the interruption, anyway. So I took a few more sips of the latte, decided it was pretty good after all, and took my leave.
The same cars were still there, except for the sedan, the one with the graying guy. He hadn’t come in after us to grab a to-go order, and there was no drive through. So maybe he’d already sat in or picked up his order before we got there.
Jason talked the whole way back to his sister’s house. He went back and forth between her not being serious, and being terrified that she was indeed serious.
She looked serious enough by time we reached the house. Not that we saw Megan, or anyone else. The hers Subaru was gone, the drapes pulled, and the doors locked. But the curb was lined with black garbage bags. Five of them, to be exact.
Jason freaked out. There really was no other word for it. He panicked, and whimpered, and scurried from bag to bag opening them, sifting through their contents, and panicking some more.
She’d mixed his belongings in with garbage from the garage. In fact, I was pretty sure there was more garbage in the bags than belongings. She’d put pizza boxes, beer cans, candy wrappers, soda cups, and so on in with his pillows and video games.
Some of the rubbish dripped and leaked onto his stuff. Some of his stuff didn’t turn up at all. He was hyperventilating.
The idea of putting actual garbage bags in my vehicle turned my stomach. But on the other hand, I didn’t feel right about seeing someone’s entire existence reduced to five garbage bags – at least half of them actual garbage.
So I told him, “It’ll be in there. Come on, let’s just pack this crap up, and we can sort it out at my place.”
“I can’t find my medicine,” he said. “I need my medicine, man.”
I rolled my eyes but tried to be patient. “Mais said Megan threw everything out, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it’s in there. So let’s just get it before the garbage guy shows up, and get out of here. Okay?”
Chapter Seventeen
Jason spent the trip back to my place moping. He was going to be living out of his truck, he told me. “I’m homeless, dude. She really did it. She went full bore. I can’t believe she’d actually just throw my stuff out.”
I almost felt bad for him. His life was a dumpster fire, and if Megan had thrown him out in some kind of tough love move, he might have had it coming. But she’d thrown him out for saying two words in Mais’s defense. Long overdue words.
But I quickly forgot Jason’s problems as we neared my place. A column of smoke rose on the horizon. Thick, black smoke. I couldn’t say for certain, but it looked like it was coming from my place.
Then we got closer, and there was no mistaking the source: definitely coming from my property. I floored it, and for about a minute it became a tense guessing game of my house or something else.
It turned out to be something else. Jason’s truck, in fact. Flames engulfed the thing. I could see nothing but a metal skeleton in a mass of fire, leaking plumes of toxic smoke.
There were firetrucks and police vehicles all through the yard, lights flashing and sirens blaring. So I pulled to the side of the road and we got out. A cop in uniform met us about a third of the way into the driveway, wanting to know if I was the homeowner.
When I confirmed my identity, he told me I needed to stay back. There was a chance the gas tank might explode, and if that happened, well, we didn’t want to be in the vicinity.
Then he asked about the truck. Whose was it? He pulled the plates when Jason answered, and frowned. “It insured?”
“No sir,” Jason said, adding a little too quickly, “But I don’t use it on the roads. It’s not illegal to keep an uninsured vehicle on private property.” He’d obviously given that particular lie some thought.
I don’t think the cop believed him, especially since the vehicle was registered. Why register it if you weren’t using it? But he didn’t press the point. “Well, too bad it’s not insured,” he said. “They might have covered disposal, anyway.”
The cop told me we should consider renting a room somewhere. Even after the fire died down, even if it burned down without a problem, the fire investigator would need access. “And the place isn’t going to smell great. That’s for sure.”
Jason took pictures. I waited and paced on the side of the road. Edith was watching from her yard. Usually, she tried to be somewhat covert about it. Now, she’d parked a lawn chair on the front step, and sat there with a cup of tea in her hand.
The cop had been right about the stench. Even though we were well outside the billowing column of toxic smoke, the whole vicinity reeked. I could smell burnt plastic, melted rubber, and just about everything else.
Eventually, they got the fire out. There were no explosions, which disappointed Jason. He’d lost the truck. That had been obvious from the first glimpse. So he’d wanted some excitement out of the ordeal.
He got nothing – nothing but a warning to stay clear of the wreck until the fire investigator was done. And of course the fire investigator couldn’t come near it until it cooled.
That seemed like a waste of time to me.
Old vehicles burned sometimes. The truck had to be pushing thirty years. I knew for a fact it had been leaking something in Megan’s driveway. Probably, something combustible. But process is process, I guess.
And I had plenty to occupy myself. I’d need to call my homeowner’s insurance. The conflagration had gotten so hot, it had melted a large portion of the garage siding. Plus, I’d need to find out about removing the burned-out truck, once the fire marshal was happy with it.
/> The fire trucks rolled away. The cop walked me through next steps. He cordoned off the scene and waited for me.
My house smelled of burned truck. I’d already decided to take the cop’s advice to rent a room. So I packed some stuff, and threw it in the back of my vehicle, along with Jason’s garbage bags.
I would come back in a day, and see how everything smelled. If the outside was better than the interior, I’d open some windows. If not, I’d give it another day.
Then I waited for Jason to get back in the SUV. Edith was still in her yard, still watching. He waved to her. She didn’t wave back.
I pulled a U-turn and headed back to town. The cop got onto the road a minute after I did.
We traveled for a few miles in absolute silence. Then Jason interrupted it. “I’m so screwed. I can’t even live out of my truck: I’ve got no truck left. What the hell am I going to do, man?”
I got rooms at one of those places that cater to people traveling for business. It promised a home away from home feeling, with an office in each suite. Jason didn’t need an office. But I did.
And it was the weekend, so businesspeople would be heading home now. Their conferences and trainings and sales opportunities would be done. There’d be open rooms, and rates would be reasonable.
I reserved the rooms through an app, but when we checked in, the girl behind the desk smiled and told me, “Good news, Mr. Day: we’ve upgraded you to king sized suites. No extra charge.”
She put us on the top floor, in rooms 511 and 512. 511, she said, was the corner suite. “And it comes with a hot tub and a second bedroom.”
I didn’t care about the hot tub, but the bedroom would be good. I could set up investigation boards there. So 511, I decided, would be my room.
I left the key cards with Jason while I got my suitcase. We’d wait on his garbage bags. I figured I’d find the back stairs, and we could take them up that way instead of hauling them through the lobby.
Then we headed to our rooms. He gave me the packet marked 511 and rounded the corner. “See you later, dude. And – thanks. I owe you.”
I fumbled with the card reader and rolled my eyes. Damned right you do. We were already at five grand and climbing. Not that it was much of an issue, financially speaking. I wasn’t rich, but I earned plenty, and spent little. What I’d spent on Jason impacted me only insomuch as it pissed me off.