by Jack Bunker
A light flares on the hill, and Runt starts barking his head off. A flame flies through the air, a bottle breaks, and with a chilling whoosh my deck is ablaze. It happens so fast we don’t even have time to stand. The fire splashes across the far side of the deck, so none of us is ignited, but within seconds the flames stream up the wall of my house.
I run for the hose and find it tangled and disconnected. The flames roar louder as I grope for its coupling. Gloria pulls a gun from her purse, jumps the rail, and disappears in the shadows. Melody rushes into the house. Out of the corner of my eye I see the flames shoot higher than my roof. I spot the end of the hose and frantically screw it onto the nib. I turn the valve on with one hand while I’m still connecting the hose with the other, and at last I see water shoot out. I aim the stream full blast on the fire and use my thumb to broaden the spray. The accelerant fire doesn’t want to go out, but at least my efforts seem to be slowing the spread of the flames beyond the splatter pattern of the gasoline or whatever it is. Runt is barking himself hoarse, but that doesn’t seem to be damping the fire, either.
Melody reappears with the small fire extinguisher I keep in the kitchen. She lets out a blast of some sort of foam designed to put out grease fires, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect. Just as I’m starting to panic, the extinguisher chemistry finally kicks in. The fire coughs a few times, gasping for breath, then finally dies out.
“Does that get me a raise?” she asks.
“No.”
“Typical.”
Under the deck I see small drips of fire on the hill. I point the hose through the new gaping hole in my deck and drown them out one by one as sirens approach. Everything but my adrenaline appears to have been extinguished, but just to be sure I turn on my sprinklers to water the hill. Gloria lets out a shout from below and, a moment later, climbs onto the deck soaking wet, gun in hand, no perp.
“Thanks for the shower,” she says.
“See anybody?”
“Too dark.” Her shins are scratched up from the bushes, but other than that she’s okay. Runt comes up, tail wagging, and gives her a lick.
My nerves won’t cede control to my brain, so I still haven’t fully absorbed what just happened. It occurs to me that if we hadn’t been sitting right there, my house would be history. As the smoke is still clearing, I wonder what Jerry would have to say about that.
Melody snaps me back to reality. “Jesus! He could have killed us all!”
FIFTY
It seems like forever, but firefighters arrive within seven minutes of the conflagration with a pumper and a hook and ladder.
A few months back, LAFD sent me a threatening notice about brush clearance. It irritated me at the time, but tonight they are forgiven; their intentions have been validated. If they hadn’t made me clear the brush, the hills would be alive with the sound of combustion. The whole neighborhood could have gone up.
Sophia managed to sleep through the fire, but the arrival of the trucks wakes her up. She wanders out of the house yawning. “What happened?”
“Someone threw a Molotov cocktail,” I say.
She tries to make sense of this as the LAFD checks for live embers lurking on the hill or in the eaves. Someone scrapes a few char samples from the deck and seals them in a glass jar to take back to the lab and ID the ILR, copspeak for ignitable liquid residue.
After the firemen leave it feels like the air has been sucked out of the night. Runt lies passed out in the middle of the kitchen, having barked himself into a stupor. The rest of us need a massage and a shower but settle for a beer. The half-finished Malbec tastes like someone spiked it with liquid smoke.
We settle back into our respective seats, trying to ignore the damage to the deck and the house, at least until daylight makes it unavoidable.
“Cogswell?” asks Gloria.
“Or Karl,” I say.
“Karl would never do this,” says Sophia.
“But he would try to poison you,” I say. Sophia has no response.
“I like Karl for Ginger’s murder,” says Gloria, “but Cogswell strikes me more as the firebomb sort, and I think he’s a prime for Lana’s murder.”
“What about Grandpa Nate?” asks Melody. “He’s got access to industrial chemicals and workers with strong arms for throwing.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” says Sophia.
This guy really knows how to curry the love of his granddaughters.
“And we can’t rule out your dad,” says Melody. “He had a lot to gain by Lana’s death.”
“But not by Ginger’s,” I point out. I still find it hard to believe that mere coincidence could explain how both mother and daughter were murdered.
“Poppy didn’t do it,” says Sophia. “He couldn’t have. Violence is against every religion he ever tried.”
“Maybe the arson’s unrelated,” says Gloria. “I can name several people who would not only love to see Nob go up in flames but would gladly douse him with gas and flick the Bic.”
Between my six years as a cop and seven as a writer, I’ve pissed off a lot of people, including many card-carrying psychopaths.
“Like Sonny Meadows,” Melody says to Sophia. “He’s a guy Nob busted for robbing and raping an eighty-five-year-old blind woman. He pleaded down to assault with intent to commit rape and only got eight years. With good behavior he could be out by now.”
“Or Kurt Crandal,” says Gloria.
Sophia looks to Melody, who says, “Kurt and his brother Booger, whose real name escapes me, broke into a batting cage and tied a security guard to the backstop in front of the ninety-mile-an-hour hardball machine. They cracked a Coke machine for quarters and launched pitches at the guy until they ruptured his spleen, broke both knees, and rendered him sterile.”
“Booger had Down syndrome, so he got off with a hand slap,” adds Gloria, “but Kurt drew a dime in Quentin. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was out by now, either.”
“And to be fair to the opposite sex,” I say, “it could have been Renee Shoenfeld. She cracked her mother’s skull open with a family-size jar of gefilte fish. Her lawyer argued that Mamma drove her crazy with verbal abuse and bad cooking. I dubbed it the “burnt brisket defense,” and it caught on. Renee got sent up, and I started getting anonymous death threats postmarked California Institution for Women. They had to be from Renee since the Manson girls are the only other inmates I know of there, and they’d have no reason to take a sudden interest in me.”
“Let me do a cage count,” says Gloria. She calls Dumphy and tells him to check status on all three.
While we wait to hear, a smoke detector pierces the night. It’s screaming from the house. Some ember wasn’t found, and now the house is going up five minutes after the fire department drove off. I run into the kitchen, followed closely by the others. Black smoke streams from the oven. I throw it open to see the empanadas turned to charcoal. Bad news for dinner, good news for the house. The four of us release a collective breath, even though I’d spent four hours making those damned empanadas.
Dumphy comes back to report that all three cons are still in their cages. Renee was supposed to have served her sentence by now, but she stabbed a guard with a chicken-bone shiv and bought herself an extension. And the other two never managed to internalize the concept of good behavior so they got no time off. With those three off the list, we’re back to the Strain family saga.
Gloria points her finger at me like a recruiting poster. “I don’t want you here alone, just in case your friend comes back for a second try. You’re sleeping at my house tonight.” She realizes her lapse and turns to Sophia. “You, too.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “No one drives me out of my own house.”
“Except maybe your ex-wife,” says Melody.
FIFTY-ONE
Gloria decides to spend the night on the couch. I climb into bed, hoping she won’t try to sneak up to my bedroom after Sophia drifts off in the guest room. She doesn’t.
The next morning Gloria and I head over to Karl’s office. He isn’t happy to see us.
“Talk to my lawyer.” He starts to close the door. Gloria jams her foot in it.
“Where were you last night?”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
He shuts the door, but we’ve got what we came for. No scratches on his face or forearms, so he was either wearing long sleeves, gloves, and a ski mask in a heat wave, or he wasn’t tossing flaming bottles at my house last night.
We head back to the car to drive home and tell Sophia she was right.
“I spoke to the arson team this morning,” says Gloria. “The dirt on your hill was too loose to hold any footprints, so that was a dead end. They haven’t found any witnesses in the neighborhood. There were no prints on the bottle. And they haven’t gotten to the residue yet.”
“I’m sure he used gloves.”
“Or she.”
“Have to have a pretty good arm for a she. A liter of liquid has heft, and that toss was a thirty-foot line drive.”
“I’ll arm wrestle you anytime.”
“I don’t care how strong you are, you still throw like a girl.”
“Fuck like one, too. Or don’t you remember that far back?”
“What next?” I ask, pushing her back on track.
“Maybe we can drag a confession out of Cogswell,” she says.
“And maybe spareribs can clear a clogged artery.”
The thought of approaching Cogswell again is about as alluring as a frat house toilet stall after a binge party. It also means that we’ll have to check up on his proxies, the Ugly twins. Something else to look forward to.
I’m suddenly hit by one of those realizations that’s so obvious I feel like a fool for not having had it before.
“Whoever threw that firebomb must have killed Lana,” I say, “because Ginger’s murder doesn’t give anyone a motive to try to silence me. You’re already investigating Ginger’s murder. Getting rid of me wouldn’t change that. But Lana’s case is different. It was on ice. He was home free until I started searching under rocks. I must be getting too close for someone’s comfort.”
“I hate to say it, but you could be right.”
She pulls into a parking spot near the Odessa. Cogswell’s BMW is parked in a red zone in front of the club.
“That’s his Beemer,” I say.
“Let’s go.”
“He told me if he saw me again, I’d spend several excruciating hours praying for death before he’d answer my prayers.”
“You want to wait in the car?” She’s annoyingly amused.
“Not on your life.”
She leans over and kisses me gently on the lips, no tongue this time. “Don’t worry, lover. I’ll protect you.”
As we get out of the car, I feel my scrotum tighten up, trying to protect my yáytsa. Big Ugly Guy is sitting on a folding chair by the front door. He sees us from a half block away and stands, obstructing the entire sidewalk. He takes a step sideways to block the entrance.
“Closed for private party,” he says.
I keep my yap shut but notice he’s got no scratches on his face.
“I don’t give a shit,” says Gloria. “This is our invite.” She sounds confident and flashes her badge. If she’s as scared as I am, she’s a better actor. “We’re going to talk to Gary Cogswell one way or another. The question is whether I’m going to have to tow his car out of this red zone to get his attention.”
BUG’s face is immobile except for a little twitch of his lip, as if he’s trying to hide his disgust while watching a geek bite the head off a live chicken. It takes a moment for the power of the badge to mold his decision and another for the decision to migrate from his brain to his mouth.
“Wait here,” he says and steps inside. We hear the clack of a deadlock, just to make sure we don’t jump the gun. We’re left standing on the street, staring at the door like two dogs waiting for a handout. After minute or two the bolt clacks in reverse, and the door swings open. Big Ugly Guy nods us in.
The lights are brighter than the last time I was here, and the first thing I see is Bigger Ugly Guy in a Bozo suit, complete with clown makeup and a big red ball for a schnoz. My jaw nearly drops off my head. If he has facial scratches, there’s no way to see them.
The place is filled with balloons and streamers hanging from the ceiling. A stereo blasts Barney or Big Bird or some equally saccharine creature. There are probably two dozen five-year-olds running around a ring of chairs, screaming at a pitch that could shatter crystal. One of them, a skinny blond girl with an enormous nose, wears a plastic tiara. I’m guessing she’s the birthday girl.
The music suddenly stops and they all drop into chairs. All but one. The birthday girl has squeezed into the last chair just a heartbeat ahead of a chubby, redheaded boy.
I hear a roaring laugh and look up to see Vlad the Impaler having the time of his life. “You are outski, Nicolas,” he bellows. The freckled, frustrated boy sucks up his disappointment, shrugs, and takes a seat at one of the tables on the periphery of the action.
I notice a group of thugs in the corner exchanging bills and realize they’re betting on the kids.
The insipid music starts again, and Bigger Ugly Bozo pulls a chair out of the circle as the action ramps back up.
Our chaperone nods for us to proceed toward the back. Vlad doesn’t bother to acknowledge our presence as we pass. I see Cogswell in the same old spot, the Odessa’s excuse for a conference table. He does not look pleased to see me. There’s a half-eaten slice of pizza on a plate before him, and an empty demitasse. I wonder if he had a dople. There’s also a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Macallan single malt Scotch. Just like the bottle Angel brought to my bachelor party before I married Holly. It was unbelievably complex and smooth, and I thought I’d finally found my drink. Until the next day when I tried to buy some. Five hundred bucks a bottle. If you can find it. I’m disappointed to see that there’s only one shot glass on the table, and Cogswell is already using it.
“You can go back to the door, Petya,” says Cogswell. So the goon’s got a name. Reminds me of Petya in War and Peace. When I read it in college, I was shocked when he died. I remember learning that the name comes from the Old Greek “Petra,” which means “rock.” As I watch him lumber toward the door, I wonder if his parents had any idea how prophetic that moniker would prove.
Gloria and I take seats across from Cogswell, and I let her do the talking.
“Gary Cogswell?”
“And you would be?”
She flashes her badge. He takes it from her and scrawls her name and badge number on a napkin before passing it back.
“What can I do for you, Officer?” Against the rigidity of his icy blue eyes, his rubbery face seems overly animated as he actually gives her a friendly grin.
“It’s Detective, actually, and I’d like to know where you were around eight o’clock last night,” she says.
“May I ask why?”
“I’d like to hear your answer first.”
He smiles again. “Lieutenant, really. You’re speaking to a lawyer. Surely you don’t expect me to answer a question like that without knowing the context.”
Now she smiles. “Is that because you have something to hide, Mr. Cogswell?”
“It’s because I see no reason to voluntarily surrender my Constitutional right to privacy without a compelling reason.”
He picks up his fork and knife and cuts himself a bite of pizza. I can’t remember the last time I ate pizza with utensils, assuming I ever have. He’s clearly more fastidious than I, but then he’s got more of an investment to protect in his blue English suit, the same one he wore last time. A different tie, though. Blood red instead of pale yellow. I wonder if there’s any significance to the choice.
“Someone threw a Molotov cocktail at Mr. Brown’s house last night.”
“Aside from the fact that Molotov hailed from my current employer’s native land, I fail to see
what that has to do with me.” He looks at me for the first time. “I’m relieved to see you unharmed, Mr. Brown.”
“I’m sure your heart’s aflutter,” I say. He smiles. I’m glad I was able to amuse him.
“Mr. Cogswell, I know you’re aware that Mr. Brown is writing a story on the murder of Lana Strain.”
He nods while chewing another piece of pizza, unwilling to speak with his mouth full. He’s careful to lean over his plate with every bite and to chew with his mouth closed. My grandmother would have loved this guy.
“So I’m sure you understand,” she continues, “why we’re checking alibis on everyone involved in that case, especially those who knew of Mr. Brown’s inquiries, such as yourself.”
“And your two palookas,” I add.
He turns those blue crystals toward me and allows another hint of amusement to curl his lips.
“You have such a way with words, Mr. Brown. No wonder you’re…how did you put it? Hardly a writer?”
“I believe I said ‘barely.’”
He ignores the correction and turns back to Gloria. “I wouldn’t normally dignify this imposition with an answer, but to minimize the impact of this intrusion on my goddaughter’s party, I’m going to make an exception. The fact is, Petya, Isaak, and I were all here last night, blowing up balloons, putting up streamers, assembling party favor bags, and making banners for this celebration.”
The image of egg-shaped Cogswell or either of the whale-sized Ugly Twins trying to haul their oversized butts up on these spindly chairs to hang streamers just doesn’t ring true. But the story came to him so easily and with such confidence that I know they already contrived to back each other up, so there is going to be no cracking of alibis here.
Besides, the speed with which the arsonist took off down the hill and the minimal trampling of the landscaping makes it hard for me to believe any of these three did it. The fact that they have a ready alibi implies that they were up to something unsavory last night, but I suspect it had nothing to do with my bonfire. That’s not to say that Cogswell couldn’t have sent someone else out to do the deed, but we aren’t about to find that out by asking him. I guess Gloria comes to the same conclusion, because she stands up and gestures for me to follow.