“I’m his daughter.” The suspicion had subsided from her voice. “He’s out in his rose garden. Hold on a few minutes. He doesn’t have a cordless phone.”
I waited, wondering if the daughter lived with the father because he could no longer take care of himself. Was he under some umbrella surrounded by a few rose bushes, hardly able to remember his own name let alone a fellow officer from close to fifty years ago?
I heard the phone receiver scrape across a hard surface.
“A chief warrant officer? What the hell? Did I steal something from the PX?” The gravelly voice held a hint of mischief.
“Is this Chuck McNulty?”
“Last time I checked my wallet.”
“I’m Sam Blackman, Mr. McNulty. I was a chief warrant officer, and now I’m a private detective in Asheville. I’m hoping you might be able to help me. I’m helping a friend whose uncle disappeared in 1971. His remains were just uncovered last week.”
“I read something about that. How does that concern me?”
“The man was Frank DeMille. His brother-in-law was Eddie Gilmore.”
“Eddie?” The name came out as a whisper. “How did you get my name?”
“I still have ties inside the military. I was told you served with Eddie. I assume you were intelligence officers from the lack of information available.”
“But what’s Eddie have to do with any of this?”
“Eddie died shortly after Frank DeMille disappeared. Eddie might have been trying to help his brother-in-law in some way. Eddie’s widow is still alive. She lost both a brother and a husband and doesn’t know how or why. I’m trying to help her. I’m also trying to help her niece who lost two uncles.”
McNulty was silent except for the rhythmic sound of breathing.
“All I want is a conversation,” I urged. “Nothing may come of it, but at least I’ll have pursued every avenue.”
“This Frank DeMille, you say he disappeared around the time of Eddie’s death?”
“Yes. A few months before.”
“And he was murdered?”
“No doubt about it.”
“That’s very interesting,” McNulty said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because Eddie Gilmore was also murdered.”
That revelation solidified the need to talk in person. I told McNulty I could come tomorrow if he was available. The drive to Charlotte was a little over two hours, and I offered to pick him up for lunch. We agreed on eleven thirty, and he would choose a place he liked as long as it offered enough privacy. I gave him my cell phone number in case he needed to reach me.
Nakayla and Blue had returned while I was talking to McNulty. I walked into her office where she was reading a page from a website.
She swiveled in her chair to face me. “Sounds like you’re set for tomorrow with McNulty.”
“Yes. He told me Eddie Gilmore was murdered.”
Nakayla’s eyebrows arched. “Really? Did he say who or why?”
“No. I didn’t ask. I wanted to save those questions for our face-to-face.” I looked past her to her screen. There was a picture of a sprawling building and the text headline, “History of NOAA’s National Climate Data Center.” I leaned in for a closer look. “What are you working on?”
“I’m learning about the National Centers for Environmental Information or NCEI as it’s known.”
“Is it in Asheville?”
“Yes. It’s part of NOAA, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. The government never met an acronym it didn’t like. Asheville houses the largest collection of weather data in the country. Back in 1951, the federal government moved all weather records here. We’re talking about archives of the U.S. Weather Bureau, Air Force, and Navy. Now it archives weather data from all over the world, and it’s housed in the Federal Building.”
“Along with the FBI,” I added.
“Yes, but Asheville’s not the heart of the FBI. However, it is the heart of this country’s weather records. I imagine the whole global warming debate has made those records even more critical.” She turned back to the screen. “Some quick statistics. In 2014, the NCEI’s website had more than one billion hits for information. NCEI stores over 17 petabytes of information, 35 petabytes counting the backup data.”
“How much is a petabyte?”
“We’ll have to look it up, but they say if 17 petabytes of weather information were an HD video, it would play for 230 years before repeating.”
“That would keep Netflix busy.”
Nakayla elbowed me in the stomach. “I’m serious. It’s a big deal that most people here don’t even know about.”
“And this is important to us how?”
“You remember Janet said Theo Brecht had a full-time job in addition to his project work for PARI?”
“Yes.”
Nakayla tapped her computer screen. “This is it. I found a reference to Brecht as one of the chief computer scientists overseeing the NCEI computer systems. From the space age to the information age, he’s had quite a career.”
“Did you phone him for an appointment?”
“No. You have the number Janet gave you. Can you call and arrange a meeting? Maybe late tomorrow afternoon if you think you’ll be back from Charlotte in time.”
I fished the number out of my pocket. “All right. I’ll see if he wants to meet for a drink after work.”
The call went to voicemail. I left my name and the brief message that we were helping Frank DeMille’s family try to learn what happened. I said that Joseph Gordowski suggested we speak with him.
“You ready to call it a day?” I asked Nakayla. “I don’t know about you, but I’m up for a drink.”
She nodded toward Blue, who lay at her feet. “Our assistant has had a long day alone. Why don’t we pick up a bottle of wine and I’ll make pasta at my place? I’ll keep Blue tonight if you’re leaving early in the morning.”
“Or we might check if I have a change of clothes in your bedroom closet. Then I won’t have a long night alone trying to get to sleep.”
Nakayla laughed. “I’ve got the remedy for that.”
“I was hoping you would.”
“Count petabytes.”
* * *
Nakayla’s bungalow in West Asheville was compact—two bedrooms, a kitchen, a dining room, and a front living room. She’d converted the smaller bedroom into a home office, and while she prepared pasta and salad, I took a glass of pinot grigio to her desk.
I logged onto her laptop to search for how many bytes I’d have to count to reach a petabyte. A one followed by fifteen zeroes. Was that a quadrillion? No matter. I’d be long dead before counting to a measly trillion.
“Ten-minute warning!” Nakayla yelled the alert so that I wouldn’t take Blue out for a walk or wait until the last minute to wash up.
I used the time to look for the weather data Nakayla had found at the office earlier. That information had primarily been the history of how Asheville’s weather data prominence came into being. I followed links to a webpage about NOAA, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, and learned that the original name for Asheville’s data collection had been the National Climate Data Center. In recent years, it had been merged into NCEI along with the National Geophysical Data Center and the National Oceanic Data Center. As the webpage expressed it, “From the depths of the ocean to the surface of the sun and from million-year-old ice core records to near real-time satellite images, NCEI is the Nation’s leading authority for environmental information.”
Nakayla was right. It was a big deal. All that comprehensive information linked together in an organization headquartered in little old Asheville, North Carolina. Well, our current heat wave would be one for their record books.
I read further regarding the NCEI’s mission and explored other ar
eas of the website, discovering I could access weather data from global to local, although some fees might apply, which only made sense as a way to help offset the cost of maintaining and expanding such a trove of information.
I also saw how important the computer programs would be for providing safe, secure access to the data. It would be the kind of project where those pioneering Apollo computer scientists like Brecht and Gordowski could still make contributions.
Nakayla stuck her head through the doorway. “Wake up. Dinner’s on the table.”
I exited the website and stood. “I’ll have you know I’ve been working on our investigation.”
“Solved it?”
“No. But if you need an ice core reading from twelve thousand years ago, I can get it for you.”
“Good to know if we ever get a really cold case.”
Dinner proved to be a success as Nakayla surprised me by adding boiled shrimp to the pasta.
Seated in the living room, we finished the bottle of wine, and then I helped Nakayla clean the dishes. When the last plate and pot had been shelved, I asked the important question.
“Are you really going to make me count petabytes tonight?”
“What would you rather count?”
“I was hoping I could count on you. You know you can count on me.”
“Then I can count on you to take Blue out for his final pee.”
“And then?”
She stepped forward and stroked my cheek with the back of her hand. “Then come to bed and leave Blue on the other side of the door.”
It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to understand her meaning. We’d decided Blue’s name in Latin should be Amorous Interruptus. Nothing like having an intimate encounter destroyed by a playful, seventy-five-pound coonhound jumping in your bed. It only took once to establish our closed door policy.
I drifted off to the Land of Nod without counting a single byte.
A howl penetrated the depths of my sleep, rudely pulling me into the world of the conscious. There were more howls, frantic and punctuated with pounding on the bedroom door as Blue flung himself against it.
I sat up as Nakayla stirred beside me. “What’s wrong with Blue?” she asked.
Before I could say that I didn’t know, a rushing noise sounded from outside, and the bedroom window flashed yellow with flames.
“Someone’s setting fire to the house,” I yelled. “Grab a robe and open the door. I need my leg.”
My prosthesis lay on the floor by my side of the bed.
“There’s no time,” Nakayla shouted. “Lean on me.”
I scooped up the leg as Nakayla ran to me in her nightgown. I wrapped my left arm around her shoulder, and we hobbled out of the bedroom. Blue was running in tight circles, his howls transformed into excited barks. Smoke poured into the house, and the flames appeared to be blazing at every window.
“Drop down,” I said. “There’s less smoke near the floor.”
Nakayla let go of me, and we crawled through the kitchen to the back door. Flames were visible through the two panes in the upper half, but I hoped if we could open it, we could rush through into the safety of the backyard. I reached for the deadbolt. The brass was hot to the touch. I threw it and then grabbed the knob. Pain flooded my palm and fingers, but I turned it and pulled the door inward. The fire came with it, licking at the exterior panels and bringing the searing heat inside. The narrow back porch burned, but the steps to the backyard were relatively clear. The thought flashed through my mind that someone had thrown gasoline against the side of the house. The nearly instantaneous eruption of flames meant it wasn’t kerosene or heating oil, which burn much slower. And gasoline’s faster evaporation meant I could smell it.
“Can you jump across the porch to the back steps?” I asked.
“Yes, but what about you?”
“I’ll be fine. Get out, and Blue and I will be behind you.” I eased away from the burning door.
Nakayla stepped back about eight feet into the kitchen and then ran like a sprinter leaping from the starting blocks. She soared over the flames and landed beyond the steps, rolling across the grass in case her nightgown had caught fire.
I was left in the burning house in my boxer shorts with Blue and my prosthesis. I tossed the artificial limb through the burning doorway. Nakayla called Blue. He whined and shied away from the flames. I would have to spring across, pushing off on one leg, but there was no guarantee Blue would follow. I didn’t think I could pick him up and throw him into the yard.
The smoke thickened, and I started coughing. Nakayla now yelled my name, urging me to get out. I looked back at Blue and then beyond him into the kitchen. My eyes went to the rug stretched beneath the sink. It was an inexpensive runner meant to provide a softer surface than the hardwood floor. Crawling on hands and knees, I moved to it, grabbed a corner, and dragged it to the door. I tossed the narrow side through, holding on to the bottom edge so that the rug lay across the threshold and onto the porch. The flames beneath were smothered.
“Come on, Blue. Let’s go.” I grabbed his collar and yanked him behind me as I crawled across the makeshift bridge. My eyes stung from the heat and smoke. I tumbled down the steps, and Blue broke free.
“Keep moving.” Nakayla clutched my upper arm and pulled me farther from the house.
Sirens screamed above the crackle of burning wood. Nakayla sat on the ground beside me and tucked my head against her neck. Her skin was hot. Her tears falling on my face were cool.
Blue licked the exposed end of my amputated leg. Then he sat on his haunches and howled, adding his mournful wail to the sirens piercing the night.
Chapter 14
Nakayla and I stood on the sidewalk, staring at the smoldering skeleton that three hours earlier had been her home. We were joined by Hewitt, Cory, and Shirley, who had rushed to the scene when Nakayla called from a neighbor’s phone.
Cory brought clothes for Nakayla, Shirley brought biscuits for Blue, and Hewitt brought me an oversized bathrobe. I looked like my head was sticking out of the top of a red tepee. Neighbors offered coffee, condolences, and their homes as refuge from our horrifying experience.
It was seven in the morning. I’d attached my prosthesis but without the cushioning sleeve that kept the device from rubbing directly against the bare skin of my stump. My leg hurt, my burned hand hurt, but both paled in comparison to my seething anger.
Fire trucks and police vehicles were still present, and investigators meticulously searched for signs of arson. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the fire had been deliberately set. The two questions I wanted answered were who and why.
An unmarked police car navigated through the street crowded with vehicles and bystanders. It parked in a driveway a few houses away. Detectives Newland and Efird emerged and hurried to us. The shock and concern on their faces preceded their words.
“Are you all right?” Newly asked.
“What happened to your hand, Sam?” Efird stared at the bandage wrapped around my left palm.
“We got torched,” I said. “Gasoline on doors and windows. We made it out the back. The doorknob was hot enough to blister my skin.”
Newly took a deep breath. “My God, that’s more than arson. It’s attempted murder.”
“The arson investigators have already spoken to us, and they’re starting to sort through the areas that have cooled. Nakayla’s lost everything. What the fire didn’t destroy, the water from the fire hoses did.”
“We’ll take this on,” Efird said. “The arson task force has its job, but we’ll expect their full cooperation.” He turned to Nakayla. “Any ideas who might have done this?”
“No. We’re working the Frank DeMille case, but we’re not close to any accusations. At this stage, we’re just gathering information through a few interviews.”
“And Loretta Johnson?” Newly ask
ed.
“Nothing,” I said. “You made it clear we’re not to get involved.”
Efird and Newly looked at each other, but under the circumstances, they weren’t going to challenge what they clearly didn’t believe.
“Who have you interviewed?” Newly asked.
“Joseph Gordowski,” I said. “He’s a computer scientist who worked with Frank and is still involved with PARI. And Loretta, of course. We want to talk with Loretta’s ex-husband, Randall Johnson, and Theo Brecht who worked with both Frank and Gordowski.” I remembered I’d also set up a meeting with Chuck McNulty, but given the military’s guarded reaction, I kept that to myself. And I realized I had to contact McNulty and reschedule.
Newly pulled a notepad from his pocket. “Give me those names again. We have to start somewhere.”
I repeated the names and told Newly the contact information was at the office. I had no cell phone and no keys, but I would get the information to them as soon as I could. Fortunately, Nakayla and I had parked on the street, so our cars weren’t destroyed.
“What do you need?” Newly asked Nakayla. “I can generate a police report to get your insurance rolling.”
“Thanks. Since I worked as an insurance investigator before joining Sam, I still have contacts, and I’ve already been in touch with them. I expect someone will be here shortly. Then I’ll need to get a new phone and buy some clothes.”
Hewitt had been quietly listening on the periphery. “Sam, we’ve got that key to your office you gave us to take Blue in and out. We’ll let you in so Newly and Tuck can have that contact information.”
“OK. I’ll break away from here as soon as I can.”
“Don’t wait for my benefit,” Nakayla urged. “I’ll deal with the insurance people and get a replacement phone. Then I’ll call you at the office.”
Newly put his hand on her shoulder in a fatherly gesture. “Well, if there’s anything we can do, don’t hesitate to ask. Now we’d better check in with the fire marshal’s crew and make it clear we’re involved.”
I started for my car when I realized I also had no keys to the CR-V.
Murder in Rat Alley Page 11