Incendiary Designs
A Caleb & Thinnes Mystery
Michael Allen Dymmoch
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1998 by Michael Allen Dymmoch
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition January 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62681-517-9
Also by Michael Allen Dymmoch
The Fall
M.I.A.
Caleb & Thinnes Mysteries
The Man Who Understood Cats
The Death of Blue Mountain Cat
The Feline Friendship
White Tiger
For Craig Luttig, Miriam Morgan Schneider, and Phil Sparber
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to thank the following for answers to various technical questions or for general information on topics of which the author was ignorant: Commanders Hugh Holton and William Guswiler; Neighborhood Relations Officers Angelo Falbo, Sheila O’Keefe, and Sergeant Looney; Bomb and Arson Sergeant Irene Jones; Detective Jack Stewart, and “Pat” (News Affairs) of the Chicago Police Department; Tom Novara, Shadows and Light Photography, Milwaukee, Wisconsin; Carol Fitzsimmons, M.S.W., A.C.S.W.; pharmacist Luci Zahray; Joseph Grandt; Craig Luttig; and James G. Schaefer. I have taken liberties with the information given me. Any errors are my own.
Thanks also to my editor Ruth Cavin and her staff, and to cover artists Alexander Barsky and Alan Dingman of St. Martin’s Press; my agent, Ray Powers; independent editor, Yohma Gray; the reference librarians at the Northbrook Public Library, Northbrook, Illinois; Judy Duhl and her staff at Scotland Yard Books, Winnetka, Illinois; Janis Irvine and her staff at The Book Bin, Northbrook, Illinois; Nancy, Teresita, and Soon Ja at the U.S. Post Office, Northbrook, Illinois; and the Red Herrings of Scotland Yard Books. All of you helped me bring Thinnes and Caleb to life.
—mad
One
At dawn the street lights still glowed orange over Lincoln Park. The air was warm for March—midforties—but ghostly mist hung in the art-deco canopy of fat-budded treetops. And moisture-laden air, too ill defined for fog, condensed in the foreground. In the distance, fog obscured Cannon Drive as it made its way between leafless crabapples and witchy, skeletal sycamores. The fog hid Diversey Harbor and the lake to the east, and Clark Street, west of the park. Caleb felt he had the planet to himself and he decided to run as far as Diversey before heading back.
Just north of Fullerton, screened from the view of nearby high-rises by the mist and a brick Park District building, half a dozen people were gathered in the parking lot west of Cannon. They were dressed in white robes, like graduation gowns, but their collective body language suggested a clan rally rather than a chorus. They were chanting something unintelligible. White witches or satanic cult? The group was suddenly too interesting to ignore.
Caleb slowed. As he got nearer, individuals in the group shifted position so as to keep facing him, paying him far more attention than a lone runner warranted. They didn’t speak, but their stares gave the same message gang members broadcast on their home turf—stop at your peril. As he came even with them, he smelled gasoline. Then through an inadvertent crack in the human wall he glimpsed the silhouette, then the familiar blue and white of a police car. And with a jolt like an electric shock, he realized that a man in the back of the group was emptying a gas can on the car’s roof. Where were the cops?
One of the group suddenly slammed the top of the squad car with a head-size rock. Two other men and a woman jumped on the bumpers, rocking the car. A fourth man sloshed more gas over the roof. With a rush of adrenaline, Caleb realized there was someone in the car. He rushed forward and crashed between the people, blocking the hands that reached for him. The word No! filled his mind as he grabbed the gas can and flung it as far across Cannon as he could.
The man he’d taken it from snarled something. Caleb ignored him until he realized that the man had matches. Others in the group shoved Caleb. The woman screamed, “Blasphemer!” Someone else yelled, “Stop him!” They began to chant again: “Fire! Fire! Fire, next time!”
Focusing on the match-holder, Caleb grabbed for the matches. The man tried to put his body between Caleb and the lights, but Caleb reached around, wrapping him in a great bear hug, and took them. The man twisted away and screamed at his confederates for a light. Caleb dropped the matches. As he kicked them under the car, he noticed gasoline dribbling from the fuel tank, pooling on the pavement. He looked at the man in the car, a police officer. Caleb had an instantaneous impression of his face, eyes focused and widened. He had seen the look before—in Nam—the transformation of resigned despair to forlorn hope, hope he didn’t dare believe…
Caleb tried the door—locked. The gas fumes were nauseating. The mini-mob pressed forward with its mind-numbing chant. He whirled to face it. “Get back!” The authority in his voice surprised even him and made members of the group hesitate. The chant faltered. He took a step forward. “Back!” His size—six-two—and sudden proximity, more than the command, forced them to retreat slightly, like a wave that would reform and return. He heard a woman cry, “I have a lighter!” The chanting resumed.
“Fire! Fire! Fire next time!”
He needed something to break the window with. There was a rock sitting in a dent in the car hood. As he grasped it, he tried to spot the lighter and saw a woman hand it to the fire-starter. Caleb smashed the rock against the passenger-side front window. Glass crazed, and tiny glass cubes scattered. Gasoline fumes wafted outward. The chanting died. Caleb dropped the rock and lunged at the fire-starter, slapping the lighter from his hand. A growl rumbled from the mob; the fire-starter parted it in search of his lighter.
Caleb turned back to the car and reached through the jagged hole to unlock the door. He jerked it open and thought, Thank God! when the small clunk of the electric lock told him the battery was still alive. A wave of fear washed over him as he remembered that the slightest spark could ignite the gas.
Appearing semiconscious, the police officer lay across the center of the back seat with his arms pinioned behind him. Caleb yanked the rear door open and was aware of odors: fear and gasoline. He snarled another “Get Back!” at the group and reached in to grab the cop’s shirt and drag him across the seat. The man’s face was white with shock or fear, and Caleb noticed that his uniform was wet, his skin clammy with gasoline. Caleb was electrified by sudden rage, then nauseated. Simultaneously, he noticed the little mob advancing, and the absence of the officer’s gun belt. Where was the gun?
By the time he got the cop out of the car, the fire-starter had retrieved his lighter, and Caleb had to decide—run or grab for it again? The lunatics moved closer. The rasp of the lighter decided it. Caleb squatted, put a shoulder to the cop’s waist and stood back up running, pushing off in the direction of the nearest cover.
The group was scattering now. There was a whoosh as the gas fumes ignited. Caleb felt the flash, the sudden heat on his legs and arms and through his thinning hair. The unconscious cop shielded him from further damage as they were propelled forward by adrenaline and the fireball. Caleb dropped, rolling the injured officer beneath him as a reflex, a flashback from
the war. He kept moving, dragging the downed cop, until they reached the building and rounded the corner. The cop’s hands were still pinned behind him, handcuffed. Caleb ripped the gasoline-soaked shirt off him and was flinging it away when the squad car’s gas tank blew with a roar like a bomb blast. The shirt burst into flame as it arced back toward the car. The crackle of flames was answered by the small patter and clatter of falling debris.
The injured man seemed to regain his focus, to realize his danger; then he passed out. A distant siren cried and was answered by a kindred chorus. Caleb put his face against the officer’s chest and wept.
Two
The vague threat in Thinnes’s dream mutated. As he fought his way to wakefulness, the Klaxon softened to a phone ringing. He pushed up on the bed and stretched to reach for it. As he lifted the receiver, the orange cat curled between his feet and his wife’s, jumped down and streaked away. He looked at the clock. Six-thirty A.M. was too early even for a weekday. And it was Sunday. Nobody should be calling him today. He put the receiver to his face and said, “Yeah?”
The voice that answered was deep and unruffled. “Thinnes, I need you.” Evanger!
“Sunday,” Thinnes said, not wanting to move or talk or even think. “My day off.”
“There’s been an incident down on Cannon Drive, and I need someone I can trust to deal with it.”
He meant someone he knew wouldn’t talk to the press. “What kind of incident?” Thinnes was coming awake in spite of himself. Damn Evanger!
“Damned if I know. Some nuts tried to set a patrol car on fire—with an officer inside. And his partner’s missing.”
Shit! “Officer needs assistance” wasn’t a call any cop could ignore. “Twenty minutes,” Thinnes said.
“Fifteen. A car’s on its way.”
Thinnes grunted and hung up. Next to him, Rhonda stirred and asked, sleepily, “What is it, John?” She lay curled with her back toward him and didn’t open her eyes.
“Overtime,” Thinnes told her. He shifted around and kissed the nape of her neck, all that was exposed to the relative chill of the room. “Go back to sleep.”
She rolled on her back, still without opening her eyes, and smiled. Her “hmmmm…” trailed away as she slipped back into sleep.
Thinnes carefully slid from under the covers and off the edge of the bed. He stood for a moment, looking down at her, fighting his desire to stay. This wasn’t how he’d planned to spend his morning. Damn Evanger!
Twenty minutes later he opened the closet door at the foot of the stairs and reached his star and holstered .38 down from the top shelf. Toby, his son’s yellow Labrador retriever, sat expectantly on the mat in front of the outside door. “No time this morning, pal,” Thinnes told him. “Get Rob to take you out.” He put on his jacket and raincoat, and pointed, with his thumb, into the family room at his right. “Go lay down.”
The dog obediently retreated and lay with his head on his paws just inside the doorway. He gave Thinnes the soulful look dogs use and thumped the floor with his tail.
“Sorry, bub,” Thinnes said. “I’ve been hustled by better cons than you. Why don’t you try that on Rob?” The dog sat up and cocked his head. Thinnes pointed up the stairs. “Go find Rob.”
The dog bounded past him. Thinnes went to the door and unlocked it. Toby stopped halfway up, looking expectant. Thinnes shook his head and let himself out.
The car that was waiting at the curb in front of the house was pointing against the traffic, but since it was obviously an unmarked police car, nobody was going to hassle the driver about it. Thinnes locked the dead bolt on his front door and walked out to the car. He opened the driver-side door and told the man at the wheel, “I’ll drive.”
The driver started to protest, then shrugged and got out. He was young, an inch taller than Thinnes—six-one—Hispanic, not a detective, a tactical officer dressed in street clothes. Thinnes had met him before but he couldn’t put a name to the face. Thinnes got behind the wheel. On the seat, there was a McDonald’s tray with two large coffees. Getting in, the tac cop picked one up and offered it to Thinnes.
Thinnes said, “What’s this?”
“Your boss said not to talk to you ’til you had at least twelve ounces of coffee under your belt.”
Thinnes grunted, popped the lid, and took a trial sip. It had the right amount of cream and sugar and was nearly cool enough to drink in spite of the hot warnings on the cup. He slugged down half the contents, put the cup back in the tray, and pulled away from the curb. They got as far as Lincoln Avenue before either of them spoke.
Thinnes heard the tac cop mutter, “Nice,” as he outmaneuvered a Lexus driver trying to cut him off. He grunted. After a short pause, during which he negotiated a tight turn and passed an indecisive motorist, he said, “Give me the story on this ‘incident’ we’re going to. They find the missing cop yet?”
“Arlette Banks. No. I didn’t get much of the story. My sergeant told me to report to Lieutenant Evanger, and he told me to get coffee and pick you up.”
Thinnes nodded. Neither of them spoke until he turned the car onto Diversey Parkway.
“How’s the dog working out?” the tac officer ventured.
“How?…” Then Thinnes remembered where they’d met before: a death investigation, fifteen months ago. Name was Azul, Jaime Azul.
“You still got it?” Azul persisted.
“Yeah.”
“Figured you for that kind of sucker when you paid Noir to clean the mutt up.”
Noir was Azul’s partner. They’d been patrol officers in Twenty when Thinnes met them. It wasn’t surprising they’d made tactical by now.
“You still with Noir?”
“Sure,” Azul said. “But he’s out with a broken ankle, so I’m baching it temporarily.”
“How’d he break it?” Thinnes was happy to have the subject off the dog. “Hotdogging?”
“Sort of. Trying to impress a girl on a ski hill.”
Thinnes shook his head and they rode in silence ’til they turned onto Cannon Drive.
The first officers on the scene had responded with dispatch. They’d assisted the victims, cordoned off the scene, and taken a preliminary statement from the only individual capable of giving one. “They only took the statement,” their sergeant told Thinnes. “They didn’t try to make sense of it.”
Thinnes looked around. Cannon Drive was ablaze with red, white, and blue flashing lights from fire trucks and squad cars. Yellow police-line tape surrounded the smoking hulk of the incinerated squad car, and harried uniforms battled rubberneckers to keep traffic moving past the scene. “They find Banks yet?”
The sergeant shook his head. “Every cop in town’s looking.”
“How’s her partner?”
“Nolan,” the sergeant said. “The medics thought he’ll probably make it, but he’s in bad shape. He was beat up pretty good and soaked with gas. That’s a fact. And, according to our witness, he was almost torched, then bounced around during the rescue attempt. They took him to Illinois Masonic.”
The nearest trauma center. Thinnes ground his teeth. St. Joe’s was less than a block away, but it wasn’t set up for serious emergencies. “You don’t sound too confident in this witness,” he said. “What’s his story?”
“Claims he was jogging up Cannon Drive. When he gets near Fullerton, he hears chanting—couldn’t understand it, but what the hell, this is the city, so he doesn’t worry about it. When he crosses Fullerton, he spots a bunch of kooks dressed in white robes—like choir robes, he said—gathered in the parking lot by the Park District building.” The sergeant pointed to the brick building next to the smoking remains.
“Was this a Klan rally of some kind?”
“Guy said no, no hoods, no crosses or flags.”
“Go on.”
“His story is these nuts stop chanting when they spot him, and he notices they’re acting peculiar, so he slows down for a look. Claims he smelled gas, then saw one of these nutcases pour
ing gas on the patrol car. Then he spots Nolan. Claims he saw red and didn’t even think about how stupid it was to butt in. He shoves through the crowd and drags Nolan outta the car, then runs like hell. Makes it to about a yard from the corner of the building when one of the nuts torches the car. He and Nolan fall or get pushed over by the blast and roll the rest of the way behind the building. And a second or two later, the gas tank blows.”
“What about the offenders?”
“Claimed they scattered when the arsonist started flicking his Bic.”
“Any evidence to corroborate?”
The sergeant shrugged again. “Mobil unit’s going over the scene. There’s footwear impressions and some trampled grass—what didn’t burn up. But this is a public park, so it’s anybody’s guess.”
“Where’s the witness?”
“They transported him with Nolan.”
“What kind of shape’s he in?”
Another shrug. “Bruises and contusions, a few shrapnel cuts, few first- and second-degree burns.”
“Mentally?”
“He wasn’t an obvious psycho. Didn’t seem drunk. No clear signs of drug use. Put it this way. Either he torched the car himself in which case he’s a major nut case, or he’s a genuine hero and the luckiest son of a bitch in the city.”
“You got any feeling about which?”
The sergeant shook his head. “You’re the detective. I’ll leave it up to you. You need anything else?”
“The witness’s name.”
“Caleb. James A. Caleb.”
“No shit!”
“You know ’im?”
“Big guy, early forties, thinning hair?”
“That’s him.”
“You’d better put out a flash on a bunch of pyromaniacs in white robes.”
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