by JL Wilson
"...see her and talk with her this weekend," Michael said as we paused next to my driver's side door.
"I'm sorry, Michael. What?" I fumbled with the opener fob, which was often recalcitrant after three years of use. I finally heard the welcoming chirp of the locks undoing themselves.
"I said you'll see your aunt this week. You and she can talk about this investigation. I wonder if the FBI will want to talk to her."
"Why would they?" I slid into the car, dropping the folder on the passenger seat and slinging my purse into the passenger foot well. I started to close the door, but couldn't with Michael leaning on it.
"She was one of the last people to talk to John before he died." Michael regarded me, his gaze speculative. "I'm sure the FBI will want to know why they were talking."
"That's not surprising, though," I pointed out. "Portia was John's aunt, too, remember?"
Michael pulled away, almost hitting his head on my door frame. "What?"
"Don't you remember? Uncle Leland was related to John's mother. That's how I met John. We were both at a family party, years ago."
"I forgot that." Michael's forehead wrinkled with a thoughtful frown. Then he seemed to shake himself from his surprise and bent over, brushing a kiss against my cheek. "Call me after you talk to the FBI agent, will you? I'd like to be kept in the loop." He straightened and regarded me, his clear blue eyes direct and unwavering. "You know I care what happens to you, Genny."
I resisted the urge to grab the door and drag it shut. What the hell was I supposed to say to that? Gee, thanks, but I don't care about you? He must have seen my indecision because for an instant his eyes cooled. "I'll talk to you later," I muttered as I pulled the door closed.
He hurried toward his dark gray BMW convertible on the far side of the lot, well away from potential dings and the mundane minivans, trucks, and sedans that surrounded me. Michael's thick blond hair was curling in the humidity, giving him a youthful, jaunty appearance. He clicked his key fob and his car blinked at him. Michael jerked open his driver's door, pausing to stare back at me. I waved half-heartedly and he smiled but not before I saw his initial frown.
My stomach knotted with anger. What did he expect from me? I hadn't particularly cared for him when he came around as one of John's friends and the two years since John died didn't change that. I still thought Michael was arrogant, conceited, and shallow.
Laughter broke out behind me. I looked in the rear view mirror as several children left the library, giggling while they dodged the raindrops. John stood near the door, his eyes focused to the side, where Michael's car sat. His gaze swung to me and he raised a hand. "Do you believe in evil, Gem?" It sounded like he was sitting on the seat next to me, his voice clear as though shouting children, rain, and a row of cars wasn't obstructing him.
I twisted in my seat to stare past the children piling into a minivan. "I don't know," I stammered. I felt like I was in a tunnel, dark walls surrounding me with John the only illumination a foot or two from me, not forty feet away and partially obscured by rain and cars and people.
John watched as Michael drove out of the parking lot, taking the far exit to avoid the other cars. "Believe," he whispered.
*****
Once again, I drove on autopilot, my brain whirring with accusations, innuendo, and questions. I couldn't believe I was actually considering that 1) I was seeing a ghost and 2) I was listening to what he was telling me. I drove a few blocks and added number 3 to my list: not only was I listening, I half believed what the ghost said.
I made the left turn onto my dead end street and groaned aloud when I saw a dark green pickup truck sitting at the curb under the branches of my maple tree. I drove past it and into the driveway. I considered closing the garage door behind me but Dan was too fast for me. By the time I was inside he stood behind my SUV in that magical little beam of light from my electric garage door opener. Even if I wanted to close it, I couldn't.
I was in no mood to spar with Dan Steele and he could see it in my face. "I didn't ask the FBI to investigate your husband," he said the minute I emerged from my car.
"What did you ask them to investigate?" I dragged my purse behind me but it got snagged on the gear knob. By the time I untangled it, Dan was standing at the steps leading into my house. "I didn't ask you to come here," I said in what I hoped was a frosty voice. He watched me silently as I brushed past him, going up the three narrow stairs. I looked down at him. "I'm not asking you inside."
His lips twitched. "You make me sound like a vampire. You don't have to be afraid of inviting me into your home."
I paused, my hand on the knob to my screen door. "I don't know you. I'm not inviting a stranger into my house."
"Will you invite the FBI into your home?"
I whirled as a man approached from the direction of Dan's truck. He had black hair parted on one side that was liberally streaked with gray, a long, rectangular face, and a stern, almost grim gaze under his straight dark eyebrows. His black jeans, black T-shirt, and pale gray sports coat made him appear very tall and muscular. As he got nearer, I saw it wasn't an illusion. The man was tall, dark, and handsome and as muscular as Dan.
"Who are you?" I demanded. He held up a badge, similar to the ones I've seen on TV shows. I stuck my hand over the black metal railing of my garage steps. He put the leather case into my palm. I peered at the identification card. Jack Tinsley, Special Agent, FBI, and other mumbo-jumbo in small print. I looked from the picture to him then back again. Yep. It was him. Business cards were tucked into a small slot near the badge and I extracted one and pocketed it.
"You want to talk to me now?" I knew what my living room looked like. The Sunday newspaper was on the hassock waiting to be recycled and the coffee table was littered with coupons waiting to be clipped and a half-finished crossword puzzle waiting to be completed. I shook my head. What did I care what the FBI thought of my house? "I'm sorry. I'm busy."
"Really?" His tone of voice was neutral but there was a ton of disbelief in that one word.
I sighed and closed the leather holder. "Come in." I handed him the badge and went inside, not checking behind me to see if they were following. Blessed air conditioning surrounded me as I entered, making the humid air clinging to my skin evaporate with one delicious shiver. I sniffed. There was a faint smell of almost-burnt popcorn in the air from last night's dinner. Oh well.
I dropped my purse and the file folder on the bench inside my tiny foyer/mud room then walked through the kitchen and into the living room. I didn't pause until I got to my worn green plaid chair on the far side of the room near the windows that overlooked the back yard, where I turned to regard both men.
Dan looked around the room, eyeing Mr. Grumble who was stretched out on the back of the matching armchair like a gray-and-black striped living afghan. Grumble eyed him in return, yawning and flexing his claws before settling back into dreamland.
"Have a seat," I said, flopping into my favorite recliner.
Tinsley sat on the edge of the couch on my right and after a brief hesitation Dan sat in Grumble's chair on my left, letting his cane slide to the wooden floor near the chair arm. He picked up the Sunday crossword puzzle from the oak coffee table and regarded it curiously.
"I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, Mrs. Carlson," Tinsley said.
I leveled a glare at him and Dan. "I didn't have much choice."
"Good job," Dan said, looking up from the newspaper. "Fifty-four down is hoyden."
I ignored him, which was difficult. I should have known hoyden. How did he figure it out so quickly? "Why is the FBI investigating the fire that killed my husband?"
"And killed my wife," Dan said quietly. Grumble snuffled at his neck. Dan peered over his shoulder, then raised his hand and patted my cat, who settled back into a kitty coma with a satisfied purr. My wariness about Dan Steele began to soften some. I've always felt that anyone who trusts animals is a person to be trusted. And, of course, the opposite was true.
Michael disliked pets and the few times he came to our house, he fastidiously ignored Grumble, choosing Grumble-free chairs and shooing my cat away when Grumble made overtures of curiosity or friendship. That thought flashed into and out of my brain in the time it took to articulate it.
"Why are you investigating?" I asked again. "The fire was thoroughly investigated when it happened. No one found..." My voice faded when I met Tinsley's unflinching stare. The man was like a mechanical human, with fierce blue eyes that made me feel as though lasers were probing, seeking, poking into my mind. He reminded me of a robot toy I had as a child. I would wind it up and it jerked around, small flashes of light emitting from its immobile face mask.
"Before we go any further, I need your assurance that anything said here will be kept in confidence." He pulled a paper from an inner coat pocket and held it toward me.
I took it. "What do you mean, in confidence? If it affects the investigation and I need to talk to Paul or someone then I will." I saw his eyes shift from me to the paper in my hand. I unfolded the page and read.
Any information exchanged between myself and the law enforcement personnel involved in this investigation is considered confidential and will not be shared in any way with any other person, regardless of the position that person may occupy in my personal or professional life. I will not discuss this agreement with anyone nor will I allude to it in any way when I discuss this case with others. I understand that this is an active police investigation and if I violate this confidentiality agreement, I may be subject to civil or criminal penalties as determined by the United States District Attorney in cooperation with law enforcement personnel.
There was a line at the bottom with Signature in small print underneath it. "You're kidding. I'm not going to sign this. What if you tell me something and I need to discuss it with, um, with somebody?"
Tinsley regarded me steadily, his blue eyes flinty and hard. "If you feel that way, I don't believe we have anything to talk about. You can consider this visit a formal request on my part for you to come to the Roseville Police Department tomorrow morning at nine o'clock so I can take your statement and you can sign your deposition. At that time, you will need to produce your late husband's effects from his locker at the Fire Department. Be aware that you may be subpoenaed for a grand jury investigation. If you no longer have his effects, you should be prepared to explain why you don't have them, what you did with them, and where, if possible, they can be found." He held out his hand. "I'll take that."
"Whoa, wait a minute." I held the paper against my chest lest he snatch it away. "What's going on?" I shifted my attention to Dan, surprised when I saw him roll his eyes.
Dan's features smoothed into an attentive, almost bland, expression. "This is a complicated investigation," he said, his voice a mix of soothing and dismissive. "There might be people involved whom you consider friends. We want to make sure you don't inadvertently drop hints about what we're talking about here." He twitched his shoulder as Grumble inched forward, cat lips poised near Dan's right ear.
"We? You're involved in the investigation?"
"Mr. Steele is assisting the FBI," Tinsley said quickly.
"You and he are friends," I pointed out. "Isn't that a conflict of interest or something?"
Tinsley stood abruptly. "It's obvious you're not interested in helping us find who killed your husband. The Police Department liaison will be in touch."
He was starting to piss me off, FBI or not. "Sit down. I need to think about this. You've handed me this ultimatum, and you're asking me to sign it without giving me a chance to think about it, that's all." I stared at the document again, more to escape Tinsley's ice-blue focus than to read the words.
What if I signed this? All it meant was that I shouldn't blab about what the police told me to anybody else. That seemed reasonable, although a confidentiality statement seemed a bit heavy-handed. I didn't like being backed into a corner like this. Why couldn't I keep it, talk it over with my mother or my aunt or somebody and sign it tomorrow? Maybe Mom could get in touch with what's-his-name, Darryl Brody the attorney, and I could ask them about it.
Because the very fact that they're asking me to sign it indicates that somebody I know is involved in the murder. The knowledge settled over me in a wave. If I told other people about this whole confidentiality thing, it might spook whoever was involved. I glanced to my left. Dan was busy petting Grumble, who had insinuated himself onto Dan's shoulder, his triangular face snugly tucked under Dan's chin and his body twisted into a posture only a cat could manage. I raised an eyebrow at this outpouring of affection.
"I like cats," Dan said, his voice amused and muffled by my cat's head.
"I hope you do. And I hope you're not allergic. If you are, you'll be in the hospital soon." I flourished the paper. "Did you sign one of these?"
"I didn't have to. I was deputized. It comes with the territory."
"Deputized?" My voice rose as I looked from one man to the other. "Is that even legal? Can the FBI go around and grab people and make them deputies?"
"The FBI didn't do it," Tinsley snapped. "The Sheriff did. And yes, it's legal. A civilian can be appointed as a reserve police officer or deputy if that person is uniquely qualified to help in an investigation. If the person is willing to accept the appointment for the duration of the case, he can then resign from the police reserve unit once the investigation concludes."
My indignation cooled. It sounded legal. I remembered enough TV shows and novels where various main characters were sucked into helping the law and given some kind of temporary legal powers.
"It's complicated." Dan started to lean forward but Grumble's bulk prevented it. Instead he peered at me around my cat's head. "It's for your own good as well as for the good of the investigation. Believe me."
Believe me. Good Lord, did he even know what he was asking? I should believe a total stranger who brings another total stranger into my home?
I glared at him and at Grumble, who was the picture of kitty bliss, lounging on this stranger's shoulders and snuggling into this stranger's hair. I slapped the piece of paper on the table, snatched my lucky crossword puzzle pen, and signed. "I want a copy of that," I said. "I need a copy for my files."
"I'll see you get one," Tinsley said, taking the paper, folding it, and slipping it back in a pocket so quickly he made a magician look like a slow-motion idiot. "Did you see the finished report at the close of the investigation?" Tinsley didn't wait for my answer but extracted another folded piece of paper from his interior coat pocket.
I took it warily, opening the tri-fold paper and skimming it. It was an official-looking form, with different topics in bold on the page with a paragraph of text underneath each.
Initiating event: Not definitive. Traces of... followed by a polysyllabic word that seemed vaguely scientific with the words common kitchen match in parenthesis.
Accelerant: gasoline, possibly wax paper in female victim's apartment. Lack of complaint about fumes indicates and a bunch of other mumbo-jumbo I couldn't understand clearly.
I read through it all once then once again to fix the words in my head. "It says that they're not sure. They're not sure who did it, they're not sure why it was done, and they're not sure how it was done. Right?" I looked at Tinsley then to Dan, who now had fifteen pounds of Maine Coon cat lounging on his lap, the cat's head on Dan's knees and his torso in the crease of Dan's legs with a white cat belly exposed. Either the cat trusted Dan completely or he was becoming an affection whore. I held up the paper. "There's nothing here to indicate how thorough or not thorough it was. Are you saying that the investigation wasn't run correctly?"
Tinsley's mouth thinned even more, if such a thing was possible. "The investigation was competently run. At the time the Fire Marshall didn't have the evidence we have now."
"Well, if you have evidence, you need to give it to the department." I tossed the piece of paper on my coffee table, next to the New York Times Sunday crossword with hoyden wait
ing to be penned in. "I don't know why you need to talk to me. John's dead. I don't have any information to give you."
"We can't give the evidence to the Fire Department. The new management personnel in the department might be involved." Tinsley kept his eyes on me while he said it.
"The new...you mean Paul? Are you accusing him of something?" I looked from Tinsley to Dan, who was ostentatiously not watching us.
"How well do you know Paul Denton?" Tinsley asked.
"Now wait a minute. You're talking to the wrong person. If you have concerns about the Fire Department and the personnel, you need to go to the--" I stopped. Who did he go to? Who was in charge of that kind of thing? I struggled to remember the chain of command.
"More to the point, how well do you know Michael Bennington?" Dan asked.
I eyed him suspiciously. "What about Michael?"
Dan's hand stilled on Grumble's head. The cat twisted underneath Dan's palm, obviously reminding him that 'hey, Mister. There's a cat here and he needs attention.' Dan resumed petting, but he kept his eyes on me.
"What about Michael?" I repeated.
"We can't involve her," Tinsley said in a cautionary tone of voice.
"Bullshit. She's already involved. Bennington is nervous." Dan rubbed under Grumble's chin, my blissful kitty obligingly angling his face for better access.
I snorted. "Michael? Nervous? About what?"
"You tell us," Dan snapped. "You're friends with him."
"Now wait a minute. Why is that a crime? Just because John told me that--" I stopped myself in time, almost blurting that a ghost accused Michael of murder.
Both men pinned me to my chair with their eagle-eyed stares. "What did your husband tell you?" Tinsley asked.
"I wonder if I need a lawyer," I said.
"Is Bennington your lawyer?" Dan asked.
"What if he is?" I met Dan's eyes, daring him to challenge me. "Is that a crime?"
"Maybe," Tinsley said softly.
I snapped my attention back to him. "You're accusing Paul and Michael of illegal activity. Why? Why should I believe you?" My dead husband's ghost had said the same thing and I was willing to believe him. Why didn't I believe these two live men sitting in my house? "You come into my home and start making accusations about people I've known for years."