Burners - A Jack Daniels/Alex Chapa Mystery

by Henry Perez

  Arnold nodded. “Ship them to a smart country, like Japan or Germany. That will lower their national IQ, and help the U.S. better compete in a global market.”

  “What if they don’t want to go?” I asked, wondering why I even bothered.

  “They’re stupid. They can be tricked. Like those stings where fugitives are told they won a free television, and they show up and get arrested.”

  “Exactly,” added Greta. “The stupids could get free tickets to Germany, saying they won a free vacation, and when they arrive they can be denied re-entry into the U.S.”

  “A wonderful idea, Mother. I’m going to go write letters to our state senators right now.”

  “I’ll join you, Father. Good night, Miss Daniels. Breakfast will be at eight a.m. I’m making blueberry pancakes.”

  I went into my gorgeous bedroom, with the gorgeous fireplace and bathtub, and locked the door behind me so the crazies couldn’t get in.

  After a bath and a phone call to my fiancée, I curled up in the enormous bed and buried myself in an Ed McBain novel until I was too tired to keep my eyes open.

  Jim Chakowski answered on the second ring.

  “So you managed to get out of jury duty.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Silence. Followed by more silence. Then, “Oh hell. Alex, please tell me you’re calling to bullshit about the Cubs’ lousy season.”

  “I need to ask you a couple of questions about the Birch Grove fires.”

  I heard him sigh. “You know you’re not supposed to be doing this, right?”

  “And now you’ve warned me, and we both know damned well you’d be doing the same thing if our roles were reversed.”

  He thought about it for a moment.

  “True. So what do you need to know?”

  I asked him what he knew about the other fires.

  “Just some general background, those weren’t my stories. If I remember correctly, those were covered by a couple of new guys. Those stories weren’t that big of a deal.”

  “Until the Laserquick fire.”

  “Right. Nobody died until the print shop went up. Maybe they’re all linked, maybe not. I never found a connection. There are a lot of old buildings in Birch Grove, and I can tell you not all of them are up to code.”

  “But that’s true about any of the old towns in the area.”

  “Yes, it is. I did a story on that once.”

  “I remember.”

  “A good one.”

  “They all are, Jim.”

  I heard his familiar laugh at the other end.

  “Have there been any similar fires in Birch Grove since?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “What about gangs? You mentioned that in one of your stories.”

  ”In passing, if memory serves.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You know why, don’t you?”

  I did. I’d been taught well. “Because you had a reliable quote, but not enough to hang much more on, and you sensed there was still something else to the story and wanted to get ahead of it.”

  “You might have a future in this business, Alex. Yeah, the gang thing. It’s not kids from Birch Grove as much as from some of the neighboring towns. Larkin has an issue with gangs, Aurora, and Elgin, too.”

  “Even Oakton.”

  “Yes, Oakton, as well. And gangs that deal in drugs like to go where the money is, like Birch Grove. But those kids they rounded up a while back, that’s a sign of the times in that town.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a shot of Matusalem rum.

  “With this new administration, a lot of things have changed there. The other guys were crooked as hell, the old mayor ran the place like his own personal country club. But the group that’s in there now, one hand doesn’t know what the other is up to, and you’ve got some rogue elements at every level of that government.”

  “What about the Beniquez kid?”

  “He could’ve done it. Some sort of gang initiation thing, perhaps. But that will be up to a jury to decide, won’t it, Alex?”

  After that, the conversation turned to family and work, though not necessarily in that order. Before he signed off, Chakowski offered a final piece of advice.

  “Remember, Alex, ninety percent of all crimes are committed for one of two reasons—money or love. If I were in your shoes, I’d be looking for one of those two motives.”

  “What about the other ten percent?”

  “Fear, compulsion, or insanity. Maybe the defendant was driven by one those.”

  By the time I was done talking to Jim I didn’t feel like I’d cleared up any of the questions I’d been asking about the trial. Which meant I’d likely have to rely entirely on the evidence that would be presented in court. The way it was supposed to be. The way every other juror would likely reach a verdict.

  And if that was the case, based on what I’d heard so far, Tony Beniquez didn’t have a prayer of walking out of there a free man.

  And maybe he didn’t deserve to.

  I woke up in the middle of the night, positive there was someone in my room.

  I wasn’t sure how I knew it. The room was completely dark, curtains drawn and every light off. But I felt a presence. Someone standing there in the pitch black. Watching.

  I didn’t know what had awoken me, didn’t recall any dreams, didn’t remember hearing any sounds, but all the hair was standing up on my arms, and I had to force myself to breath naturally so whoever was there didn’t know I knew.

  My gun, a Colt Detective Special, was in the bathroom, in my overnight case. The intruder stood between me and it.

  My mouth was dry. Hands were sweating. But I couldn’t let the fear paralyze me, couldn’t think about why the intruder was there, or what he wanted to do to me. I had to use the adrenalin and act. Get to my weapon. Fight. Escape.

  I tensed my legs, picturing the move in my head; I’d roll off the side of the bed, land in a crouch, then follow the wall with my hand until I reached the—

  “I can see you.” The voice was male, a whisper. “I know you’re awake.”

  I didn’t recognize the voice, but it sounded forced, like the man was trying to disguise it. It was also unnaturally calm, which kicked my fear into overdrive. Anyone that relaxed breaking into someone’s house was stone cold.

  I needed to be stone cold as well to survive this. Now if I could just get my damn legs to move.

  “Stop snooping around. Give your testimony, and then get the fuck out of town. This will be your only warning. If you don’t do as you’re told…”

  The gunshot sounded like thunder, the bullet slamming into the headboard above me.

  Raw terror fueled my actions, and I did the roll-and-crouch move, seeing a silhouette of a retreating figure, dressed in black and wearing a ski mask, open the bedroom door and slip through.

  In four steps I was in the bathroom.

  Six steps later I was in the hallway, gun in hand.

  Movement, on the stairs. I swung around, saw a startled Greta clutching the V neck of her nightgown. Heard movement in the rear of the house, and tracked it, moving low and fast, seeing the back door yawing open. I sidled up to the doorway, back against it, squinting out into the darkness of the Hauppdorf’s backyard. Quickly found the wall switch, but the porch light didn’t come on.

  “What’s going on?” Greta moaned.

  “Someone broke in. Stay back. Call the police.”

  I checked the doorknob, the frame, saw they were solid. I closed it, locked it, and tried to get my heart rate under control before the cops arrived.

  # # #

  No sign of forced entry.

  The bulb to the outside porch light had been unscrewed. So had five other bulbs throughout the house.

  The slug dug out of the wall behind the headboard was a .45.

  Arnold Hauppdorf hadn’t been home. He’d supposedly taken a walk, something he and his wife claimed
he did every night. When Arnold arrived he looked more fascinated than shocked. He swore both doors were locked when he left.

  The police on the scene were two uniforms I hadn’t met before, a man and a woman. The woman took me aside and asked if I’d been molested. I told her I hadn’t.

  They sent a patrol car to Vincent Corelli’s house, but the locksmith wasn’t home.

  Corelli made some sense for this. An ex-con, locksmith, and someone who clearly didn’t want anyone stirring things up in Birch Grove. As long as buildings kept burning he’d keep boarding them up and making money. Extra, if it was in the middle of the night.

  After they left, at close to three in the morning, Phin showed up.

  Phineas Troutt was a friend of mine, ten years my junior, whom I met in a professional capacity some years ago. I’d arrested him. But even though he tended to operate in the gray areas of the law, we’d somehow managed to become friends. He was smart, and reliable, and I needed someone to watch my back. I could have called Herb, but my absence in Homicide was already putting a strain on the district, and I knew he couldn’t have been spared. Phin was just as good, and in some ways even better.

  By then, the fear had grown to the point where I was starting to freak out a little. I didn’t like being threatened, and didn’t like having someone break into my room and shoot at me. The more I dwelled on it, the creepier it became. Having Phin close by eased my mind a lot.

  We talked over coffee at the kitchen table. I filled him in on everything that had gone on up to that point, not only to get his insight on the matter, but to set things straight in my own head.

  “So you think it was the locksmith,” Phin said. He didn’t look too hot. He’d just done another round of chemo, and he was bald again. Like me, he wore a T-shirt and jeans, and like me, he had a gun tucked into the waistband.

  “Could be. He said he could see me. Someone who deals with burglar equipment could also have some night vision goggles. And…” I closed my eyes and pictured the scene. “I think I saw a tiny green light when he was leaving.”

  Very tiny, more like a speck. It could have been the after-effects of the muzzle flash. But I knew starlight viewers showed images in luminous green, and maybe his goggles slipped when he was running off.

  “So you think the locksmith is starting the fires just so he can get paid to board up the places afterward?”

  Phin didn’t sound convinced. Neither was I. But I’d seen stupider motives than that.

  “Maybe. Or maybe the arsonist is just someone who likes to watch things burn.”

  “So it could be this Beniquez kid.”

  “Could be. Or it could be someone else entirely. Some weirdo I haven’t met.”

  “What about the owner of this place? No alibi, and you said he’s a nutjob.”

  “Possible, I suppose. Maybe this is how he and his wife get their kicks. But the intruder specifically mentioned my testimony. He knew about the trial.”

  “Sounds like everyone in town knows about the trial. You said Tony might be involved in gangs. Could it have been one of his crew?”

  “Again, possible. But this sounded like an adult. Someone cool-headed.”

  “Who else is connected with the trial?”

  “The District Attorney, Simon Lebanon, is an odd duck. He really wants to win this case. Maybe he knows something he doesn’t want me to know.”

  “Can you see him as the intruder?”

  “Not really. But again, it’s possible.”

  “Was it a good arrest?”

  “You’re thinking the cops? Maybe a frame?”

  Phin smiled. “Not all cops are good guys. Present company excepted.”

  “Nicholas James and Emmanuel Lewis.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You were threatened by the kid who played Webster?”

  “He’s not Webster. But he and his partner both act like jarheads. They’ve got this metrosexual thing going that just doesn’t seem to fit right, though their clothes certainly do. But other than that they seem okay.”

  “Lots of suspects,” Phin said. “Hell, maybe it was me. I’m a known criminal.”

  I smiled for the first time all night. “If you crept into my bedroom at night, I hope you’d do something more interesting than threaten me.”

  I could swear he blushed a little. Phin was too young for me, and not stable at all, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think he was attractive, and I was pretty sure he felt the same way.

  Rather than flirt, he stood up. “Want me to stay in the house, or watch the perimeter?”

  I wanted him to stay in the house. I was still scared, and the thought of being alone made my palms sweat.

  Which is exactly why I needed to be alone. Fall off the horse, get right back on, or else you’re afraid for the rest of your life.

  “Outside. Thanks, buddy.”

  Phin winked at me. “For you, anytime. See you in the morning, Jack. Get some sleep.”

  He finished his coffee and slipped out the front door.

  I made sure the door was locked behind him, then I went back to my room and crawled into bed, my gun on the nightstand next to me, the overhead light on.

  I didn’t sleep at all.

  I hadn’t slept well the night before, and when I got my first look at Jack Daniels seated in the courtroom on the second day, I knew I wasn’t the only one.

  I’d spent the evening resisting the urge to log on and start digging through every bit of material about the case I could find for fear that my records could be searched at a later date. I drank my shot of rum after I got off the phone with Jim, poured myself another, and eventually fell asleep on my couch. I was five minutes late to court, but no one seemed to notice or care.

  The courtroom smelled a little less fresh than the day before. At least someone had managed to turn on the air conditioning, though nowhere near high enough.

  Bob, the world’s most enthusiastic juror seated next to me in the jury box, was much more into the morning than I could ever hope to be.

  “This is a little like being at a boxing match, isn’t it?” The guy was genuinely excited about being here. Something must’ve gone very wrong during his childhood.

  “Sure, Bob, one with lots of talking, very little action, and no blood.”

  Bob furrowed his brow, then turned away. I had a feeling he’d keep to himself the rest of the day, and maybe even for the rest of the trial, though that was probably too much to hope for.

  Marcia, the woman I’d met in the waiting room who wound up being the last juror chosen, turned to face me.

  “My friends are so curious about all of this.” She was wearing a beige business suit that blended too well with her light features, a flowery but subtle fragrance, and looked as though she’d been professionally made up for hours. “Though, of course, I didn’t discuss any of the particulars with them,” she added, clearly intent on amending her first remark and wanting to make certain we all heard her.

  I had always assumed jurors sat in silence after they were brought into the courtroom, and judging from the scowl on the face of the tall, bald man to our right, that might’ve usually been the case. He’d been glaring at Marcia as she was talking. I found myself staring at his ears, or his left ear, to be exact, though I assumed there was a matching one on the other side to balance the weight. It was as though someone had attached a sandal to the side of the guy’s head, and the way the outer ridge curved around I could easily imagine a trio of Cooper Minis racing in there—at least until they got stuck in the hair.

  Its hypnotic effect was finally broken when Lipscomb got up from behind the prosecutor’s table and called the next witness. His name was Joel Luzinsky, a former marine who owned a high end cigar store called Smoke Em’ If You Have Em’, that was located directly across the street from the crime scene.

  Luzinsky looked like one of those men who were athletic and tightly built in their youth, but not anymore. He had neatly cut hair that he was still figuring out how best to
color without tipping off anyone who’d notice or care.

  He testified that he’d seen Beniquez around the print shop just minutes before smoke began flowing from its side windows. The kid had been carrying a duffle bag in his right hand, and cradling two gasoline cans in his left. He was very specific about this.

  The prosecution produced the olive green duffle bag and a pair of beat up, rusty cans and entered them into evidence, placing them on a dark oak table in front of the jury box. Lipscomb then showed how the cans easily fit into the duffle bag. They clanged against one another inside like a pair of wind chimes as she lifted the bag for all to see.

  On the stand, Luzinsky appeared uneasy, like he’d rather be anywhere else. Maybe it was natural to feel that way. I sure as hell would. It didn’t help that he was a large man, bigger than the seat was made to accommodate. His meaty hands rested on the wood railing in front of him as he jostled in search of a comfortable position. I didn’t like his chances of finding one.

  Lipscomb took the cans out of the duffle bag. They clattered again as she set them on the table.

  “Were those the cans that you saw the defendant carrying, Mr. Luzinsky?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And is that the duffle bag?”

  “That’s right.”

  Luzinsky went on to repeat the time and date that he’d seen Beniquez skulking around the print shop, before Lipscomb turned him over to the defense.

  “Are you certain that you specifically saw those two cans in the defendant’s possession?” Milledge asked as he stood and straightened his jacket, the same one he’d been wearing the day before.

  Luzinsky did not hesitate. “Absolutely.”

  “I mean, they’re just a couple of old gas cans, nothing special about them, is there?”

  “I’m sure those were the ones, I remember the rust on them.” Luzinsky tightened his grip on the railing.

  “And how far away were you from my client when you claim that you eagle-eyed those cans?”

  “Objection, Your Honor, the defense—”

  “I’ll rephrase. How far away were you when you say you saw my client carrying two gas cans?”