Bishop spun in his seat to face the two agents.
“Mrs. Payne. She’s the one you should talk to.”
“Yeah?” Luck said.
Bishop nodded.
“She seemed like the type that kept an eye on things around the neighborhood, you know?”
Luck raised his eyebrows at Darger, which she took as him asking her opinion.
“I’m game,” she said with a shrug.
“You said it’s the house next to the retiree fire?”
“Teej, look up the old lady’s address for our man Luck.”
Klootey drummed his fingers against his keyboard and leaned closer to the screen.
“8045 Aspen Avenue.”
Luck jotted this down then glanced up at Darger.
“Ready to roll?”
“Always.”
Chapter 13
“This is it,” Luck said, turning his Lexus onto Aspen Street.
A neat row of single-story Cape Cods, Spanish bungalows, and Ranch style houses in pale yellow and sky blue and various shades of beige lined the street. The rectangle of front lawn afforded to each home was modest but well-kept. Aside from the modern cars parked on the street, the neighborhood probably looked pretty much the same as it had when it was built in the 1960s.
The car slowed, coming to a halt in front of the burned-out shell of the former Galitis home. It stood out like a rotten tooth in an otherwise picture-perfect smile.
Darger undid her seatbelt and climbed out, unable to tear her eyes from the fire-ravaged house. The roof was gone entirely. The front of the home was a ruin of blackened wood and charred siding. Many of the windows had been broken out by the flames or the fire crews and covered with plywood, but one window on the west side of the house remained, its glass opaque with soot. Where the vinyl siding on most of the house had melted away in the blaze, a scrap here was left untouched. Enough that Darger could see the house had been dove gray, with white shutters.
The fire hadn’t touched only the house, either. A pair of banana trees stood sentry on either side of the front door, the topmost leaves singed by the inferno. The planting of hostas along the foundation of the house had probably once been lush and green, but now the foliage was shriveled and brown.
Darger squinted, trying to imagine what the front of the Galitis house had looked like before the fire had destroyed the facade. Her eyes roamed to the house next door. The neighboring homes had been saved, luckily. The house on the right was similar in appearance to the Galitis house, the same general size and shape, with white shutters, but robin’s egg blue siding instead of gray. And where the lawn of the Galitis house was bordered by boxwoods, the front yard of the house next door was lined with chain-link fence.
Luck followed her gaze.
“Should we head in?”
She realized then that the blue house was their intended destination. The home of the woman who had called 911 the night of the fire.
“After you,” she said and followed him across the sidewalk to 8045 Aspen Street.
The hinges of the metal gate let out an ear-piercing shriek as Luck pushed it aside. Several signs were attached to the gate via loops of wire. The largest was a black and white sign that said NO PARKING. Beside that was a smaller sign with a list of other prohibited activities: NO SOLICITING, NO RELIGIOUS PAMPHLETS, NO FUNDRAISING, NO SURVEYS. A third sign featured a simple silhouette of a skateboard crossed out with a large red “X.”
Instead of grass, Mrs. Payne’s lawn was paved in white gravel. The collective crunch of their feet hitting the stones must have been loud enough for the homeowner to hear them, because before they’d made it halfway to the front door, it swung open.
“Good afternoon,” Luck started. “We’re—”
“Blind or illiterate, clearly.”
A small, pear-shaped woman stood with the screen door as a barrier between them.
Luck paused, eyes swinging over to Darger then back to the woman.
“Sorry?”
The woman crooked a finger back the way they’d come.
“You saw the sign?”
Luck glanced over his shoulder.
“Uh. Yes, ma’am.”
She crossed her arms.
“So if your eyes work, I have to assume you can’t read. Sign says this is private property. You know what that means?”
“Yes, but—”
“It means I’m not interested in whatever it is you’re selling, and that goes for religion as well as encyclopedias, or whatever it is you people go around hawking these days. Probably Obamacare plans or some such nonsense.”
Luck’s mouth hung open, at a loss for words. Darger bit her lip, trying to keep herself from laughing.
The woman turned on her.
“And what are you smirking about?”
Darger cleared her throat, putting a final stop to the inappropriate chuckle that was still trying to worm its way out.
“Ma’am, I’m Agent Darger with the FBI. This is my colleague, Agent Luck. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”
The woman pursed her lips, trying to keep her tough facade in place, but Darger could see the sudden flicker of curiosity in her eyes.
“FBI? Well why didn’t you say so?”
When they didn’t immediately approach the door, the woman waved an exasperated hand.
“Are you just going to loiter there on my stoop, or are you coming inside?”
Luck reached the door first. Grasping the handle, he opened it wide and gestured that Darger should enter ahead of him.
They walked into a living room that looked like it belonged in a time capsule. The oranges and browns in the carpet and walls suggested the 1970’s, while the strange dark green upholstery of the furniture evoked a decade or more earlier still — perhaps the 40’s or 50’s. Darger ran her fingers over the back of the couch and found the fabric slightly more coarse than canvas.
“All I can say is, it’s about time someone downtown started to take me seriously.”
She motioned for them to sit with a flail of the arm.
“Sorry?” Luck said as they sat.
The couch was beyond firm. It felt like sitting on a stone slab with a layer of tent canvas draped over it.
“I’ve called — I don’t know how many times — and no one ever does diddly-squat about the hippie trash across the way.” She waved a hand toward a large picture window with a view of the street. “You know they just let their trash cart set out there all day, and I have to look at it. Every Thursday, just setting there. Everyone else pulls their cart in after the truck comes, but not them. Oh no. And I’ve spoken to them a number of times about it, but come trash day, there it sets.”
She sniffed. The pink from her lipstick had seeped into the hairline folds at the corners of her lips.
“I’m certain they’re growing marijuana and god knows what else over there. I can smell it on them. Reefer.”
“You know that marijuana is legal in the state of California, ma’am.”
“It’s not legal to sell it, not without a permit. I’ve complained to the city, but they don’t do a thing. You said you’re Feds?”
She eyed them almost suspiciously.
The Adam’s apple at the center of Luck’s throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed.
“Ahh, that’s right, ma’am.”
“So that’d mean you’re way above the local, uh, law enforcement. Right?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’ve got more clout. More sway. More authority than the dumb-dumbs down at city hall.”
“I don’t know about that,” Luck said, shooting Darger a desperate look.
She shrugged at him. He was the local, not her.
“We don’t really have jurisdiction in city affairs, ma’am.”
She made a raspberry sound with her mouth.
“Then what good are you?”
Darger wondered how they’d gotten on the topic of trash carts and pot whe
n they’d come to talk about the fire and realized they hadn’t even asked about the fire yet. In fact, they hadn’t asked any questions at all. The woman had just gone off, dominating the conversation as if she were filibustering on the Senate floor. If Darger didn’t say something, they might never get back on track.
She broke in before the woman could build up another head of steam.
“Mrs. Payne, is it?” Darger said. “We’re actually here to talk about the fire.”
“The fire?”
“That’s right.”
The woman blinked a few times, looking unimpressed.
“Well, if neither the LAPD nor the federal government are going to take any interest in an illegal drug ring operating right under their noses, then I don’t know what I can do about it. After all, I’m only one concerned citizen.”
Darger worried the conversation was about to go off the rails again, so she redirected quickly with an easy question.
“How long have you lived here?”
It was a trick she’d learned when she was a victim advocate. The easiest way to get someone talking was to ask them a question where the answer was a number, because numbers were simple. Finite. With kids, she always opened by asking how old they were. With teenagers, it was what grade they were in. And with adults, how long they’d been at their current job. Or how long they’d been married. How many kids they had.
When the answer was a number, it was a simple fact, the opposite of something open-ended. That made a certain type of person comfortable.
“Twenty-two years,” Mrs. Payne said.
Darger permitted herself a small smile. It always worked. But her satisfaction didn’t last long.
“And I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” the woman added, “but every one of those years has been outright misery since that woman and her spawn moved in next door. I don’t know why everyone’s making such a fuss about the fire, to be frank. Judy Galitis was an airhead. I told the fire investigators when they were here, the idiot probably left the stove on and burned herself up.”
“There’s overwhelming evidence that this fire was set intentionally, ma’am.”
Mrs. Payne sighed.
“That’s what they told me. And I’ll repeat what I said to them: if someone intentionally set that house on fire, then you can be sure it was Judy Galitis herself. She and that daughter of hers have been running insurance scams for years.”
Darger was already getting the feeling that Mrs. Payne had an axe to grind with the late Judy Galitis, but if the Galitis family was acquainted with insurance fraud, it was something worth noting.
“What kind of scams?”
“Oh, I suppose you know that poor Judy was disabled? They say that’s why she didn’t make it out of the house. Couldn’t get to her wheelchair,” Mrs. Payne said. “Well, it serves her right, doesn’t it? After all the years of faking her illness, she finally got her comeuppance.”
Darger couldn’t help but notice the twinkle of glee in Mrs. Payne’s eye. She stifled her own disgust.
“What makes you think Ms. Galitis was faking her illness?”
“Please! One day she’s in the wheelchair, the next day she’s up and about, puttering around her garden. Painting her mailbox. Having company over,” Mrs. Payne said, leaning against the tufted back of her armchair. “Oh yes. Frequent visitors. Men, usually. A different one every evening, if you catch my meaning. They were boinking over there, sure as you’re alive. And this reverse harem of hers always used my parking space.”
Darger glanced out the window. She’d noticed as they walked down the sidewalk that there were no driveways in the neighborhood. Everyone parked on the street.
Luck must have been thinking the same thing, because he said, “You mean they parked on the street in front of your house?”
The wrinkled mouth tightened, flexing all the little pink lines.
“Yes, on the street in front of my house,” she said, clearly annoyed at the clarification. “They certainly don’t park on the sidewalk, now do they? Something would actually be done about that, I suppose.”
“I don’t think there are generally assigned parking spaces when it’s street parking, ma’am.”
She huffed.
“Well in my day, it was common courtesy not to park in front of another person’s house, as they just might need to park there themselves. They have the whole rest of the street to park on.”
“Of course,” Luck said, and Darger sensed he was trying his best to sound genuinely sympathetic. “I imagine it’s very inconvenient for you to have to park your car elsewhere and walk.”
The woman rolled her eyes then, as if talking to Luck were some great chore.
“I don’t have a car. You think I drive in this cesspool of a city? With all the illegals driving around with no license and no insurance? My friend Louise Snelling got into an accident with one of those types. Smashed up her Buick and left her high and dry! No, thank you. I don’t need any of that.”
Darger cleared her throat.
“Mrs. Payne, what we’d really be interested in hearing is whether you remember seeing anything out of the ordinary in the days leading up to the fire.”
The woman crossed her arms over her chest.
“I’ve got the phony cripple next door who sets herself on fire. The deadbeats across the street in their tie-dye shirts slinging hashish. And then there’s the delinquent kids on skateboards and hover-things, loitering on my sidewalk as soon as school’s out. And you want to know if I’ve seen anything out of the ordinary? I’m surrounded by freaks and free-loaders. Everything I see is out of the ordinary, but I don’t suppose you’re going to do diddly-squat about any of it.”
“Our focus right now is really on the arson investigation, ma’am,” Luck said. “Besides that, the FBI really doesn’t have jurisdiction here.”
“Typical.”
With a wordless glance, Darger and Luck concluded that they’d gotten all they would from Mrs. Payne. They thanked her for her time and showed themselves to the door.
Luck waited until the door was closed behind them to mutter, “If not for your profile and the other fires, I’d think she was the one that torched the Galitis house. Talk about sour grapes.”
Darger considered this.
“She would be a great bet if we were dealing with a revenge arsonist. But unless we can tie her to the church fire, it doesn’t fit.”
“Yeah, I know,” Luck agreed.
When Darger turned left outside the gate in Mrs. Payne’s yard, Luck stopped and hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Where are you going? Car’s over here.”
“We came all the way out here,” Darger said, not pausing to answer. “Figured I might as well take a peek at the alleyway where the fire started.”
Luck caught up with her at the end of the block. They looped around the corner house and entered the narrow passage that ran behind the homes. It was wide enough for two garbage bins to stand side-by-side, but not much more. And indeed, it appeared that the main function of the alley was for the residents to store their garbage and recycling bins.
Spinning slowly in a circle, Darger studied the houses surrounding them.
“He picked a pretty good spot to start the fire,” Darger said. “Almost none of the houses have windows that face this way.”
She pointed at one of the few windows in sight. It was small and appeared to be frosted glass.
“Probably a bathroom window. Not much chance someone’s going to spot you from there unless they get lucky.”
“You think he’s familiar with the area?”
Darger nodded.
“The church fire scene felt the same. I mean it’s practically nestled in the mountains. Perfectly isolated. He didn’t come across that spot randomly. He chose it.”
“So he’d been there before.”
“I think so. The problem is, Thorne Farms sees a lot of visitors. He could have been there for a wedding or for one of the other hund
red events they have. You know their website says ten thousand people stop by the cider mill every fall?”
“And in a city like this, there could be tens of thousands of people that know this neighborhood, too. Utility workers, delivery drivers, all the nearby residents whose commute takes them through.”
“I told you,” Darger said, shaking her head. “Too many people.”
Chapter 14
The door was open, but Luck rapped his knuckles against the wall as they entered the room where Klootey and Bishop were still combing through surveillance footage. The two LAPD officers were right where they’d left them, hunkered down in front of computer screens.
Klootey lifted his feet and spun around in his chair theatrically at the sound of Luck’s knock. He fixed them with a big, toothy grin.
“How’d it go?”
Luck sighed.
“She had a laundry list of complaints about her neighbors, but absolutely nothing helpful in terms of the investigation.”
Klootey nodded along with Luck, giggling all the while.
“We call her Miss Pain-in-the-ass.”
“Clever,” Luck said. “And accurate.”
Darger narrowed her eyes.
“Wait. You know her? From before the fire?”
“Everyone knows Miss Pain-in-the-ass. She racks up, oh, about a dozen calls a month, at least,” Bishop said, glancing over at his partner who nodded in agreement.
Luck’s back straightened, and he crossed his arms.
“So you idiots sent us out there as one of your stupid pranks?”
Their raucous laughter was answer enough. The two of them sounded like a pair of hyenas.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Luck asked. “This is a serial arson case. You can’t be screwing around like that.”
“We couldn’t resist.” Klootey shook his head, still snickering. “It was too good, man. She’s such a piece of work. I bet she gave you an assload about Judy Galitis faking her illness and all that?”
Darger and Luck nodded in unison.
“Yeah so, the deal with that is Judy Galitis had Relapsing-Remitting Multiple Sclerosis. Meaning she had good days, and she had bad days. Sometimes her symptoms would disappear altogether. Suddenly she could walk again. Do most of the stuff she did before she got sick. And then — WHAM!” He slammed his fist into the flattened palm of his other hand. “The MS would knock her on her ass, and she’d be out of commission for days, weeks, even months. Right back in the wheelchair and all.”
Violet Darger (Book 6): Night On Fire Page 8