by Alex P. Berg
“I thought you said you expected that. Because of the brick construction in the Mason District.”
“To an extent. But with an accelerant involved? I don’t know. Seems odd.”
“Any idea what could’ve prevented the fires from spreading?”
Transom shook his head. “Not yet. I’m going to give it some thought.”
I heard a heavy crunch and turned toward the sound. A mismatched pair of gents approached from the stairwell, one about six foot six, roughly the size of a barge with close cropped hair and a mug like a punching bag, the other a much more average height and weight with sandy blonde hair, dimples, and pristine blue eyes. Each of them wore a damp mask over their mouths and noses, and both of them were drenched in sweat.
I held up a hand. “Hold it there, guys. Especially you, Quinto. The footing’s suspect over here.” I wandered over to them, giving them a nod. “What are you two doing here? I thought you were investigating that poisoning.”
Rodgers, the youthful, good-looking detective, nodded. “Were being the operative word. Captain pulled us off that one and reassigned it to Elmswood and Drake. Said we might be more useful here.”
Quinto jabbed a finger the size of a sausage in the direction of the stiff. “That the victim, Daggers?”
“What’s left of him. Or her. I don’t know which yet.”
“Him, probably, based on the proportions.” Transom stepped up and extended his hand again. “You two in homicide, too?”
The big guy nodded as he shook Transom’s hand. “That’s right. Detective Quinto. This is Detective Rodgers.”
Rodgers nodded. “So are we dealing with a homicide, then?”
“Long story short?” I said. “Probably. But that’s what we’re here to determine. Might be the second one, too. Heard about that fire on Cordova last night? This could be related, in which case we need to hurry.”
“Right,” rumbled Quinto. “Wouldn’t want this becoming a recurring problem. You figured out who the deceased is yet?”
I shook my head. “I figured that would be step one. Shouldn’t be too hard. Seems like most of the building’s residents are huddled outside. I’m sure one of them can tell us who’s missing.”
“Divide and conquer?” said Rodgers.
“Precisely,” I said. “Speaking of which, either of you see Griggs on your way up?”
“He’s in front,” said Quinto. “Looked a little pale, but he was alive. What did you do to him? Hide around a corner and jump out at him, screaming?”
“I enjoy harassing the old codger, but I’m not trying to kill him,” I said. “You have any idea the lawsuits that might invite?”
Rodgers and Quinto shared a look, as if they didn’t believe my sincerity. To be fair, I did badmouth Griggs. A lot.
I grunted. “Go suck on some eggs. Preferably after you conduct your interviews. We have work to do, and it’s already getting late.”
3
I poured a mug of coffee from a carafe one of the fire crews had brought with them and carried it over to one of the residents displaced by the fire, a guy with curly black hair who’d identified himself as Mitchell. He sat on the sidewalk, resting his back against the building behind him, one of the heavy blankets brought by the firemen draped over his shoulders.
“Thanks,” he said as he accepted the coffee. “Who knows when the hell I’ll manage to get another one of these.”
I didn’t want to sit on the pavement beside him, but I couldn’t exactly loom over him while I peppered him with questions. I might be oblivious to a lot of social faux pas, but this wasn’t one of them.
I plopped down on the ground, the rough brick pricking at my still damp shirt. I’d hung my jacket up to dry on a random pole protruding from one of the fire trucks. Hopefully it would do so before I contracted hypothermia.
“You said you lived on the fourth floor?” I said.
Mitchell nodded. “Yeah. You been up there?”
I nodded.
“How bad is it?”
“My condolences.”
The guy’s face fell. “Shit.”
I let him sip on his coffee in silence for a minute, but sixty seconds was about all I could afford. “Look. I know this isn’t a good time. It never is in my line of work, but I need to ask you some questions.”
Mitchell sighed. “Yeah. Sure. I get it. Fire away.”
I nodded toward the building. “That enormous hole in the side of your complex. Any idea whose apartment that would fall in?”
Mitchell looked up. “Well… It’s hard to be sure. I’d have to go up there to get my bearings, but since it’s on the westward side? I’d guess it probably belonged to the Montenegro family, or maybe Jim Worth.”
“The Montenegro family? They have kids?”
“Yeah, sure. They’re, ah…” He looked about, eventually pointing a finger toward a family of five talking to one of the firefighters. “Over there. That’s them.”
“And this Worth guy? Did he make it down?”
“Uh…I haven’t seen him. At least I don’t think I have. Why? Was there a…?”
“A body. Yeah. Probably male. Hard to identify.”
Mitchell’s face sagged again. “Well, crap. You’re just full of good news, aren’t you?”
“Is that sarcasm?”
“Sort of. I mean… Aww, hell. I shouldn’t say anything. Even about him.”
I lifted a brow, feeling my skin prickle in response to a light breeze. “If you’ve got something you want to get off your chest, by all means, don’t pull any punches.”
“It’s just that… Well, I don’t like to badmouth the dead, but it couldn’t have happened to a better person. Or worse person, if you know what I mean. Hell, if he’d gone any other way, if I hadn’t been living on the fourth floor with him and lost…everything…” He stared into his coffee. “I might even be happy.”
“He was that bad, huh?”
“If you started a support group for miserable wretches, he’d be the guy getting kicked out after the first day for being too big an asshole.”
“You had a beef with him?”
“Of course I did. Everyone did. He made sure of it with his vile attitude.” Mitchell’s eyes widened a little. “But…I didn’t, like, do anything to him, okay? I mean, we might’ve had a few disagreements, but—”
“Relax,” I said. “I don’t have any reason to think you killed the guy. Given that the fire consumed your apartment, you’d have to be pretty damn dumb or cold-hearted to go that route. Just tell me about the guy. The disagreement you’d had with him in particular.”
“Disagreements,” said Mitchell. “And honestly, there are too many to count. The guy would complain about everything. If I had friends over, he’d complain about the noise. If I cooked a meal with garlic in it, he’d complain about the smell. He’d constantly badger people on the stairs if they got in his way, snapping at them like a rabid dog if they dared take the railing in the opposite direction he was going. But that wasn’t even the worst of it.”
“What was?”
“When he attacked my girlfriend once.”
“Physical assault?”
“Verbal, too,” said Mitchell. “Don’t get me wrong. It was minor, so we didn’t report it. We were kissing in the hallway once, near the stairwell. He comes out of nowhere and gives my girlfriend a shove in the back—she was nearer the steps then me. Told her to get the hell out of the way. Called her a pretty foul name, too. I almost punched him out then and there. I probably would’ve if my girlfriend hadn’t been there to cool me off.”
“Did other folks in the building have issues with him, too?”
Mitchell nodded. “You name it, he’s had an altercation with someone over it. I’m surprised the landlord never kicked him out. Either he treated him much better than the rest of us or he paid his rent with impeccable timing.”
“Any idea what he did for a living?” I asked.
This time, Mitchell shook his head. “I never asked, believe it or not. I’d guess something to do with the law, because he was always threatening to sue people for everything and anything, claiming he knew some judge or other. He might’ve been full of shit, though. No one I know ever got a summons after pissing him off, which happened in some fashion or another almost daily.”
“Hey. Jake.”
Griggs had left the displaced family I’d last seen him talking to and closed on us. He stood at the edge of the sidewalk, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his dark brown duster, half his face cast in shadow by the fading sun.
“You got something, pops?” I said.
He nodded. “Sounds like Quinto did, too, so pry your ass off the ground and come join the rest of us.”
Clearly, whatever damage the stifling heat and humidity had caused had been short lived. Griggs had regressed right back to his dismal, dour self.
“Your girlfriend have her own place?” I said to Mitchell.
He nodded.
“Good,” I said as I stood. “That’ll be your best bet, I think. The social workers are going to be overwhelmed with everyone else displaced so far. Best of luck.”
I followed Griggs to the corner of the building, where Rodgers and Quinto had gathered. Thankfully, Fire Marshal Transom had left, taking his rugged good looks with him.
“Griggs said you learned something?”
Quinto nodded. “Sure did. Victim’s name is in all likelihood Jim Worth. At least that’s who rented the apartment.”
“And he was a miserable SOB who made enemies with everyone he met,” I said. “Or at least I’m guessing that’s the story you heard, otherwise I’ve already uncovered a prime suspect in his murder.”
Griggs grunted. “I heard the same. Picked fights with everyone and their mother and threatened legal action constantly. A real prick.”
“Sounds familiar,” I said. “You got any Worths in your family, Griggs?”
The old dustbag frowned.
“So basically, our victim was thoroughly hated,” I said. “I’m guessing anyone who knew him might’ve had motive to wring his neck. Anyone learn what he did for a living?”
“Sounds like he worked with the courts,” said Quinto. “Might’ve been a shorthand reporter.”
Go figure. Mitchell was right. “Anyone else get anything useful from the neighbors?”
“I might’ve,” said Rodgers. “The mother in one of the families I talked to said they saw an unfamiliar woman heading up the stairs earlier this afternoon, maybe an hour or two before the fire started. Said family lived on the third floor, so she couldn’t have been sure the woman was heading to Worth’s place, but she guessed as much.”
I felt my brow furrow. “If Worth was a miserable cuss, what sort of woman would be willing to put up with him?”
“The kind who gets paid by the hour, probably,” said Rodgers. “The lady who told me about her couldn’t know for sure, of course, but she said there was something about her. The way she dressed. The way she walked. Made her think she was headed upstairs for business, if you get my drift.”
“And did this lady see the potential harlot fleeing the building when the fire started?”
“No, but it’s possible someone else did,” said Rodgers.
“You get a description?”
Rodgers smiled. “Yeah, and you’re going to love it. Averageish height, brownish hair, or maybe blonde, with prominently-displayed knockers.”
I almost laughed. “You’re kidding, right? Don’t get me wrong. If not for my police training, I’d probably get overwhelmed by the goods, too, but I’m a man.”
“Yeah. Our sketch guy is going to love working with her.”
“You guys done fantasizing about lady parts?” growled Griggs. “Because the rest of us want to get back to the case.”
“Relax,” I said. “This is the case. And cut us some slack. Some of us didn’t lose our libidos before the last civil war.”
Griggs grunted and scowled. I thought he might self combust, but at least we had the fire department on hand.
“Griggs is right, though,” said Quinto. “There’s only so much we’re going to get out of the residents. We need to bring a coroner down here, and then we need to start pulling records on this Worth guy and the guy who died in the fire last night.”
I sighed, mental images of sultry hussies replaced by thoughts of dusty files. At least paperwork beat legwork.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s head back to the precinct. Captain’ll want an update either way.”
4
I was right. The Captain did want an update, just not the one we had available to give him.
He leaned forward in his chair, his scowl pulling his face down to the ground. “So let me get this straight. We’ve got—potentially—a serial murderer and arsonist on the loose, and the best clue you have as to his or her identity is that she might be a prostitute?”
“One with a nice rack, don’t forget that part, Captain,” I said.
I thought the old bulldog’s scowl couldn’t get any deeper, but I was wrong. His jowls threatened to envelop his mouth and chin, much like the breed after which he got his nickname. Luckily for him, he lacked the two-toned hair and puppy dog eyes necessary for the resemblance to be uncanny.
“It’s not all bad, Abe,” said Griggs. “We got the name of the vic. And we got the name of the guy who died in yesterday’s fire, too. If there’s a connection, we’ll find it.”
Griggs was the only person in the department who dared call the Captain by anything other than his title, never mind calling him by his first name. Then again, for all I knew, Griggs had nursed the Captain when he was still wearing diapers. If nothing else, they’d been partners back before the Captain got promoted and I was hired.
“Griggs is right,” I said. “It wasn’t a mastiff waste of time by any means.”
The Captain squinted. “What was that?”
“Massive. I said a massive waste of time.”
The bulldog’s scowl adopted a more hostile quality, almost as if the Captain was ready to chew me a new asshole. I stashed my remaining puns for later.
“Well, it sounds as you’ve got a long night ahead of you,” said the Captain. “Lucky for you, we have a head start.” He grabbed a file from the corner of his desk and tossed it forward.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The fire department sent it over while you were out. The file they’ve put together on Guzmann, the guy who died in last night’s blaze. Don’t get too excited. I said it was a head start, not a full-fledged dossier.”
I picked it up. Despite the fact they’d only been looking into the arson for a day, the thing had some heft to it.
“Right,” I said. “We’ll get right on it.”
“The hell we will.” Griggs glanced at the window, taking note of the darkness outside. “I’ll tackle that in the morning.”
“You can take turns,” said the Captain. “Daggers, you swing first. Take notes so Griggs can follow your trail in the morning.”
I blinked, suddenly annoyed. “Wait a minute. How come Griggs gets to go home and I don’t?”
“You volunteered, didn’t you?” said the Captain. “Besides, you hate mornings, and Griggs doesn’t hate them any more than he despises anything else in life.”
Griggs grunted his affirmation.
I glanced at the windows myself and sighed. “Fine. I’ll get on it.”
I snagged the file and hauled it back to my desk. There I plopped down in my chair and threw open the folder, rather violently I might add. Not that working overtime wasn’t a regular occurrence. I put in late nights at least four or five times a week, but for some reason tonight it bothered me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.
I pulled the first page off the file, still marveling at Fire Marshal Transom’s work ethic, assuming it was him who’d put the information together. On one
hand, I was glad to have it. On the other, the man’s speed made me look like an amateur. It would take me at least three days to cobble together this much dirt, assuming I ever put it together at all. I had an aversion to writing things down, hence the Captain’s insistence I take notes.
I got to reading. The document listed Rufus Guzmann as forty-three years of age, a retired army veteran just as Transom had said. Apparently, he’d taken a spear to the knee some eighteen years ago in the Jade Mountain Invasion, a short but ill-advised military expedition (technically a police action) where the geniuses in charge of the federal government thought it would be worthwhile to go to war with a bunch of elven guerillas over tariff infractions. Guzmann survived the wound, but his leg never functioned properly again. He’d been on veterans disability ever since, which apparently was enough to cover the property taxes on the small single family home he’d inherited from his mother, a twice-monthly visit from a housekeeper, and his not inconsiderable food budget.
I inferred the last part, but it was an educated guess. Neighbors rarely saw the man outside his home, and when they did it was in a custom-built wheelchair. They described him as overwhelmingly obese, though no one ventured a guess as to his actual weight. For the record, he wasn’t some sort of troll or giant hybrid that might be able to carry the weight, either. Just a regular old human like me, about six feet tall.
There was a bit more information about Guzmann, mostly stuff about his time in the military that looked as it had been plucked straight from another file, so I skimmed over it and moved to the next entry, a list of all the items recovered from his home after the fire. Unlike the dossier, the list was pitifully short. Almost everything had burned. All the books, all the personal effects, all the clothing, and even though it wasn’t listed, I knew the body was gone as well. All Transom and his fire crews had salvaged from the wreckage were metal items, cabinet handles and a kitchen stove and a beefy bed frame. They had found a military issue arm, though. An infantryman’s short sword, illegally kept after the end of his service, no doubt. Not that it mattered now.