Flame Out

by M. P. Cooley

  We opened up the drawers and found short pencils and score sheets in one and a pile of receipts in another.

  “Bet the IRS would be excited to see those,” Hale said, pushing several decks of cards aside and reaching back, fishing for anything at the back of the drawer.

  Trays of poker chips filled another drawer. I lifted the first one out and discovered two pieces of paper. The first was cream colored and heavy, almost bond weight, folded over multiple times. Pulling it open I noticed a cursive watermark reading “BP” that had been traced over by a blue pen and a map of New Mexico, an address written along the top. The second had a diagram of a house, arrows marking the front door, garage, and two windows. A list ran down the side: “Rope. Gloves. Heavy pipe.”

  “Pipe?” Hale asked.

  “To beat her to death. I don’t think the kidnapping was plan A. Probably wasn’t plan B, either.”

  Hale nodded. “Someone panicked.”

  If the evidence under the first tray helped us understand what was planned, what we found underneath the second was damning: an unused plane ticket for the return trip from Vegas and a driver’s license. Covering the name, I held up the ID to Hale.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Brian.”

  “No. It’s the Wisconsin man whose name is on this ticket.”

  Hale took a close look. “It’s real. Brian doesn’t exactly match the picture, but close enough.”

  I dropped the note into an evidence bag, and we continued through to the kitchen. The old refrigerator hummed, still working, but when I opened it, I found only mold, the moisture a breeding ground for the spores coating the inside. The smell was disgusting, and after slamming the door I was able to pick up another scent. Gasoline.

  The bathroom was dark, and the light switch didn’t work. Without the flashlights carried by Hale’s agents, I lit the room the old fashioned way. Opening a window, I knocked a roll of toilet paper resting on the frame down into the parking lot below, beaning one of the crime scene techs. I gave him a wave and he waved back. No harm done.

  In the sink, rust stains showed a path where the hot water had dripped, possibly for decades. Hale looked disgusted. “They used this?”

  “There’s no other bathroom. Unless they decide to trek down to the bar, this is it.” I pushed aside the shower curtain and was met with six gas cans, piled halfway up the edge of the tub.

  “I’ll get Annie,” Hale said.

  WE STOOD BY THE WINDOWS IN THE LIVING ROOM. AFTER THE dark bathroom and the cavelike bar, it was nice to be able to look out on blue skies and the river where a fleet of rowers sculled past.

  “I’m beginning to think Brian didn’t set fire to Luisa and the factory,” Hale said.

  “I’m pretty sure that the evidence we found in the dining room sealed it for me—Brian’s our man.” I was tired and wanted to sit, but the folding chairs in the dining room were being used and the bed in the corner looked disgusting. “Plus there’s all the other evidence. Brian disappeared for a week. His carbon prosthetic meant he could have slipped past the TSA without notice. The videos from the airport look like him. And finally, the way he was slinging around cases of beer means he had the strength to overpower Luisa, and his army training ensured that he had the skill.”

  “Oh, I’ll give you that he committed the kidnapping,” Hale said. “But as for the fire, I don’t believe it. The man was trained in explosives. He wouldn’t have set such an amateurish fire. Honestly, if he wanted to blow something up, he’d have better ways than a low-rent gasoline fire. And if he really wanted to kill her, she’d be dead.” I started to protest, but Hale held up a hand. “The original plan was for Brian to fly out to Vegas, rent a car and drive to New Mexico, kill her, and then fly back out of Vegas. But it’s different when you are fighting enemy combatants than when you are trying to take down a tiny lady who liked to garden, and I don’t think Brian had it in him.” He looked around the apartment, fixing on the stained mattress. “Brian joined the army to get away from this, but he’s not a killer, if you get my meaning.”

  “It wasn’t his fight,” I said. “But whose was it? Because they probably set that fire. His dad? Maxim? Dan Jaleda?”

  “One of them, and then they turned around and shot him to shut him up.”

  “But it wouldn’t be his father,” Hale said. “Jake is devoted to his son.”

  “But when push came to shove, if Jake murdered Vera—”

  “And maybe his girlfriend Oksana.”

  “Hale, for all we know, Oksana is still alive.”

  “But maybe she’s not. We know that Vera is the reason that there was blood all over the basement at Bernie’s house, but for argument’s sake, let’s assume that Oksana is the reason that there was blood all over the bathroom. Who was closest to her? Jake. And who was most likely to kill her? Jake.”

  “We need to talk to our suspects again. Dan we can question, since he’s at the hospital,” I said. “But we need to find the Medved brothers now. Lucas might hunt them down . . .”

  “And maybe they deserve it,” Hale said. “One of them is probably our killer.”

  HALE AND I WALKED DOWNSTAIRS TO CUT TOMAS LOOSE. HE was even more wobbly than earlier, slumped over on the butcher block. He gripped his coffee mug with one hand; cigarette smoke rose up from beneath the table.

  “No one else,” he said, slurring. “I didn’t see no one.”

  With Hale approaching Tomas’s flank, I swept in from the left and grabbed his mug. I took a sniff. The contents were probably 75 percent whiskey and 25 percent coffee if I had to guess. Hale pulled a half-empty bottle of Jameson’s from under the counter, waving it in front of Tomas. Tomas struggled to focus on the bottle.

  “Who didn’t you see, Tomas?” I asked.

  “No one. Jake told me.”

  “Jake told you what? C’mon, Tomas.”

  In a way, I was glad I’d left Tomas alone. He didn’t strike me as a man of moral fortitude, and Irish whiskey had crumbled his last defenses.

  “I didn’t see anyone hurt Brian. Not anyone was in here. But the judge, I saw him.”

  “Where?”

  “Over around,” Tomas twirled his finger in a circle. “When I went for a walk to get away from the Brian and Lucas blowout. At the grocery.”

  I thought of the grocery that backed onto the bar’s back lot. Dave regularly cut through to save the seven seconds on his route to the bar.

  “I told the judge . . . I said . . . that Brian and Lucas sounded ready to bust up the joint. ‘Not to worry, young man!’” Tomas shouted, and then caught himself, switching to a loud whisper. “That’s what the judge said. He said the fight would be over by the time I got back from buying cigarettes.” Tomas held up two packs of American Spirits, one in each hand. “He gave me cash for these.”

  “How long were you gone, Tomas?”

  “I bought the cigarettes. And then I went up the next block, to check in with Mikey at the newsstand. Dan Jaleda was over there, picking up a paper and I asked him like maybe he had a job for me or something? But he said no, really rude like, and rushed off.” He shook his head. “He moved off the Island and forgot the people who knew him.”

  “And during that time, you didn’t hear anything?”

  Tomas looked confused. “What would I have heard?”

  “A weapon discharging?” Hale asked.

  “A what?”

  “A shotgun blast,” I said.

  Look, I went to those places, and I didn’t hear anything, and then I came right back and I found Brian all . . .” Tomas waved his hand as to encompass the bar and everything in it.

  Tomas babbled, but nothing he said added any information. I made a note to check with Stan at the newsstand about the timing of Dan Jaleda’s visit and sent Tomas over to the station so he could sober up and someone could take his statement. As he was loaded into the car, I went out front to hunt for Dave. He was gone.

  “Of course he ran off,” I said.

>   Hale and I started our trip to St. Peter’s Hospital in Albany to interview Dan Jaleda. It was slow going because of the police checkpoint that cut off both lanes of the bridge, impassable even with police lights and sirens. We called Chief Donnelly, filling him in on our building search and interview with Tomas. He had his own update. Neither Maxim nor Jake had shown up, and worse, Dan Jaleda had disappeared. Bernie thought he might have gone to search for Jake, but Deirdre was frantic.

  “He’s gone,” Chief Donnelly said.

  CHAPTER 28

  CLEAR.”

  The report came from a state trooper searching Jake’s house. Jake was nowhere to be found. We were almost at the checkpoint and were trying to decide whether to turn around and search the Island or head over the bridge and visit Maxim Medved’s office.

  “This place has been tossed. The judge’s house next door, too,” the trooper said. He said something else, but it was garbled. Dave had made our lives impossible. He was monitoring police radio channels, and we’d cobbled together a network of cell phones and FBI communication devices. After all the time she’d spent training us on radio protocol, Lorraine was probably weeping at her desk at having to play switchboard operator, connecting phone to phone.

  “I said,” the trooper repeated, “we need more manpower to search these sites as well as a third, where Batko’s car was parked.”

  “Dave’s?”

  “No, Lucas’s. His car was down by the Lawler place, close to the old boat landing. The information has been all over the place, but I got a report that he’s armed and dangerous.”

  “He might be,” I said. In the past I might have protested that Lucas was harmless, but not today. “Exert all deliberate caution.”

  “Copy,” he said, using the default radio lingo despite being on his phone.

  “WE’RE ALMOST AT THE BRIDGE,” HALE SAID. “WHICH WAY?”

  “Let’s go to Maxim Medved’s office.”

  We arrived at the judge’s office to find Jake’s Camaro in the lot parked right next to the side entrance. Hale parked against his back bumper, pinning Jake’s car to the building, and pulled himself out of the car in one fluid motion. He didn’t ask about the plan. “I’ll take the side and you take the front.”

  The hallway to the judge’s office was dark, the only light coming through the pebbled glass of his office door. I proceeded slowly, skimming the edge of the hallway, staying in shadow. Jake might very well have a rifle, and I wasn’t going to give him a clear shot at me if I could help it.

  Hale appeared at the far side of the door. His black suit blended into the dimness of the hallway, but his white shirt stood out in stark relief, a target if someone wanted to take a shot at him. He waved me over and we stood close, listening through the door to the judge’s secretary, Marlene, speaking to someone. Her words were indecipherable, but she paused, as if waiting for a response. I pressed closer, trying to make out the voice of Jake, the judge, anybody. Nothing.

  “Showtime,” Hale said. He twisted the doorknob sharply.

  “Shit,” he said. “Locked.”

  “Is someone there?” I heard Marlene call.

  “Police, Marlene,” I called. “June Lyons.”

  A fuzzy-haired shadow appeared on the other side of the door. She flipped three locks and we were faced with Marlene, her eyes red, Kleenex wadded in her hand.

  “You’re here about Brian,” she said.

  I poked my head into the reception area, but there was no sign of Jake or the judge. “Is the judge available?”

  The question set off fresh tears. “No. And I can’t reach him.”

  Marlene went back to her chair, her desk rattling as she opened the drawer for another Kleenex. “Such terrible news! The judge was so proud of Brian, both his nephew’s service to our country and his resilience! He bought Brian a truck, outfitted for the handicapped and last month the judge signed over the deed to the bar. More than anything, he wanted Brian to have a future.”

  “Wait,” I said, “I thought Jake owned the bar.”

  “He did, up to a few years ago.” Hale went to the judge’s door, head tilted, listening for motion inside, as Marlene chattered away. “But finances were tough after Brian came back, and Judge Medved, he wanted to be sure his nephew was taken care of. He bought the bar, and then two weeks ago gave—gave!—the bar back to Brian. It was practically a ceremony—Brian signing, the judge signing, and Jake and Brian’s Uncle Dan acting as witnesses.”

  I tried to signal Hale, see if he picked up what I picked up—Brian was given the deed to the bar right after Luisa was kidnapped and burned—but Hale’s attention was fixed on the judge’s office.

  “The judge considered Brian a son,” Marlene continued. “After Brian’s mother passed, the whole family rallied around Brian. His Uncle Dan—”

  Hale rammed the judge’s door, sending it bouncing against the wall, before flipping on the light switch.

  “I said he’s not here!” Marlene cried.

  I tried to calm her. “Jake’s the person we’re trying to find, really.”

  “By smashing in doors?!”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Hale said. “A shooting like this has us all on edge. We saw his car out front and thought he might be here.”

  “Jake asked me to swap cars. He stopped by to find his brother and discovered his car was low on gas. He didn’t want to run out on the way to the hospital.” The anger seemed to have snapped her out of her grief, tears stopping and voice calming. She reached under her desk and threw away the wad of tissues. “He didn’t need to worry. He had enough gas to make it to the hospital twice over.”

  Hale pulled out his phone. “What kind of car do you drive, ma’am?”

  “A Chevy Impala. Silver.”

  “And the plate number?”

  Marlene hesitated but gave Hale the number. Hale dialed his phone, reciting the make, model, and license number to his agents.

  I let her collect herself before asking the next question. “When was he here?”

  “Thirty minutes ago, right when I got back from the post office,” she said. “Jake was desperate to find the judge. Who could blame him?”

  “And where is the judge?” In the corner, Hale paused, listening to Marlene’s answer.

  “He was supposed to be at the Capital Club, having his weekly lunch for former judges. That’s what I told Jake.”

  Hale walked over to the typewriter, finger in his ear, giving the agents the address where they could find the judge.

  “But the judges didn’t go to the lunch today.”

  “Hold on,” I heard Hale say, pulling the phone away from his ear. Marlene had our full attention.

  “Where is the judge?” I asked.

  “He’s at Natalya Batko’s.”

  This was either the worst news or the best news I’d heard all day. We finally knew where he was—someplace Lucas would trip over him.

  “I only found out after I got back from the post office . . . I can’t believe I sent Jake on a wild goose chase.” Marlene teared up again. “He was so desperate to find his brother, tell him about Brian, and I got in the way. I called over to Natalya’s to track down the judge there, but no answer.” She picked up the phone, “I should try over there again. What if Brian dies before the judge can say good-bye?”

  “Hold on, Marlene,” I said. “We can go over and tell him ourselves in just a minute.”

  “But I can try Jake again,” she said. “I called his cell when I got the message from the judge, but what if he didn’t get my voicemail? He could be desperate.”

  “We’ll find him, too,” I said. “Now that we know what kind of car we’re looking for, we can give him a police escort to the hospital.”

  Hale ended his call. “Officer Lyons. A moment.”

  I walked over to where Hale stood next to the typewriter and said in a whisper, “Should we take this into the hall?”

  Hale shook his head and pulled out a piece of letterhead, heavy stock with a �
��BP” imprinted on the center. It was the same paper as the one with the map to Luisa’s house. I lifted up the box it came from, checking the labels. “Brouillette Paper Executive Elite Fine Bond.”

  “Can we take a few sheets of this?” I asked. I wanted to take the whole box, but I didn’t have a warrant, something that would change in the next sixty minutes.

  Marlene hesitated. “One sheet would be OK. It’s the judge’s favorite.”

  “Brouillette Paper stopped making paper ten years ago,” I said. I knew someone who could give me the exact date they stopped producing this particular stock.

  “That’s the last of it,” Marlene said. “We’re half-day now, and the judge says we’ll be closed within the year. No need to find a replacement between now and then,” she said, her pink lipstick cracking on her dry lips. “We’re all too old for this now.”

  WE PUT ON OUR FLASHERS AS WE MADE OUR WAY TOWARD THE bridge onto the Island. Even with the lights it was slow going—people wanted to get out of the way, but the cars were packed so tightly we were locked in. Hale and I worked the phone and the radio, alerting people to Jake’s possible whereabouts and vehicle, and trying to arrange for officers and agents to go to Natalya’s. It was tough to line people up—with law enforcement at the river’s edge, running traffic control, holding the scene at Jake’s, and keeping watch at the hospital, we lacked manpower, and with traffic backed up, it was hard to get more bodies onto the Island. We were accelerating away from the last blockade onto the Island when my phone rang. It was Dave.

  “June,” Dave said. He was panting. “I found Lucas and he’s safe and kinda sane, considering everything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if I found out the man I called Dad my whole life wasn’t my father, I’d be destroyed. But Lucas, he says it’s the one thing that makes the rest of his life make sense, helped him figure out why Mom hated him from the moment she set eyes on him.”

  I felt sad for Lucas that finding out why his mother never loved him gave him comfort. “What did Lucas say about the confrontation at the bar?”