A Question of Fire

by Karen McCullough

  "By Thursday night," she continued, "two more people, and only two more, knew what Bobby had said: you and Hammond. Yet, by Friday morning, somebody had searched Bobby's work area and went to considerable trouble to look in the air vent. It's not totally conclusive, but the odds were high that either you or Hammond had tipped those people where to look. At the risk of inflating your ego, I didn't rate it likely you would be working against your own client. Anyway, I was already suspicious of Hammond."

  "Why?"

  "This isn't as logical," she admitted, "but he always seemed to be conveniently on the scene when I needed rescuing. The first time might have been coincidence, but twice in two days stretched it pretty far."

  "Twice?" he asked.

  Cathy told him about the kidnapping she hadn't reported. "I was pretty stupid to believe him that way," she concluded. "But he was right, there weren't any leads for the police to follow. Unless I'd had sense enough to sic them onto good old conveniently-on-the-spot Hammond himself. I wish I had."

  Peter shrugged. "From your point of view, it must have looked like a reasonable decision. The man had just saved your neck for the second time. Most women would have melted in his arms."

  "The charming, opportunistic bastard set up those attempts on my life so he could be around to rescue the wimpy woman, hoping she'd melt into his arms afterward and spill everything he wanted to hear. It worked, too. I just didn't happen to have the information he wanted. When he finally figured that out, he disappeared fast. I wish I'd put it all together a little sooner."

  "Wimpy isn't the word I'd use," Peter said. "And it can take time to get the right perspective on a situation. What do we do about him?"

  She shrugged. "What can we do? Try to run down a guy whose name might or might not be Hammond, who says he's a private investigator, but isn't, who drives a car he says was rented, who's checked out of the hotel, paying cash, and left no forwarding address? Let's get real." She saw again in her mind the beautiful lines of the man's face. "I won't forget him though, and I doubt I’ve seen the last of him."

  "No." Peter abruptly changed the subject again. "I took the bag you found to the police lab. There was only one set of fingerprints on it. Yours, presumably. It might interest you to know that bag has a street value of about two thousand dollars."

  She whistled. "An expensive plot. If I'd known, I would have limped even more when I was walking around on it."

  He laughed.

  "Did I tell you I almost threw it out the window?" she asked.

  "No. Before the police stopped you?"

  "Right before. It was the sight of the strobes in the rearview mirror that kept me from doing it. But I can't help thinking someone would have had an interesting surprise in the morning. Or maybe a dog or a squirrel would have gotten to it first. Can you picture the poor, strung-out squirrel who thought he'd found a really high-test acorn?"

  Peter looked at her oddly. "You've got a weird sense of humor."

  "I know. It's one of my more endearing traits."

  "Try this one then. Suppose the bag had landed in someone's chicken coop?"

  "Loaded chickens?" Cathy asked.

  "Think about the eggs they'd lay."

  "A new high in breakfast treats."

  "Ouch," was all Peter said. He pulled the car into the parking lot of the Pizza Palace. Danny followed.

  Seated at a quiet corner table, Peter picked up a menu and sighed elaborately over it. A waiter showed up shortly. "Ready to order?" he asked.

  Peter asked for a salad while Cathy and Danny argued over toppings on the pizza they planned to share. Peter finally intervened to mediate the dispute and asked for pepperoni on one half and mushrooms on the other. He winced when they both ordered Cokes, too.

  Danny stared at him, puzzled by Peter's order and his comments about the food.

  "He doesn't approve of the way we eat," Cathy explained.

  "I figured that," Danny said. "What's wrong with it?"

  "Empty calories and cholesterol," Peter replied. "You're ruining your bodies. You may be young enough to get away with it, Danny, but Miss Bennett really ought to be more careful."

  "Miss Bennett looks all right to me," Danny said, eyeing her.

  "It doesn't ruin your looks, at least not right away," Peter warned. "It ruins your insides. The sugar eats your teeth and probably your brain, too; the fat collects in your arteries and clogs them."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really. You'll have a heart attack or a stroke someday."

  Danny was too young to believe in his own mortality. He said, "Oh," having clearly decided he needn't worry about the threat just yet.

  Peter saw Cathy frowning at him and misread the cause. "Lecture over," he promised. "Enjoy your lunch."

  The waiter approached with their drinks.

  Peter had decided they wouldn't discuss business over lunch, and as Cathy had noted before, he could guide a conversation quite skillfully when he chose. She never remembered how they ended up discussing baseball, but it was a good choice. She'd played softball in school, and had rooted younger brothers through innumerable Little League games. She'd developed a lasting fondness for the game in all its various manifestations and even occasionally watched it on television.

  Danny was a member of a men's softball team fielded by the dealership he worked for. They spent time discussing the fortunes, or more accurately, the misfortunes, of his team.

  "What position do you play?" Cathy asked him.

  "Second base or shortstop. Course, I've missed a few games now. The guys said they missed me, but we didn't play all that great even when I was there. Our pitcher'd rather be playing third base, but he's all we've got."

  "Funny," Peter said. "I got roped into being a pitcher on my college baseball team because one of the starting pitchers decided he'd rather be doing something else, too. This kid was six-five and a string-bean during freshman year, then, over the next summer, he put on thirty pounds. The football coach did a double-take when he saw him and followed him around campus for a week until he'd convinced him he really wanted to play football. He wasn't a great pitcher anyway. Hey, don't look at me like that. I wasn't much of a pitcher either."

  "I know a softball team could use even a not-great pitcher," Danny said.

  "My schedule's full for the next few weeks."

  The pizza was delicious as Cathy knew it would be. She didn't quite finish her half of it, but Danny had a teenager's capacity to eat more food than his thin frame should have accommodated, and he didn't let the mushrooms intimidate him.

  It wasn't until they were standing in the parking lot saying goodbye that she remembered her earlier misgivings when Peter had told her he'd invited the boy along. She'd thoroughly enjoyed the lunch anyway. Danny's goodbyes were warmer than his earlier greeting but still lacked something. When she figured it out, the realization disturbed her—she'd never seen Danny smile.

  While riding back to his office with Peter, she asked him what he planned to do about his J. Townsends.

  "I thought I'd try to see them tonight after work. I'm afraid if I use the phone and catch the right one, he'll get alarmed and disappear before I can talk to him. If you can get the time off, do you want to come along?"

  "I don't know, Thursday is a busy day. I have my dinner hour, of course. Can we make it then? I'd like to go along. I'll call you later this afternoon; I still want to check the directory."

  That particular Thursday proved worse than usual. Two people were out sick, which had everyone else scrambling to cover. She couldn't spare a minute to check the city directory until four o'clock. She called Peter when she found it. "You want to give me those addresses and I'll look them up?"

  Peter read them to her. The first turned out to be the residence of one James Wilson Townsend; the second was a Nursing Home.

  "A Nursing Home?" he said, consternation in his voice. "Tell me you're joking."

  "Sorry, Peter. Wait a minute, let me see if there are any other listings f
or a Townsend in here. He may have an unlisted number, or no phone at all... Hey! Here it is: Joseph Denwit Townsend, 2444-C Sunrise Hills Road. Got that?"

  "Got it. What time do you get off for dinner?"

  "Whenever it's convenient. Name your time. But things are tight around here; if I take more than an hour, someone's likely to scream. It may be me when they put me on the rack."

  "Six-thirty, then."

  -19-

  Thursday - Friday

  Chaos reigned at the newspaper office. By the time Peter arrived, Cathy was desperately eager to get away for a while. He hadn't changed clothes after work but had removed his jacket and tie.

  "I called the nursing home to check on their J. Townsend, just in case," he told her when they were in the car and on the away to Sunrise Hills Road. "He's eighty-six and has Alzheimer's disease."

  "That narrows the list."

  "To one," Peter agreed.

  2444-C Sunrise Hills Road was one of a small strip of apartments hovering between low-rent respectability and seediness. The woman who answered their knock was about forty-five, ripely overweight, and had henna-rinsed brown hair.

  "Mrs. Townsend?" Peter asked.

  She nodded and stared at them suspiciously as Peter introduced himself and Cathy. Her eyes scanned the front of the building before acknowledging the introduction. She didn't invite them to enter.

  "Is your husband at home?" Peter asked.

  "Ain't here," she replied. "Ain't seen him for three days. Whatcha want him for?"

  "We need to talk to him," he answered. "It's very important. Do you have any way of getting in touch with him?"

  "No." She was lying and not even trying to do a very good job of it. Cathy wanted to attribute the realization to her finely-honed reporter's instincts, but she could tell Peter also knew.

  He watched the woman through narrowed eyes, then reached down and pulled his wallet out of his pocket, took a business card and handed it to her. "Here's the number where I can be reached," he said. "Tell your husband I'll make it worth his time and effort to talk with me."

  Interest brightened the woman's eyes. She looked down at the card and back at them. "If I hear from Joe, I'll give him your message."

  "Thank you," Peter said as she shut the door on them.

  "Well, that's that," he commented as they walked back to the car. "We wait again." He looked at his watch. "You've still got forty-five minutes. Are you hungry?"

  "Not really. The pizza hung around a while."

  "Coffee, then? And one of Marilyn's cinnamon rolls?"

  "Sold. But I thought you didn't eat sugary stuff like that?"

  "Marilyn's pastries are one of the few indulgences I allow myself."

  The shop was half-full, but Marilyn still found time to offer an enthusiastic greeting. She included Cathy in her exuberance, but that might just be a side effect of her association with Peter. Whatever the cause, it worked with the wonderful smells of cinnamon, baking bread, and fresh coffee that filled the place to relax and warm Cathy. They gave Marilyn their order and sat down.

  "Work pretty bad?" Peter asked. "You looked frazzled."

  "It's a zoo. We're all scrambling."

  "You've spent the last few nights rescuing bad situations and covering for people."

  Cathy thought about it for a moment. "Last night it, was you; a couple of nights ago, Danny; tonight, it's the staff. I may call in sick tomorrow."

  "Just so long as it isn't the truth."

  "What?"

  Peter sighed. "So much for subtlety. I guess there wasn't any tactful way to do this. I'm trying to warn you to be careful. Danny's been hurt, someone tried to disgrace me; you're the next obvious target. I'm worried about you. I know you're used to wandering around at night, but please be extra careful right now."

  "They've already kidnapped me to find out what I know," she pointed out. "And apparently were convinced I told them the truth."

  "I know," Peter said, "but I'll bet they also know you haven't given up looking. Their main fear now is that we may stumble across something."

  "I'm not completely defenseless," Cathy told him. "There's this, for instance." She opened her purse and pulled out the can of pepper spray.

  "Good. Keep it close at hand," he advised.

  "I do. And I realized last night I might still be in danger. It was one of the reasons I stayed rather than going home. Believe me, I intend to be careful." She stopped and twisted a ring on her right hand. "Peter, about last night… How much of it do you remember now?"

  "Most of it, I think. Why?"

  "Because I asked you a question, and you said you'd answer it, but it wasn't the time or place."

  "I remember." He looked down at the table where he was tracing patterns with his finger in the condensation from his water glass. His face wore the dark, brooding look, much as it had the previous weekend when she'd asked him a similar question and he'd answered, but refused to say any more on the subject. She was afraid he might do the same thing again. He didn't, but when he started to speak, it was slow and measured, as though each phrase had to be forced out individually.

  "I married Sharon while I was in Law School," he explained "She was an undergraduate at the time, pretty, lively, very sexy. I was dazzled by her. I don't know what she saw in me, but with hindsight I don't think it was me. I was considering a career in politics at the time, and I think that excited her. She saw herself in the role of the candidate's wife. Maybe, I don't know." He shook his head, perplexed. His green eyes were deeply shadowed.

  "Things were fine for the first few years, but once I was out of school and starting to practice law, it went downhill fast. I became involved in criminal law and discovered I really enjoyed it. Sharon was waiting for me to get started in politics, but I kept putting it off. I was also spending more time on work and less on her, and she resented it. I don't really blame her, I should've paid more attention to her, but, by then, I'd discovered we really had very little in common. When we went out, we had practically nothing to talk about.

  "I guess it was Sharon's idea that having a child might bring us closer. She was right, too, in a way." He smiled at the memory. "It was difficult at first, though. I was terrified. I remember holding my daughter for the first time, and all I could think was that I was twenty-six years old, and this tiny human being was totally dependant on me, and I wasn't ready for the responsibility."

  Marilyn brought their rolls and coffee, but seeing how deeply involved they were in their conversation, she didn't say anything. Cathy and Peter both picked up their pastries and started to eat, but neither paid much attention to the process.

  "We adjusted," he continued, shrugging. "Melissa wasn't a difficult child. She was a delight, in fact." He reached for his cup and clenched his fingers around the handle. "For a while, Sharon was happy because I was spending more time at home. It was an illusion, though; we both loved Melissa and that brought us together. But there wasn't much left between the two of us.

  "Sharon got bored staying at home, so when Melissa was four, I suggested she look for a job. She did and found something she really enjoyed. I didn't know at the time that she was also enjoying the relationship with her new boss. I didn't even suspect, until a year later when she suddenly announced she wanted a divorce. That was when she told me about him, that he was being transferred to the company's office in Texas, and she planned to go with him and marry him as soon as the divorce was final. She intended to take Melissa with her."

  Peter looked down at the table so that Cathy couldn't see his face. "It felt like my whole life collapsed that day. And I knew it was mostly my own fault, too. If I'd worked harder at pleasing Sharon, taken more time with her, maybe tried to do the things she wanted, it wouldn't have happened. I didn't contest the divorce or her request for custody of Melissa. Sharon is a good mother and Melissa is happy with her. Perhaps the most devastating thing of all for me, though, was to realize that I missed Melissa a lot more than I missed Sharon."

  H
e stopped, picked up his coffee cup and took a long drink, holding it with both hands. His eyes were bleak, the bright green color faded into shadows. Cathy watched him silently; sympathy twisting her insides, but she could find nothing to say. He finally pulled himself out of it with a visible effort. "I've had very little—as little as possible—to do with women since then. Whether through anger or resentment or fear, or maybe all of those, I just didn't want to be involved with anyone female. Until you marched into my office and insisted on telling me how to do my job." He grinned suddenly and the effect was like seeing the sun pour through the clouds on a rainy day.

  "I did not," she said. "Did I?"

  "Actually, you did. But I don't think you meant it quite the way it came out at the time."

  "Oh."

  "Don't let it worry you; I'm glad you did. Getting to know you, I've learned how unfair I've been in seeing Sharon's faults in every woman I look at. You're different from her. I can't imagine Sharon handling last night as coolly as you did; I can't imagine her handling it at all. She would have let someone else take care of the situation."

  Cathy wasn't sure how to take his assessment of herself. It was flattering certainly, and praise was always welcome, but it wasn't what she wanted to hear from him. Well, it was; she was glad he didn't think her stupid, or incompetent, or irresponsible. But it wasn't all she wanted to hear. What about the personal things? Did he find her attractive? Or interesting? Did he like her? Did he...

  She caught herself sharply, telling herself she was a damned idiot. How often had she brooded on the dangers of falling for the man? And she was doing it anyway. She deserved whatever she got. And she'd probably get plenty of heartache and unhappiness before it was over.

  They finished and paid the bill; it was nearly time for her to be back at work. Peter didn't say much in the car, but the silence was easy and comfortable. He drove to the employee's entrance and stopped the car. Before she opened the door, he said, "Cathy."