Lethal People: A Donovan Creed Crime Novel

by John Locke

  The light turned green, and I eased along with the traffic until I got to the curb cut. “I’ve got to go,” I said.

  Sal said, “Wait! We got a deal on the contracts?”

  “I’ll give you one free contract,” I said. “You already made fifty Gs giving my name to that homicidal midget.”

  “Which one?”

  “You know more than one homicidal midget? Vic … tor,” I said, imitating my newest client.

  Sal laughed. “I met the little fuck. He’s got dreadlocks.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Long, nasty dreads, swear to Christ!”

  We hung up, and I parked my Avis rental in one of the visitor’s parking slots and asked the guys out front where I could find Chief Blaunert. They directed me to the kitchen area of the station house. I walked in and asked the one guy sitting there if he happened to be the fire chief.

  “Until October,” he said. “Then I’ll just be Bob, living on a houseboat in Seattle. You’re the insurance guy, right?”

  I nodded. “Donovan Creed, State Farm.”

  “Seattle’s cold this time of year,” he said, “but no worse than here. The wife has a brother, owns a marina up in Portage Bay near the university.”

  From under the table, he positioned his foot against the seat of the chair across from him. His brown leather shoes were well-worn, but the soles were new. By way of invitation, he gestured toward the chair and used his foot to push it far enough away from the table for me to sit down. “Ever been there?” he asked. “Portage Bay?”

  “Haven’t had the honor,” I said. I grabbed a Styrofoam cup from the stack near the sink and helped myself to some coffee from the machine.

  “Well, some don’t like the rain, I guess. But to us, it’s as close to paradise as we’re likely to get.” The old Formica table in front of him had probably started out a bright shade of yellow before decades of food and coffee stains took their toll. I sat in the chair he’d slid out for me and tasted my coffee. It was bitter and burnt, which seemed fitting for fire house coffee.

  “How’s the java?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t be polite to complain,” I said. “Of course, in seven months, you’ll have great coffee every day.”

  He winked and gave me a thumbs-up. “You know it,” he said. “Seattle’s got a lot of nicknames, but Coffee Town’s the one I use.” He savored the thought a moment. “Course they’ve got Starbucks and Seattle’s Best. You probably don’t know Tully’s, but that’s a great coffee.”

  We were both quiet a minute, two guys sipping bad coffee.

  “You have much fire experience, Mr. Creed? Reason I ask, we weren’t expecting an insurance investigator.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Not ever?”

  For the slightest moment, he seemed uneasy, but he adjusted quickly. “Not this soon, I meant.”

  Chief Blaunert didn’t look much like a fi re marshal. He looked more like the love child of Sherlock Holmes and Santa Claus. He had white hair, a full white beard, and thick glasses with large, round frames. He also had an engaging smile and wore a wrinkled brown tweed suit over a white shirt and knit tie. All that was missing was a pipe and the comment, “Elementary, my dear Creed.”

  Lou Kelly had set up the impromptu meeting while I picked up the rental car in West Manhattan. Lou had given Chief Blaunert my State Farm cover story, and Blaunert put Lou on hold a long time before agreeing to meet me. He said he was doing a field inspection at the Pine Road Station, but if I hurried, I could speak to him before the meeting. Finding him wearing a suit instead of his uniform, I doubted he was conducting an inspection. At the moment, I noticed he was eyeing me carefully.

  “I’m more of a grunt than an arson investigator,” I said. “I interview the firemen, the neighbors, check the site. In the end, I tell the company if I think a fire’s accidental. Of course, even if I think it is, they’ll still want to send a forensic accountant to check the insured’s books, see if there’s any financial motive.”

  Chief Blaunert nodded. “I wish I could save you the trouble,” he said, “but I know your company’s going to want a full report. Still, you can take my word for it—this fire was definitely an accident.”

  “You checked it out yourself?”

  “Had to, the media was all over it. Pitiful tragedy,” he said. “The whole family dead, all but one child, and she was burned beyond recognition.”

  “No motive you’re aware of?”

  Chief Blaunert’s face reddened. “Motive? You tell me the motive! What, they’re trying to screw your company out of a few hundred grand? They won the whole damned New York Lottery a few months back, ten million dollars!” He seemed genuinely upset by my question. “You think they’re going to torch their own home, kill their own kids?”

  “No, sir, I don’t,” I said. “Truth be told, I’m just going through the motions. I’ll need to see the first firefighters on the scene, ask them a couple questions. I assume they’re here, this being the station that took the call.”

  He stared at me until his anger subsided. When he finally spoke, his voice was clear and steady. “Yellow flame, gray smoke,” he said. “No suspicious people at the scene. No open windows. No sign of forced entry. No doors locked, no rooms blocked. Single point of origin, basement. No accelerants.”

  “You definitely know the drill.”

  “Ought to; I been doing it my whole life. You want, I can give you a couple names. You can say you interviewed ’em, take a quick peek at the scene, snap a few shots, and be back in Bloomington by dinner time.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said. “I’ll have to interview one or two neighbors, though.” He nodded, and I handed him the pen and spiral notebook I’d bought for the occasion. I’d also bought the camera sitting on the front seat of the rental car in case one of the firemen wanted to accompany me to the scene. Chief Blaunert wrote some names in the notebook.

  “Three enough?”

  “That should do it.”

  He tore out a clean sheet from the notebook and wrote down my name. “Got a cell number?”

  I gave it to him and thought about Sal’s warning. I could see where this was going.

  “Need an escort over there?”

  “Naw, it’s only a few blocks,” I said. “I’ll get out of here and let you get on with your inspection.” I stood up, reached over to shake his hand. He hesitated, deciding whether to say something else.

  “As to the neighbors,” he said, “my guys were on the scene in four minutes twenty after the call was logged. You can check it out: four twenty.” He stared at me through serious eyes.

  “That’s really quick,” I said, just to fill the silence.

  “It was after midnight,” he said, “darker than a closet in a coal mine. We set up a perimeter, pushed the neighbors back pretty far. They won’t be able to tell you anything different that’s reliable.”

  “Chief, no worries. We’re going to pay this claim. That little girl’s been through enough. Meanwhile, you’ve saved me some time and trouble, and I appreciate it.” I smiled, and this time he shook my hand. “See you in Seattle, chief!”

  “That’s where I’ll be,” he said. “Up by Portage Bay.”

  “Drinking coffee with the wife,” I said.

  He smiled and gave me another thumbs-up. “You got it.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Greg and Melanie’s burnt-out home was one neighborhood removed from the posh Upper Montclair Country Club. These were two-story, upper-middle-class homes with basements, brick exteriors, and asphalt shingle roofs. I’m no expert, but I’d price them around seven fifty, maybe eight hundred thousand.

  I got out of the car and locked it with the remote. Before heading to the house and without staring at anything in particular, I scanned the area and didn’t like what I saw out of the corner of my eye: a 2006 Metallic Blue Honda Civic Coupe parked where one hadn’t been parked a few seconds earlier. I suddenly spun around, pretending to have forgotten something in t
he trunk. This didn’t require an Oscar-winning performance on my part, since I had a small-frame Smith & Wesson 642 hidden in the wheel well.

  As I opened the trunk and retrieved the handgun, I noticed the Honda moving toward me. Though the sun was reflecting off the windshield, I was able to see that the driver was a woman.

  The Honda came to a stop about ten feet in front of mine, which meant it was positioned where I couldn’t see anything without exposing at least part of my face from behind the raised hood of my trunk. I put the gun in my right hand and waited. Could DeMeo have sent a woman to do the job? I wracked my brain. Were there any women in the business brazen enough to drive right up to me in broad daylight and make an attempt on my life? Callie, maybe, but she was on my team. No one else came to mind.

  Suddenly, I heard the car door open, and every synapse in my brain became locked and loaded for deadly confrontation. I waited for footsteps, thinking, yeah, DeMeo could have sent a woman. But while there were dozens of contract killers who might come straight at a guy, Joe DeMeo knows me, knows what I’m capable of. Would DeMeo send just one person to do the hit?

  No way.

  Which meant there was probably someone else working their way behind me, getting into position to make the kill shot.

  Which meant I should turn my head and see what was happening behind me. Unfortunately, just as I was about to do that, I heard her step out of the car, heard her footsteps coming my way. I didn’t dare look behind me and didn’t dare not to. The way things were developing, I didn’t like my chances.

  She walked purposefully, coming straight at me, but so far no one had tried to shoot me from behind. A number of thoughts flooded my brain, forcing me to make split-second decisions. I was going to have to rely on skill sets and survival instincts honed over fifteen years of daily application.

  She was in the vicinity of my right front bumper, which would normally cause me to move to my left. But no, that’s what they’d expect me to do. It’s what they’d be counting on.

  But I’d already looked in that direction and hadn’t seen anything to worry about. What was I missing? What was to the left of me that could possibly pose a threat?

  The house.

  Someone was probably inside the house, waiting to get a clear shot. She comes from the right, I move to my left, and bang.

  White shirt time.

  I waited another second until she was nearly on top of me, then ducked down and moved to my right and peered out from behind the rear bumper—then did a double-take.

  It was Kathleen Gray.

  “Donovan, what the hell are you up to?” she said, giving me just enough time to drop the gun into the trunk without her noticing. It would take a few seconds to gather myself and get my pulse back to normal. I took a deep breath and stood up.

  “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she had to walk into mine,” I said.

  She didn’t fall for the misdirection. “Is that a gun in your trunk? Jesus, Donovan! Really, what are you up to?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I got a call from my friend at the burn center. Addie’s Aunt told her you were coming to look at the house. By the time I got Hazel on the phone, she was seconds away from calling the police! I told her she must have misunderstood your conversation, yet here you are.”

  “Relax. I’m just checking the scene.”

  “Excuse me? What are you, some kind of closet detective? What is it you’re looking for?”

  “Arson.”

  That threw her for a moment, made her pause. I said, “I spoke to Hazel because I wanted to see if anyone had set up a fund for Addie. I wanted to make a contribution.”

  “Imagine your surprise when you learned her family won the lottery.”

  “Yes, but then I found out the payments ended when her parents died, and now Hazel has changed her mind about adopting Addie.”

  “What does all this have to do with arson?”

  I lowered my voice and looked around to make sure no one else was lurking about. “It’s probably nothing,” I said. “But I know a guy who buys structured settlements. Then he kills the annuitant and keeps the money.”

  She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “That sounds like a bad movie script,” she said.

  “Uh huh.”

  She shook her head. “Look, I know you’re some kind of muckymuck from the State Department or the CIA or Homeland Security or whatever. But this is Montclair, New Jersey, not Gotham City.”

  I said nothing.

  “You said you know this is happening. How do you know it’s true?”

  “A couple of years ago, this same guy tried to hire me to do the killing.”

  She looked startled for a moment. Then she burst into laughter. “Fine, so don’t tell me. Jesus, Donovan. You are so full of shit!”

  She was wearing a burgundy patent tweed coat that showed her legs from the knees down. She had on textured panty hose that looked hotter than they sound, with burgundy ankle boots.

  I said, “You heading back to work now?”

  “What, and miss the big caper?”

  I scanned the area around us again, knowing my time was running short. It wouldn’t be long before Chief Blaunert called Joe DeMeo, who might very well dispatch some thugs to kill me. I had to get Kathleen out of there, and quickly.

  “You got any idea what soot will do to those boots?” I said.

  “God, Donovan, you must date the girliest girls! I’ll just find a clean spot in there and watch you poke around, trying to impress me. Then you can take me to lunch.”

  “Look,” I said, “I’ll make you a deal. You pick out a busy restaurant and go there now. I’ll get this done in twenty minutes and meet you there.”

  She looked at me for what seemed like a long time before glancing at the house.

  “Look at all the flowers and stuffed animals by the porch,” she said. “That’s so sad.” She paused a moment, thinking about it. “I know it’s only been a few weeks, but she’s so adorable. If anyone on earth deserves a mother’s love, it’s Addie.”

  I nodded. “Pick a booth if they have one, and make sure my seat has a view of the main road.”

  “Are you for real?”

  “I am. And make sure I can see the restrooms and the kitchen from my side of the booth.”

  She hesitated. For a second, I was afraid I’d frightened her. Then she shrugged and said, “You’re a lot of work, you know that?”

  “I do.”

  “Promise you’ll show?”

  I did.

  She named a restaurant and told me how to get there. She started to go, then spun back around, smiled a mischievous smile. “Kiss me,” she said.

  I felt myself smile. “Okay, but not a movie kiss,” I said.

  I watched her drive away and kept watching to make sure no one followed her. Then I inspected the house. Most of the exterior walls were in place, but the interior had been decimated. I couldn’t get down to the basement or up to the second floor, but sections of the second floor had fallen into the master bedroom. It took me less than ten minutes to figure out what had happened and how, but I interviewed one of the neighbors anyway.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Okay, so the attic window was open,” Kathleen said. “What does that prove?”

  We were in Nellie’s Diner. Nellie’s was my kind of place, though worlds apart from the Four Seasons. The outside looked like the club car on a passenger train. Inside made you feel like you’d taken a step back into the fifties. I hadn’t been alive in the fifties, but Nellie’s was how I imagined the restaurants of the day: gleaming places filled with chrome. Vinyl booths, easy-to-clean laminate tables and countertops, and smiling, clean-cut waiters dressed in white shirts, black bow ties, and white paper hats. On the tables: plasticized menus propped against mini jukeboxes that showcased rock ’n’ roll music. Menu fare included fried onion rings, baked beans, corn bread, patty melts, club sandwiches, pork chops, pot roast, chicken pot pie, s
paghetti with meatballs, and fried chicken. Drinks included cherry and vanilla Cokes, root beer fl oats, and old-fashioned milk shakes. On the bar counter under glass covers were displayed chocolate fudge brownies, chocolate chip cookies, and cherry, lemon meringue, and coconut pies. Each of the pies had at least one slice missing so the customers could see what was inside. The waiter took our orders, and I told Kathleen, “Wait a sec,” so I could hear him tell the cook. She rolled her eyes.