by Burton, Mary
“The police don’t have any evidence that he set the fire. Our judicial system is a little fussy about that.”
“I don’t need proof to make my case.”
The underlying threat was clear, but she did not challenge it. “Did you know Lana Long?”
“Sure. Nice gal. Came in here from time to time.”
She tore open the sugar packet and slowly poured it into her cup. “Did she date anyone that you know of?”
“I don’t track the love lives of my customers.”
Joan cocked her head. “Dan, you pay attention to everything.”
He shrugged and pulled the dish towel tossed over his shoulder to wipe his hands. “Lana came in last week. It was a slow time of day.”
“And?”
“She was dressed in tight jeans and had her hair done up. She was a handsome woman and didn’t mind showing off her goods.”
“And?”
“Ordered pancakes. Said she was celebrating, according to Nora.”
“Nora?”
“Nora O’Neil. The waitress serving Lana’s table.”
“What did Lana tell Nora?”
“She said she was getting married.”
“I don’t suppose there was a name attached to that statement?”
“Nora asked, but Lana didn’t say. Nora said she was sporting a big engagement ring on her ring finger.”
“When was this?”
“Last week. Friday, maybe.”
There had been no mention of a ring on Lana’s body. “But she didn’t say who gave it to her?”
“Whoever it was had money.” He sniffed. “You should ask Darren.”
“Darren Halpern. He owns the beauty shop with his wife.”
“That’s right.”
“Why Darren?”
“He joined Lana at her booth table just as she was finishing up. They chatted. Looked like a boss talking to an employee. Aboveboard.”
“Was it?”
He shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him.”
Joan leaned forward, catching a lingering scent of bacon on his white T-shirt. “Between us girls, Dan, how’s the Halperns’ marriage?”
“It’s seen better times. They’ve shared a few silent and stony breakfasts.”
“Lana’s name ever come up in conjunction with either of them?”
“Not in front of me.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you think she had something to do with the fire?”
“I have no idea.” Lana died in the fire and had been connected to the Halpern couple. Had she been having an affair with Darren? A fire would be the perfect way to take care of financial issues and a mistress making trouble. “Can I get the Mountain High Pancakes?”
His grin did not reach his eyes. “You think you can handle them?”
“I know I can.”
His easy expression hardened. “You’re smart, and Gideon does a fine job of keeping the peace, but if you two don’t get to the bottom of that fire tout suite, someone just might go after Elijah.”
“Tell someone to hold off for a few days.”
He studied her a beat and then tapped the counter with his fingers. “I’ll get those pancakes.”
Hardly a ringing acceptance, but it was the best she could hope for. She knew her brokered truce with him would not last long.
She ate the pancakes once they came, proud to leave Dan a clean plate. But when she reached for her wallet, he insisted her money was no good in his establishment. She thanked him and headed directly to the Halperns’ office on State Street.
The brick building was a plain one-story structure with no distinguishable features. It looked as if it had been built fifty years ago and was in need of a major renovation. In Montana, real estate was at a premium, and she bet it was still expensive to rent.
She pushed through the front door and walked up to an empty receptionist station and waited a few seconds before knocking on the desk. “Anyone here?”
In the back, she heard papers shuffle, so she followed the sound to a small room in the back where a man knelt by a copier. He had opened the machine’s front access door and was yanking on sheets of crumpled paper jammed inside.
Joan knocked on the doorjamb. “I’m looking for Darren Halpern.”
The man glanced over his shoulder. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a face weathered by the sun, and bright-green eyes that peered over a pair of reading glasses. “I’m Darren.”
She reached for her police ID out of habit but caught herself. “My name is Joan Mason.”
He rubbed the back of his hand against his damp forehead. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m a cop and in town for a few days. I know a few things about arson, and I’m assisting Detective Bailey.”
He placed a hand on his knee and, as he rose, stifled a groan. “I’ve driven by the shop. It’s awful.”
“What’s with the knee? Looks like it hurts.”
“Twisted it while I was hiking a few weeks ago. I always underestimate the terrain out here.”
“It’s beautiful country, but it does take its toll.”
Darren was not swayed by her less-than-stellar attempt at small talk. “What do you want from me?”
“What can you tell me about Lana Long?”
“I didn’t usually see much of her when I came by the shop.”
“How many businesses do you and your wife own?”
“The beauty shop and a dozen houses in town that we’re renovating.”
“Are they doing well?”
“Yeah, sure. The beauty shop had great cash flow and was supposed to keep us afloat until the rental properties came online. Ask Becca Sullivan. She should have our bank statements now.”
“When were these properties going to be available for rent?”
“Three months, four at the latest.”
“Were you highly leveraged?”
Halpern shook his head. “Sounds like I should have a lawyer with me.”
Instead of pressing, Joan shifted her line of questioning. “I’m trying to track down Lana Long,” she lied. “Someone said she might be holed up with her boyfriend.”
“I didn’t realize she had a boyfriend, but I didn’t know her that well.”
“Apparently, she was sporting an engagement ring at the diner late last week. Dan Tucker said you two shared a booth.”
“She texted Jessica and wanted to meet.”
“But you met her?”
“My wife was packing for our trip to Chicago.”
“What did Lana want to talk about?”
“She was quitting her job and heading back to Denver.”
“Did you notice her ring?”
“I did not. She kept her hands in her lap, I think.”
Darren’s face projected a mixture of boredom and annoyance, but she could not tell if the reaction was genuine. “How much do you and your wife stand to make from the insurance company when the claim is settled?”
“You’ll have to ask my wife. She handles all the finances. I handle the renovations.”
“Would she tell you if there was a financial problem with the company?”
“There wasn’t a problem.” He tapped his index finger on the copier as his expression tightened. “I’m not answering any more questions without a lawyer.”
As she turned to leave, she paused at the door and looked back at him. “You know what strikes me about Lana?”
“No, what?”
“She looks like a younger version of your wife.”
“Get out,” Darren said through clenched teeth. “Or I’m calling the cops.”
She had hit a nerve. Good.
An express package was waiting for Gideon when he returned to his desk. It was from the warden of Montana State Prison. He shrugged off his jacket, hung it over the back of his chair, and sat. He ripped open the tab and removed the thin bundle of copied letters that had been written to Elijah James Weston, prisoner #2317104. There were letters from five women.
The warden i
ndicated that Elijah had received many more letters in the last decade, but these were the only ones in Elijah’s file. His staff was searching for the remaining letters.
Gideon knew the letters would never be found. The warden had said Elijah had worked in his office during his last year in prison. He likely had removed the letters.
The warden also indicated that because of Elijah’s excellent record within the prison, he had been allowed six contact visits a year. These visits allowed the prisoner to hug or shake hands with the visitor and to sit across from each other at a table, not separated by glass. The women who visited Elijah Weston were Scottie Winter in 2014, Sarah Rogers in 2019, and Lana Long, who had visited him six times in 2020.
According to the warden, all the women were required to submit a questionnaire detailing not only basic facts about their lives but also if they had prison records. All Weston’s visitors had been incarcerated at one point in their lives. Infractions included prostitution, identity theft, and narcotics possession.
There was nothing of real note in any of the letters. Given the strict guidelines of the prison, the letters simply detailed their day-to-day lives. On several occasions, the women would send books to Elijah via a mail-order book service. All the women except Joan were on Elijah’s preapproved visitor list and were able to send him money via the prison systems.
Gideon set Joan’s letters on top of the pile and studied her bold cursive handwriting. She had asked him several times in different ways why he had set the College Fire, but each time he had vehemently denied it. Finally, she had stopped asking, as if she hoped he would reveal his motivations. Elijah had never revealed anything significant about himself, and yet she had continued to write him right up to this year. Her last letter read:
Elijah,
It’s been a few months. What can I say? Work’s been crazy. I have a tough case on my docket. I am digging into case facts and motivations, but it seems the deeper I go, the more I come up empty. I want to solve this case badly, but as a friend of mine once said, “There are no guarantees in life,” and that includes finding the answers that explain painful events.
Excuse this grim, short letter. Perhaps my next one will be more upbeat when I am less reflective.
Sincerely,
Joan Mason
He glanced at the date. The letter had been written on February 7, 2020. He shifted to his computer and searched Avery Newport’s name. Newport’s house had burned down February 1, and Joan would have been in the early and, most would argue, ugliest stage of the investigation.
He pictured her sitting alone writing this letter. Was she pouring out her frustration to a man thousands of miles away and locked in prison? It didn’t sound like she was working him as an asset at this point.
A knock on his door had him looking up to find Detective Sullivan. “Got a second? I have some of the Halperns’ financials.”
Gideon rose, and when she took the seat by his desk, he sat again. “Are they in debt?”
“Technically no. But they own several properties around the city that they’re renovating. Right now, they’re seeing negative cash flow, but by the first of the year, that should turn around.”
“But . . .”
“They have a balloon payment due on the Beau-T-Shop building in December. That’s going to be a tough payment for them to make unless they have a secret stash of cash that the IRS doesn’t know about.”
“If the insurance policy Jessica took out in February of 2020 pays out, they would be flush with legitimate cash.”
“To the tune of two million dollars.”
When Gideon saw Joan pull up in his driveway, he was somewhat surprised. She had said she wanted a hotel, but after a day of checking around, she’d likely realized it would cost a fortune. With the leaves turning and the air now crisp and clean, Missoula was inundated with tourists willing to pay high hotel rates.
“Is that Joan?” Kyle asked.
Gideon pushed away from the laptop he had placed on the dining room table next to Kyle and his homework. “It is.”
“She’s come to stay in the apartment?”
“I think so.” If she was a target, Gideon liked the idea of having her near. He already knew he would be sleeping with one eye open until she left town.
“Is she going to eat with us?” Kyle asked. “It seems like the polite thing to do.”
“Yes, it does.” He watched Joan hoist her backpack on her shoulder and run her fingers through her short hair. It had been longer in college, soft as silk, and as thick as a horse’s mane. He had liked the way it skimmed the top of her breasts when she was on top of him.
He shoved the memory aside, recalling that her hair had been scorched in the College Fire and that she had cropped it short. Why she had kept it that way over the years, he did not know, but it seemed to suit the person she was now.
Her head bowed, she glanced at her phone and then walked up to the front door. Kyle moved past him, opening it just as she’d rung the bell.
When she looked at Kyle, Gideon sensed she was again searching for signs of Helen. He was not sure how he would have reacted if he were staring at a child Joan had given birth to just nine months after they had broken up.
“Hey, kid,” she said with a smile. “Have you gotten taller since I saw you last?”
Kyle rose up a fraction. “People don’t grow that fast.”
“Grown people don’t, but ten-year-olds do.” She scrutinized him. “Yep, definitely taller.”
Kyle wrinkled his nose. “You smell like smoke.”
“I can’t seem to shake the smell.”
“Come on inside,” Gideon said. “I can give you something to wear while we run your clothes through the washer.”
She tightened her hand on the strap of her backpack, and he wondered if she was remembering the times when she’d worn his shirt as they’d sat together on a rare Sunday morning drinking coffee and doing homework.
“Sounds like a plan.” Joan stepped inside and looked around at the vaulted ceiling. “Nice place. Wasn’t this your grandfather’s house?”
“Good memory. It was the original house on the property. My dad and mom built their own place after they married. That’s where Ann lives now.”
“Ah. You were right about hotel prices. Ouch.”
“We’re known for our sticker shock,” he said.
“Offer still open to crash?” she asked.
“It is,” he said.
Joan gripped her backpack’s worn strap. “Can you show me where you want me? And I’ll get out of your hair. I don’t want to intrude more than I have.”
“I can take her to the garage apartment,” Kyle offered.
“We’ll both go,” Gideon said.
“A formal escort,” she said. “I like it.”
The trio moved through the house and out the back door. Across a large graveled area, he led her to the three-car garage and the side door that led to the apartment.
They climbed the stairs to the second floor, and he switched on the light. The apartment, which extended across the top of the garage, had been his home for several years after his divorce. He had been strapped financially, and his grandfather needed an extra set of eyes on him, so it had worked out for everyone. When he subsequently inherited the property, it had been good for Kyle to have a firm home base.
The apartment was almost twelve hundred square feet. There were two bedrooms, with a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a living area with a wide-screen television and overstuffed sofas. It was decorated solely to a man’s taste.
“Wow, some garage,” Joan said. “I was thinking tiny.”
“It’s Montana,” Gideon said.
She smiled. “Right.”
“Dad said when I’m a teenager, I can live here,” Kyle said.
“Dad said he would think about it,” Gideon said easily.
“That’s only three years away,” Kyle pointed out.
“I’m very aware,” Gideon said, feeling his age. �
�Joan, there are extra clothes in the front bedroom, in the dresser. Plenty of soap and shampoo, towels, the whole deal in the bathroom.”
She walked to the back door and stared out its window. “Don’t suppose you have a fire escape?”
Gideon moved to the closet and pointed to a boxed fire ladder that could be hung off the windowsill in seconds. “I always do.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“Are you having dinner with us?” Kyle asked.
Joan looked to Gideon. “You don’t have to feed me.”
“It’s hamburgers on the grill and salad. Nothing fancy.”
“Sounds good to me. Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Take your time.” Gideon laid his hand on Kyle’s shoulder and guided the boy toward the door. A part of him wished he could have Joan all to himself for a few hours. He wanted to talk to her about the investigation, find out more about what she had done the last ten years, why she had pressed so hard on the Newport investigation, and a million other things.
But he was not alone. Kyle was there, and the three of them would have to make the best of it.
Confessions of an Arsonist
The time has come. My patience is extinguished. She will die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Missoula, Montana
Wednesday, September 9, 2020
6:00 p.m.
Joan’s washed hair was damp and brushed flat, and her smoky clothes were in the washer, now agitating on the heavy-duty cycle. Gideon’s oversize flannel shirt, drawstring sweats, and wool socks swallowed Joan’s frame as she stood in front of the dresser mirror.
She raised the shirtsleeve to her nose and inhaled a scent she remembered clearly as Gideon’s. She closed her eyes and wished she could turn back the clock and make different choices. Most days, she never allowed those kinds of thoughts, because wallowing in the past accomplished nothing. But to have his scent literally touching every square inch of her body made it impossible to ignore what they used to have.
“Shit,” she muttered. “Keep moving forward and don’t look back.”
She quickly headed down the stairs and across the driveway to the main house. She considered knocking but then opted to just push right into the house. Warmth and the scent of burgers grilling coaxed her toward the kitchen, where Gideon was serving them up on huge buns. There was a large kitchen island with three place settings.