Everything Burns

by Vincent Zandri

  “We done small-talking?” I say.

  “What is it you’d like to talk about, Reece?” he says, cracking just a hint of a smile.

  “For one, you’ve had my cuffs removed and for two, I haven’t been given my complimentary one phone call. That mean I’m not under arrest anymore?”

  “You’re pretty smart,” he says, the grin growing into a smile. “You should write books for a living.”

  “Very funny. But my knee hurts and probably needs stitches and if I don’t get out of these clothes soon, I’m going to need some serious antibiotic ointment for multiple skin infections. Who knows what the hell was crawling around that swamp besides man-eating snakes and turtles.”

  He stares into me, exhales.

  “A profound exhale?” I pose. “Or significant sigh?”

  “Your boy Bourenhem has dropped all charges against you,” he says. “He’s even withdrawn the restraining order application.” He pauses for a minute, looking not at me but into me. “Tell me, Mr. Johnston. Why the hell would he do something like that?”

  “If you’re looking for a logical answer from me, you’re not going to get one.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I didn’t beat him up.”

  “Didn’t say you did. But you did flee.”

  “Look, Detective Miller, I’m the one who brought you and the entire APD into this mess in the first place. If I were a criminal intent on doing serious crimes, why would I want the police hanging around all the time? I ran because I didn’t know what the hell else to do. All I know is I woke this morning, said good-bye to my girlfriend—”

  “Ex-wife.”

  “Okay, ex-wife, but current significant other. All I know is I woke up, said good-bye to her and my daughter at the front door, and from there on out my life has been turned upside down and almost terminated on several occasions, most recently by your very own APD.”

  His eyes go wide, but then quickly return to their half-closed, half-open cynical state. The same look Clint Eastwood took years perfecting in Hollywood.

  “They weren’t shooting to kill, Reece,” Miller explains with a gentle shake of his head. “They were firing warning shots at a fleeing suspect. It’s SOP.”

  He’s lying and he knows that I know he’s lying. Which could be the real reason behind him not maintaining the order of arrest even if Bourenhem has rescinded his charges against me. I’m a thriller writer and I’ve done my research. Not only am I suspected of ransacking Lisa’s home, but I was fingered as a possible perp in Bourenhem’s assault at his apartment in Troy. Then I fled the cops, dropping my unlicensed 9mm in the process. And then there’s the woman who was burned to death in Lisa’s backyard. Does Miller know about that, and he’s just not saying anything about it? Is he looking for me to slip, mistakenly say or do something indicating that I might get some kind of perverse kick out of reenacting some of the death-by-fire scenes I wrote in The Damned? The truth of the matter is that I should be looking down the barrel of three or four major felonies, all of which would carry significant prison time. And yet, I’m about to be set loose, and I suspect that’s got something to do with the APD’s loose cannons. Pun intended.

  “One of those bullets flew so close past my left ear it nearly singed it,” I point out. “Might have to explain it all to the most expensive ambulance-chasing shyster lawyer I can find in Albany.”

  Miller’s face goes taut, his cheeks caving in. Whoever shot at me truly screwed up.

  “I plan on having a talk with my support staff regarding what might be perceived as their use of excessive force,” he says.

  But judging by the chewing-out he gave an as-of-yet-unnamed officer outside the door, he’s indeed fearing a major lawsuit from a not-so-anonymous author. I’ve decided to call him out on it, just to let him know I’m perfectly aware of my rights and my little bit of leverage in the matter.

  “That the reason for all the shouting out in the corridor?” I ask.

  Miller just looks at me like a poker player whose bluff has been called and busted. At this point I’m quite certain I’m not even going to need a lawyer.

  “You’ve had a rough day,” he says, changing his tone entirely. Bad cop to good cop. “One trip down here is enough for a lifetime and you’ve had two.”

  “Yes, rough day. I agree. And do you know what the common denominator for this rather rapid change of circumstances in my life just happens to be?”

  “David Bourenhem,” he says.

  “Bingo.”

  He leans back in his chair, exhales once more. “So what exactly would you like me to do about it? About him?”

  “You don’t think it’s weird the guy just shows up at my house today, out of the blue?”

  “Your house?”

  “Okay, Lisa’s house.”

  “Just trying to maintain some accuracy to the proceedings, Reece. You know, for the record.” He cocks his head in the direction of the two-way mirror.

  “He shows up at Lisa’s house with flowers, long after they’re broken up. In the meantime, he’s been calling and e-mailing her obsessively. I see his ride parked outside the medical center where her eyes are being operated on. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t make a pit stop at the house while I was out. Because when I come home, Lisa’s place is trashed, complete with threatening messages and drawings. Even Lisa’s underwear is laid out on the bed. I’m convinced it’s Bourenhem who’s responsible, so I confront him at his apartment about it. He gets scared, files a restraining order. Later on, he shows back up inside the house, in the bathtub, all beat to hell. He blames my ass, and I’m forced to flee you and your bullets by trudging through a goddamned swamp. Through some miracle I’m not killed, and Bourenhem gets what he’s after: I’m locked up, fingered for beating the crap out of him and a laundry list of other charges he’s lined me up for. But then what’s he do? He drops all charges against me.

  “Now, why would he do that? I’ll agree, he’s a little erratic. A little tough to figure, though it helps to keep in mind that he’s fucking batshit crazy. But there’s one constant in his demented thinking, all the way through: he’s setting me up for something even more fucked up than he’s set me up for already. Don’t you see that?”

  The detective shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “But that’s awfully complicated. My experience, it’s better to build off of what’s clear and simple, if there’s anything at hand. Like, say, what we found when we searched your vehicle. We found some duct tape, plus traces of blood, which we’re having tested. We found some gasoline cans inside the house, and something strange outside on the back lawn.”

  My heart stops. I guess I haven’t been thinking about the burning body any more than I’ve been thinking about dumping the body in the river.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I swallow.

  “Someone torched something there recently. Something big.”

  “I’ve been burning piles of leaves there,” I say. “It’s fall and Lisa has a lot of trees all around the property. I know it’s illegal, but . . .”

  “Just so you know, I’ve ordered a forensic team to scour the place.” Another smile. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind? We’re all on the same page here.”

  “You of all people should know better than burning a leaf pile on the back lawn.”

  “Hey, how else can I get my fix?”

  He cocks his head. “For a minute there, I thought you might be trying to act out some scenes from The Damned, like when Brennen burns those college students alive in the bathtub.”

  I swallow something cold, bitter, and dry. “That’s why they call it fiction, Detective.”

  “One thing that isn’t fiction, Mr. Johnston, is something we stumbled upon down by the backyard fence.” He reaches down into his blazer and pulls out my unlicensed automatic. “And wouldn’t
you know it? It’s not only unlicensed, its serial number has been scraped off.”

  I lift up both hands in surrender.

  “You got me on the gun. But I have no idea how duct tape or blood got in my Escape.”

  He stands, returns the pistol to his blazer. “Just another puzzle piece in a day of mismatched puzzle pieces,” he says.

  “Isn’t that the truth,” I say.

  “The truth?” he says, looking me in the eye. “What the hell is that?”

  We sit in silence for maybe a minute. It feels like forever.

  “Listen, Reece,” Miller finally goes on, “I’m going to level with you.” He tosses a look at the two-way mirror, crosses his arms. “But I need to do it off the record.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I don’t like what’s happening in your life, either. Today has been bizarre to say the least.”

  “What was your first clue, Detective?”

  “For one thing, someone really did beat the crap out of Bourenhem.”

  “You sure he didn’t manage it himself?”

  “Not a chance. Those bruises on his face didn’t come from his own hands. The black eyes aren’t a good makeup job.” He pauses, looking down not at my face but at my hands. “But look at your fingers.”

  I look at them.

  “I’m not seeing any sign of a struggle there. No cuts, bruises, or scrapes on the knuckles. No broken digits.”

  I nod. “What if I used thick black leather gloves like OJ?”

  “At the very least you’d still show signs of bruising, Reece. You ever been in a bar brawl?”

  “All the scrapes I’ve gotten into in the past always ended up in a wrestling match with no one winning or losing.”

  “Exactly,” he says. “It’s hard to accurately punch someone in the face unless you ask them to stand perfectly still.”

  He picks up the manila file from off the table.

  “You got another place to stay tonight?” he says. “Technically speaking, Lisa’s home is no longer a crime scene. But I would consider it a personal favor if you stayed away from it.”

  “Problem with that,” I say, “is I want to be close to my girls tonight, but my studio is located way inside the city.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Use your own discretion.”

  “What about Bourenhem?”

  “With everything that’s happened today and all the police that have gotten involved, I’m hoping he stays quiet for the night. In the meantime, we’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “And I suppose you’ll be keeping an eye on me too?”

  “You know, it’s within your rights to file a grievance against him,” he says. “By the looks of it, he did let himself into Lisa’s house and your vehicle uninvited. At this point I’m guessing he somehow acquired a key for the former and for the latter, well, maybe you forgot to lock it.”

  I nod. His comment about Bourenhem still having a key to the place doesn’t sit right with me. Lisa has told me on more than one occasion that David returned his keys when they broke up. Then she had the locks changed.

  “It’s possible I left the front door open after I’d discovered that the house had been ransacked. I wasn’t thinking straight when I left to go confront Bourenhem about it. But later, just prior to visiting Lisa at her folks’ house, I’m sure I locked it. Later on, when I got back, the place was pitch dark and locked up.”

  “Just make sure everything is locked from now on. And as soon as you get a minute, have the locks changed again.”

  “I’m on it,” I say. Then, “So, am I still a suspect in the breaking and entering of my own significant other’s home?”

  I wonder if I’m also a suspect in the backyard fire and he’s just not letting on about it. Of course, they would have to have a body in their possession as evidence. Or at least, some kind of proof that a living, breathing human being was burned alive there and not killed somewhere else, then transported to the backyard and set ablaze.

  Miller purses his lips.

  “I wish I could say you’re entirely out of the woods,” he says as the sound of a cell phone chiming comes from his suit jacket. He pulls the phone out, looks at the digital readout. “But not yet,” he goes on. “I do, however, need you to continue to stick around town for a while until I give you the green light.”

  He answers the call.

  “Miller,” he says into the phone. Then, “You’re sure? Burned or drowned? Which is it? Okay. I’ll be right there.”

  He ends the call.

  A hot pit settles itself inside my stomach.

  “Listen, Reece,” he says, returning the cell phone to his jacket pocket. “Our little meeting has to come to an end. A woman was just fished out of the Hudson by a late-season striped bass fisherman.”

  “A woman?” I say.

  “Yes, a woman. My people tell me she was burned severely, then tossed into the Hudson.” He looks at me, grins. “Sounds like something your man in The Damned would do.”

  I stand and wonder if he sees the blood draining from my face. Maybe I should just level with him, tell him the truth. That I found her burning on the back lawn. But my gut tells me not to say a word. That Miller wouldn’t hesitate to pin Olga’s death on me, no matter what problems Bourenhem has been giving me today. After all, I wrote The Damned and I am already acting suspiciously in Miller’s eyes. And how the hell would I explain my having dumped the body in the river? My not having called the police in the first place?

  He opens the door, steps on out of the interview room. Burly Cop is there to greet him.

  “My associate here will return all of your personals before seeing you back home for the second time today, Mr. Johnston,” Miller says, once more taking on a formal tone. “Don’t worry about all this. It will all work itself out. Try and get some sleep.”

  “Thanks, I will,” I say.

  But it’s a lie only the devil could like.

  Chapter 49

  It’s while Burly Cop drives me home that I’m reminded of Miller’s question about how Bourenhem was able to get into the house if the locks had been changed and he no longer had a key. Like I indicated to the detective, it’s possible I left the front door unlocked when I drove to the medical center. For certain I might have left it unlocked later on, when I went to confront David at his apartment. I also might have done the same when I went to visit Lisa at her parents’ house. I wasn’t acting in my right mind on any of those occasions.

  But now I’m not so sure about anything. Not so sure I can trust my own story. What if I did lock the house every time I left it and Bourenhem was still able to get in without having to bust a window or jimmy a door lock? No sign of forcible entry was one of the issues that made Miller focus on me as one of the possible perps in the first place. That means one of two things. Either Bourenhem is in the possession of a new house key that Lisa entrusted him with. Or, he somehow came up with one on his own.

  As the ever-silent Burly Cop takes a left into Lisa’s neighborhood, I feel my pulse pick up.

  Why would Lisa give David a key after having the locks changed? That doesn’t make an ounce of sense to me. And even if there is a good and logical explanation for that, how do I explain him getting into my Escape and setting the vehicle up to look like I not only bound him up with duct tape but beat the snot out of him? He’d have to have access to a vehicle key. A seeming impossibility.

  But then it hits me just as Burly Cop pulls into the driveway.

  I picture the events of early this morning. Lisa trying to get Anna out the door. Lisa’s mother pounding on the horn of her Volvo out in the driveway. Lisa rummaging through her pockets for her stuff. For her ring of keys that she claimed she did not need. A ring that not only contains the keys to her Volkswagen, her house, and her parents’ house, but also to my Escape. As I open the door to the cruiser and get
out, I picture Lisa leaving the keys on the bench rail in the vestibule.

  I get out and watch Burly Cop back out of the driveway and exit the neighborhood. I don’t walk casually to the front door. I run. Unlocking the door, I hit the light switch on the wall to my right and immediately focus my eyes on the bench rail directly before me. A chill fills my empty belly.

  The keys are gone.

  I look to the side of the bench on the floor. The keys are not there. I look on the bench itself. Even after raising up the cushion I can plainly see that Lisa’s key ring is nowhere to be found.

  I stand there and try to think things through. Maybe Lisa did take the key ring with her after all. But then, I know different. I know she left them behind on the rail. It explains how Bourenhem was able to get into my vehicle and how he placed duct tape inside there along with some bloodstains. But then, how did he manage to get into the house this morning prior to having the key ring in his possession?

  There’s only one answer to that question.

  Lisa must have given him a key. There’s no other way around it, and now we’re all paying the price for her moment of weakness.

  My stomach grows tight.

  Now that Bourenhem has the keys to Lisa’s entire life, what else is he about to do with them? How else is he going to exact his revenge and, in the process, further set me up as a psycho killer?

  I’m not about to wait around to find out.

  Pulling my cell phone from my coat pocket, I dial Detective Miller.

  Chapter 50

  “I catch you sleeping?” I say when it takes him four rings to pick up.

  “I gotta answer that question? What the hell else are desks for?”

  “Must be the journalist in me.”

  “Thought you lied for a living, Reece.”

  “Started out as a journalist. But your double entendre has not gone unnoticed.”

  “Must take some skill to fabricate shit convincingly enough to make serious cash at it.”