by G. K. Parks
“There’s more?”
“Isn’t there always?” I patted the empty client chair and told Voletek what I suspected. “Aside from residents and authorized personnel, the only people who’ve been inside Martin’s apartment building were the firefighters responding to the fire.”
“And since the entire place didn’t go up in a puff of smoke, you’re guessing the accelerant wasn’t there until after the fire.”
“Right.”
Voletek picked up the list of names of the managerial staff, building maintenance, cleaning crews, workers, and the list of residents and their approved guests. “What about deliveries?”
“They get left in the lobby.”
Voletek ran his finger down one column and up the next, stopping on the name I highlighted. “Asher York? Is it the same Asher York?”
“Yeah, the Ellington’s hired the chef for the night to cater their daughter’s engagement party. Apparently, they liked his baked Alaska. For the record, it is pretty damn tasty.”
Voletek narrowed his eyes at my computer screen. “Is that a live feed?”
“No, it’s footage from the night of the toaster oven fire. Evacuations went off without a hitch. No one doubled-back. As far as I can tell, no one ever poured or sprayed anything around the molding or on the floors during the evacuation.” We watched men in turnout gear knock on each of the doors. They didn’t linger. They performed their duties. I paused the feed from the fourteenth floor hallway when the camera angle suddenly jutted upward. “What the hell?” Someone intentionally tampered with the camera.
Now, we could only see the tops of a few fire helmets, but not much else. I rewound, hoping to figure out what hit the camera. Several of the firefighters carried tools of their trade, but nothing looked high enough to have accidentally bumped it. Writing down the timestamp, I sent a note upstairs and asked the techs to see if they could determine what happened to the feed.
“That fits your theory that a firefighter’s responsible for setting the fires,” Voletek rubbed a hand over his mouth, “but that’s a serious allegation and this is circumstantial.”
“Just like everything else.” I pushed back, letting the detective have free rein over the mouse and the next three weeks’ worth of security footage. I had only scratched the surface. Remaining motionless would cause my brain to combust, so I climbed out of the chair and paced behind the desk, keeping one eye on the monitor. “The arsonist knows I’m on to him. My name’s been on tons of request forms that have circulated throughout the BFI and trickled down through the rest of the fire department. Given the givens, I can’t shake this thought or rule anyone out.”
“But the toaster oven fire occurred prior to you taking Easton’s case. Whoever did this must be targeting a ton of buildings in the city, not just yours.” Voletek rubbed a hand down his face. “We have to stop this guy.” The compromised camera ruined our chances of IDing the culprit when he doused the fourteenth floor, so Voletek gave up and clicked to a different floor. “The accelerant was found in other parts of the building. Let’s figure out how it got there.”
“We don’t know since we have no basis for knowing how long it’s been there. Our best bet is the fourteenth floor because we have a useable timeline.” Either one of the city’s bravest was the arsonist, or the bastard happened to live in the same building I did. Neither option held much appeal, but I didn’t see any other alternatives, except our missing chef. “York catered two days after the fire. He could have done it, if he found a way to sneak around the cameras. He had the access, but why did someone knock out this camera that night unless they were dousing the floor with the oxidizing agent and planning a bonfire?”
“When did the camera angle get corrected?” Voletek clicked to the next day, but the angle had returned to normal.
“Security fixed it mid-afternoon.” Cross had made a note, though I hadn’t watched that far.
“Okay, so based on the facts in evidence, the arsonist has a beef with Chef Easton, and now he’s picking a fight with you.” Voletek glanced at me. “I have to ask. Do the two of you have anyone or anything in common?”
“I never even heard of Easton Lango prior to the maiden voyage of Easton’s Eats.” Martin knew the chef by reputation, but Martin knew a lot of people by reputation. That didn’t mean a damn thing. “I guess we have Easton’s ex in common since she has a connection to Cross Security, but I only met her once.”
“After you started investigating?”
“Yes.”
“Who else have you confronted on Easton’s behalf?”
“Confronted?” I laughed. “Easton’s ex and Dante Bisset.”
Voletek didn’t believe me. “Let me ask this a different way. Who have you spoken to since taking Easton’s case?”
I ticked off Bouillon’s staff, though the only one I spoke to directly aside from Chef Strader was Bryan the dishwasher. I even offered up the names of the stores, clerks, and city officials we’d spoken to about the fires. My mind circling back around the same conclusion I reached while in Lucien’s office. Our arsonist was a firefighter.
“Asher York would have every reason to target you, and given his feud with Easton and his sudden disappearance, he makes the most sense.”
“How would York know where I lived or anything about me?”
“He could look it up.”
“I don’t know. He’s not trained to think like that, but cops, firefighters, private investigators, we think like that. Plus, since he found the apartment I share with my boyfriend, why would he check to see if I had my own place? That’s redundant.”
“You know what his attorney would say to that?” Voletek asked.
“I’m speculating.”
He made a finger pistol and pointed it at me. “Bingo.”
“Did you ever confront Strader about the plastic piece you found in the lock?”
“He said he didn’t do it. I don’t know what to believe, but we checked his computer data and the techs scoured his print history. They didn’t find a key, but he had the means, motive, and opportunity. Even the lard in Sizzle’s vent matched the exact same brand and consistency as the lard at Bouillon.”
“What about Bisset?”
Voletek shook his head.
“Did you question his aunt again?”
“She admitted her nephew has the occasional tantrum. She called him sensitive. It’s why he gets depressed and reclusive, according to her. The case against Dante Bisset and Galen Strader is solid for the breaking and entering, stalking, and harassment, but that’s it. I have officers sitting on their locations. Neither of them was anywhere near your apartment building when the fire started. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past any of these chefs to have done it, but it doesn’t seem likely. We need to find York. We need to question him.” Voletek turned back to the footage and picked another location where we found concentrated amounts of the compound on the twenty-seventh floor, set the speed to sixteen times, and stared at the screen as the footage played.
“Whoa, stop right there.” I braced myself against the desk and leaned closer.
“Do you recognize him?” the detective asked.
“Isn’t that Lt. Payne?”
“Who?”
“Ted Payne, BFI’s arson investigator.”
Voletek squinted at the screen. “I think you’re right.” Payne stood alone in the hallway, his back to the screen. He had something in his hand, though I couldn’t tell what it was. Voletek hit resume, setting the speed to half normal, and we watched Payne crouch down, running something along the seam of the door which tested positive for the chemical compound. He moved in a duck-walk, stopping beneath the sealed fire hose box. He stood, unlocking and checking the inside before resetting the box and wiping off the outside with a rag. By the time he turned around, whatever had been in his hand had disappeared into his pocket. “That’s definitely Payne. Did he mention anything to you about this?”
“No.”
“Okay, let’s not
jump to conclusions. He’s probably just doing his job.”
“He’s an arson investigator. Why is he doing an inspection?” I ran through our interactions, wondering if there had been any clues I missed. Payne didn’t seem the type, but he also told me the fire at Sizzle wasn’t arson. He gave me examples of other fires that weren’t arson, but in the last two weeks, we’d proven him wrong on nearly half of them. Could he have been using his position to cover his tracks all along?
“I don’t know. Short-staffed. Budget cuts. Things happen, Alex.”
“Do you really believe that?” I challenged.
We checked the rest of the footage from the other cameras. We saw several white shirts from the fire department performing the inspection and a few still in turnout gear walking the hallways, but Payne was the only man we spotted at several of the locations where the substance was found, with one glaringly obvious exception—the fourteenth floor.
“When I bring him in for questioning,” there was no if about it, “I’ll ask if he performed a check of the fourteenth floor. We’ll take it from there.” Voletek went back to the footage from the twenty-seventh floor, but aside from the night of the fire, nothing odd happened in Martin’s apartment building. “I’ll have to bring in the building’s cleaning staff. They routinely vacuum the hallways and spray down the trim in the halls to get rid of dust and prints. Anything could be in those cleaning solutions. Maybe we have it wrong.” Voletek pointed to the footage from four days ago, showing a janitor wiping down the baseboards. He flipped to other floors, showing the same man working his way up the building, doing nothing but wiping the baseboards and trim. “He could be our arsonist.”
I zoomed in on his name tag and found him on the list. Minimizing the feed, I opened the window where Cross had already saved the background checks. “No criminal record. In decent financial shape. Has only lived in the area for the last two months.” I stopped reading. “Explain to me how he set fire to Sizzle from Quebec.” I clicked another key, pulling up the man’s passport information. “He wasn’t in the country, unless you think he snuck across the border.”
“Alex, I’m not your enemy. I’m here to help.”
“Then help me. Some bastard burned down my apartment.” The blood drained from my face as I recalled Payne’s words from earlier tonight. “What if it’s Payne? He had the audacity to show up at my apartment tonight. He said the BFI was sending investigators to every fire in case the arsonist struck again, but maybe he wanted to watch. He even said it was common for serial arsonists.”
“It’s common for most criminals to return to the scene of the crime, but with pyromaniacs, they get off on watching the flames. That’s why police officers take names and a few wide shots.”
“I need to see that list and whatever footage they’ve taken from the fire.”
“It’s being compiled. I’ll get a call when it’s ready to go.” Voletek reached for his phone. “But your theory warrants investigating. It might not be Payne, but it could be someone else in the BFI or one of the other firefighters. I’ll request a list of the firefighters who responded to the toaster oven fire and the ones who were at your apartment tonight. I’ll flag any matches and work backward. We already have the names from those who put the fire out at Sizzle. If the arsonist is one of the city’s bravest, we’ll identify him. He won’t be able to hide from us. He’s recognizable. People will have seen him. The men in his chain of command will know where he was. In the meantime,” Voletek tugged the folder clear from beneath the drink carrier which contained the coffees he brought for us that remained untouched, “this is all the PD’s dug up on Asher York. Maybe you could take a look and work some of your P.I. mojo and find this prick.”
“Cross has been trying, but I’ll give it a whirl.”
Thirty-six
“I heard what happened. Did anyone you know get hurt?” Renner asked. It was just after seven.
“I don’t know.” I’d been afraid to call the hospital or check the news.
“What can I do to help?” Renner took a seat beside me, glancing back at the cluttered desk and two coffee cups. “Are you double-fisting the caffeine now?”
“No, Voletek’s been here since four. We’ve been going over leads. He just stepped out to take a call.”
“Lucien must love that.”
“He doesn’t care. We need to find Asher York. Where’s Easton?”
“He’s in my office.”
I stood a little unsteadily and blinked. A migraine was coming on. Too much caffeine, not enough sleep, and no food. I needed to eat. “Can you ask him to meet me in the break room?”
“Sure thing.”
I opened the pantry and fridge. Cross kept the kitchen stocked with hot beverages, fresh fruit, and various snacks — things we could offer clients or eat when working late. Finding a fresh basket of baked goods from the local café on the counter, I grabbed a croissant and an apple and sat at the table. By the time Easton stepped in, there was nothing left but crumbs.
“Want some breakfast?” I asked, crossing to the basket and grabbing a second croissant before searching the cabinets for hazelnut spread.
Easton looked disgusted and perplexed, but he was polite enough not to voice his opinion as he watched me squeeze the packet onto the croissant and practically swallow it whole. Admittedly, it wasn’t my finest hour. “Are you okay?”
Wiping my mouth, I slid my notepad across to him. “We have to find Asher York. After he was released on bail, he fell off the grid.” Renner had already questioned Easton about his rival, but it wouldn’t hurt to do it again. “He hasn’t used his credit card. He hasn’t reported to work. His neighbors thought they saw him pack a bag, but most of his belongings are still inside his apartment. You know him. Where would he go? Where does he like to hang out?”
“Did he take his car?” Easton asked.
I shook my head. “It’s parked in his reserved space.”
“Well, it’s Asher.” Easton glanced back at Renner. “I said you should check the bars. But since it’s been two weeks, maybe the dumpsters or skid row.”
“You think he’s on a bender?” No one mentioned this as a possibility.
“He’s an alcoholic. The only thing he wants more than being inside a kitchen is getting a drink. Most of the time, he finds a way to do both.”
“We already checked the bars and clubs he frequents. No one’s seen him. The police canvassed all the places that serve liquor near his apartment and Delicious. Nothing. We even checked the liquor stores and quickie marts.” Renner grabbed a cherry Danish and took a bite. “We checked with his staff and the few friends and family we could find. No one’s seen him, and no one knows where he is.”
“Do you think he would hurt himself?” I asked Easton.
“Not intentionally, I don’t think.” Easton rubbed a hand through the blue and silver, though the dye had dulled since I’d seen him last. “I don’t really know. We exchanged barbs. I used to think they were friendly, but y’know, shit happens. People go crazy and burn down other people’s restaurants. After that, nothing’s very friendly.”
“Tell me about it.” I gave the basket of pastries another look, deciding going from a sugar crash to a sugar high was a bad move. Where would a drinker go if he wasn’t drinking? Rehab. I pushed away from the table. “Have we checked hospitals and rehab centers?”
“Hospitals, yes. Rehab, no.” Renner eyed me curiously. “You think he checked himself in?”
“I think we should find out.”
It took several phone calls and various creative lies, but by nine a.m., I found Asher York. The day after he was released from police custody, he checked himself in to one of the top rehab facilities in the city. The kind that didn’t accept insurance and would never publicize which A-list stars they currently housed. Unfortunately, if they took their patients’ privacy a little less seriously, they could have saved my colleagues weeks of searching and speculating.
“I can’t discuss a patie
nt’s progress with anyone he hasn’t personally authorized,” the receptionist said.
“I understand that. This is about his court date.”
“You said you’re his lawyer?”
“No, I work with his law firm. I’m a legal secretary.” I mumbled a name. “We just need to verify his whereabouts before we send over the affidavit. The judge will only allow a continuance if it’s for documented medical reasons.” Let’s hope Cross’s lawyers could keep me out of prison for this.
“Ma’am, Asher York hasn’t left the facility since he checked in.”
“Can you prove it?”
“His room is locked at night. The staff would have noticed if he left during the day.”
“Do you have security cameras?”
“This isn’t a prison.”
The problem with lying was it made explaining why you needed answers and the truth that much harder. I exhaled and rubbed the kink in my neck. “Of course it isn’t, but addiction is a difficult disease to combat. You must have medications on the premises that have to be locked up, so there are cameras and security systems to guard them, right?”
“Yes,” she responded, making the answer sound like a question, “and a few in the hallways.”
“Great. Thanks.” I hung up before she could inquire about my identity for the fourth time. My cover story and questions didn’t pass her sniff test, but when confronted with legal terminology, even if inaccurate, most laypeople tended to err on the side of caution and divulge extra information.
Reaching for the phone, I dialed Cross’s extension. He didn’t answer, but Justin did. “I’ll let him know you located Asher York.”
“Tell him I’ll let the police know they can call off the search.” I hung up and started dialing again.
“What search?” a man asked from the doorway. I jumped, knocking over a stack of files in my haste to grab my nine millimeter. “Whoa, easy.” Lt. Payne held up his palms.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Parker,” the receptionist said from the corner of the doorway. “Mr. Renner told me to send him in.”