Torch Scene

by Renee Pawlish

  “Have you ever heard of a loan shark or someone connected to local bookies who goes by the alias ‘the Chin’?”

  “Really? The Chin?”

  I nodded.

  She paused, thinking. “Nothing comes to mind. What’s this about?”

  “O’Rourke was in trouble with some bookies. I don’t have much more than that.”

  “But why would a loan shark kill O’Rourke? They can’t get money from a corpse.”

  “That’s what I’ve been asking myself,” I said. “Unless they got tired of him and decided to get rid of him. Permanently. Or they’re sending someone a message.”

  “Who?”

  “I didn’t say I knew the answer.”

  She pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the new front door that the insurance company had put up so the house was secure.

  “How’d you get a key?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m the police, Ferguson. I can get things, like a key from the insurance company.”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I wanted to look around again,” she said. “Sometimes it helps me focus. The little things can get overlooked.”

  My curiosity got the best of me. “Can I…”

  A twinkle entered her eye. “Okay,” she finally said. “Be careful.”

  She ducked under yellow crime scene tape that was strung across the door and I followed her into the entryway, trying to act like a professional and not a kid in a toy store.

  The old Victorian had been fashioned into three units. A large foyer was now closed off. The door to Willie’s ground floor apartment was directly opposite the main door. To our right, stairs led to the other units. The space reeked with a dank, smoky odor. The walls were water-stained, the paint bubbled in spots. A poster of Paris that Willie had hung on one wall in the foyer was lying on the floor, ruined.

  We headed up the stairs. The door to Darcy’s apartment was at the top of the stairs, across a small landing. Plywood covered most of the wall by the stairs and a new door had been installed. A portion of what was her ceiling was gone. I suspected her unit had sustained a great deal of water damage. I reached out and touched an exposed section of drywall. It might’ve been my imagination, but it felt damp. I let out a long sigh.

  “Yeah, it’s bad,” Spillman said. “Watch your step.”

  The stairs leading up to the third-floor studio were already warping, and those near the top were charred and deformed. The fire inspectors had repaired them enough so that a person could walk all the way up. As the room came into view, I was stunned.

  The entire roof had burned away, leaving only a few charred crossbeams. Two of the walls were gone, leaving a gaping hole exposed to the world. The other two walls were partially gone, more framing than part of a house. I hadn’t been able to see much of this from my condo. The entire living space, what was left of it, was a black mess.

  I ran a hand over my face. “How did they find a body in there?”

  “It’s amazing, really.”

  She got to the landing and passed through what would’ve been the entry to O’Rourke’s apartment. Her eyes roved around the space, taking it all in. Then she moved into the room, treading carefully over plywood that had been laid on the floor.

  I made it to the top of the stairs, and she indicated I should stop.

  “Stay out of the way,” she said.

  I had no choice but to comply, but I was disappointed. She crouched down and stared under the twisted metal that used to be a bed frame.

  “What do you see?” I asked.

  “Lots of ashes.”

  Smartass, I thought. “You think the fire inspectors missed something?”

  She snorted. “No, those guys are good. And thorough.”

  “How do you know it was arson?”

  “First indicator was how fast it burned. You’re in the middle of the city, where a fire department can get here fast. Even so, a lot of the place burned quickly. That means the fire likely had help, like an accelerant. And look there.”

  She flicked a hand at one of the remaining walls.

  “Yeah?”

  “The windows were open.”

  I studied the wall and the window. “How can you tell?”

  “I couldn’t, but the fire investigator told me. He could tell by the way the glass was broken.”

  “The fire needs air,” I said.

  “He opened the windows to give the fire air, so it would burn faster,” she concurred. “Most arsonists don’t know about fires. It’s an impulsive act, not well thought out. But this one was.”

  “Where’d the fire start?”

  “Over there.” She pointed to an old cast iron radiator. “Whoever it was, he put flammables, probably paper and trash, over there. There’s melted plastic, like a trash can was sitting there. Then an accelerant was used on it, but not too much. An amateur usually makes the mistake of using too much accelerant, but this person didn’t. However, he left a little on the floor. The investigators almost didn’t catch it.”

  “He?” I asked. “You think it’s a guy?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Just a figure of speech. It could’ve been a woman.”

  “It wasn’t Willie,” I said. She shrugged, non-committally. I changed the subject. “How did they figure out all this?”

  “They analyze burn patterns and heat sources, and use that information to determine where the fire started. Then they examine how and in which direction the fire burned.”

  “What was the accelerant?”

  “A mix of gas and some kind of diesel fuel. Not common knowledge.”

  “Yeah, but you can find out just about anything on the internet.”

  She let out a disgusted sound. “That’s true, but this guy was good. He knew how much to use to get the fire really going, but not too much so that it was obvious an accelerant had been used.”

  “Why would he start the fire near the radiator?”

  “He’s good, that’s why.” There was a hint of admiration in her voice. “He was trying to cover his tracks, make it look like O’Rourke left something flammable near there and it started the fire while he was sleeping. The body burns and he’s home free. Our boy knows what he’s doing, but he didn’t quite succeed. The fire didn’t burn as fast as he’d hoped, and the accelerant tripped him up.”

  “How so?”

  “That spill on the floor. An amateur would’ve poured accelerant all over. And if he really wanted the place to burn, he’d poke holes in the walls and pour accelerant in there, but this here was isolated. Almost like it was an accident.”

  I inched my way into the room and she didn’t notice. I don’t know what she was making of what she saw, but all I noticed was a mess. A couple of knives and spoons, some broken dishes in what was once the kitchen. What looked like a television.

  “What a mess,” I said.

  She nodded and stood up. “I sometimes feel like a voyeur, intruding on a person’s private life. You’d be amazed at what happens behind closed doors.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” I muttered. Even my short time as a detective had tainted my view of the world some. I nudged a charred two-by-four and something came into view. “What’s that?”

  She stooped down and pulled a charred statue from the rubble. It was a little over a foot high and maybe that wide, a woman and a little girl, both with round, wide faces and Asian features. Much of it was black with soot and part of it was melted.

  Her face screwed up in distaste. “Was O’Rourke into Asian art?” she asked.

  “No clue,” I said.

  She set it back down and brushed off her hands. “Not my style.”

  “Who gets his stuff?” I asked. “Or what’s left of it?”

  “His heirs, if there are any. Otherwise, whoever cleans this place up, I guess.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I need to go.”

  “Okay.” I headed for the stairs. “What’d you find out?”

  “
Our guy is someone who knows what he’s doing; he knows fires. He knew to keep it simple and he used fuels available at the scene. If not for the one slipup, I don’t think we’d even know.”

  “Why the slipup when he was so careful? What happened?”

  “You’re the detective, you figure it out.”

  “Funny,” I said, without any mirth.

  We went back outside and I walked her to her car.

  “Be careful, Ferguson,” she said. “This killer means business.”

  “I will be.” I waved as she drove off down the street.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I waited until Spillman’s blue Mustang turned the corner and then I marched back upstairs to my place. My mind was a whirl of information, the biggest piece being why Willie hadn’t told me about how much financial trouble she was really in.

  I stormed through the front door, tempted to slam it. The smell of coffee came from the kitchen, but Willie was in the bedroom, getting ready for work.

  “What was that all about?” she asked as she worked a towel through her hair.

  I stood in the doorway, anger welling in me. “You want to tell me why I’m working my ass off, trying to find out who killed Nick O’Rourke, and you’re holding back information?”

  “What?” Her hands dropped and the towel fell to the floor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I just got through talking to Spillman, and she says that not only do you have a lot of financial debt, but that you just increased the coverage on your insurance policy. But that’s not what you told me.”

  She stared at me for a five-count and then her face crumbled.

  “You look more and more like a suspect,” I went on. “Like you killed Nick out of revenge, then started the fire to cover it up, and you get a big payout from your insurance.”

  “No, it’s not like that!” She struggled for composure. “I was…embarrassed of the mess I’d gotten myself into, and I guess I hoped this whole thing could be resolved without you knowing.” I started to interrupt but she stopped me. “Everything happened so fast. My place burns down and then I find out I’m a suspect, and I’m suddenly living with you, even if it’s just temporary.” She sat down on the bed, took in a breath and let it out slowly. “You know I’ve struggled with you being a detective, that it brings up all the fears I had from growing up, with my father being a cop. And I’ve only just gotten to where I can accept that you’re a detective and I can live with that, and then all this happens. Since I’ve met you, you have it all together, a job you like, a nice place to live and no money troubles. And there I was, making a risky decision with buying the house, and then not being able to pay the mortgage, and sinking deeper into debt. I just…” she looked up at me with tears in her eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you.”

  I ran a hand over my face, not sure what to say or do. I wasn’t angry anymore, and I felt a bit ashamed myself.

  “You think I’ve got it all together?” I laughed hollowly. “Not even close.” I slumped against the wall, then slid to the floor. “You remember my last case?”

  “When you were a bodyguard for that girl?”

  “Yeah, but that wasn’t all it was about. My own financial screw-up came into play.” I told her about a business I’d gotten myself into, and how I really screwed up. I hadn’t told anyone but Cal about it. “I felt so ashamed,” I finished.

  “I had no idea,” she said as she wiped away more tears.

  I stood up and went and sat next to her. “It’s in the past, and so is what happened to you.” I looked her in the eye. “Here’s the thing: I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything.”

  She nodded. “I did increase the insurance last month, but it was only because my dad recommended it. And I don’t think the amount was anything unreasonable.”

  “Your insurance agent should be able to verify that,” I said. “What about being close to foreclosure?”

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration. I’m behind a few months on the mortgage and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on. But if things don’t work out, I’ll probably lose the house.”

  I took her hand. “It will work out. We’ll make sure it does.”

  “What would I do without you?” She kissed me.

  “You’d have to hire another detective, one that I’m sure wouldn’t be as sexy, suave and competent as me.”

  She smiled. “Think about that the next time you’re crawling out of a Dumpster.”

  “That’s cold.”

  She glanced at the alarm clock. “Oh, I’ve got to finish getting ready.” She rushed into the bathroom, but called out, “What else did Spillman say? Or was it all about me?”

  “She took me up to Nick’s place. We looked around and she told me how the fire started.” I filled her in on that.

  “Do you have any suspects? Besides me?”

  I flopped back on the bed. “Everyone’s a suspect. Including you.” A laugh from the bathroom. That was positive. “The best lead I’ve got is that Nick owed money to this bookie, Tony, but I don’t know how Tony is involved in Nick’s death, and it doesn’t make sense that a bookie would kill him because then the bookie can’t get his money.”

  “Huh,” came her voice. “I –”

  Bogie interrupted us. “That’s my cell phone,” I said. “It’s Cal.”

  “I’m emailing you the list of phone calls on Nick’s cell phone,” he said when I answered. “I got a week’s worth of records.”

  I got up, went into the office and logged onto the internet.

  “I’m putting you on speaker,” I said, setting down the phone.

  “Here’s what’s interesting,” he continued as I checked my email. “Do you have the list?”

  “Yes.” I found the email from him, clicked on an attachment with a list of names and corresponding phone numbers. I scanned down the list.

  “Nick received three calls that night,” he said.

  “Uh huh.” The first name listed was Jay Williams, the second was from K. Bayer, and the last was from….my jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it,” I said.

  “Yep. Stan Pommerville called Nick at 10:35 the night of the fire. The number has been registered to his home address for over thirty years, so I’m assuming that’s his home phone number. There’s a different number registered to his cell phone.”

  “Pommerville said he hadn’t talked to Nick in months.”

  “He was lying,” Cal stated the obvious.

  “I wonder why.”

  “You’re the detective.”

  “Have you been talking to Spillman?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” I studied the list of phone numbers, thinking. “Pommerville hated Nick, was financially ruined by Nick, and he said he didn’t want anything to do with Nick. So why is he calling Nick the night of the fire? Did Nick come into some money and Pommerville knew about it, and he got the money and then killed Nick? And was he calling to make sure Nick was at home?”

  “That’s a long wait to get his revenge.”

  “It’s safe that way. Pommerville looks less obvious.”

  “Could be,” he said. “I’ll dig up Nick’s banking records. But if there isn’t a money trail there, I’m not sure how you’d know if he suddenly ended up with extra money.”

  I mulled that over. “Sounds like I need to pay Pommerville another visit.”

  “Have fun with that.”

  “Do you have any other information on Pommerville?”

  “No, but I should be able to get to it in a few hours,” he said. “I’ll call you later tonight.”

  “Thanks, this is great work.”

  “I know,” he laughed and hung up.

  I found the number for Pommerville Computer Systems and dialed it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Pommerville.”

  Good, he was there.

  “It seems you don’t like to play nice with others,” I said.

  “Who
is this?”

  “Reed Ferguson.”

  “I asked you not to bother me again.”

  “And I wouldn’t have, except that you lied to me.”

  “What?” Indignation carried through the line like electricity. “I never lied to you.”

  “So I ask myself, why would Stan lie to me?”

  “I never lied to you!”

  Click.

  “Damn.” I stared at the phone. Was it my approach?

  For the second time in as many days, I found myself driving out to Golden. It was just before three when I parked in the lot at Pommerville’s Denver West office. Dark clouds loomed overhead and the temperatures were dropping as a spring storm threatened. As I got out of the still smelly 4-Runner and headed toward the building, Pommerville came out the glass doors, carrying a brief case. We made eye contact and he backpedaled into the building.

  “Hey!” I called and ran after him.

  I jerked the door open and saw him across the lobby, heading out the opposite doors. I sprinted past a bemused woman who was waiting at the bank of elevators. I reached the other side of the lobby, pushed open the doors and looked left, then right. Pommerville was at the end of the building, surprising me with his speed, his tie waving at me over his shoulder.

  I was pretty fast myself, and I caught up with him around the north side of the building.

  “Leave me alone,” he said. He dropped the briefcase and leaned against the wall. He was breathing hard and he put a hand over his heart. “I’m not used to running.”

  “Then why are you?” I snapped. “It just makes you look guilty.”

  “What do you want from me? I told you before, I haven’t talked to Nick in ages and I don’t know anything about his death.”

  “See, that’s the weird thing. I have Nick’s phone records from the night of the fire, and you called him.”

  His jaw dropped. “What? I didn’t call Nick that night or any other night.”

  “Then why the phone call?”

  “How the hell should I know? I was at home that night, with my wife. Oh!” He snapped his fingers. “Leena was there. She came over for dinner.”