Burning Embers

by G. K. Parks

“Collect evidence, speak to witnesses, question the suspect, and build a case.”

  “I do the same, but it all comes down to what I find at the scene. The key is determining whether the fire was accidental or deliberate.” He held up a finger to keep me quiet before I could ask the obvious question. “Yes, I know. Sometimes, fires look deliberate but aren’t. That’s why we dig deeper. When we aren’t sure, the police get involved.”

  “So if the old lady from your example intentionally set the fire but pretended to be senile or remorseful, how would you make the determination? Couldn’t it go either way?”

  “You think that’s what happened at Sizzle?”

  “I don’t know, but someone else might have been in the kitchen.”

  “Are you sure you don’t think your client’s responsible?”

  “He’s not.”

  I noticed Renner lingering in my doorway. He was back from running his errands, but unlike most of the men I worked with in the past, he didn’t barge into the room. He waited just outside my office, intrigued to see where the conversation would lead.

  “Since we didn’t find a timer, the person had to set the fire and leave. Unless a witness saw this or the culprit comes forward, the evidence is inconclusive. Nothing inside Sizzle suggests this was planned or premeditated. Aside from setting a fire to conceal another crime, most intentional fires are planned. We normally find timers or accelerant or something to kick-start the blaze. The things that kick-started the blaze in Sizzle were items commonly kept in the kitchen. Maybe it’s a crime of opportunity, but who set it? A ghost?”

  “Or the Invisible Man.” Easton might be crazy, but I wasn’t too far behind.

  Twenty-four

  “It’s all about motive and opportunity,” Renner said. “That should be our focus.”

  “That’s been our focus since the beginning.”

  “With the exception of our detour to investigate the break-in.” Renner leaned over my desk. “May I?” I slid to the side, and he entered his log-in information and opened his e-mail. “All right, let’s say Easton Lango isn’t paranoid or hallucinating. I dug into his ex-wife, but Bridget Stockton was out of town when the fire occurred. I checked travel records and called the hotel where she stayed. She didn’t do it.”

  “I told you that yesterday.”

  “You also told me it doesn’t hurt to be thorough. Of course, this doesn’t exonerate any of her criminal clients or their associates. Her financials don’t appear suspicious. I had Amir check into her online activity. Aside from an exorbitant amount of online shopping, everything checks out.”

  “We’ve already checked into the staff at Bouillon, Easton’s former Sizzle employees, and Asher York.”

  “Yeah, and the ones with alibis we struck from our suspect list, but there are other names worth exploring. We could go back over the food critics.”

  “It’s also possible another chef might have a butcher knife to sharpen,” I said, attempting to be clever. “But we’re back to our previous problem. Whoever set the fire had to have access to the kitchen. The doors were locked. The staff had gone home for the night. No one was there.”

  “Like the ghost from last night? This is why no one believes the fire is a crime, not even Lt. Payne.” Renner closed his e-mail since Amir hadn’t sent anything useful.

  “What do you think?”

  In the last seventy-two hours, Renner had flip-flopped multiple times. “The jury’s still out. The evidence is inconclusive, but we’re getting paid.”

  “Is that why you’ve had a sudden change of heart?”

  He licked his lips and eyed me. “It’s your case, Alex. You aren’t satisfied yet, so we’ll keep digging. I heard what Lt. Payne said, and even though we haven’t worked together that long, I know how you operate. You won’t stop until you’re sure.”

  I closed my eyes, my head throbbing from my own indecisiveness. Renner wanted to help, but I knew he didn’t believe there was anything left for us to do. This had been his case, but since Cross put me in charge, Renner stepped down from steering the ship. Maybe he realized I’d do whatever I wanted anyway. No wonder I usually worked alone.

  “We need to find out if someone else was inside Sizzle. Once we do, we’ll know if this was arson.” I grabbed my bag. “Easton’s security cameras didn’t catch much.”

  “But they were damaged in the fire.”

  “The restaurant’s in a commercial area. There must be cameras nearby. Let’s find out what they can show us.”

  Renner and I spent the afternoon scoping out the neighborhood and speaking to area businesses. Even though it was Saturday, most retail shops and eateries were open. Surprisingly, almost all of them accommodated our requests, but it was hard to find cameras with a good angle on Sizzle. And it was even harder to review footage from three months ago.

  “Thanks anyway.” I handed the store manager my card. “In the event you or any of your employees happen to remember anything, please let me know.”

  “Will do. Is there anything else I can get for you today? Maybe lens cleaner to go with the shades?”

  To gain compliance, Renner had purchased a pair of designer sunglasses. “I think I’m good.” He peeled the UV sticker off the corner and put them on. When we exited the store, he glanced at me, my reflection staring back from the mirrored aviators. “Do I look like Maverick?”

  “Only if Tom Cruise gained thirty pounds and grew several inches.”

  He glared, or at least I assumed he did since I couldn’t see his eyes. “I spoke to Sgt. Chambliss yesterday when we were at the precinct. He didn’t remember anything odd about the scene, but by the time he arrived, there wasn’t much left to see. Between the fire and the water, most physical evidence was destroyed. Since the front wall came down, it’ll be nearly impossible to determine if there was a break-in. He told me officers checked the back door. They didn’t find any signs of forced entry. The lock didn’t appear to be tampered with. I don’t think it was picked.”

  That meant whoever set the fire had to have a key or made a copy of the key. While Renner drove us back to the office, I phoned Easton and asked if he kept a spare key hidden outside the restaurant, which he did not. Then I asked if he changed the locks when he moved in. He did. Nothing about this was simple.

  “Who had a key?” I asked.

  “Dante and me.” It was the same thing he told me yesterday.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.” He sighed. “He must have done it. There’s no other explanation.”

  At the moment, I was keen to agree. “I don’t think he’ll confess.”

  “Probably not.” Easton went quiet for a time. “What about last night? You told me Dante was in custody, along with Galen and Asher. Who was prowling around my house?”

  Scrunching my face together, I tried to come up with a satisfactory explanation, but I couldn’t think on my feet. And I was sitting down. That really said something. I blamed lack of sleep.

  “You think I’m overreacting?” Easton sounded hurt.

  “I need an honest answer, Chef. Who have you screwed lately? We know you stepped out on your ex-wife, but you haven’t told us anything about your mistress. How many other flings have you had this year?”

  “A few.”

  “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

  “Not at the moment.” His voice contained a smile. “Are you interested?”

  “Only in solving your problems. Give me their names and numbers. We’ll investigate discreetly. While you’re at it, tell me about any other chefs or members of your cooking staff you might have pissed off. If someone’s hoping to intimidate or harass you, it’s probably personal.”

  Easton didn’t respond, but my phone beeped. I pulled it away from my ear and looked at the screen. He sent a text with names and phone numbers. Most of the women didn’t have last names. Some of them didn’t even have real names. He just referred to them as ingredients or cooking adjectives. Honey, Sugar, Sweets, Spicy, Saucy.
r />   Grumbling, I forwarded the list to Amir, hoping he’d be able to get us names and addresses from the phone numbers. “You were right.”

  “About what?” Renner asked.

  “Easton Lango is no choir boy.”

  “Who’d he screw?”

  “Apparently half the grocery store.”

  * * *

  More dead ends. I stared at the crossed off names on my list and turned the page. No one remained. I clicked the list Amir left in my dropbox and scrolled down, double-checking to make sure I didn’t miss anyone. All right, that’s enough, I decided. I performed my due diligence. I even watched traffic cam footage from around the time of the alleged disturbance to see if I spotted any suspicious motor vehicles near Easton Lango’s neighborhood. Besides the normal riffraff, no one stood out. The Cross Security protection detail even spoke to the nosy neighbor across the way. No one paid the chef’s house a visit last night.

  It was simple. Easton was scared. He had every reason to be. A brick sailed through his window with an attached death threat. That would make anyone edgy. I knew that from experience. After my apartment was broken into, I spent several nights sleeping with the lights on. Easton would recover. The police had the men responsible in custody.

  But aspects of this case bothered me. Chef Strader suffered from peeping Tom syndrome or had a voyeuristic fetish, though I was certain it wasn’t sexual in nature. He wanted to observe his competition and emulate or steal from them. What was the saying? Something about imitation being flattery.

  I rolled my neck from side to side, working out the kink. We lived in a digital age. It would be easier and less obvious for Strader to stalk Easton online, but the threatening messages Bisset anonymously sent to Easton caused the chef to retreat from broadcasting his life and creations to the world. Maybe that’s why Strader got creative and started stalking in person and bugging his competition’s kitchen.

  The other thing that didn’t make sense was Dante Bisset’s role. Bisset didn’t have a record. He didn’t have any documented psychological issues, at least none we knew about. Bisset was talented with a bright and promising future. Why would he risk it all over his old boss? Why would he pretend to be friendly with Easton when he clearly loathed the man?

  “Bennett,” I said, drawing him from his reverie, “you’ve spent a lot more time with Chef Easton than I have. He never mentioned Dante Bisset as a suspect. He said they grabbed a drink. That they were friends. He trusted his sous chef with a key to the kitchen. Do you think they had a falling out?”

  “If they did, he never told me. Jake’s gathering evidence. You should ask him.”

  “I guess I will.” The call went to voicemail, and I left a long, rambling message filled with my theories and questions that needed answering. Hopefully, the police detective would get back to me. I wasn’t confident he would, but perhaps that was the pessimism talking. “Easton believes it’s arson,” I repeated for what felt like the millionth time. At this point, I, too, was having doubts. Just because he believed it, that didn’t necessarily make it true. Maybe Lt. Payne was right, and Easton feared he did this to himself and hoped we’d prove him wrong. That would explain why he’d been so adamant that the police reopen the investigation.

  “Welcome to the dark side,” Renner said. He climbed off my couch. “Are we ready to put this thing to bed, yet? You’ve looked. I’ve looked. Detective Voletek, several police officers, the fire department and arson investigators, and the insurance company have reached the same conclusions. There isn’t enough evidence to prove the fire was intentional.”

  “Unless we’re just not seeing it. Lt. Payne and Dil Haskell admitted the scene appears suspicious. A human element fed the fire and caused it to spread rapidly.”

  “Fine, I agree.” Renner held up his palms. “But that doesn’t mean Dante or someone else set the fire. It just means we don’t know exactly what happened.”

  “Let’s see what Dilbert Haskell comes up with before we throw in the towel.”

  “Just make sure you don’t toss it on top of an open flame or we’ll have another fire to investigate.” Renner grinned, and I let out an annoyed harrumph.

  Leaving the office, I drove to Shady Groves where Violet Arnaud lived, but an unmarked cruiser and a blue and white were parked in the visitor spaces. I recognized the cruiser as Voletek’s. Since he didn’t take my call earlier, I knew he didn’t want to see me now. We weren’t exactly best friends yet, so insinuating myself into his follow-up interview wouldn’t be the most prudent course of action.

  Instead, I shot him a text that read a little like a stalker-centric summer movie. I know where you are. Ask Violet if Dante ever mentioned having a beef with Easton.

  Beef, funny, Voletek replied. I’ll check. Do you have anything for me?

  Listen to your voicemail.

  I already did.

  After typing out a snarky response, which I deleted before I got myself into trouble for my creative suggestions, I examined the car Dante traded for his aunt’s. A few twists of a coat hanger and I was inside the car. Donning a pair of gloves, I checked the glove box and beneath the seats. Then I popped the trunk. I didn’t find a damn thing.

  With nothing left to do, I went home. Digging deeper into Bisset’s history held appeal, but the police were in the midst of doing that. Stepping on their toes would not earn me any brownie points. Voletek made that much clear. Too bad he hadn’t been just as forthright answering my questions.

  When I stepped through my front door, the warm, inviting smell of Indian food wrapped itself around me. “Martin?” I called. Either he had gotten a jump on the packing, or a burglar had broken into my apartment and brought dinner with him. A muffled response originated from my bedroom, and I followed the sound. “What are you doing?”

  Martin was standing inside my closet, which was no small feat since I didn’t have a walk-in closet. A row of dresses, jackets, and worn jeans hung to his left while he searched the back corner for something. Finally, he backed out of the cramped space with a stack of heavy file boxes in his hands.

  They teetered, and I ran to grab them before they toppled to the floor when he bumped against the closet door and dresser like a pinball. I’d forgotten how heavy they were, and I let out an oof as I lifted the top one from the stack.

  “Hey, beautiful. The rest of your file boxes from the top shelf are by the door. We might as well add these to the stack,” he glanced down to read my writing, “since they’re labeled and everything.”

  “Where’s the tape?” I asked, leaving the bedroom and noticing the boxes waiting near my doorway.

  “On the counter.” He put the two boxes beside mine, snaked his arm around my waist, and spun me toward him, kissing me on the mouth. “I also ordered dinner. I hope Indian’s okay.”

  “You rarely let us order Indian takeout. You complain the smell lingers for days.”

  “It does, but that’s the next tenant’s problem, not ours.” He released me and reached for the tape. After securing the lids on top to make sure nothing spilled out, he went into the kitchen. “I might have gone overboard with the ordering.”

  “I don’t mind.” I unloaded the bags. As usual, he ordered all of my favorites. “You’re in a good mood.” I went to grab a fork and stared at the empty drawer. The realization hit me like a gut punch. I shut the drawer. “Did you have a good day?”

  “Pretty good. The presentation is ironed out. The board and I have worked out our goals for this year’s tech conference, and we have a solid plan to reach each of our objectives. It’s coming together nicely.” He popped the lid off a container of naan and scooped some tandoori onto the piece. “Of course, it helps that I slept last night. Unfortunately,” he pushed the container closer to me while he reached for the roti and butter chicken, “you didn’t.”

  “We sleep in shifts, remember?”

  “We should work on that.”

  “We should.” I took a big piece of naan, filled my plate with butter chic
ken and dug in.

  After dinner, Martin tucked the leftovers into the fridge while I went to pack the rest of my bedroom. My bottom dresser drawer held a collection of Martin’s shirts. Three dress shirts, purple, pink, and blue, sat beside four of his t-shirts.

  “I knew you had them,” Martin said triumphantly. He folded each one neatly, running his hands over the dress shirts in the hopes of smoothing the creases. But they didn’t budge. He set his jaw, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll ask Rosemarie to press them.”

  “Don’t bother. I like them wrinkled. They’re softer this way.” He gave me a confused look, and I laughed. “You’re not getting them back. Think of it as a mercy borrow. It’s for your own good. In the spring, someone might mistake you for an Easter egg and try to crack you open. I can’t let that happen.”

  “A mercy borrow? Is that anything like a pity fuck?”

  “Do you want to find out?” I jerked my chin at the bed playfully, but Martin saw the sadness in my eyes.

  “What’s wrong? Are you afraid I won’t share my clothes? You know I think they look better on you than me, anyway.”

  “I was just thinking I’d like to spend one more night here.” I ran my hand along the side of the comforter.

  “We have a lot of memories in this place. Good and bad. Do you remember when we first got together? I practically lived here. How about we box up a few more things, drop your files and whatever else will fit inside the car at our apartment, pack an overnight bag, and spend the rest of the weekend here? We have enough Indian food to last until we leave for Vegas. And you obviously have plenty of my shirts to wear if you’re running short on clothes. We can have one last hurrah in this place.”

  “That sounds nice, minus the last hurrah. That sounds way too ominous and final.” Then again, everything right now felt ominous and final. Something told me I’d have regrets. I just didn’t know what they’d be.

  Twenty-five

  I opened my front door and grabbed a couple of boxes and put them in the hallway. The constant smell of cooked cabbage and mildew would not be missed. Martin waited for me to close the door, lock the deadbolt, and pick up the boxes before we headed down the steps. The two boxes I carried looked like nothing compared to the five he had stacked so high he couldn’t see in front of him. We just made it to the car when my phone rang.