Burning Embers

by G. K. Parks

  “Parker,” I answered, wincing when I saw the disturbed look in Martin’s eyes. “Hello,” I corrected.

  “Hi, Ms. Parker. This is Dil Haskell. The lab tests have come back. I have the results right here.”

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. You said forty-eight hours, but with the weekend, I thought it might take longer.”

  “When it’s for Cross Security, we put a rush on it.”

  Of course, you do. “We appreciate the quick turnaround.” I closed the trunk, slid behind the wheel of the company car, and put the call on speaker. Silently, Martin got in beside me, eyeing the device as if it were a snake preparing to strike. “What can you tell me about the fire?”

  “I’d say we’re looking at arson, but it’ll be damn near impossible to prove.” Dil coughed a few times, apologized for hacking in my ear, and laid out the facts. “I sent my team of investigators in to search the place. We checked everything, top to bottom. You remember the vent I found behind the shelving in the kitchen?”

  “What about it?”

  “They found grease inside. That’s how the fire jumped the barrier.”

  “Okay.” This was progress. Proof. “What kind of grease?”

  “Based on the chemical composition, it appears to be lard. Not atypical for a restaurant.”

  “What else did you find?”

  “Remnants of oil on the counters, which Ted pointed out. The floors in the dining room had some kind of coating. We found it tested in streaks, which we’re used to seeing when people douse a room with gasoline or another liquid accelerant, but it wasn’t gas. It didn’t flash burn the way we’d expect. It was a slow, continuous burn, mostly around the baseboards and trim and on the wood paneling. That’s why we didn’t see strips of charring. That’s why the fire did so much damage in such a short amount of time. It burned hot.”

  “How can you tell? The entire place is extra crispy. Everything’s charred.”

  “That’s the continuous burn part.” Haskell coughed a couple more times. The wet hacks sounded unpleasant and downright painful.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Haskell?”

  “I’m okay, just got a nasty cough. I probably caught whatever’s going around.”

  Martin gave me a curious look when I missed the turn for our apartment. “I need to make a brief stop at the office,” I whispered. He nodded, sinking into the seat and rubbing a hand over his mouth as he continued to stare at my phone like it was the root of all evil.

  “Huh?” Haskell asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, “so you were saying something about the streaks being odd.”

  “We found the suspicious coating mostly against the walls. We can only speculate what it might be. So far, we haven’t found a match to the precise chemical compound.”

  “Do you have any idea what it is?”

  “We’re still testing other samples, but it appears to be some kind of sealant. Whatever they used thirty years ago to treat the wood and prevent mildew or mold might be why your client lost his restaurant. It caused the fire to burn even hotter. That’s why so much of the furniture went up, even though restaurants are required to use non-flammable décor.”

  “That doesn’t point to arson. That makes it sound like bad luck.” Haskell said it was arson. Aside from the grease in the vent, he had yet to give me something to work with. “What else did you find?”

  “The samples we took of the front wall are different from the rest of the building. They tell a different story. The front wall cooked until it crumbled. That shouldn’t happen. The building materials were significantly different, so I did some digging into the contractor. His name has crossed my desk before. This isn’t the first project he’s completed that resulted in a devastating structure fire. My team checked the building permits and materials used. I even investigated the foreman, contractor, and the rest of their crew.” Haskell didn’t say anything else, but I could read between the lines.

  “You think one of them is a firebug?”

  “I think one fire’s an accident. Two’s a tragedy. And three makes this a crime. But good luck proving it. I’m just a fire-obsessed old man. I never found anything conclusive in my investigation of the construction company. It could be the city’s standards are so lax every building is a ticking time bomb or a building inspector is on the take.”

  For a moment, the arson investigator reminded me of Mark Jablonsky, and from the way Martin’s lips quirked in the corner, I knew he was thinking the same thing. I stifled my chuckle. Apparently, there was something to be said about that generation. Nine times out of ten they knew exactly what they were talking about, even though most people would think they were raving mad or going senile.

  “How long have you been investigating the construction crew?” I asked.

  “Off and on for almost a year, but we’ve never found anything concrete. Our claims have yet to stick. And no one’s ever had a vested interest in us continuing pursuit. When taken individually, the fires just aren’t suspicious enough, not even Sizzle’s.”

  “So why did you tell me it’s clearly arson? It sounds like the fire might have been thirty years in the making.” I wondered if Haskell wanted to enlist me to fight on his behalf in the crusade against the construction company. He probably thought my client would be more than happy to lead the charge, but I wasn’t a pawn to be used in their game.

  “It wasn’t. It was set intentionally and recently. The grease could only have gotten inside the vent sometime after Sizzle passed inspection.”

  “How do you know?” I looked at Martin, wondering if he was following along better than I was, but he appeared just as confused.

  “Because ventilation and air flow are part of the inspection. The filters and vents have to be clean,” Haskell proclaimed, as if I should have realized it sooner. “Someone put the lard in there and smeared it up and down the wall on both sides. That was intentional. There’s no other way it could have gotten there. Though, some might argue otherwise. Here’s my expert opinion, Ms. Parker. The grease in the vent signifies the fire was intentionally spread. Plain and simple, that means arson. Whoever did it probably wanted to set the dining room on fire. Whether or not they wanted it to completely destroy the building, I can’t say for certain. A lot of additional factors played a contributing role in decimating the restaurant. Those might have been bad luck, but the grease wasn’t.”

  “Did you find grease in the other vents or throughout the ventilation system?”

  “Just trace amounts.”

  “Why haven’t you taken this to the police or the fire department?”

  “Cross Security hired me to investigate. It’s up to you what you do with those findings.”

  “I’ll need you to talk to the cops.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing, Ms. Parker.”

  “Alex,” I corrected, feeling at this stage in the game it was only fair. “What’s that?”

  “It’s the vent leading out of the kitchen. Even with the exhaust fans and other required safety implementations, anything in constant contact with cooking fumes, smoke, et cetera that isn’t cleaned regularly will end up with grease build-up. And no one ever thinks to clean the vents, unless it’s the exhaust fan or the grate over the stove.”

  “Would grease from the stove make it to a vent near the floor?”

  I could practically hear Haskell’s shrug. “Conceivably, with enough time and meal prep, but Sizzle was only in operation for two months. It wasn’t long enough for that kind of build-up. That’s how I know it was intentional, but the authorities might still discount the possibility. Fires are tricky things.”

  “All right. Thanks.” I bit my lip, my thoughts going in a million different directions. “Send me your files, and whatever details you can provide on the contractors and construction workers.” That was one avenue I hadn’t explored. “I’ll find a way to prove it.” I disconnected and stared out the windshield. Everyone else said it wasn’t arson, but Haskell said it was. It
would be a tough sell.

  “You probably should have dropped me off at home,” Martin mused. “It looks like you’ll be working late again.”

  I tore my eyes away from the road and looked at him. “How are you feeling?”

  His brow furrowed. “Fine?”

  “Is that a question?” He let out a low grumble, and I got to the point. “I’m serious. With the exception of last night, you haven’t been sleeping. This,” I gestured to the phone before turning my gaze back to the brake lights in front of us, “stresses you out. Me coming home late stresses you out. I know you’re all in, so I’m not going to play through our usual greatest hits.”

  “Thank god.”

  “And I do believe that we’ll be okay. That you’ll be okay. I know a little bit about what you’re going through.”

  “I know. I saw the t-shirt in your drawer. Been there, done that. But for the record, I’ve never been just okay. I’m fucking amazing. Always have been, always will be.”

  I snickered. “Be that as it may, I need you to make a decision. You know about my case, about what I’m working on, all the things that I’m sure Lucien Cross would hate to know I’ve divulged to you since you’re an uninvolved third party and all, but this isn’t normally what we do. We’re doing this whole open and honest communication bullshit your therapist harped upon.”

  “Our therapist,” he corrected. “That was the one we went to see together.”

  “Yeah, whatever. They all say the same things.”

  He laughed. “That probably means it’s something we need to work on.”

  “Which is why you know every damn thing about this case. So here’s the million dollar question.” I pulled into the garage and parked the company car in my reserved space. “Do you want to come upstairs with me while I make a few calls and get everything squared away? This way, I won’t work too late, and we can return to our regularly scheduled program. Or would you prefer to take my car or call for a ride and go back to our apartment?”

  His eyes sparkled. “That depends?”

  “On what?”

  “How does the million dollars work?”

  Now I was confused. “What million dollars?”

  “The million dollars you mentioned in regards to answering the question. Is there a right answer that wins a million dollars? Or do I pay you a million dollars?”

  I gawked at him. “Martin, you slept. I didn’t. Why are you asking me inane questions?”

  He licked his lips, the playfulness draining from his features. “It’s easier than the alternative. We both know that call fucked up our plans for the next two weeks.”

  Twenty-six

  Martin and I spent most of the night reviewing Haskell’s report and running background checks on the construction company, Ames Bros. Construction, affectionately dubbed ABC. Those were the same initials I used to refer to Martin’s attorneys. When everything was said and done, maybe the construction company would have to hire the law firm to get them out of this jam. But I didn’t find anything damning in their records, and even Martin with his keen eye for business and finance didn’t spot anything suspicious going on with the construction company or its workers. The contractors appeared to be on the up and up.

  The next morning, I got up bright and early, intent on conquering the day. Since Dilbert Haskell was willing to bend over backward for Cross Security, I planned to take advantage of my security firm’s prestige for once. He graciously agreed to meet me at Sizzle for another walkthrough, so I phoned Voletek and convinced him to join us.

  “Bribing a cop is a crime,” Voletek said, taking a cup of coffee from the carrier. “Good thing I don’t consider consumable goods bribes.”

  “Isn’t that what got Cross Security into this mess?” I retorted.

  “Point taken.” He popped the top and took a sip. “So what do we have here, Mr. Haskell?”

  “Dil,” the consultant corrected, already sifting through the rubble as he made his way inside the building. “Didn’t Alex catch you up to speed?”

  “She did, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

  As the men went over the same limited facts, I went around the back of the building to check out the rear exit again. Crouching down, I inspected the lock. The police were right; there were no signs of a break-in. I trudged back inside just as Voletek swabbed the interior of the vent, sealed it in a tube, and tucked it into his jacket. The detective looked up at me, the ah-ha evident.

  “Lard,” Voletek said.

  “Yes, lard,” Haskell replied. “That’s what our lab tests show.”

  “I’ll need you to forward me the results. The crime lab will run a test to verify, but this is a major breakthrough.”

  “Come again?” I ran a gloved finger over the countertop.

  “That’s olive oil,” Haskell volunteered without me asking.

  “It’s not the same type of grease.” Voletek stood up, offering a hand to Haskell who gratefully took it. “Chef Easton doesn’t use lard in his restaurant.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  Voletek nodded. I knew chefs didn’t have trading cards, but if they did, Voletek would have the entire collection and every single one of their stats memorized. Obviously, the second part was true, even without the trading cards. “Chef Strader, on the other hand, has several pastry recipes that rely heavily on lard. It’s one of his key ingredients.”

  I tried to recall Easton’s recipes, but I didn’t remember anything that required flaky crusts. Pastry wasn’t his passion or his forte. “What about Bisset? He studied in Paris. What do they use?”

  “Depends on the region, but typically butter,” Voletek said.

  Still, that didn’t prove anything. Anyone could go to the grocery store and buy lard, not just chefs and arsonists. “What did Strader tell you?” I asked.

  Voletek grinned but refused to answer. “Dil, I need your help to build my case.”

  “Sure, whatever I can do for you, Detective.” Haskell glanced at me, hoping his answer was acceptable.

  “You can’t just swoop in and steal my expert,” I teased, squaring off against Voletek. “What do you know?”

  “Dante mentioned lard yesterday when I questioned him after paying his aunt a visit. I didn’t understand why he kept insisting the baking supplies he brought her had nothing to do with Easton, but I knew there was something to it.”

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  Voletek showed me a photo he took of the items inside the woman’s pantry. Among them was a half empty tub of lard. “Forensics dusted the containers and analyzed the contents, but we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Prints matched her and Dante. Nothing indicated the items came from Easton or his kitchen, so the other cops were willing to write it off as Dante being paranoid that we wanted to pin theft to his laundry list of crimes. But I had an inkling there was more to it than that.” Voletek stepped closer to me and lowered his voice, not wanting to share the intel with Haskell. “The lab can analyze the chemical composition, trace elements, fat percentage, things like that, and determine if the lard in the vent is a match to what’s in Violet Arnaud’s cupboard. If it’s the same, we have our man.”

  “How long has the container been in Violet’s cupboard?”

  “According to Violet, her nephew brought over the baking supplies when he was in between jobs. It must have been a week or two after the fire. He told her he didn’t need them anymore, and she took it as a sign he was depressed about losing his job. That’s when they switched cars. She thought letting him drive around in her late husband’s GTO would make him feel more manly. More in control of his life. Hell, she probably figured it’d get him laid and cheer him up.”

  “So you think Dante did this?”

  “With Strader’s help. Strader’s the lard expert. I found the same size container and brand inside Bouillon that I found in Violet’s pantry. That can’t be a coincidence.” Voletek stared at the vent and the charred wall. “Since Dante brought it
over before he went to work for York, it might mean something.”

  “It means they’ll go another round of pointing fingers at each other instead of taking the blame.”

  But Voletek was determined to get to the bottom of it. “Then I break the cycle. Dante said Strader’s been slipping him money in exchange for intel, first on Easton, now on York. Maybe Strader paid him to set the fire or worse.”

  “So Dante Bisset doesn’t actually hate Easton?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just think he’s envious and wouldn’t care if all of their restaurants burned to the ground, but since he’s taking payoffs from Strader, it changes everything. Asher York knows something. I don’t know what, but he does. If my assumptions are correct about the lard and its origins, maybe York will lead us in the right direction. He knows more about Strader and Bisset’s interactions than he’s let on. Once I tell him his sous chef was selling him out, he’ll tell me everything I want to know.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I took a step back and surveyed the destroyed kitchen again, “but we still don’t know who set the fire. I doubt York knows, and since your prime suspects will either deny it or blame the other, you’ll never get a jury to convict. I doubt you’ll even convince the DA to pursue charges on the matter when they know how it’ll play out.”

  “I didn’t realize you were a prosecutor,” Voletek said.

  “I’m not.”

  “Then don’t concern yourself with that. Leave that up to me,” Voletek grinned at Haskell, “and my new best friend.”

  Haskell gave Voletek the same tour he’d given me, pointing out what he and his team of experts uncovered. I made some notes, examined the portion of the wall that had been cut to expose the interior and another portion of wall that had crumbled due to the fire and water damage. While Haskell was pointing out the unexpected demolition of the front wall, I spotted pieces of the front door poking up from the rubble.