“Bitches be huffy,” I said, glimpsing all of the activity on the Oliver property.
“The blood found in Christopher Chatman’s Jaguar.”
“What about it?”
“Belongs to Juliet Chatman… and to someone else.”
My mouth opened, but no words came—someone else?
“You there?” the criminalist asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “At this point, any news is good news. Any idea who ‘someone else’ is?”
“Nope.”
“We need a sample from Chatman, don’t we?”
“That would help, yes.”
There could have been many reasons Juliet’s blood had been found in her husband’s car. Couldn’t wait to hear those reasons from the man himself.
“PC?” Lieutenant Rodriguez barked over the radio, less convinced of the need for a warrant for Chatman’s DNA.
“He’s the husband and father of the deceased,” I said. “He and Juliet were having financial and marital difficulties. She thought she was pregnant. We need his DNA to compare against what was found at the crime scene.”
Lieutenant Rodriguez sighed. “Hit or miss. The judge likes ’em cleaner than this.”
“If it’s nothing, it’s nothing. At least we know it’s his blood. If it’s not his blood, then we have a bigger problem. And we want to know if it’s a bigger problem, right?”
“Yup. We’ll send it over ASAP.”
Case file in hand, I trekked back to the Oliver lawn. Two Hispanic valets wearing short red jackets were setting up a key cubby. A catering company truck had blocked the driveway, and two workers pushed silver carts down the truck’s loading ramp.
The man of the house, dressed in a blue polo shirt and khakis, stood in the front door with his arms crossed. “An evening visit from Detective Elouise Norton,” he called out, his dark eyes bright with amusement. “Must be my lucky day.”
“Aye, it is,” I said, hopping up onto the porch. “How are you?”
“Been better.” We shook hands—firm, dry, a second longer than appropriate. “Nice seeing you again, Detective Norton.”
“Is it really?” I asked, eyebrow cocked.
Ben laughed and his white teeth glistened. “Guess I should apologize for that.”
“Are we talking about the mugging in Ruby Emmett’s living room on Tuesday night?”
“Gimme a break, all right? My family had just died under suspicious circumstances. Can you honestly ding me for not trusting you? I’m protecting my friend, my brother, in a way. Christopher is far more important to me than MG Standard’s bottom line or your caseload. I’m successful at my job because I’m not scared of lions. I must admit, though, you are certainly one of the pride’s… finest.”
I rolled my eyes, but my lips fell into a lopsided grin. “Flattery will get you almost everywhere. Especially on a day like today.”
“Oh, the places I’ll go, then,” he said. “Or try to, at least.” He smiled, then bit his lower lip. “Believe it or not, you and I have the same mission: making sure that those who need help get help. So with that said…” He offered me his hand again. “Truce?”
Why so friendly? Why no lobbing ten-dollar words at my head?
We shook again.
This time, he squeezed my hand.
“Party tonight?” I asked.
“Yep. How can I help you, Detective?”
“I’m here to talk with you about the case.”
He smiled and tilted his head. “So this trip wasn’t just to hang out? Should’ve known better—you don’t seem like the ‘pleasure trip’ type.”
“Shakespeare said, ‘Every man has business and desire, even homicide detectives.’ ” I paused, then added, “I’m paraphrasing, of course.”
“Of course,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”
“I apologize for not going through your secretary for this meeting,” I said, slipping off my blazer and not sorry at all. “I know you’re a busy man.”
He took my jacket and hung it on the coatrack. “I was actually sneaking in a couple of X-Files reruns before getting ready for tonight.”
As we talked about aliens, Mulder and Scully, and the absence of good sci-fi on television, he led me down the hallway to the living room. A giant white-flocked noble fir, bright with tinsel and colorful ornaments, overwhelmed the room. Three red velvet stockings hung from the mantel above the roaring fireplace. The scent of cinnamon and peppermint wafted from an invisible plug-in air freshener.
He sat on the love seat as I studied the pictures on the mantel. In one shot, taken on a sailboat, the woman who resembled Lena Horne—Sarah Oliver—was embracing Ben as the wind whipped her long hair. In another photograph, Amelia, a ten-year-old version of Lena Horne wearing two long ponytails, smiled her snaggletoothed smile as she sat on a white sand beach. I glanced at Ben over my shoulder. “Your wife and daughter are beautiful.”
The attorney tore his eyes away from my ass to meet my gaze. “They’re out doing last-minute shopping. It’s strange that we’re still having the party tonight. I wanted to cancel, but Sarah insists on moving forward. She can’t stop crying, though. And Amelia… she keeps asking if Coco is awake now, and… She loved…” He cleared his throat, then bumped his fist against his mouth.
I settled into the armchair across from him. From the case file, I pulled out a photo taken from the surveillance video camera. “First things first: could you please identify this person?”
Ben took the still, glanced at it, then handed it back to me. “That’s Christopher standing on the front porch of his house. Why?”
“Just need to verify his alibi. This was taken four and a half hours before the fire started.” I sat back in the chair. “I talked with your grandmother yesterday.”
He smiled. “She thinks you’re way too skinny. I told her that your weight seemed…” Embarrassed, he chuckled. “You look… great.”
“You’re being very complimentary today. And you’re using small words for my benefit. How sweet.”
“I don’t have to put on with you. You see past it all anyway. So why bother?”
“Yep. Why bother? Your grandmother mentioned that Mr. Chatman experienced financial difficulties a year or so ago. That he asked you for a loan.”
Ben shrugged, then crossed his legs.
“Would you say Mr. Chatman is good at his job?”
“Christopher’s very busy. So busy that he has to turn away potential clients.”
“If he’s so flush with business, why then did he need to borrow money from you?”
Ben’s eyes turned onyx, but almost immediately softened.
I held his gaze for a moment, then said, “Melissa Kemper had something explosive to tell Juliet. She says so in that note I found. What do you think that was?”
He rubbed his bottom lip. “Before I answer, may I ask you a question?”
I gave a small smile of assent.
“Why are you only focusing on Christopher?”
“Am I?”
He nodded. “Seems like you’re ignoring evidence that doesn’t fit your theory that he had something to do with this tragedy.”
“Oh, really?” I leaned forward, interested. “What am I ignoring?”
He stared at me.
I lifted an eyebrow and waited.
The catering truck rumbled to life, and its gears grinded.
“Your wife, I hear, hated Cody,” I said.
Ben’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.
“What did you think of him?”
He rubbed his hands together as he thought. “He was a little…” He stopped, narrowed his eyes. “He was a little off.”
“He hurt your daughter.”
Ben nodded.
“And resented his sister.”
His lips twisted into a crooked smile. “You trying to pin this on a kid now?”
I rolled my eyes. “You just told me that I’m focusing too much on—”
“But you think his son set the fire that killed
his mother, his sister, himself? That little psychopath was far from suicidal.” He covered his lips with a fist. His eyes shimmered with new tears.
“I’m sorry that we’re having this conversation—”
He waved his hand. “It’s… I just… I miss them. I can still hear Coco’s laugh, and how her laugh sounded like Mimi’s and…” He inhaled, then slowly, slowly released that breath.
“Melissa Kemper,” I said.
“Was more than just Christopher’s friend.”
I froze. “You told me—no, you told everyone in Ruby Emmett’s living room that she was only a friend, that she had nothing to do with this case. What’s changed in two days?”
“Nothing’s changed. She doesn’t have anything to do with this case.” He hopped up from the couch and ambled over to the wet bar near the bay window. He picked up a carafe and poured amber liquid into two glass mugs. Then, he returned to the couch and handed me a cup.
I sipped—my stomach warmed. Rum. The corners of my mouth lifted into a smile.
“Incredible,” he said, amused. “You’re enjoying it. You’re… human.”
I sat the mug on the coffee table. “The city of Los Angeles requires that I act human at least once a day before six P.M.”
He looked at his wristwatch. “You cut it close. It’s ten minutes ’til.”
“Anyway,” I said, “wish I could finish this—it’s delicious. Alas, I’m still on duty.”
“Guess we’ll have drinks, then, when you’re off duty.”
“Guess so.”
His eyes flicked to my left hand. “I see an engagement ring but no wedding band.”
I considered the princess-cut solitaire Greg had slipped on my finger so many years ago.
“Which is it?” he asked. “Engaged or soon-to-be divorced?”
“Limbo.”
“Me, too. Soon to be divorced, I mean. Maybe.” He squinted at me. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“She thinks that I’m not. Did he screw up or did you?”
Sharpness twanged near my temples. It happened anytime I discussed my marriage. “You were saying about Melissa Kemper?”
He studied me for a few seconds. “I told you that she moved to Las Vegas with her kid.”
“You did tell me that.”
“Christopher called her two weeks later. Then he flew out there and they had dinner. They talked about his job, her new life in Vegas, regular stuff. Nothing… romantic. Just friends shooting the shit. But then their relationship changed. Juliet had no idea. She thought he was busy working, that he had no time for high jinks, especially with a woman like Melissa. Especially since Christopher is a good guy.” He sighed, then placed his chin in his hand. “And I just gave a dog a bone.”
“Pardon?”
“Because of my honesty, he really is a suspect to you now since he dicked around.”
“My thinking is more sophisticated than that. ‘Adulterer’ is not synonymous with ‘murderer.’ ”
“And you know that because…?”
I didn’t speak.
“Personal or professional experience?”
“Yes.”
He chuckled. “Me, too.”
“Was Melissa satisfied with their relationship?” I asked, voice tight. “Or did she turn on him and give him the ultimatum? You know: it’s me or your family?”
“If she did, he chose Juliet and the kids. Which meant…”
“Melissa had been dumped again. And so she was pissed and wanted to tell Juliet what a creep her husband was. So she wrote that note I found.”
He pointed at me. “And that’s the story with Melissa. Like I said: she has nothing to do with the fire. Just good ole domestic drama.”
“So why did he ask you for money?” I asked.
Ben traced the rim of his mug as he thought. “Back to that?”
“I have warrants for their finances, Ben. It will come out. All of it. You know this.”
He twisted his mouth as he stared into his cider. “Bills. Taking from Peter to pay Paul as the cliché goes. Christopher could never catch up, and you could say that I owed him.”
“But he had inherited close to three million dollars,” I said.
He shrugged.
“How much you loan him?”
“Total? About twenty grand.”
“Did he pay you back?”
He smiled, then cocked his head.
“If we could all have friends like you,” I said, shaking my head. “Were you shocked that he was asking for money?”
Ben laughed. “Shocked doesn’t even describe…” He rubbed his face and groaned. “I mean, here he was, asking me for money. And I’m confused because he was always out buying Louis Vuitton bags and shit, fancy cars and titanium watches.”
He slumped in his chair, then rested his index finger on his forehead. “I lost a lot of money this year on tech investments and clients not paying. We’ve had to look over our budget and consider everything twice. Amelia’s tuition, her health care—she has sickle-cell anemia. We’ve changed the type of bread we buy, switched cable plans, postponed a much-needed divorce—all to save money. Yet here’s Christopher telling me this sob story about being broke while he’s still buying crap from the Sharper Image.”
“But what’s all that fanciness out there?” I asked, pointing to the windows. “Parties aren’t cheap.”
“I’m paying for that on the firm’s dime—clients and out-of-town partners. Our holiday parties are legendary. We couldn’t cancel even though…” He sighed, then rubbed his temples. “Even though I’m barely here.”
“So you gave Mr. Chatman money. Why didn’t you tell him no?”
Ben left the couch and wandered over to the Christmas tree. He straightened an ornament hanging from a weak limb.
I slipped over to him. “Was there someone else? Were you having an affair?”
“No, it wasn’t that.”
“You were having an affair.” I took a few steps closer. “And Christopher found out and threatened to tell your wife if you didn’t fork over the money.”
He turned to face me.
“If I’m wrong, then tell me, Ben.”
We stood there, mere inches apart, both of us barely breathing.
Outside, a car door slammed. In the driveway, a little girl whined, “Mommy, the bag’s too heavy.” Keys jangled. The house’s front door opened. An alarm sensor chimed. Footsteps thudded down the hallway.
The girl from the mantel picture ran into the living room’s entryway. “Daddy!” She saw me standing by her father and froze.
Ben stooped and held out his arms. “Ladybug!”
Amelia tore her eyes away from me and smiled. “Daddy, guess what we bought?”
I moved back to the armchair.
The girl ran into her father’s arms, those ponytails flapping, her sparkly sneakers blinking red with every step she took.
He swooped the girl into the air, hugged her, then kissed her cheeks.
Sarah Oliver filled the entryway her daughter had just abandoned. “Ben, those lazy-ass valets didn’t—” She peered at me and then appraised her husband. That long hair, so free in that sailboat picture, had been pinned into a severe chignon. She wore all white—from her wedge-heeled Uggs and tight white leggings to her clingy turtleneck.
“Honey,” Ben said to her, “this is Detective Lou Norton.”
“We talked at the hospital,” I said.
“Yes,” Sarah said. “She cornered me in the bathroom.”
I cocked my head as an icy smile crackled across my mouth. This bitch… To Ben, now being smothered with kisses from his daughter, I said, “Thank you for talking with me. I’m gonna pop out back to see if Mr. Chatman is up to talking with me again.”
Ben nodded, then tugged his daughter’s ponytail, causing a fit of giggles.
“You have a lovely home,” I said to Sarah Oliver.
“Thank you.” She gave me a look that shredded intestines and pulverized li
vers.
Fortunately, I wore Kevlar beneath my sweater.
I slipped past the woman of the house and made it to the front door.
She followed me in case I tried to steal something.
Or someone.
31
CHRISTOPHER CHATMAN GREETED ME AT THE ARCHED DOOR OF THE IVY-COVERED guesthouse. His left arm was still in the sling, and he held a water glass in his free hand. His long-sleeved T-shirt clung to his slight muscles. He had the sleepy gaze of a man still waking from a nap—or recovering from a concussion. “Surprised to see you tonight. We had discussed talking later.”
I fake apologized for not calling ahead of time. “With investigations like this, we often jump from one lead to another. That means showing up to a place unannounced.”
The Motorola vibrated from my hip. I pulled it off my belt and glanced in the display. A text from Lieutenant Rodriguez. Warrant for CC DNA signed.
Chatman led me to the living room. The pill vials and water glasses had been replaced with a soup bowl and a paperback copy of Blink.
I settled on the love seat. “New developments since the last time we spoke.”
He sat in the armchair. “We spoke only yesterday. Sorry that it’s a little warm in here. With the fireplace, it heats up pretty quickly.”
“No problem,” I said. “Yesterday, I learned that Juliet was a pharma rep.”
“And she was pretty good at it.”
“But she left the field. Why?”
He shrugged. “She wanted to be home with the kids.”
“Why didn’t she go to medical school?”
His head fell back, and he stared at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. “Couldn’t pass organic chemistry. She took it three times, and flunked it three times. So she went the pharma way. Medicine but not really. If she was a banker’s wife, though, she’d still get the house, the car, the prestige.”
“Some folks call that gold digging.”
“It is what it is.” He tugged at a loose string on his sling. “I kept her in expensive shoes and handbags, and she kept me focused.”
“Any financial turmoil because of her not working?”
He wrapped the loose string around his middle finger until it looked like purple sausage. “No. I just worked harder and longer.”
“No outstanding loans? No recent bankruptcies?”
Skies of Ash Page 18