by Pamela Cowan
“I’m not so sure about having gut feelings,” Emma told her. “Usually all my gut tells me is that I’m hungry, but if it will make you feel better, I’ll go poke around.”
Gwen had then revealed more of what the firemen had discovered. For instance, that there were accelerants in the building but that this was not, by itself, suspect. The warehouse had once been used by a paint store to store everything from cans of paint to paint thinner and linseed oil.
They told her that linseed oil, with an ignition point as low as 120 degrees, was the most likely cause. If a can were knocked over, or had rusted and begun leaking, it could have given off vapors. The day of the fire had been clear and sunny. With all the windows and the metal roof, it could have become hot enough for the vapor to ignite.
Emma shivered as a gust of wind blew through the warehouse. Its icy touch reminded her that the sun was going down and taking all the warmth with it. She pulled a flashlight out of her jacket pocket and snapped it on. Then, going back to the front of the building she began searching in a grid pattern. As she walked, she slowly swept the light across the stained concrete floor. She didn’t really need the light yet, for now it was just a way to help her focus on one thing at a time.
When she reached the barrels and small, what looked like one-gallon paint cans, she searched the area around them. Then, with the toe of her boot, nudged each so it would roll away, allowing her to see what was beneath.
It was slow, dusty work and she started to regret her choice of footwear. The boots she was wearing were fairly new and not cheap. They were starting to get crusted with ash. Would it trash the leather? Would she make enough on this job to replace them if it did? She doubted it.
Deciding to spare her boots, she knelt and used her gloved hands to continue the exploration. When she pushed at one of the smaller cans it didn’t roll away easily, the way the others had. She lifted it and saw what had kept it from rolling. A small lump of black plastic on the concrete floor. When she tried to pick it up she found it was stuck. Cupping her hand over the palm-sized object she pushed side to side and back and forth until it broke free. She turned the object over and saw that two keys were embedded in the plastic, which must have melted around them from the heat of the fire.
“Interesting.” The sound of her voice was tiny in the echoing space. Aware of the gathering darkness, she dropped the object into her jacket pocket and continued her search.
CHAPTER THREE
Friday, September 7
A few hours later, Emma sat at her sister’s dining room table, staring down at the key fob. “What do you think, El?”
The girls had been born two years apart, Ellen first, then Emma. Their parents began calling them El and Em when they were toddlers, and though the girls fought it as teenagers, the nicknames had stuck.
Ellen turned the key fob over and peered at it closely. “Yep, it’s definitely shaped like a car. Look, it even has windows.” She ran the tip of one short, unpolished nail along a fine crack that ran in a perfectly straight line along one side. “Has to be for some kind of car.”
“Well duh,” said Emma, rolling her eyes. “But what kind of car? An expensive one, right? It’s pretty fancy. And what was it doing in that old warehouse?”
“And what do these keys open?” Ellen said, adding her own question to the list. Picking up a steak knife from the table, which was still littered with the remains of last night’s meal, she slid the point under one of the keys and twisted. With a tiny screech both popped free. A small chip of black plastic fell to the table but otherwise the fob remained intact. “Look like house keys to me,” Ellen said, turning them this way and that, but getting no further information.
“What’s that?” Emma asked, pointing to a white mark on the fob that had been hidden under the keys.
The sisters bent close. The light above the table made the highlights in their dark brown hair shine a warm reddish gold. Aside from the identical color of their hair, and the squareness of their faces, there was little to mark them as sisters.
Emma was shorter and curvier than Ellen. Her hair was worn longer, with wispy strands framing her face. She also wore makeup, eye shadow, dark brown liner around dark brown eyes, and a shade of lipstick she’d worn since high school, something called Cinnamon Rose, which she felt naked without.
Ellen had the athletic build of someone who likes to climb rock walls or run a few dozen miles each week just for fun. She had her hair cut, when she remembered to, in a short bob. She rarely wore makeup, unless you counted Chapstick, yet still managed to Emma’s unending annoyance, to look as if she always put in an effort.
Bringing the fob closer, Ellen tried to make out what the white mark was. She shook her head. “It’s some sort of emblem, I think, but it got ruined by the heat. You know, these doors look like they’d pop right off. Wait a minute.”
Ellen, continuing to use the tip of the steak knife, began to carefully pry the fob apart. When Emma saw what she was doing, she said, “Hold on,” then went to the kitchen, and returned with a paper towel. She laid it on the table and as Ellen removed each of the doors, Emma placed them neatly on the paper.
“Look, there’s some metal things here. They look like they might be hinges.” Again, using the knife tip, Emma opened each of them. The fob fell in half, revealing the electronics inside. Ellen continued to remove components, handing them to Emma, who arranged them on the paper towel.
They both stared down at the disassembled parts.
“Thirteen pieces,” said Ellen.
“Fourteen, if you count the chip you broke off,” said Emma. “But why would you?”
Ellen shook her head, barely suppressing a smile. “You would not,” she said. “I’m not sure exactly what taking that thing apart got us, though.”
“Not much. I was hoping there was another emblem inside, but no such luck.”
“So, that means we have no idea what kind of car it’s for.”
“Not necessarily. I got on my cell phone before I came over and did a search for car-shaped fobs. I found out only a few companies use them: Porsche, BMW, Tesla, and Lamborghini, for instance. All fancier, high-end cars. It tells us that whoever lost their keys in the warehouse probably wasn’t some homeless guy that broke in and accidentally set the place on fire.”
“Probably not, but how do you know they lost the keys?” asked Ellen.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what if they didn’t lose them? What if they intentionally tossed them inside expecting them to melt in the fire? I mean, think about it. If you were planning to burn the place down, would you show up in your own car, or steal one?”
“Damn it,” said Emma, “I didn’t think of that. It could still be there, parked nearby. I’m stupid. I was so focused on the scene in my head I didn’t consider anything else. I’ll have to go drive around and see if I can find it.”
“Only it probably isn’t there anymore. It’s been a few days since the fire, right?” said Ellen. “That’s an industrial area. They won’t let a car just sit there for days on end. They’ll have it towed.”
Once again, her sister had proven she was smarter. Emma wondered if humiliation could be fatal. Hoping her face wasn’t reflecting her feelings she said, “Tow companies. Good idea. I’ll call around. Why aren’t you the P.I.?”
“Funny, but I never ask myself that question,” Ellen replied.
Emma crossed her arms defensively. “I hate this. I agree with Gwen. My gut says that the fire wasn’t an accident, but if I can’t find something more than that key fob, I won’t be able to help her prove it. I feel bad even billing her. Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“Don’t start that. Gwen’s got the money, and she hired you to give her your thoughts, not to solve the crime. What kind of business are you running? It’s not your fault if there isn’t anything to find.”
“I guess,” said Emma with a shrug. She was grateful, as she’d been hoping her sister would disagree and help take away some o
f the guilt she felt for taking on a job that was beyond her.
“Hey, you said it yourself,” said Ellen, picking up on Emma’s mood. “This isn’t your kind of thing.”
“That’s the truth. I wish I knew an expert who could look at this,” she said, staring down at the disassembled key fob. “Someone in the FBI would come in real handy about now.”
“I know someone in the FBI,” Ellen offered.
“What?” Emma said, surprise, and a touch of doubt in her tone.
“In fact,” said Ellen, pointedly ignoring her sister’s skepticism, “I have a friend with the CIA, one with the DEA and at least two with the US Marshall’s Service.”
Emma must have looked astonished, judging by the smug smile that crossed Ellen’s face. “B-b-but how?” she asked.
“Where do you think ex-MPs go when their military service is over? Law enforcement, of course.”
“Huh. I guess I never thought about it before.”
“Well, duh,” Ellen said, reaching for her phone. “I wonder which one of my friends can get the fastest results.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Sunday, September 9
Willy’s truck bounced down the narrow dirt road, in and out of shallow ruts and over rocks half hidden by grass and brush. The truck was heavily loaded and didn’t handle well. The front tires felt like they were floating, or at least barely touching the ground, which made it hard to steer.
It was morning, not that early, but cold as a dead witch’s tit. The truck’s heater was acting up, blasting warm air for a moment and then ice cold. He rubbed his hands together, then grabbed the wheel as the road tried to send the truck into a shallow ditch.
What he was doing was probably stupid, but his uncle had died almost a year ago and his widow and their kid weren’t doing so well, or so he’d heard. They’d moved from Hollis out to Jansen’s Mill so that pretty much proved the rumor.
His dad hadn’t liked his brother, Gordon, and Willy had only met his uncle and his family once, at a funeral.
He remembered his aunt as a short, chubby woman with red hair, and his cousin, who was maybe five or six then, as a quiet kid who sat in the corner drawing with crayons. So, when someone traded him a load of split firewood for a pair of snow tires, he didn’t know why he thought of them, but he had. It only took one phone call to track down their address. Out in the country, people usually don’t share information unless they know you, but everyone knew Willy.
He finally reached the house, one in a row of small mobile homes, and backed in, careful not to hit the station wagon that had about as much rust and as many dents as the house.
As he climbed out of the cab, a woman stepped out of the house. She stood on the uneven pile of cinder bricks that served as her front porch and steps. He thought she might be his aunt, but he wasn’t sure. Her hair was sort of the same, but instead of being a little bit chunky, she was a whole lot thin.
He went to the back of his truck and she glared at him for a moment, then said, “You’re Willy, aren’t you? You’re William’s son. What are you doing here?” Her eyes moved across the firewood piled in the back of the truck. “I never called you. I don’t have money for wood.” She stood half turned toward him, as if ready to jump back inside if she had to. The wind swept her across her face. She was blade thin, so skinny he half-expected the next gust to blow her off the porch. Maybe that was why she kept one hand on the screen door handle. “I don’t have any money,” she repeated.
“I know,” Willy told her.
“And I don’t take charity,” she said proudly.
Willy had to turn away to hide his cynical look. When he turned back, he was all business. “I don’t run a charity,” he replied. “But someone gave me this load of firewood and I’ve got more than I can store. I figured I could barter with you. People almost always got something to trade.”
His father had taught him that. He’d also taught Willy his favorite mottos: “You don’t earn, you don’t eat.” “No good deed goes unpunished.” “People suck.” He would not approve of Willy not only giving away firewood, but spending gas money and tire tread delivering it. Willy didn’t plan to tell him.
“Something to trade,” she said. Then her puzzled expression slowly changed to a smile that he realized was meant to be seductive. She put her hand on one bony hip and said, “I might. You want to come on in and get warm?”
Holy hell, was she offering what he thought? She was his fucking aunt, even if it was only by marriage. When he mentioned trade, he’d been thinking maybe she could clean his house, or cook him a meal or something. Jesus. He almost jumped into his truck and took off. Then a new gust of icy wind reminded him why he’d dragged all that wood out here in the first place.
Sighing, he shook his head. “My girlfriend would put a bullet in me.”
“She wouldn’t need to know,” Leena coaxed.
“Oh, she’d know,” She’s got some special kind of radar.” He wasn’t sure he liked this fictitious girlfriend. She sounded like she might be a special kind of crazy.
“Well,” she said, giving up like it was second nature. Why don’t you come in and look around; maybe I have something that would be worth something to you.”
“Sure,” said Willy, though he was doubtful. Based on the pick marks on her face, the supermodel thin body, and the gap where her left canine should have been, Willy figured she’d traded anything of value long ago.
When he stepped inside the trailer, he knew he was right. The space was small but still echoed. There was nothing but a recliner that leaned to one side and a loveseat that looked as if it had been dragged from the landfill. Its arms were so shredded the wood frame showed through. A couple of blankets and a water-stained pillow marked it as someone’s bed. At least it looked like someone kept the place swept up. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Maybe Leena wasn’t completely gone, or maybe it was the kid who was trying for something more than a needle.
To the right, beyond the living room, was an open kitchen and dining area. A table with a dollar store plastic tablecloth and two plastic chairs patched with silver duct tape were the only furniture there. A girl was sitting at the table eating cereal from a plastic bowl. Her long hair covered her face, but Willy knew it had to be his cousin.
“Hey Bonnie,” he greeted her. She looked up, an unwelcoming scowl on her face. “It’s me, your cousin Willy. You probably don’t remember me.” He was startled to see she had a black eye. Her eyelid and the area around it were dark purple, while the white of her eye was a vivid red. “Damn, what happened to you?” he asked, striding across the room, propelled by concern and a bit of morbid curiosity.
Bonnie half raised her hand as if to shield herself, then seemed to think better of it and lifted her face to him. “Running in the forest,” she said. “Ran into a tree.” She looked to her mother for confirmation and her mother nodded. Bonnie turned away to refill her bowl from a large generic bag of multi-colored flakes and went back to eating almost robotically.
“Running with her eyes closed,” Leena explained. “Some new game the kids are into. Didn’t we all do dumb things as kids? I remember how we used to hyperventilate and try to pass out, and how we used to sit in the back of someone’s truck and find the worst roads, just trying to buck someone out. It’s a wonder we ever survived.”
Willy nodded. “That’s true. Hey, you know, I just had an idea for a deal we could make on that firewood. How about this summer you let Bonnie wash my truck for me? It gets pretty muddy when I start hauling potatoes and what not. I’d pay twenty bucks a time. Three times would pay for that wood. What do you think?”
“It sounds like a good deal to me,” said Leena. “What do you say?” she asked her daughter. “Do you want to do it?”
“Sure, I guess,” said Bonnie, with no enthusiasm.
“Well, it’s a deal then,” Willy said. “You think you could give me a hand with the wood?” he asked Bonnie.
“I could help,” said Leena.
“Of course. I’ve got some powdered hot cocoa. Would that do?”
“That would be fine. I imagine you want the wood stacked up along that wall there?” He indicated the area near the fireplace where the floor was deeply scratched and dented. No one would leave their wood stacked outside in this neighborhood. It would disappear in the night like socks in the dryer.
“Yes, please,” Leena said.
Bonnie finished the last of her cereal and got up to help. Together they walked out into the driveway and the icy wind.
“Help me get that tailgate down, would you. You’ll need these.” He reached into his truck and from the front seat grabbed a pair of worn leather gloves. “Here,” he said, as he helped her slip her small hands into each of the oversized gloves.
When he was done, she looked up at him. As soon as they locked eyes, he said. “Now tell me what happened to you, and don’t lie. I’ve had enough black eyes to know the how of what happened. Now I want to know the who.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sunday, September 9
After talking to Bonnie, Willy had driven up along Deer Bone Creek and pulled over. Now he sat in his truck breathing as hard as if he’d run a fast mile. “Don’t lose your shit.” he told himself. “Think.” He dug an empty Altoids tin out of his glove box, opened it, and picked out a fat green bud. He’d traded an old washing machine for the tin and its contents, and knew he’d got the best of the deal. He packed a pipe, lit up, and took a lung-filling draw. He had to relax, chill out. Think.
While Leena was making hot chocolate he’d kept grilling Bonnie, “Look, you’re blood. That means I gotta look after you. Tell me how you really got that black eye. Your mom hit you? Somebody at school?”