Clean Burn (10 page)

Arsonist by the name of Marty Denning relocated there few months ago. Finished his parole, but I had my eye on him for domestic abuse. Emailing further info and CDL
. Another pause, then,
Gotta go
.

He closed the private link and a moment later luvzboyz went offline. I checked email a couple times, looking for what luvzboyz had sent, but it must have gotten hung up in the internet ether. Nothing downloaded but Viagra ads and surefire stock tips.

I set aside the computer, feeling more uneasy about Paul Beck by the minute. The thought of what kind of evil he could be doing to Enrique drove me to my feet, sent me prowling across the floor.

I grabbed my car keys. I’d stop by the Hangman’s Tavern in town first, then swing by Beck’s mobile.

The Hangman’s Tavern was pretty dead on a Tuesday night, only three confirmed drunks sitting at the bar and a couple of blousy looking women in a corner booth. Despite California’s smoking ban, the place reeked of tobacco, the stench permeating the walls. This wasn’t progressive San Francisco where someone lighting up in a public place could be lynched without objection. This was Greenville, a safe haven for tobacco addicts.

The bartender, tall, well-built and better looking than you’d expect in a dive like the Hangman’s Tavern, was zoned out on an early season Giants-Padres game. I slid onto a stool and introduced myself, giving him first and last name in hopes he’d do the same.

But Bryan didn’t bite, giving me no more than what was engraved on his plastic nametag. I asked if he knew where I could find Paul Beck.

Tall, dark and fairly handsome gave me a sour look. “I have no effing idea. The son-of-a-bitch didn’t show up for work two nights ago. I had to pick up the slack.”

“What days does he usually work?”

“Saturday through Wednesday. We overlap on the weekends.” Bryan gave the bar a swipe with a stained white towel. “Tuesday and Wednesday are supposed to be my days off.”

“When did he call in?”

“Hell if I know. Day before yesterday, I guess, since that’s when the boss called me.” He dumped the remains of two Manhattans and dropped the glasses into a sink of soapy water. “Now my girlfriend’s pissed because I promised to take her out for her birthday last night. I’ll have to buy her a damned expensive present to make up for it.”

My heart bled for his personal problems. “I don’t suppose I could take a look at Beck’s job application.”

Bryan gave me a fishy look. “For that, you’ll have to ask the owner. The bastard only waltzes in here once a week, on Fridays.”

Before he could launch into another tirade, I thanked Bryan for his time and ambled along the line of barflies. But it was far too late and the bar patrons too far gone for interviews. The first drunk insisted Paul Beck had been there just a moment ago and was probably in the john. The second informed me the man behind the bar
was
Paul and did I need my eyes examined. The third guy, nearly comatose, had sunk into morose silence and refused to answer my questions.

Armed with a tonic and lime from the beleaguered Bryan, I headed for the corner booth. The two fortyish women, their eyes red and their makeup smeared, were engaging in rowdy conversation. That they were still verbal gave me hope they might have some answers for me.

The bleached blonde smiled as I approached, cigarette ash flying as she invited me to sit with them. “I’m Sondra an’ this is Liz.” Dark-haired Liz waved, then threw back her straight whiskey.

“I’m Janelle.” I pulled over a chair and took a long drink of the tonic water. I squeezed my eyes shut and let out a satisfied sigh, as if in reaction to the non-existent gin hitting my bloodstream. “So, are you two regulars here?”

“Oh, no,” Sondra told me, shaking her head so hard she tipped to one side. As she righted herself, she sucked in a long hit from a bargain brand cigarette.

“We’re jus’ celebratin’.” Liz got a little stuck on the ending “N”, drawing it out in a stutter.

“We don’ drink much, Liz an’ me,” Sondra confided over her beer. “Not like those poor ol’ sots.” She gestured in the general direction of the bar.

“Have you been here when the other bartender’s pouring?” I asked.

Spitting out a shred of tobacco, Sondra squinted through the smoky haze. “Oh. The lil’ creep’s not here.”

Liz pushed out of the booth. “Gotta take a pee.” She staggered off.

“Have you ever talked to him?” I asked Sondra.

She took a swig of beer. “Who?”

“Paul Beck.”

“Why would I talk to the lil’ creep?”

“You know what he did?”

“Ever’body knows.” She belched, and hoppy fumes wafted toward me. “Big stink when they sent ’im here.”

I poked at my lime with my straws. “Ever seen any kids with him?”

“Don’ allow kids in here.” She wagged a finger at me. “I allus left mine in the car.”

I wanted to break that wagging finger. I didn’t know what was worse – abandoning the kids at home to go out drinking like my dear old dad did, or dragging them along with you to shiver in the car.

Sondra had finished her beer and her attention wandered toward the bartender. Before she could slide out of the booth, I blocked her with my chair.

“Did you ever see a kid you didn’t know in Beck’s car?”

“How would I know which car is his?” She gazed longingly in the direction of the bar.

I moved into her line of sight. “Did you see a boy in any car on a night Paul Beck was working? Maybe three or four years old?”

A moment of clarity in her brown eyes told me she was thinking. “Long time ago. Lil’ boy in a car.” She edged toward me, looking for escape.

I planted my knee firmly in her way. “How long ago?”

She scuffed the heel of her hand across her forehead. A little ash sifted into her blonde hair. “Can’ remember. Got in trouble tha’ night.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Cop said I set the dumpster on fire. Tol’ him I put out my butt ’fore I threw it in.”

If she was too drunk to remember the night, she was likely too out of it to remember if her cigarette was lit before she tossed it. “So you burned up the dumpster.”

“It was jus’ a li’l fire. Tol’ the cop he should check on the kid ’stead of hasslin’ me.” She stabbed her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, extinguishing it. “’Cept the kid was gone by then.”

Ken could search through arrest reports, find the exact date. “Was Beck working that night?”

“He put out the fire.” She tried using her shoulder as a battering ram.

I leaned back out of reach. “Do you remember anything about the car the kid was in?”

But Sondra’s patience had run out. She pushed my knee out of the way and squeezed out from the booth. I grabbed her arm to keep her from tipping over. Saw the old burn scar streaking up her inner arm from wrist to elbow.

“How’d this happen?” I asked.

“Acciden’.”

“What kind of accident?”

She shrugged. “Fell asleep on the sofa.”

With a lit cigarette, no doubt. The woman was a hazard. I would have pressed her further, but she pulled free with surprising strength. She met up with Liz at the bar.

That was likely all I would be getting out of the blonde tonight. But she’d left her purse in the booth, her half-open wallet on top. By angling my head sideways and using a lit match for illumination, I could see her last name on her driver’s license. She was a local. If I needed to, I could track her down at a later date.

More anxious than ever to find Paul Beck, I drove over to the mobile home park. There was still no vehicle in the carport, no lights on inside. The mailbox still overflowed with mail. I knocked on the door, more gently than I wanted to avoid rousing the neighbors.

The temptation to employ a little B and E had me fingering the cheap lockset on the doorknob. But despite the ease with which I could pry open the door and the reasonable certainty that Ken wouldn’t arrest me, I didn’t want to risk my PI license. Likely the most I could expect for my foray into crime would be information that I could more easily extract with the assistance of a search warrant Ken could probably procure.

Returning to the car for a flashlight, I directed it through the ratty curtains into the bedroom, then through the partially open blinds in the living room, which also gave me a view of the kitchen. I saw no signs of a youngster – no toys, no children’s clothes lying around. Unless he was squirreled away in a closet, Enrique wasn’t here.

I drove back to the motel feeling just as jittery as when I’d left. Once in my room, I settled on the bed with my computer and I updated my database with the sparse bit of intelligence I’d gotten from Bryan and Sondra. I entered Sondra’s name and address, adding her phone number after a Yahoo search.

The email from luvzboyz had finally arrived and I considered taking a look at what he’d sent. But since I’d be able to do nothing with the information until morning, I shut down the laptop. A quick pee stop in the bathroom to say hello to the resident cockroaches, some vigorous flossing and brushing and I was ready for bed.

With my mind running a million miles an hour, I expected to toss and turn. But sometimes exhaustion catches up with me and slam-dunks me into slumberland. Instinctive fear almost pulled me back to wakefulness just before I dropped off. But the dream demons had their hold on me and wouldn’t let go until they’d taken me to hell.

CHAPTER 8

Sometimes the nightmare plays out exactly as it happened – at least as close to reality as my adrenaline-jacked brain registered at the time. On other occasions, the familiar events morph into a carnival freak show of images, with special appearances by bogeymen from my childhood. Tonight’s entertainment leaned more toward the actual than fantasy, although shifting shadows blurred the edges.

I’m twenty-eight years old again, creeping into the Tenderloin district warehouse where Maynard had holed up. The Sig Sauer P229 in my hands got heavier with each step I took until I could barely hold it in position. I knew Maynard was somewhere in the shadows, that he was armed, that Tommy might be with him.

Ken should have been to my left, had been ten years ago. But when I looked for him, he stood nearly out of sight in a far corner of the warehouse. I wanted to signal him to move closer, but I was afraid Maynard would see me. As I peered around the stack of boxes I’d hidden behind, I realized I’d forgotten my vest. Then the boxes vanished, leaving me exposed and vulnerable.

Sometimes, I’m the one who’s shot in the nightmare instead of Maynard. The department shrink had told me it was my subconscious attempt to atone for Tommy’s death. Personally, I thought that was crap, but either way, it didn’t change the fact that I was scared shitless.

In a moment of lucid dreaming, I decided to shoot first. I blasted away indiscriminately into the darkness. Ken never moved, which had been my perception at the time. In reality, he’d covered me, peppering Maynard’s position with his Sig until I could get close enough to take the bastard out.

In the erratic way of dreams, I suddenly stood over Maynard, gun trained on him as he bled at my feet. He was still conscious, staring up at me. I knew I had to ask him about Tommy, find out where he’d left the boy. But even though I tried to shout out the question, “Where is he?” I couldn’t make any sound. Maynard faded, his eyes slowly closing, a sick grin on his face.

I kicked him, once, twice, to get him to wake up again. As I struck him a third time, I looked at his face in rage... But it wasn’t Maynard, it was Tommy lying there, Tommy’s blood staining my black boots. Then something wrenched me from the dream and I was falling. Below me, I saw myself, stretched out on the motel bed, Tommy Phillips bending over me.

I jolted awake, gasping, heart hammering in my ears. Reflexively, I looked beside the bed, but of course there was no one there. With cautious dread, I scanned the room, but no sad-eyed boy stood in the corner. Even still, horror still had me in its grip.

In the aftermath of that nightmare, I showed some restraint. I only lit ten matches, eight of them doused in a glass of water while the flame still burned. The other two served their purpose, easing my night terrors with the exquisite pain of expiation.

* * *

Julie Switzer scowled at me as I approached the reception desk the next morning. “You lied. You’re not a police officer.”

I gave her a shit-eating grin. “I never said I was.”

Gears twirled in her head as she replayed our conversation. Her pale blue eyes narrowed on me. “Then you tricked me.” Her gaze dropped to my chest. “There’s coffee on your shirt.”

Apparently more offended by my lack of hygiene than the lie, she shamed me into tugging my computer bag strap over the brown stain. As I recalled, it was chicken molé and not coffee, but that was a moot point.

“Is Ken in?” I asked.

“
Sheriff Heinz
is busy,” she said huffily.

At that moment, Ken emerged from the direction of his office, hurrying across the lobby. He spotted me. “You’ll have to wait in my office. I’ll be a while.”

Miss Sweet-as-pie looked ready to spit nails at Ken’s sanction of my presence in her domain. Pink lips pursed, she took her time arranging the daily log for my signature, then dug through the box of visitor’s badges as if searching for an appropriate tag for a miscreant such as myself.

With Miss Sweet-as-pie’s stamp of disapproval, I slunk down the hall to Ken’s office and opened my laptop on his desk. His computer, with its bouncing Greenville County Sheriff logo screensaver, tempted me, but I heeded my conscience and resisted an exploration of his hard drive. I couldn’t get past the password anyway.

I did avail myself of Ken’s printer, using my laptop’s cable to connect to the network. I printed hardcopies of Marty Denning’s driver’s license and original arrest report.

When Ken still didn’t turn up, I dug out my cell phone to call Sheri. She answered the office phone after a leisurely four rings, mumbling an absent-minded “Watkins Investigations.”

“Am I interrupting your morning mocha?” I asked.

“The Chronicle. Some interesting scandals in the mayor’s office.”