How to Host a Killer Party (24 page)

“Fire!” I screamed to no one. Except maybe the burglar/ arsonist/killer.

Foolishly I opened the door. The kitchen was engulfed. The rest of the old wood-slatted building was a tinderbox waiting to fully ignite. I dashed to my office, already coughing, and grabbed my purse and my cell phone, knocking over the crab Louis.

I started for the front door, but smoke filled the reception area. In seconds it lit up with flames.

Trapped!

Frantic, I ran back to my office, racking my brain for another way out. The only escape I could think of was through one of the narrow office windows. I scanned the room for something to knock out the glass and grabbed a balloon tank filled with helium.

I hoisted the tank up, chest level, and stood back five feet. I was ready to toss it at the window when the glass imploded with an ear-shattering screech.

Reflexively I ducked, dropping the tank as I covered my eyes and face. It hit my foot, and I screamed in pain. As soon as I got my wits back, I spotted a crowbar lying next to me.

The killer had thrown it through my office window!

I had to get out of that room.

Brushing glass shards from my shoulders, I hobbled toward the door.

“Parker! This way!”

Turning back, I could just make out a figure through the smoke. Someone was knocking out the jagged pieces of leftover glass with some kind of stick.

Brad.

What was he doing there?

I had no choice. Smoke had completely filled the hallway. Coughing, my lungs beginning to burn, I grabbed the folding chair opposite my desk and dragged it over. Stepping up on my good foot, I climbed out, holding on to Brad’s outreached hands. Halfway out I lost my balance and started to fall; he caught me, and we both tumbled to the ground.

In the near distance, while lying on top of Brad, I heard the scream of fire engines.

 

The flames were put out in less than twenty minutes. Brad said he’d called the fire department as soon as he’d arrived and smelled the smoke. Firefighters were crawling all over the place, squirting hoses, chopping walls, clearing out debris. Brad had quickly joined the effort, spraying what he could with the emergency can of extinguishing foam he kept in his SUV.

At least, that’s what he said.

Wrapped in a blanket, I asked him, “How did you happen to show up here when the fire started?” We’d just finished exploring the water-soaked reception area—a total loss, along with the kitchen. The offices were mostly untouched, thanks to fire walls the navy had included when they’d built the structures in the forties. But the place reeked of smoke and the building was no longer secure. We’d have to relocate whatever we could salvage to the similar but unoccupied building next door.

“I had paperwork to do,” Brad said, staring at the building. “When I got here and smelled the smoke, I tried to get in through the front door, then the back. Didn’t you hear me pounding?”

That had been Brad? “Why didn’t you use your key?”

“I tried. The lock was filled with dirt.”

What? Someone had jammed the locks?

“Did you see anyone?”

He shook his head. “Too dark. I was focused on the fire and getting you out.”

“How did you know I was in there?”

He nodded toward my car.

Duh.

I had run out of questions. Except one: Who had done this? It didn’t look like the work of the recent vandals. This was way beyond their MO. What was the fire supposed to accomplish? Obscure evidence? Tie up loose ends?

Loose ends like me?

“I’ll deal with moving my stuff in the morning,” I said, handing the blanket back to the cute firefighter who’d provided it. “Right now, I’m going home to bed.”

“I’m going with you,” Brad said.

I looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”

“I mean . . . I don’t think you should be alone tonight. This may have been meant for you.”

“You think someone tried to . . . kill me?” I felt a wave of dizziness sweep over me at the thought I might have been the next target.

“Makes sense, doesn’t it? Someone knew you were alone in there. Whoever it was did his best to trap you—setting fires at both ends—to keep you from getting out.”

I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. “Well, I can take care of myself. Really. And you didn’t need to rescue me. I was just about to toss a balloon tank out the window when you threw that crowbar in. You hit my foot, by the way,” I lied. I didn’t intend to tell him I’d dropped the tank on my own foot. For emphasis, I limped a couple of steps.

“What were you thinking, throwing a tank full of helium? Do you know what could have happened if it had landed in the fire?”

I shivered, trying to remember what was on the warning label. Something like “Rupturing a tank may cause it to explode or to take off like a rocket. . . .”

Whoa.

Brad rubbed his arm. “Well, I’m taking you home. No argument, so let’s go. I’ll follow you in my SUV.”

I looked at him. “You cut yourself. You’re bleeding.” A line of blood ran down his arm.

He shook his arm. “It’s nothing.”

“You need to have that looked at. Get a tetanus shot. Some antibiotics.”

He shrugged. “I’m not much of a drug taker. Don’t like doctors much. Beside, I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.”

I was too tired to argue. If nothing else, Brad seeing me home might discourage the arsonist/killer from doing anything more tonight.

As I watched him get into his car, I noticed something odd. There was no CRIME SCENE CLEANER sign on the side of his SUV. I called to him, “Where’s your sign?”

“Took it off,” he called back.

“Why?” I said, frowning. If I didn’t stop doing that, I’d need Botox.

“I get too many weirdos asking me about my business. I only put it up there when I’m on duty. Or forget to take it off.”

I flashed on the white SUV that had chased me off the road. Had it sported the sign? Or had it been removed for some reason?

I drove the short distance to my condo, past the usual empty buildings and deserted warehouses, until I entered the former military housing area. My end unit was a one-story /one-bedroom, in an eclectic neighborhood of artists, writers, and musicians, as well as recovering addicts, former homeless people, Job Corps graduates, and grassroots leaders of various causes. Duncan Grant, the geocacher, had a unit nearby, even though he stored most of his stuff in a back office at our building. Berk lived with other artists in a communelike setup a few blocks away. Rocco sometimes crashed at his ex-girlfriend’s place, when he was too tired to drive to his flat in Noe Valley. Dee lived with her mother in the Mission. I had no idea where Brad slept at night.

I drove into the carport. Brad’s white SUV pulled up behind me in the driveway, blocking me in. I got out of the Cooper and locked it with a button on my key.

“Thanks for seeing me home.”

Brad hopped out of the SUV and closed the door. “Yeah, well, I want to make sure your place is safe—and smoke free—inside.”

I started to shake my head, then nodded instead. Good point. If the killer knew where I worked, he probably knew where I lived. A cold hand gripped my spine at this thought. I wondered if I would be safe anywhere.

With Brad looking over my shoulder, I fumbled with my keys and finally managed to get the front door open. He entered first, his hand resting on what I thought was his belt buckle.

Then I remembered the gun.

“Don’t shoot my cats,” I whispered, following him in on tiptoe.

He sneezed. “Cats?”

“Yeah. Fatman, Cairo, and Thursby.”

He looked at me. “Cute.” He sneezed again.

“Don’t tell me you’re—”

“Aller—” He sneezed again. “—gic.”

I shook my head. “Great. I hope the killer isn’t armed with cat hair.”

He ignored me, moving forward to check my compact living/dining/workroom, my kitchenette, and my tiny bedroom the size of a walk-in closet. I stood back, scanning the place to see if anything of value was missing. My papers were scattered on the little coffee table that served as a workstation and dining table. Party props were strewn over every available space. Dirty clothes covered most of the floor, along with random holiday books, craft magazines, and party catalogs.

“Looks like it’s been trashed,” Brad said, returning from the bedroom. “Did you leave a window open or something?”

I swept my arm around the room. “Actually . . . it looks just like I left it this morning. . . .”

Brad gawked at me as if he’d seen a dead man. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

I shrugged, picked up a pair of jeans I’d meant to put in the laundry basket, and tossed them over the back of a wooden chair I’d found at a going-out-of-business sale. I didn’t think the place looked so bad. Maybe I didn’t have OCD after all.

Brad shoved aside a jean jacket resting on my maroon corduroy futon and sat down. “Got any beer?” he asked, picking up a Halloween party catalog. Apparently he wasn’t in a hurry to rush out the door.

I pulled open the refrigerator door, grabbed a bottle of Michelob Light, and handed it to him.

He took it, examining the label. “Light? That all you got?”

I glared at him. He nodded, popped it open, and took a long swallow. As he held his beer to his mouth, I noticed a red ribbon running down his arm.

“How’s your arm?” I asked, leaning over and lifting it gently.

He looked at it and shrugged. “No big deal.”

I returned to the kitchen and pulled out a box of balloon-decorated Band-Aids I’d bought for kids’ party boo-boos and wet a paper towel. Sitting next to him on the couch, I gently wiped the dried blood from his arm, then covered the long, superficial slice with multiple balloons.

“Thanks,” he said, admiring my work, and returned to his beer and party catalog. I spent the next few minutes gathering strewn-about items and sorting them into piles. Before long I had the place looking lived in instead of vandalized.

Brad reached under his butt and pulled out something lacy, pink, and embarrassing. I snatched it from his hand. My bra, of course. One of the first things I do at the end of the day is break free from female bondage. Must have slipped between the cracks in the cushions.

To cover my oncoming blush, I leaned over and retrieved half a bag of Cheetos from under the coffee table. I dumped the contents into a bowl that had obviously once held some other snack and offered him access. He took one and popped it in his mouth. I grabbed a handful and jammed them into my mouth to prove they hadn’t been poisoned. Then I licked my orange fingers.

The sound of food brought my cats out of their hiding places. Fatman found a spot on the coffee table and went back to sleep. Thursby climbed onto the back of the futon and kept watch over Brad’s every move. Cairo hid under the futon.

The sneezing picked up dramatically. Brad finished his beer and stood up. I found myself reluctant to let him go. Was I nervous about being alone after the events at my office building? Or was it something more?

“So, you’ve got my cell number, right?” he said, then sneezed.

I nodded. It was in my purse somewhere.

He took a couple of steps toward the door, then said, “Be sure to lock up.”

“I will,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself.

He pulled the door open and stepped out into the salty night air, then turned to face me again. A burst of bay wind swirled my hair.

“Remember. Call me. Now that I know where you live, I can be here in a few minutes if I’m on the island.” He started to reach for my face—probably to dislodge the wisp of hair caught on my cheek—but the wisp flew off and he let his hand drop.

I felt a wave of disappointment. “Do you live here too?” I said, stalling, not wanting him to leave.

“No, but I’m sleeping in my SUV tonight, over by the office building.”

“Why?” I rubbed the goose bumps on my bare arms.

“Keep an eye on things. I’ve got some stuff in there that I don’t want to fall into the wrong hands. You better get inside. The wind’s come up.”

He didn’t look cold at all. In fact, at that moment, he looked hot.

As he stood there looking at me, I lost the power of speech. He leaned in, and for a second I was sure he was going to kiss me. A jolt of electricity zapped through me as if I’d touched a live wire.

Instead, he plucked a small piece of glass from my hair—a remnant of the broken window. So that’s what he had been after. “Good night, Parker,” he said, returning to calling me by my last name. He pulled back.

I swallowed and gave a limp wave as he backed away. It was all I could manage to do in my disappointment. As he headed for his SUV, I started to close the door, but stopped when I caught a glimpse of something odd.

Just before he got into his SUV, his eyes seemed caught by something lying on the ground. To me it looked like one of my business cards, but rumpled and dirty. He bent over, picked it up by the corner, and carefully slipped it in his pocket before getting into the driver’s seat.

I was left standing in my doorway, puzzled.

If he wanted my card, he could have just asked for a fresh one.

So what was he planning to do with the rumpled one?