Touched by Fire (11 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“I didn’t know,” Fiona said smartly, leveling a forthright gaze at Merrick. They sat on opposite sides of the conference table, Fiona straight-backed and forward in her chair, Merrick in his weary slouch.

“Know what?” he prompted. knowing the answer.

“That my husband was having an affair with her. Isn’t that what you asked him, to find out?”

Merrick’s shoulders hunched. “Someone tried to kill the lady; and I had to know if you had a motive.”

“I do now, thanks to you,” Fiona said calmly. “But I’d have resorted to civilized discourse, not violence, had I known.”

Merrick nodded as if accepting it. “Your husband said you were up in Santa Barbara that night.”

“Exactly,” Fiona said, implying it cleared her.

“You could’ve come back,” Merrick challenged. “Drive takes about an hour and a half, right?”

“I was attending a workshop. It lasted well into the evening.”

“Bomb-making one-oh-one?”

“No, the electrochemical absorption and processing of lecithin and choline by neurons.”

“Joint-rolling one-oh-one.”

“For your edification,” Fiona lectured without cracking a smile, “it is the process by which synapses metabolize the enzymes that make our brains function.”

“Ah,” Merrick intoned as if he understood, but it had nothing to do with synapses. After three children, Dr. Fiona Sutton-Schaefer still had the freshness and figure of a fashion model, and he couldn’t imagine why her husband—despite Lilah’s charms—would fool around. Now he knew. She was humorless. “How well into the evening did this workshop last?”

“It was scheduled to end at eight,” Fiona replied. “They always go longer.”

“So, you have all these choline junkies who could testify you were there the entire time?”

“The
participants
come and go, Lieutenant, but I’m sure there are some who—”

“Names and numbers,” Merrick said smartly, sliding pad and pen across the table. “All of ’em.”

Fiona shrugged, then took an address book from her purse and began writing. “You know,” she said, sounding like a preoccupied child, “I wouldn’t have this problem if I were a praying mantis.” She said it as seriously as if she’d said,
if I had paid more attention to my marriage
and it took Merrick a moment to process it.

“Why? Their husbands never cheat?”

“No, the female kills him after mating,” Fiona replied matter-of-factly. “I did a high school biology project on it. It won a Science Award from NOW.”

Merrick was about to make a wisecrack about the National Organization for Women when it struck him that something had driven Fiona to come looking for him, not to mention to invade Lilah’s territory and infer she deserved what she got. It was gutsy, assertive. Right out of
the NOW manual. But she’d been too cool, too composed since they’d made the move to the conference room. He waited until she finished the list, then, trying to rattle her, said, “I don’t believe you didn’t know what was going on.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Come on, nobody who just found out her husband’s been having an affair is this laid-back.”

“I’m not a yeller and screamer, Lieutenant. I don’t lose my temper and throw things.”

“How about in the reception area before? You were dying to scratch her eyes out, right? It’s only human. I mean, when this guy I know caught his wife cheating on him, he wanted to tear the other guy’s head off.”

“Did he?”

“No, he . . . he went to a hockey game.”

“The defense rests.”

“Come on, she’s been sleeping with your husband for a year, and you’re Little Miss Calm, Cool, and—”

Fiona’s jaw dropped “A year?” she repeated, eyes flaring with anger. “It was going on for a year?”

“Give or take,” Merrick replied taunting her.

“That bastard! That miserable son of a bitch! I’d cut his heart out—if he had one! He said it was just a fling! A little fling!”

“If you’d known that, you would have sent Dr. Graham an even bigger bomb, huh?”

“That’s ridiculous!” Fiona shouted, jumping to her feet, Merrick’s pad and pen clutched in her fist. “This interview is over!”

“Hey—hey!” Merrick called out as she started for the door. “I think those are mine.”

Fiona whirled and threw them on the table.

The pen bounced off, whizzing past Merrick’s ear like a
tiny missile. “Atta girl,” he chuckled. “As your husband said, it’s healthy to let off steam.”

“Good,” Fiona snapped. “I’ll be the healthiest person on campus by the time I’m finished with him.”

“Hold it,” Merrick ordered as she headed for the door again. “I need a phone number.”

Fiona bristled with impatience. “I’m in and out,” she warned, digging a business card from her purse.

“That’s why God made beepers,” he replied, noticing the one clipped to her lab coat.

“It’s on there,” Fiona snapped, referring to the number. She dropped the card in Merrick’s palm, then left, slamming the door so hard the partition rattled.

Merrick scanned the business card then retrieved his pad. Fiona’s frenetic, almost childlike mix of printing and script brought an amused smile to his face; but the names and phone numbers quickly wiped it off: the seminar was international in scope; and only one of the dozen or so scientists she had listed lived in the United States, let alone in the area. Merrick grunted in disgust and headed for Lilah’s office. His cellphone started chirping before he got there.

“It’s me,” Logan growled when he answered. “We got us an ID on the print from that matchbook.”

“Way to go,” Merrick enthused. “APP?”

“DMV,” Logan replied. The California Department of Motor Vehicles thumbprints and photographs driver’s license applicants as a matter of protocol. “Billy ran their files. Guy’s name is Eagleton, James D.”

Merrick flinched. “Eagleton? Son of a bitch. That’s the guy who put us on to the flash point.”

“The homeless guy in Las Flores Canyon?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The homeless guy in Las Flores Canyon that you could’ve busted?”

“Ditto,” Merrick replied gloomily.

“I’ll put his mug on the wire. We just pulled a copy from his D.L.”

“Okay, in the meantime I’m going to get my dumb ass up there and see if I can flush him out. Hold on a sec.” He rapped on Lilah’s door and opened it. “Doc?”

Lilah bad spent the time setting up her temporary office. “All set?” she said brightly, assuming they would now be heading off to lunch, not to mention discussing Merrick’s one-on-one with Fiona.

“What’s your fax number, Doc?” Merrick went on. He repeated it into the phone as Lilah recited it, then instructed Logan to send him a copy of Eagleton’s driver’s license photo.

“Lost her cool, didn’t she?” Lilah prompted as Merrick hovered over the fax machine.

“Can’t get into it now. Break in another case.” Merrick took the fax the instant it appeared and made a beeline for the elevators. His thumb was pummeling the call button when Lilah caught up with him.

“What about the hockey game?”

Merrick looked at her blankly. “Oh, yeah, right.” The floor indicator dinged. “Call me,” he commanded, stepping into the elevator. “We’ll work something out.”

“Okay, but is there another number where I—”

The elevator door rolled closed.

Lilah had the Ops Center number, but wanted his cell-phone or apartment so she could call him directly. She’d been excited about having lunch with him, though she wasn’t sure why. His manner was brusque, be made no effort to be charming, his rumpled appearance was a bit of a
turnoff,
and
he was a hockey nut; but she couldn’t deny that she found herself drawn to him.

Was it the circumstances? The hope, despite his admonitions, that he’d become her protector? Didn’t Serena say, “He came charging to his colleagues’ rescue, it’s only natural he’ll come to your rescue as well”? Then again, maybe it was as simple as finding each other on that sliver of common ground smokers have been driven together to defend. There
was
something symbiotic about it. Something deliciously ironic about both of them being cranky from nicotine deprivation and breaking into laughter, finally breaking the ice.

Whatever, not fifteen minutes ago Lilah sensed he was becoming interested in her, not just in her case. Now, despite Fiona’s appearance, he’d shifted gears to another case, and she was standing in the corridor feeling alone and wholly demoralized.

The floor indicator dinged again, startling her.

Paul Schaefer strode out of an elevator. “Lilah?”

She stepped back and glared at him. “What’re you doing here?”

“I want to apologize. I overreacted when you called, and I—”

“Tell me about it.” She turned on a heel and charged down the corridor.

Schaefer went after her. “Lilah? Lilah, listen. I’ve been in touch with the prison and—”

“Good. Your wife may be spending time in one.”

“Seriously, Lilah, they’ve rescheduled the prison thing for Friday. If you’re up to it, I’ll confirm and—”

“Call me,” she commanded, pushing through the door into her office. “We’ll work something out.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Pacific Coast Highway was still closed to traffic as Merrick turned off onto the blacktop that snaked through Las Flores Canyon. Teams of weary firemen were wetting down hot spots, and here and there residents who had been allowed to return to their homesites were sifting the ashes for whatever they could salvage.

None recalled seeing a man with a ponytail and the beaten look of the homeless; and the fax of Eagleton’s photo failed to jog their memories. Merrick proceeded deeper into the canyon in search of his quarry. Dusk was falling and he was about to call it a day when the Blazer’s headlights picked up a figure walking along a heavily treed area near the crest, which had been spared by the fire. He had caught a fleeting glimpse of worn jeans, rumpled jacket, and ponytail whisking across hunched shoulders.

It was Eagleton. Had to be. Merrick had no doubt of it as he angled onto a scorched hillside dotted with blackened boulders and tree stumps. The sight of the zigzagging vehicle sent Eagleton dashing into the trees, plastic bag with his belongings swinging from a hand. Merrick bolted from the Blazer and charged up the slope in ankle-deep ash. He paused at the tree line, then heard the distant rustle of leaves
and sprinted through the overgrowth into a small clearing. A massive rock formation walled off the uphill side.

Eagleton was nowhere in sight.

Merrick was circling the rocks when his phone started chirping. It shattered the silence like a wailing siren, spooking Eagleton, who bolted from his hiding place. Merrick brought him down with a diving tackle and went sprawling across the rocky terrain. Both men jumped to their feet. Merrick got hold of Eagleton’s arm, spun him around, and found himself face-to-face with a woman, a bizarre-looking woman with a ponytail.

She had rouged cheeks, spooky eyes caked with makeup, a lipstick-smeared mouth, and a large hunting knife in one of her gloved hands. “Don’t try it,” she said in a raspy voice, slashing the air. “The last asshole who tried to fuck me without paying got cut real bad.”

“Your name wouldn’t be Joyce, would it?” he quipped under his breath, sidestepping the blade.

“You got some beef with this Joyce bitch?”

“You could say that,” Merrick replied softly. “Look, I just want to talk. So why don’t you chill out and put that away?”

The bizarre woman eyed him warily, then sensed her fear was unwarranted and sheathed the knife. “My friends call me Rene,” she whispered, trying to sound sexy.

“Rene what?”

“Rogers. Rene Rogers.” She took a snapshot from a pocket and offered it to Merrick. “I used to dance at the Get Wet.”

Merrick had no doubt the youthful face was hers, but, like the snapshot, it had become cracked and creased with age, and the body wrapped around one of the poles in a topless dance club had become emaciated from hard
living and drugs. “I could wrap myself around you like that,” Rene offered in her pathetic whisper.

“Thanks, but that’s not what I’m after, Rene,” Merrick said, lighting a cigarette.

Rene’s eyes widened. “Spare one of those?”

“They’re yours,” Merrick said, handing her his box of Marlboros; then he showed her the fax of Eagleton, which made her eyes flicker with recognition. “Ever see this guy around here? Wears his hair like you now.”

“You’re a fucking cop, aren’t you?”

“County Arson Squad,” Merrick replied, deciding he’d be better served by the truth.

Rene looked threatened and began drifting away.

Merrick slipped a twenty from his billfold, which lured her back. “He a friend of yours?”

“His name’s Jim,” she said, her eyes riveted to the money. “Haven’t seen him since the fire.”

“Any idea where he might be hanging out?”

Rene shrugged. “He used to go down to Santa Monica sometimes.”

“He has friends there? A place where he stays?”

Rene’s face screwed up in thought. “His mail—that’s it—yeah—yeah, he had to pick up his mail!” she exclaimed in little bursts, grabbing for the money.

Merrick pulled it back. “His mail?”

“Yeah, homeless people get mail. They rent boxes and stuff. You know, in those postal places?”

“No, I didn’t,” Merrick said, giving her the twenty. Rene stuffed it into a pocket, then went about picking up items that had spilled from the plastic bag when Merrick tackled her: sunglasses, paperback, keys, several tubes of lipstick, a few coins.

“By the way, what are you doing up here?”

“Selling information,” Rene replied with her twisted grin as she moved off.

Merrick watched her vanish into the trees, then returned to the Blazer and drove to ATF headquarters. By the time he arrived, Logan had already left for the day, but Fletcher was still there, cleaning up some paperwork.

“Well, Billy-boy,” Merrick bellowed as he entered the lab. “Every dog has his day.”

“That mean you nailed Eagleton?”

“Nope, but I got a serious line on him; got me a prime in the Graham case too: Fiona Sutton-Schaefer, research nerd, top dog in brain chemistry. The doc was boinking her husband. She swears she didn’t know.”

“You already Q and A’d her?”

“Uh-huh. I think she’s lying through her teeth.”

“Raging jealousy, high-tech chemistry . . .” Fletcher mused. “Sounds like the lady’s got motive and means.”

“She’s got the temperament too. She was Little Miss Composure till I started tweaking her. Turned out she could rant and rave with the best of ’em, but—”

“She’s got an alibi,” Fletcher added knowingly.

“Yep, seems she was at some seminar up in Santa Barbara the night the box went boom.”

“Santa Barbara? That’s not exactly airtight, Dan. I mean, she could’ve easily driven back.”

“Easily, but she swears she didn’t.” He opened his pad, slapped Fiona’s list facedown on the Xerox machine and thumbed the button, then handed Fletcher the copy. “Get on the horn and see if any of them back her up.”

“Looks like roll call at the U.N.,” Fletcher joked.

“Start with the guy in Baltimore.”

“Still gonna take some time.”

“I know,” Merrick replied, heading for the door. “That’s
why I’m giving it to you.” Darkness had fallen and the Santa Anas were gusting again as he wheeled the Blazer onto a southbound freeway for Manhattan Beach.

It was another sweltering night in Los Angeles; another one of those autumn nights taut with unnerving tension; another one of those nights when the pressure to seek revenge peaked and safety valves failed.

To the clerk in the all-night supermarket on the other side of town, it was one of those nights when shoppers in the checkout line acted like it was feeding time at the zoo. To make matters worse, his fellow checker had succumbed to the autumnal madness and called in sick; and he was working the surly crowd by himself. It was sometime after midnight when he had a vague sense of déjà vu.

“Two fifty-nine,” the computer voice said. The clerk swept the next item across the laser. “One forty-nine.” And the next. “Ninety-nine.” He couldn’t quite place the customer, and the half dozen or so items didn’t seem more familiar than any of the others he’d rung up that evening, but that last one sparked his curiosity. Why, he wondered, would someone be buying a fireplace log in the middle of a heat wave?

Several hours later the customer’s hands—the hands that had emptied the supermarket cart and set the items on the checkout counter—were sheathed in rubber gloves, putting the finishing touches on a homemade incendiary device. A fire bomb in a box—identical to the first. They closed the flaps and, repeating the obsessive packing tape ritual, sealed every edge, seam, and corner of the box, making absolutely certain that its explosive secret would be contained. When finished, they grasped a black marker and, with the same festering hatred and bold strokes, addressed the package to
LILAH E. GRAHAM
.