Touched by Fire (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Merrick awakened with a start. His mind was blank, his eyes gritty, and his neck stiff from the sofa. He squinted across the hotel room where Lilah slept beneath sumptuous bed covers. The digital clock read 6:27. He stumbled into the bathroom, threw some cold water on his face, and was combing his hair with his fingers when a vague feeling that he’d had an insight about the case came over him. He racked his brain to find it, but the elusive thought defied recall.

Lilah was still asleep when Merrick left. The freeway was empty at this hour on Saturdays. He made it home in record time, showered, changed clothes, and drove to the Manhattan Beach Coffee Shop, a short-order joint that smelled of buttered toast and bacon. Jason’s mountain bike was chained to a signpost out front.

“Dad! Dad, they won!” the youngster exclaimed as his father slid into the booth opposite him. He was still wearing the blood-spattered Kings jersey. “It was super. You missed the neatest goal.”

“Yeah,” Merrick grunted, lighting a cigarette. “Story of my life . . .”

“Come on, Dad, okay?”

“Sorry. I get a little cranky when I’m hungry.”

The waitress came gliding up to the table with her Silex pot and winked at Jason as she filled Merrick’s cup. “Maybe I can do something about that?”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Faye.”

“Hey, I must be doing something right. You keep coming back for more,” she said suggestively. Her face had lost its surfer-girl freshness, but she still had her shape, and thrived on the banter. “The usual for cranky guy, here, and . . .?” She nodded at Jason, took his order, and winked at him as she moved off.

“So, Dad,” Jason said, affecting a casual air. “She your new girlfriend?”

Merrick cocked a thumb after the waitress. “Faye?”

“No, you know . . . last night.”

“Dr. Graham? Not a chance. Why?”

“Well, me and my friend Mark at school? We were talking. I mean, about our parents . . . you know, being divorced and stuff?”

“That’s okay.”

“Yeah, well, we were saying how our dads get kinda weird sometimes? And Mark goes, his dad got over it as soon as he . . . you know"—Jason hesitated, then leaned across the table and whispered—"got laid.”

Merrick damn near gagged on his coffee. “Hey,” he scolded, unable to suppress his laughter. “Your mother hears you talk like that, she’ll crucify me. Besides, Dr. Graham’s a little too . . . brainy for me.”

“I kinda liked her.”

“Hey, go for it. By the way, I have to put that algebra lesson on hold till this afternoon. Okay?”

“Sure. Steve’s been tutoring me, but there’s still some stuff I don’t get.”

“Don’t worry,” Merrick said with a relieved smile as their food arrived. “We’ll figure it out together.”

After breakfast, Merrick headed north to Santa Monica. Police headquarters was on Main Street about a block from the ocean. Last night, after taking Eagleton into custody, Fletcher turned him over to the SMPD officers who responded to his backup call. Eagleton spent the night in the city’s lockup, and in the morning was taken to an interrogation room where Merrick, Logan, and Fletcher were waiting.

“I didn’t do it,” Eagleton blurted as he entered. “I didn’t, and I’m really pissed off that you—”

“Hold it,” Merrick interrupted. “You have counsel?”

“I called one last night, but had to leave a message.” He paused in bitter reflection, then added, “He’s a friend. Did some estate planning for me once.”

“Shit,” Merrick grunted, flicking the ashes from a cigarette onto the floor. “Better bring in a P.D. No sense trying to wring a statement out of him without—”

Someone rapped on the door. An athletic man in his mid-forties, wearing shorts, polo shirt, and tennis shoes entered. “Dick Fallon. Apologies for the getup. I was halfway to the club before I checked my service.” He removed his sunglasses and glanced at the gaunt figure in the threadbare clothes. “Jim?” he wondered, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

“ ’Fraid so,” Eagleton said with an embarrassed smile. “Thanks for coming.”

The two men stepped aside and huddled in whispered conversation until Fallon was up to speed, then returned to the table. “You have evidence to support the charges against Mr. Eagleton?”

Merrick smiled and signaled Fletcher with a nod.

The young A.I. emptied the contents of an envelope on the table. Among Eagleton’s personal effects were several matchbooks from Alice’s, a legendary restaurant on the Malibu Pier that served up a panoramic view of the ocean along with trendy California cuisine.

“I didn’t know Alice’s had a homeless special,” Merrick cracked, intending to unsettle him.

“I wasn’t always homeless,” Eagleton protested. “My wife and I used to go with friends.” He looked to Fallon, who was nodding in confirmation. “And I still do. I go in the kitchen door now. I usually grab some matchbooks from the storeroom when I leave.”

“Only takes one!” Merrick erupted. “You didn’t happen to hitch down to Laguna last night, did you?”

“Laguna? I was in Santa Monica all day—and all night, thanks to you. Why?”

“Somebody torched the whole damn canyon, couple of hours before you were picked up. Plenty of time to hitch back for spareribs at Madame Wu’s.” He tore the filter from his cigarette, slipped the unlit end into one of the matchbooks, and closed the cover. “Familiar?”

“No, dammit. I never torched any canyon.”

Merrick set the igniter aside. “Come on, you’re an angry, bitter guy. You wanted to take it out on somebody. Your former neighbors were handy, so—”

“No,” Eagleton interrupted forcefully. “No, those people were my friends.”

“Evidence,” Fallon prompted. “I asked for evidence, Lieutenant. I still haven’t seen any.”

Merrick glanced at Logan. “Pete . . .”

Logan placed a photo blowup of a charred matchbook on the table in front of Eagleton. “The igniter that started
the fire.” He set another blowup next to it. “Your thumbprint—found on the igniter.”

“Counselor?” Merrick taunted. “Your client ready to make a statement now?”

Eagleton’s eyes darted from Merrick to the photos and back. “Yeah, I’ll make a statement,” he blurted angrily. “Las Flores was my home when I owned a house there. It still is. I use matches to make campfires. I must’ve—” He was interrupted by an explosive whoosh from the matchbook igniter, which was spitting flame.

“Familiar now?” Merrick prompted.

“No,” Eagleton replied, pointing to the photo of the matchbook. “That may be mine—I mean, I must’ve discarded hundreds of ’em up in Las Flores—but I didn’t start any wildfire in that canyon or any other.”

“What say we flutter this guy?” Logan suggested in an ominous growl.

“Flutter?” Eagleton echoed apprehensively.

“A lie detector test,” Fallon explained. “You don’t have to take it. You can refuse.”

“No way,” Eagleton said indignantly. “No, no, I’m innocent. I want out of here.”

Merrick challenged him with a look that Eagleton held unblinkingly. Merrick broke it off and offered him his pack of Marlboros. “Smoke?”

“Thanks. Never use ’em.”

Merrick nodded, noting the absence of the telltale nicotine stain on his fingers, then directed the others aside. “There’s a chance this guy’s telling the truth.”

Logan waggled a hand. “A chance.”

“You’re going to cut this guy loose?” Fletcher exclaimed in an incredulous whisper. “We got prints, we got an igniter, we got matchbooks . . .”

“It’s all circumstantial, Billy,” Merrick explained patiently. “Not enough to hold him.”

“But it still might be him, right?”

Merrick and Logan nodded grudgingly.

“Suppose he goes out there and does it again? Why not keep him on ice for a while? I mean, what’s wrong with a little guilty until proven innocent? We’re the guys who represent the victims, right?”

“It ain’t easy, Billy,” Logan counseled. “But there are times when you just have to let go.”

Merrick nodded with finality. “You found him once, you can find him again.” He crossed to Eagleton and, his voice devoid of apology, said, “You’re free to go.” Merrick glanced at Fallon and forced a smile, then headed for the door.

“Next stop, Westwood,” Merrick announced, leading Logan and Fletcher down the corridor.

“Which reminds me, boss,” Fletcher said, a little too eagerly. “You’re gonna have to find yourself another prime.”

“What?” Merrick exclaimed in disbelief. “Fiona what’s her-face’s alibi checked out?”

The young A.I. nodded smugly.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I got hold of three guys on that list last night. They’re all pretty sure she was at the workshop when the box went boom.”

Merrick looked crestfallen. “She was lying about that from the get-go,” he said, unwilling to accept it. “I know she was.”

Fletcher nodded sagely and suppressed a smile. “Hey, sometimes you just have to let go.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Santa Anas were up well before Lilah on this broiling morning, and the stands of eucalyptus outside the Westwood Marquis bent and straightened in rhythmic waves. In the distance, smoke from smoldering wildfires swirled between the high-rises that ran down Wilshire.

Exhausted from yesterday’s events, Lilah had slept well-beyond Merrick’s departure. On waking she realized he had left without a word or even a note.

Now, she stood beneath a steaming shower lost in her thoughts. Hadn’t there been another attempt on her life? Hadn’t he been so concerned that he escorted her to the hotel? Hadn’t he accepted her invitation to get to know her better? She had purposely left him sleeping on the sofa, hoping to awaken and find him next to her, hoping to bathe in the tenderness she sensed beneath his coarse veneer, hoping to be caressing him beneath the water cascading over her. Yes, she longed to be lost in ecstasy now, instead of thought; but even if it was all romanticized drivel, his indifference hurt.

Lilah put her damp hair in a ponytail, pulled on a T-shirt and pair of jeans, then ordered breakfast and checked her condo for messages. She assured concerned family, friends, and staffers she was alive and well, reminding the latter
that weekend or no—because of the upcoming conference—they were expected in at noon to process the blood samples from the prison. Then, to bolster her flagging spirits, she headed for Macy’s. She soon had Ferragamo pumps, Nike Air-Max workout shoes, and Cole Haan loafers arrayed on the sales desk.

“Six hundred forty-two eighteen,” the salesman said, zipping her credit card through the reader. He frowned curiously and tried again, then said, “I’m afraid your card’s been rejected.”

Lilah sighed in disbelief. Sure, it was charged to the hilt, but she made the minimum payment every month. And it had been a week since she returned the teddy. She was dialing customer service when she pictured the pile of bills on her desk, and realized, in the recent turmoil, she hadn’t paid them. She didn’t have enough in her checking account, but she wrote a check anyway, then headed to cosmetics to pick up some eye shadow.

Cardenas had spent the morning in the lab working on his medical school applications and fielding calls. He was just getting off the phone when Lilah arrived, briefcase in one hand, shopping bag in the other. “Been jumping off the hook, boss.”

“The media,” she said knowingly. “I’ve got two words for them, Ruben, and the first one rhymes with duck.”

“I guess this isn’t a good time to remind you about that letter of recommendation.”

“Good guess,” Lilah replied, then sighed with remorse and said, “Today, Ruben. That’s a promise.”

She touched base with a technician who was preparing a centrifuge, a Dupont 75B Ultra that looked like a cross between a mainframe computer and top-loader washing machine, then headed in Serena’s direction.

The J .R. was at her computer scrolling through a log of numerically coded blood samples. “We’re absent some C.F. data here,” Serena said in her haughty British tones. She pointed to a consent form number on the monitor. The adjacent line—where the volunteer’s name, Social Security number, and the date the sample was taken should have been recorded—hadn’t been filled in. “I’m afraid we’re genotyping a Mr. Blank.”

Lilah looked genuinely baffled. “We are?”

“From the last series we processed,” Serena said, referring to the one that contained both Kauffman’s and Lilah’s samples. As instructed, Cardenas had peeled a bar-code sticker from a blank consent form, affixed it to Lilah’s sample—without knowing it was hers—and, with the stroke of a light pen, recorded it in the log. “I’m quite certain it’s the one Ruben left on your desk.”

“The one that went up in smoke,” Lilah corrected, realizing it had been destroyed in the fire. She shifted her look to Cardenas. “Void that number, assign a new C.F. to the sample, and put it on my desk, will you?”

“I’m on it, boss,” he replied, moving off.

“Leave me an indie too,” Lilah called after him, thinking of Merrick’s sample, which was independent of the OX-A study. Then her eyes shifted back to Serena’s. “We’ll just call him Mr. Blank for now.”

“T minus three and counting,” Serena warned. This meant that in three days the sheets of X-ray film would be developed and the resulting autorads evaluated. “We really should have that data by then.”

Lilah nodded, then took a rack of vacutainers from her briefcase and set it on Serena’s desk. “From the veins of convicted sex offenders.”

Serena eyed the gleaming red tubes and shuddered. “So, did you get them to spill their guts?”

“Like they had morning sickness. By the way, I made some headway with the hockey thing last night. I don’t know what you said to him, but Spicer thinks you’re sharp. Schmooze him a little, okay? Stay in touch.” Lilah turned on a heel and headed for the suite of temporary offices.

Kauffman was slouched in a chair, waiting for her. She saw him out of the corner of her eye and crossed the reception area as if he weren’t there. “Hey?” he bellowed, tossing the textbook he was reading aside. “Called you last night. Came by this morning too, but the lieutenant and his flunkies were there. I split before he spotted me. Figured he’d think I was admiring my handiwork.”

“Is that what you were doing?” Lilah teased as they entered her office.

“Come on, that’s really lame. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine. See?” She did a little pirouette into her chair, then noticed the consent forms. She slipped the one for her OX-A sample into a drawer and left Merrick’s on the desk. “I thought you might want to apologize,” she said with a little smile.

“I might . . .” Kauffman pawed at the carpet with a Reebok. “You busy tonight?”

“I’m up to my ass. I’ll have to let you know.”

“Why? You hoping for a better offer?”

“Joel,”
Lilah admonished, concealing he’d hit the nail right on the head. She didn’t know it, but at the moment the better offer was crawling around the grounds of her condo complex on his hands and knees.

* * *

Earlier, after grilling Eagleton, Merrick, Logan, and Fletcher had driven straight there. The yellow streamers used to cordon off the crime scene were snapping loudly in the hot winds when they arrived.

The deluge of water required to extinguish the fire had deposited a layer of ash gray silt in the courtyard and washed clumps of cinders against the stucco walls and into the landscaped areas beyond. Fletcher settled into a crouch and began picking through the wet debris with a pair of surgical forceps.

Logan took a camera from his field kit and took shots of the blackened exterior before working his way inside and focusing on the charred details.

Merrick entered the smoldering receiving room. The smell of napthalene was unmistakable as he began his search for the flash point. He soon located an area where everything had been totally incinerated—the area from which the inferno had radiated. He set his attaché on the scorched flooring and began looking for bits of minutiae that were once part of a homemade incendiary.

The three arson investigators spent the entire weekend sifting ashes and picking through soggy debris. Late Sunday afternoon Fletcher was still working the grounds when his eyes darted to what looked like a bent twig but turned out to be a piece of twisted wire. Its vinyl sheath had been burned to a crisp. He pulled gently with the forceps but it wouldn’t come loose. After scooping the muck aside, he unearthed a charred plastic device the size of a pack of cigarettes.
Two
twisted wires pierced a seam that ran around the perimeter; and, unlike the device Merrick had found in Lilah’s office, this one had been swept outside by the deluge of water before being fused into a blob.

Fletcher knew he’d found the fire bomb’s detonator, and
knew it wasn’t some sort of timer, but a fiendishly clever remote control device. “Guys? Hey, guys! I got something hot out here!”

Merrick was staring at the detonator in stunned silence when Logan arrived. “You know what that is?”

The old guy’s brows twitched excitedly. “Yeah, looks a whole hell of a lot like a beeper, don’t it?”

“A modified one,” Fletcher replied, toying with the wires.

Merrick whistled in appreciation of the elegant simplicity. “Fucking pyro’s been setting these things off with a goddamned phone call.” He took the device and slipped it into an evidence bag. “Pete, find out who this thing is registered to and get me its number.” He turned to Fletcher with a smug grin. “I think I just got me back my prime.”

“Hey, when you’re right, you’re right,” the young A.I. conceded, looking chagrined.

Merrick pumped a fist in triumph. “Billy, my boy, I’m gonna need a list of all the calls Dr. Fiona Sutton-Schaefer made from Santa Barbara.”