With an Extreme Burning (19 page)

“They're wrong,” Dix said angrily. “Wrong as hell. It wasn't an accident, it was cold-blooded murder.”

Police Lieutenant Adam St. John was silent. He had a lean, fox face that didn't reveal much of what he was thinking, and an irritatingly phlegmatic manner. He sat rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers, alternately shifting his gaze between Dix and Cecca, sitting pale and tense beside him. He was trying to quit smoking, he'd told them last week. Toying with the cigarette was his way of easing himself out of the habit.

At length St. John slid his chair forward, laid the cigarette carefully on his desk blotter. He said, “Lake County has a highly competent team of arson investigators. They spent all morning going through what's left of the cabin, and the head of the team assured me there's been no mistake. It was a propane leak that caused the explosion.”

“I'm not disputing that,” Dix said. He ran a hand over his face, felt stubble here and there; he'd shaved that afternoon but he hadn't done much of a job of it. His eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. “I know a little something about propane heaters; my father had a couple of different kinds. The pilot light could have been blown out deliberately and the safety valve tampered with to let the gas escape. There'd be no way for the arson investigators to determine that from the burned-out wreckage, would there?”

“No, I suppose there wouldn't.”

Cecca made a dry throat-clearing sound. “Every year, on their last night at the lake, the Harrells drove to Lakeport for dinner at a restaurant called Oliveri's. It was a ritual; everyone knew about it. If you check, you'll find they did it again yesterday.”

“So it's your contention the alleged murderer drove to Blue Lake and tampered with the heater while they were away in Lake-port.”

“That's right.”

“Knew where to find the heater and what kind it was because he'd been there before, as an invited guest.”

“Yes.”

St. John was silent again. Late-afternoon sunshine slanted through the Venetian blinds on his office window, laid bars of light across the surface of his desk. He rolled the cigarette along one of the bars, slowly, as if he were deriving some kind of sensual pleasure from the act.

Without looking up, he said, “Why?”

“Why? Why what?”

“Why would he do it? A man who called himself a friend of the Harrells—why would he try to blow them up, all four of them?”

“For Christ's sake, if we knew that—”

“It's a fair question, Mr. Mallory. You're convinced that the same man who's been harassing you two is responsible for what happened at Blue Lake. All right, convince me. Show me some evidence that links the two.”

“We don't
have
any evidence.”

“Then what makes you so sure?”

“You think it's coincidence? My wife's death, the telephone calls, all the rest of it, and now the Harrells' cabin blows up—two more of our friends dead, two in the hospital. You think that's a
coincidence
?”

“Coincidences happen. Stranger ones than that.”

“No. It wasn't an accident.”

“Let's look at it this way,” St. John said. “As far as you know, had either Eileen or Ted Harrell received harassing calls recently?”

“No, but—”

“Packages, any kind of implied threat?”

“No.”

“Would you have known if they had?”

“I would have,” Cecca said. “Eileen would've told me. She couldn't keep a thing like that to herself.”

“You see my point, then? Why would the same person harass the two of you, threaten
you
, and then go after a family he hasn't bothered at all?”

“What if Eileen figured out who he is and made the mistake of contacting him, warning him to leave us alone?”

“Would she do something that foolish?”

“I don't know … she might. She can be unpredictable sometimes.”

“What makes you think she might have identified the man?”

“She called yesterday when I was out, left a message on my answering machine. She said she'd remembered something Katy said to her and that it might be important.”

“Did she say what that something was?”

“No. She doesn't like to talk to machines, so her messages are always brief.”

“Did you call her back?”

“I tried to,” Cecca said. “About four o'clock. There was no answer; they must have already left for Lakeport.”

St. John shook his head. “I don't buy it. It's remotely possible Mrs. Harrell identified the man, tried to warn him off, and he decided to kill her and her entire family to keep them quiet. But do it by driving all the way to Lake County on the chance that they'll be out and then setting a deathtrap that's by no means guaranteed to work? Unh-unh. No. I can credit a deliberate tampering with the heater if he was in no hurry to kill one or all four of the Harrells: One method doesn't work, he tries another one. But a man bent on self-protection takes a hell of a lot more direct action.”

“Even if he happens to be a psychotic?” Dix said.

“Psychotics may not seem to behave rationally, but there's always a cunning internal logic to what they do, no matter how warped it might be. It makes sense to them. They operate in established patterns, with a specific purpose for each act. I don't see any kind of pattern where the Harrells are concerned.”

Cecca said, “Suppose that's just what he wants. For none of us to see a pattern.”

“I'm not sure I follow that.”

“He intended what happened at Blue Lake to look like an accident. That much seems obvious. He doesn't want it to appear connected to what he's been doing to us. Our version sounds paranoid to you, doesn't it? So you're not going to do much about it.”

“I never said I wasn't going to do anything, Ms. Bellini.”

“But not as much as you would if you were convinced a homicidal maniac was running around loose in Los Alegres.”

“My hands are tied, legally, without sufficient proof.”

“That's exactly my point. Your hands are tied, and so Dix and my daughter and I continue to be vulnerable. He can keep right on stalking us with impunity, take his time picking us off.”

“Are you saying he tried to blow up a family of four just to buy himself more time to go after you?”

“No, she's not,” Dix said. “She's saying it's possible the Harrells were targets all along, that he's cunning enough—your word, Lieutenant—to use different methods for different victims. He seduced my wife before he killed her—”

“If he killed her.”

“He killed her, all right. He seduced my wife and he struck against the Harrells without warning and he's getting some kind of sick pleasure or whatever out of tormenting us.”

“That's a pretty elaborate methodology,” St. John said.

“You don't believe it's possible?”

“I believe just about anything is possible these days. But that doesn't change the fact that you have no proof to back up any of these conjectures, nor can you give me a hint of a possible motive even though you both seem convinced the man is someone you know fairly well.”

How could you argue against that? They were like people from different cultures trying to find some common meeting ground: Cecca and him reacting with raw emotion to a menace they knew but couldn't prove was real, St. John desensitized and rigid and secure, adhering to the letter of the law like a Jesuit to the holy scriptures. You couldn't blame him for being what he was, a methodical and cautious man. But it was maddening nonetheless.

St. John was playing with that damn cigarette again, his gaze shifting back and forth between the two of them. A trick of his, Dix decided, to keep you quiet while he was thinking. It was another minute before he said, “Tell me again about this Kanvitz woman. She owns Bright Winds Gallery at the Mill?”

Dix nodded. “She helped cover up the fact that my wife was having an affair. Katy was supposed to be studying with her when she was meeting her lover.”

“You're convinced of that, too?”

“Cecca is. She had words with Louise about it last week.”

“She admitted it to you, Ms. Bellini?”

“No, she denied it. But it was plain she was lying.”

“Why would she lie?”

“Well, not because she was trying to protect Katy's good name. She wasn't Katy's friend. She only pretended to be.”

“Why do you say that?”

“A friend doesn't try to capitalize on personal tragedy. She raised the price on Katy's last two paintings from two hundred to a thousand dollars apiece. At best she's a flagrant exploiter. At worst—”

“At worst,” Dix said, “she's a blackmailer.”

St. John cocked an eyebrow.

Cecca said, “Both those paintings had Sold signs on them when I was there last week. She wouldn't tell me who'd bought them. It isn't likely she could have found a buyer—a legitimate buyer—at such overinflated prices.”

“You think she sold them to Mrs. Mallory's lover?”

“In exchange for her silence, yes.”

“He wouldn't give in to that kind of blackmail to cover up a simple affair,” Dix said. “The only reason he'd pay is if he's guilty of something much worse.”

St. John said, “That's quite a scenario you've worked out.”

“It fits all the facts.”

“Maybe. But again, where's your proof?”

“Louise is the proof. Make her admit it.”

“
Make
her admit it? How do you propose we do that?”

“Blackmail is a crime, isn't it? Once she knows that we know—”

“Accuse her of it straight out?”

“Well, why not?”

“Suppose she's innocent. She'd have grounds for a lawsuit.”

“Christ,” Dix said, “are you saying she
shouldn't
be confronted?”

“I'm saying it's a good thing she's out of town for the holiday weekend so you couldn't already have made that mistake.”

“If we don't confront her, who will? You?”

“I'll speak to her, yes.”

“She won't admit it unless you put pressure on her.”

“You just leave that to me, Mr. Mallory.”

Yeah, Dix thought. “What else can you do to help us … legally?”

“Talk to Mrs. Harrell, of course, as soon as she's able to answer questions. Have lab tests run on the package wrappings and containers you and Ms. Bellini brought in. There may be fingerprints, some other kind of lead to the perpetrator.”

There won't be.

“We'll also increase patrols in the neighborhoods where you live, day and night.”

That won't stop him for a minute.

“And I'll try to get a court order to wiretap your home phones. There should be enough probable cause for Judge Canaday to agree to it.”

Terrific. “Is that all?”

“Until we have more to go on, I'm afraid so. I could interview your friends, but I don't want to do that yet. The more people who know about this, the easier it is for word to get out—and once it does, it'll spread like wildfire. This kind of thing is media fodder. We'd have reporters up here from San Francisco, all sorts of wild speculation and rumor—a potential panic situation. None of us wants that. I'd advise you both to remain quiet, and to let us handle the matter from now on. Don't do anything without talking to me first, except to increase your normal safety precautions.”

“You do believe us, don't you?” Cecca asked him. “That this isn't some paranoid fantasy?”

“Let's say I'm leaning your way.”

Terrific, Dix thought again. He looked down at his fingers, knuckles white, gripping his knees. You lean and we're the ones who fall.

He had always hated the idea of vigilante justice; of citizens arming themselves “for protection,” using that as an excuse to take the law into their own hands. Too many guns out there, he'd always argued, in the possession of frightened, irresponsible people who didn't know how to use them properly. Strong advocate of gun control all his adult life. Believed one of the nation's most insidious organizations, purveyors of lies and half-truths to disguise the fact that it was a tool of the weapons' manufacturers, was the frigging NRA.

Conservatives' definition of a liberal: Somebody who has never been mugged. Another definition: Somebody who has never been threatened with extinction by an unknown enemy for unknown reasons.

He wondered bitterly where he could go to buy a gun.

Neither of them said much on the ride from the police department to Shady Court. It was after six, and the downtown area was mostly deserted; there had been an informal small-boat regatta on the river earlier, speeches and kids' and adult entertainment, but the festivities were over and the participants already home or on their way. Cecca stared out at the familiar buildings old and new—and they seemed as strange to her now as they had on the ride over. Everything in and about Los Alegres seemed strange today, as if her lifelong perception of this town where she'd been born and where she'd lived for forty-one years had been illusion and she was suddenly seeing it through different eyes, as it really was.

Los Alegres was not the safe and secure community she'd imagined it to be, the relative crime-free zone, the haven in a state and country and a world that bulged with new and ugly menaces every year. There was greater malignity here than anywhere else. And more deception. She wasn't safe in the company of the people who lived here, or even in her own house. She was embattled and defenseless, a naked target. Where
was
she safe? Nowhere, unless she ran away and hid … she and Amy, like animals looking for a burrow. Who was she safe with? No one except her family and Dix. She glanced over at him, saw the hard set of his mouth, the dark eyes unblinkingly watching the road ahead—and felt a twinge of apprehension. She was not even a hundred percent sure she was safe with him. She didn't know Dix Mallory any better, really, than she knew anyone else in Los Alegres. They shared a casual past, and a present terror, but beyond that she had no idea of who and what he was behind his public façade. Just faith in her judgment, faith in his basic goodness … and faith didn't seem to be quite enough anymore.