The Burning

Chapter 21

False night cloaked the city, a rim of sour orange light curdling at the horizon like fat on soup. The renewed odor of smoke exerted itself on my limbs and in my chest. I hurried to my car, scanning for white trucks and seeing them everywhere.

The Dormer twins had spent two years nursing a grudge and doing research. They knew about my brother. Why wouldn’t they know about my parents? Or Amy’s?

I did a drive-by of both houses. Nothing looked out of order. I was tempted to stop and knock. But Paul and Theresa would have no clue what I was talking about.

My parents would go to pieces.

I went home. I didn’t plan on staying any longer than necessary. I put on jeans and a sweatshirt, tossed spare socks and underwear into a duffel bag. I wasn’t sure how long I was packing for. What I was packing for. Where I was going next.

Ride around all night, maybe, searching uselessly for Luke.

Just like old times.

Nwodo’s advice was wise. Find a motel and sleep.

I added my bulletproof vest to the duffel. I took the SIG Sauer and a box of ammunition from the gun safe and started for the bathroom. Nwodo called.

“Uniforms talked to Billy’s neighbor up the block. He has a security camera that runs on a mini solar panel. They checked back to last week. A white truck goes past on Saturday and Monday, both around seven thirty a.m. Same time Billy got shot.”

“That’s them. It’s gotta be them. They’re doing recon.”

“Or they got scared off. Either way, I’d like to ask them in person.”

“Good. Great. How soon can you get out there?”

“You know how this works. You’re telling me I need a team, that takes time.”

“All right.” I paused. “Whatever happens with Luke—”

“You’ll be the first to know,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Head on a swivel,” she said.

The bathroom mirror confirmed what everyone was telling me: I looked like shit. My hair lay smashed atop my crown. Scorched pits ringed my eyes, the lids fluttered like a broken doll’s.

Every explanation I’d come up with for Luke’s disappearance centered on him and his character.

Crimes he could have committed.

People he had hurt and who might hurt him.

Never had it occurred to me that I was the explanation.

I opened the medicine cabinet, shook out four Advil, swallowed them.

I hefted the duffel.

At the front door I checked the peephole.

The porch, with its wobbly railing. Clear.

I parted the ugly scarlet tartan curtains and peeked through the leaky front window at the traffic sailing by. Our house was three blocks from the freeway, along a main entry route. It got noisy. It was what we could afford. The lawn needed attention. The front-walk pavers were chipped and cracked.

So many projects, so little time, even less skill. We weren’t Billy and Rashida Watts.

The sidewalk was clear.

I stepped onto the porch and turned to set the dead bolt.

Brakes whined, tires crunched, too close.

I spun, yanking at the duffel zipper. Why hadn’t I taken the extra minute to put on the vest? Thrusting elbow deep I rooted through socks and underwear, knuckles grazing the box of ammo, its sharp corners. I touched the knurled butt of the gun. My finger found the trigger.

Car at the curb. Dark-blue sedan.

The driver got out, swaggering.

Cesar Rigo.

“Good evening, Deputy.”

I pulled my arm from the duffel and returned the greeting.

He came tapping up the pavers. Smiled his smile and chinned. “Going somewhere?”

The duffel hung on my stomach. The undone zipper gaped. I shifted the bag to my hip and pinned it shut with my elbow. “Just till the power comes back on.”

“How fortuitous that I caught you. Can you spare a moment to talk?”

I glanced at the street.

“Why don’t we go inside?” he said. “Rather than stand out here in public.”

I opened the door for him.

“After you,” he said.

Rigo strolled around the living room while I lit candles.

“Where will you go until power is restored?”

I shook out the match. “Someplace with air-conditioning, I hope.”

He’d planted himself by the Great Wall of Cardboard and was reading the labels, hips shoved out like an Elvis impersonator. Today’s suit was green with matching necktie in an abstract pattern. Where the hell did he shop? Not off the rack, surely; nothing would fit him, his compact gymnast’s body. Maybe he shelled out for custom. Or haunted the boys’ section.

“Did you move in recently?”

“I’m embarrassed to say how long it’s been.”

He smiled. Rapped the box marked BREAD MACHINE. “We have one of these.”

My heart began to pound. No way he could know what it concealed. But I fought not to fall on the box like a loose ball. “No kidding.”

“We received it for a wedding present but have never used it.”

“Same.”

“Interesting. And yet neither of us has ever thought to dispose of it. Why is that?”

“Everybody needs something to aspire to.”

“I take it from the clothing that you have a daughter, or daughters.”

“One.”

“She’s with your wife?”

“They left town for a few days.”

“Do you enjoy having peace and quiet?”

How many times had I done this with a suspect, worked to build rapport? But Rigo was lousy at it. He knew it. And he knew that I knew it.

“Whatever it is you’d like to know,” I said, “come out and ask it.”

“I appreciate your candor, Deputy. I will strive to reciprocate.” He pressed his palms together. “Shall we?”

We sat.

“I received a phone call today from Mr. Vandervelde’s son. He was quite irate.”

“About what?”

“According to him, he was at the victim’s house last night and encountered you.”

Sean, you prick.

“Did he happen to mention why he was there?” I said.

“He claims he wanted to ensure that the property was secure. He was concerned Dr. Yap might misappropriate items of value. He is convinced — you will forgive me — but he insists that you returned to the scene with the same intention. Under most circumstances I would dismiss any such accusations as the ramblings of a man in state of distress.”

“You should.”

“Yes, but — and again, forgive me — I recalled that the victim possesses a photograph of you in his collection of sports memorabilia. As you are aware, I, too, was an athlete. I can appreciate that one experiences nostalgia for that period of one’s life. Perhaps one wishes to acquire a memento.”

“You’re insinuating that I stole from a decedent.”

“I’m providing you an opportunity to clarify the matter.”

I’d conducted interrogations. This wasn’t about an autographed photo. Rigo was dangling an easy out, enticing me to commit to a story he could then proceed to blow up.

I said, “I went to the house because I thought Sean might try to break in. And I was right.”

Admiration in his smile, one chess player to another. “Why would you think that?”

“He made clear his dislike of Dr. Yap and was adamant that she didn’t deserve to inherit his father’s estate. I figured it couldn’t hurt to check the seals.”

“Is that something you typically do?”

“This isn’t a typical situation, in terms of the amount of money or the personalities involved.”

“Did you inform any of your colleagues of your decision?”

“I only thought of it after I’d left work.”

“I see. You had a — what is the expression... a brainwave. I believe there was a comic book character by that name. My father was an engineer. He often traveled to the United States for conferences, and he would bring me American comic books and other materials to improve my English. In those days we did not have ready access to American television shows.”

All hail the King of Casual Rapport.

“Bummer,” I said.

“It was for the best. It made me a reader. You worked yesterday, did you not?”

He knew the answer. He’d seen me at the autopsy. “Yes.”

“And today?”

“I was off.”

“May I ask what time your shift ends?”

“Five. Although sometimes it can take a while to get out of there.”

“Yesterday evening, did you go straight from your office to the victim’s house?”

I’d gone straight to Ivan Arias’s house. A different victim. “No.”

“Where did you go?”

“Home.”

“How long does it take you to get home from work?”

“About ten minutes.”

“On average, I imagine, you are walking in the door between five thirty and six, yes?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you remember what time you got home yesterday evening?”

“Not exactly.”

“But not much later or earlier than usual.”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Very good. How long after you arrived home did you have your brainwave?”

“I couldn’t really say.”

“Did you eat dinner first?”

I’d eaten nothing.

I nodded.

“May I ask what you had?”

“For dinner?”

“Everything in your refrigerator must have spoiled by now.”

“Beef jerky.”

“Very nutritious. After you ate, what did you do?”

“Took a shower.”

“And then?”

“I went to the victim’s house.”

“Having had your brainwave.”

“Yes.”

“In the shower, perhaps,” he said. “I find showers a conducive atmosphere for thinking. Tell me: You didn’t call one of your colleagues on duty to suggest they perform this task?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt them. I figured it would turn out to be a fool’s errand.”

Rigo beamed. “Such dedication. If only everyone was so devoted to their work.”

“I had nothing to do and it’s ten minutes away.”

“You’re selling yourself short, Deputy. You had to climb the fence to get in, no?”

“I needed the exercise.”

“Describe, please, what happened when you arrived.”

“The seal on the front door was broken.”

“That must have been vindicating for you. Did you enter the house?”

“I had to. There was evidence of tampering.”

“Naturally. And when you did?”

“I ran into Sean.”

I expected Rigo to ask about my tackling him, but evidently that part had been cropped from Sean’s rendition — minor editing to assuage his bruised ego.

“What was he doing?”

“Going through the knife collection. He’d also set aside some baseballs and baseball cards.”

“Our department retained a set of keys from Ms. Santos, the victim’s housekeeper,” Rigo said. “I was thus able to inspect the office. And several other rooms.”

Say it. Garage.

“To my eye,” he said, “no items were missing.”

“That’s because I put everything back.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“So you know very well I didn’t take anything.”

“It was not my intention to mischaracterize you, Deputy Edison.”

Not a question; I didn’t answer. I listened to the sounds from the street, keyed to the heavy tread of a truck.

He said, “After you encountered Sean Vandervelde, what did you do?”

“Escorted him off the property.”

“I noticed that you resealed the front door. I could be wrong, but it appeared to me that you removed the old seal, rather than apply the new one over it. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Can you help me understand why you did that?”

“I thought it would help the new seal adhere better.”

“First you restored the baseballs and baseball cards to their rightful places.”

“Yes.”

“When did you peform these tasks? Before or after you escorted Sean Vandervelde off the property?”

I could see where he was going. Sean must’ve said that I’d walked him down, then headed back through the gates — something Rigo could corroborate by talking to the Uber driver.

Had he gone to that length?

“After,” I said.

“Why did you choose to do things in that order? That is to say, it would appear to me simpler to clean up the baseballs and baseball cards first, exit the house, apply the seal, and escort Sean out, rather than have to walk up the hill a second time.”

“I needed the exercise.”

Rigo beamed. “Really, though. What was the reason for that sequence of events?”

“He was drunk and belligerent, and I wanted him out of my hair so I could deal with putting away everything he’d tried to steal.”

“Sensible. Now then, to avoid any possible ambiguity: After Sean departed, you reentered the house, unaccompanied.”

“Yes.”

“Do you recall which specific rooms you went into?”

“The foyer. The office and the one with the knives. He’d also drunk half a bottle of scotch. I put it behind the living room bar.”

“No other rooms?”

Come on, Cesar. Say it. Garage.

I’d worn gloves. I’d been careful.

Time for defense or for offense?

Offense.

“No,” I said.

My voice had taken on an edge.

“Very good. Let us review, please, what you have told me thus far. You depart your place of work at five p.m., or perhaps a trifle later, and go home. Ordinarily you would dine with your family, but on this night you are alone, with only beef jerky to nourish you. You take a shower. Reflecting upon the events of the day, you are seized by the thought that in view of Sean Vandervelde’s prior expression of anger, he may attempt to burgle his father’s residence. This thought concerns you to the extent that you elect to take matters into your own hands. Once again you dress and drive to the victim’s residence. What time do you arrive?”

Like all guilty people, I said, “I don’t know.”

Rigo crossed a green trouser leg. “Perhaps we can work backward. Sean Vandervelde was able to furnish a record of his Uber receipt, indicating that he was picked up from the residence at eleven thirty-seven p.m. Once you encountered him inside the house, how long was it before you saw him off?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let us suppose it was an hour. Does that sound reasonable?”

It didn’t sound reasonable to claim any longer than that. I nodded.

“Therefore your arrival at the victim’s house would have taken place around ten thirty.”

“Thus it would appear.”

He smiled at my mockery. “Does it appear otherwise to you?”

“Nope.”

“Therefore you left your house to drive to Mr. Vandervelde’s house shortly before that. By your description it is ten minutes away. Let us call your time of departure ten fifteen p.m. This, in turn, implies an interval of four and one quarter hours between your arrival at your own home, at six the latest, and your visit to Mr. Vandervelde’s residence. Some of that is spent eating dinner and what have you. But, of course, beef jerky requires no cooking time, and as you stated, you had nothing to do. So there would seem to be several hours unaccounted for. I presume you did not take a four-and-one-quarter-hour shower. To that end, it would be helpful to know, more precisely, at what time you had your brainwave. Perhaps it occurred later than you initially suggested. Not in the shower, but while you were brushing your teeth, for example. Or while you were getting into bed. If so, you had to change out of your pajamas. One can only aspire, Deputy Edison, to have such dedication. Another possibility is that you departed your house earlier than ten fifteen and went to another destination in the interim. That, too, could explain the lost hours. Incidentally, I forgot to ask: How did you obtain a key to enter into the victim’s house?”

Who had he spoken to? What had they said? Edmond, the property clerk? Kat Davenport? Did they know they were selling me out?

Had he checked the keycard records? The CCTV?

How much credit should I give him?

The better question was how much longer I felt like keeping this up, doing what guilty people did, improvising, freaking out and scrambling and committing one dumb messy error after another. The reckoning had to come sooner or later.

What I wanted was to lay my head on my arms and rest, like guilty people do.

“One other point of clarification,” he said, “and, again, I apologize for not mentioning this earlier. I noticed that the signatures on the newly applied seals resemble that of your colleague, Deputy Harkless, rather than yours. I grant you, the seals are a little hard to read. But comparing them to your signature on the autographed photo in the victim’s office, the disparity strikes me as greater than expected, even taking into consideration the degradation of penmanship that can occur over time. Since, as you say, you came to the victim’s house for a legitimate purpose, signing your colleague’s name in place of your own would appear — let us call it nonstandard. I can’t conceive of why you would do it, unless for some reason you wished to conceal your actions. I wonder: What might that reason be?”

As a suspect, I detested Rigo. As a cop, I applauded him.

“While you decide on your answers,” Rigo said, taking out his phone, “there is some additional information you may find of interest. During their investigation of the crime scene, forensics recovered fragments of two glass tumblers that bore fingerprints. One set of prints belonged to the victim. The other was submitted to the state crime lab for expedited analysis, and the results issued earlier today. You are familiar with an individual by the name of Luke Alan Edison.”

He showed me my brother’s mugshot. “Would you like to have a closer look?”

“I can see it, thanks.”

“Very well.” He put the phone away. “It is peculiar. The last twenty-four hours have witnessed significant social media activity regarding Mr. Edison. The other Mr. Edison. As of Sunday, he looks to have disappeared, though there is no active missing persons report. From the tenor of the discussion, however, one can infer that his wife and friends are extremely concerned for his safety. I expect you must share their concerns.”

I said nothing.

“Please take the foregoing in the spirit of professional courtesy,” Rigo said.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m glad you can appreciate the humor in these circumstances,” he said. “Though at this juncture I think it might be beneficial to relocate to a more neutral setting.”

“The PD.”

“We have air-conditioning.”

Busting a fellow cop embarrasses both parties and creates headaches. What was the worst Rigo could produce? Destroying evidence? I’d plead out. Slap on the wrist.

It wasn’t me he wanted to nail. He wanted a solve on his murder.

I could give that to him. I’d found his killers.

Or I was wrong and I hadn’t.

Ryan Hanlon thought I was full of shit.

Delilah Nwodo and I had history. She trusted my instincts. But she was smart, with every reason to proceed with caution, and having Rigo call her created its own set of problems. Once she learned about the murder, she’d know I’d lied to her by omission. Good chance she’d feel — justifiably — that I’d taken advantage of our friendship.

That happened, she might hold on visiting the Dormers till she’d sorted out the facts.

How long before she assembled a team? Two hours? Three? Twelve?

What was my play?

Open the virgin bread machine and hand Rigo the gun?

“Deputy?” he said. “May we proceed to the station?”

A request? Or a command?

How much did he have, really?

My pocket buzzed.

In a perfect world, Nwodo calling. She was en route to the Dormer compound.

“I have to take this,” I said, fishing out my phone.

Not Nwodo.

A text message. An image.

The sender was Luke Edison.

I touched the thumbnail.

My brother’s face filled the screen. The picture had been taken in poor light. Flash wiped out the background.

His face, and what had been done to it.

One eye a purple egg. Lips split; red and brown crust in his beard, at his temple. The line of his nose deviated grotesquely. His head was averted. I couldn’t see the other eye, whether it still had the wet sheen that fades with death.

A second text arrived. A map and a pin, red dot floating in a gridded beige field.

Rigo tilted forward eagerly. “Deputy.”

A third text.