Done for a Dime (41 page)

La Escalera Náutica
, they called it. The Mexican government intended to build or improve marinas around the entire Baja coastline, from the Coronado Islands to the mouth of the Colorado River. Tourism—the great brown hope—followed by luxury homes in enclaves built like fortresses. The rest of the coast south to San Quintín would be next to go, along with Cabo and the tourist towns on the Gulf of California. And if the Mexican government shit backwards on the idea, like they always did, American developers would fill the vacuum—like they always did.

Ferry figured he’d be hiring himself out to some of those developers next time around. Plan against kidnappers, play the bag man for the local
politicos
and
narcos
—sometimes they were the same guys—track down work site thieves, scare off union organizers. Too risky to reenter the States for a while. Maybe a good long while. He’d have to reinvent himself, come up with a brand-new past, the usual chore, but that had become shamelessly easy with the Internet. He’d spend a few months working on his Spanish in El Salvador. About time, he supposed. Marisela’s English would have to suffer.

This is the place Bratcher and his cronies should be thinking about, he thought. Better margin on your money, less red tape, unless you thought of bribes that way. That’s what I’ll say if we ever come face-to-face again, Ferry thought, smiling. Plenty of opportunity down here, Clint. Just your style. Because you’re gonna be on the run, son. That I promise.

23

M
urchison left the station house with no clear idea of where he should head. He had to get out, though, and not just to escape Holmes, the chief, the FBI, or the wrath of Sheila Stluka. The looks from the other cops were taking their toll.

You have to think you’re invincible, on the street especially. It’s how the job gets done. Stluka’s death, any cop’s death, put the lie to all that. Murchison—drifting hollow-eyed down the halls, exhausted—served as a kind of stand-in for his partner’s ghost. The other guys, they didn’t mean to be cold, but they had to think of themselves, too. Their glances said,
I feel for you, I’m serious. Now get out of my sight.

As tired as he was, he couldn’t sleep. Home held no invitation; he’d come unglued sitting there alone. Double that, his parents’ place, where he’d be twice as alone. There was a crime scene to process in Baymont—dozens actually, the whole hill was a crime scene—but he needed time to get his head right about Holmes. His new partner. How to forgive him for that. Forgive him not for his guilt but yours.

He started the car. So where?

Feeling the tug of unfinished business, he drove to the edge of downtown. The thrum of helicopters continued in the distance. The stench of smoke lingered. Otherwise, this part of town seemed strangely, unjustly safe. He crossed the yard beneath the oaks and chinaberry trees, climbed the porch, rang the bell, waited. Tina Navigato answered.

“Detective.”

The surprise in her voice, it came out almost pleasant.

“I came to apologize. For the way—”

“Don’t, please. Apologize, I mean.” She stepped back. “Come in.”

Murchison felt too stunned not to oblige. Once inside, he saw Toby Marchand, Nadya Lazarenko, and Miss Carvela Grimes all gathered together over food in the conference room to the right of the entry. Another African American male sat with them, about Toby’s age, maybe a few years older. He looked at Murchison edgily, then averted his eyes.

Murchison smelled toast and oatmeal and cinnamon. Bowls of walnuts and raisins sat with a coffeepot and a milk pitcher atop the cherry wood table. The scent of potatoes on boil and a chicken roasting with onion and rosemary came wafting from the back of the house. The sight of them all eating together, the aromas, it unraveled a knot in his chest. A painful longing welled up in its place. Not hunger. The thing that hunger disguises.

“You got my message on your voice mail.”

Murchison snapped to. “I beg your pardon?”

Tina gestured him down the hallway—my God, he thought, she wants to be alone with me—stopping at the first doorway. “I left a message for you, asking you to come over. I have some information I think you might find important.”

Information. Well, yes. That. He could feel the warmth in his face, blushing. “I didn’t check. I’m sorry, no.”

The office was small, packed tight with a desk, file cabinets, and bookshelves. A thick text titled
California Decedent Estate Practice
sat on the desktop, a candy wrapper lodged among its pages as a bookmark. Leaving the desk for Tina, Murchison sat in the only remaining chair. She closed the door, and instantly he caught the soapy apple scent of her shampoo. She was barefoot, wearing a lumpy sweater and loose drawstring pants. Not quite the wardrobe for a Queen of Naps, but close enough. He averted his eyes when she turned back toward him.

“The young man you saw in the conference room with my client, he’s—”

“Francis Templeton.”

Tina blanched. It was attractive, he thought. He considered telling her that Joan, his wife, had left with their children. For reasons he barely understood, he doubted they would ever return.

He said, “I could take Mr. Templeton into custody.” Actually, Murchison felt far too tired for that.

“I’m going to ask you not to. For a reason. I think a good reason.”

“He knows something.”

“He saw something.”

“About Mr. Carlisle’s murder.”

“No. About the fires last night.”

The way she looked at him, less than hopeful, almost untrusting, it made his heart sink.

“I’m listening.”

“Is there a lawyer in the district attorney’s office you have confidence in? I said that badly. I mean, my court cases up here have largely been in probate division, I don’t—”

“Mr. Templeton wants immunity.”

She made a resigned smile. “You’re always a step ahead of me.”

“Not really.”

“You told Miss Grimes you would be willing to speak on his behalf if he came in early.”

“He didn’t.”

“He’s going one better, Detective. He’s coming in with crucial information.”

Murchison chuckled. “
Crucial
. You’d be amazed how often that word comes up.”

“It’s my understanding that at this point, the police believe that the fires were caused by a truck hijacking that went wrong.”

Murchison brushed some lint from his knee. “Something like that.”

“That’s not what happened. There was no hijacking.”

She said it with such conviction, and yet an undertone of apology crept in, too. As though she understood that what she was about to say would make Murchison’s life impossible.

“Explain that. If you don’t mind.”

“There was a man who wasn’t apprehended. He arrived in the same white van as the younger man who was killed and left there. This man, the one who fled, he was older, late thirties or early forties. White.”

Her voice again, it threw him off. Her conviction had faltered, but the apology remained. She seemed to be worrying her way through her thoughts.

Murchison said, “We’ve heard there might’ve been a second man. But excuse me, I’m a little slow. Francis. The gas station? He was—”

“There’s a house right behind it. The owner lived there. He was hiding Francis, knowing you were looking for him. They were friends.”

Were, Murchison thought. He remembered the FBI’s diagram of the scene. The owner was one of the three men found dead.

“Francis was staying in a spare room, on the second floor. When the tank truck arrived, an argument broke out, between the driver and Francis’s friend. Francis stood at the window, watching, wondering if he’d need to come down. Help. A white van pulled up. Two men got out, both dressed in overalls. The one who got away, the older man, he drew a gun and, out of nowhere, shot the truck driver and the gas station owner. Then he lured the third man over, the one he’d come with, and shot him up close. In the face.”

She was clearly horrified by what she’d just described. Horrified and disgusted. Murchison envied that.

“Rig job.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What you’re describing—”

She shook her head, confused. “It’s what happened.”

“It’s what Francis Templeton says he saw.”

There, finally he’d pissed her off.

“He watched his friend get killed, Detective.”

I watched my partner die, Murchison thought. “He never called nine-one-one.”

“You know his position.”

“That’s no excuse. He could have saved his friend.”

“He tried. He ran down, but his friend had already bled to death. There was gasoline everywhere.”

“Should’ve started down sooner.”

She winced, as though he’d mocked her. “Is being scared and confused a crime now?”

Certain circumstances, yeah, Murchison thought. Or it ought to be. He sat back in the chair, tried to test the story mentally. Before he could come up with anything, she continued, “I want to say something. Every single person in that conference room out there has been through hell.”

“They’re not alone.”

“Of course not. But they’re the ones who are my responsibility.”

Whose responsibility am I, Murchison wondered. It seemed a perverse kind of luxury, having someone say that about you, an adult. Perverse and, again, enviable.

“Can I be frank?”

“Please.”

“For that story to be worth a grant of immunity, somebody’s got to be interested in it. And right now, there seems to be a general consensus that what needs to be known is already known. They want to nail it down fast, blame the obvious players. That’s it.”

“That’s corrupt.”

One gets used to it, he thought. “I don’t like it much, either, but I seem to be in the minority.”

She looked disconsolate, expecting more from him, he supposed. It would have been flattering, that expectation, had he not let her down. Lowering her glance, she picked up a paper clip and tortured it out of shape.

“Something else. This morning, while she was at the Red Cross shelter, Miss Grimes was approached by a man named Ralston Polhemus. Insurance agent, he placed her home owner’s coverage. Do you know him?”

Murchison shrugged. “Gas bag, like everybody else who runs for council. Special election’s next month.”

“Yes, well, he said some odd things. He seemed extremely eager for Miss Grimes to accept a seventy percent cash payout on her policy amount for the fire damage. This before any contact with the insurer, let alone a claim submission. I mean, just pulled the number out of the air.”

“Excuse me. Again, I’m not too clearheaded—”

“It’s as though he was saying everybody up there’s so desperate they should prepare themselves to take cash in hand and walk away.”

“You think the insurance companies—”

“Maybe. They may have put him up to it. I mean, it’s possible. But he brought up eminent domain, too, said the city would condemn the hill, buy up the properties, and put out the rebuilding for bid. I mean, basically, lowball the people who lived there, drive them off, then let the developers in. This the morning after everybody’s lost their homes. It was odd. Beyond odd.”

Murchison puzzled it over. “Not what you expect from a guy running for office.”

“No.”

“Dumb. Unless …”

The word hung in the air.

“Unless what?”

“Unless it’s his job. Not on the insurance end, the political end.”

She shook her head. “Now I’m not following.”

“Whoever’s behind him, they want him to soften the blow. Be the human face bringing one more shot of bad news. Before there’s even a chance for people to get their hopes up.”

She picked up the paper clip again, but it was beyond further damage. “And a man running for office, he’d do this why?”

Murchison pressed his palms together, tapping his fingers against his chin as he thought. “I don’t know. Maybe the fix is already in.”

Before he left, Murchison went into the conference room. They’d finished eating, but the aromas lingered. The Filipina—Tina’s roommate, sidekick, squeeze, whatever—cleared plates and everyone else looked as contented as they could hope to, given recent events. He nodded hello to Toby, Nadya, Miss Carvela, then said to Francis, “What Ms. Navigato just told me, I need to hear it from you.”

Miss Carvela began to protest, but Francis laid his hand on her shoulder, said, “It’s fine now, don’t worry,” and followed Murchison back into the same small office.

He had Francis tell him the story backward, a common trick. Even reversed, the account came out reasonably identical to the one Tina had provided, and when Murchison probed details he considered a little loose on deck Francis looked straight at him and offered what he could, admitted it when he couldn’t. He liked to play it tough at times, stare you down, but he didn’t seem a bad sort. Had a chip on his shoulder, but that could mean any one of a dozen things, few of them equating with criminal. Prisons were filling with guys just like him. Murchison had put some there himself. As for Francis’s story, it held together, more or less, which was one step toward the truth. It made Murchison restless. This sort of truth, it never ended the way it should.

When he was finished, Tina walked him out to the porch. She made small talk he could barely hear for the buzzing an incipient migraine was causing. He caught her last words, though: “So what do you think you’ll do?”

He attempted a smile, jerking down the steps so awkwardly he nearly fell. “It’s never too soon to get desperate,” he said, wondering where on earth the thought had come from.

Tina drew Francis away to confer with him alone. Joyanne led Miss Carvela up to a bedroom where she could rest. Suddenly Nadya and Toby were by themselves for the first time since collecting their things at his father’s house.

Toby, feeling awkward, unsure why, pulled a walnut from the bowl, placed it between the heels of his hands, and pressed until the shell cracked open. The effort made him smile, like he’d performed a trick. He felt so tired.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you all morning,” Nadya said.

Her dark eyes seemed unusually large, as though her face was opening to him. It created a kind of vertigo, like he might fall in. He lowered his glance, looked at his hands, plucked bits of shell from the meat of the walnut.