Jamie Garrett - Riley Reid 02 - Fire and Lies (3 page)

I sat in the first floor of Reid Private Investigations. On a couch, across from me, was Mrs. Janet Wyette. She had hired me to find out if her husband was cheating on her. He was.

Cases involving infidelity were hard. Actually, finding out if the client’s spouse was sleeping with someone else was easy. Figuring out how to tell the client was the hard part.

I used to just be blunt. Several sobbing clients made me reconsider that approach. Even though I had nothing personally invested in the cases, they did. And I had to be aware of that.

Mrs. Wyette was a sweet lady. She was a little on the heavy side, but nothing out of place these days. And she was pretty. Perhaps she could wear a little less make up, but that was not uncommon for women her age.

Her husband had apparently had an appetite for someone younger. Specifically, he desired one of his students. He was a teacher at George Mason, my alma mater. I had actually heard of him. His reputation was that of a creep. One of my friends had told me that he hit on her all the time.

I followed Professor Wyette for three days. He told his wife he was going to a workshop out of town. In reality, he went to Virginia Beach with his twenty-year-old mistress.

When I came back from Virginia Beach, I had about forty pictures of the professor and his student together. Some were just of them on the beach and boardwalk. Others were more intimate. I called in Mrs. Wyette to share with her the bad news.

“Thank you for coming by, Mrs. Wyette. I have some unfortunate news to share with you.” The tone of my voice was soft and caring.

“He is cheating on me, isn’t he?” I was taken aback. Sure, I knew Mrs. Wyette had some suspicions but the fact that she had already made up her mind made my job much easier.

“I’m afraid so.”

“So he didn’t go to a workshop in Norfolk?”

I shook my head.

Mrs. Wyette’s bottom lip quivered. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or sadness. Maybe it was both. “Where…?” Her voice cracked. “Where did he go?”

“Virginia Beach.”

“With whom?”

I took that as my cue to reveal the photos. Before our meeting, I had printed out the photos from my cell. They were in a manila envelope which I handed to Mrs. Wyette.

“He was with one of his students. I observed him leaving the school with her. They went to her apartment. Then they went to the beach. Her name is…”

Mrs. Wyette finished the sentence for me. “Sarah. I know her.” She put her hand to her mouth and grimaced. “We had her over for dinner before. John said she was going to be his new TA. “

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wyette. These things … they’re never easy.”

Mrs. Wyette put her hands down. She closed her eyes and regained her composure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, dear. My husband is the one who’s going to be sorry. You better believe that!”

I reached over to the table between us and retrieved one of my business cards. “I don’t remember if I gave you one of these. In case you get a divorce and your lawyer needs to talk to me, have them call the bottom number. It’s my cell phone.”

Mrs. Wyette stood up. She took the card and the manila envelope. “Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

“I’ll send a bill in the mail.”

I walked Mrs. Wyette out of my office and to her car. It was getting dark and downtown was no place for an older woman, alone at night. Junkies, or maybe worse, roamed those overgrown streets and abandoned buildings.

While escorting Mrs. Wyette, I noticed something strange down the street. There was a black SUV. Its windows were tinted and engine off. I couldn’t tell if anyone was inside but it was parked in front of a long, condemned hardware store.

I went back to the office to close up. First I had to turn off the lights upstairs. Then I did the same on the first floor, but not before getting my gun. On my way out, I locked the front door.

My car was parked out behind the building. To get there, I had to go out the front then walk half a block, to the corner, and then go around back. Downtown Stone Harbor had no alleyways. Everything was connected. And I didn’t like parking out front. The degenerates that inhabited the neighborhood would always be sniffing around my car.

Before I turned the corner, the lights on the black SUV parked down the street came on. I didn’t hear a car door close, so whoever was inside must’ve been there all along. It would be a lie to say that I wasn’t a bit freaked out at that point. After what had happened to Lisa’s family and her dog, I had every reason to be.

I speed-walked to the back of the buildings. There was some relief when I saw my car. It was all alone.

When I drove back to Main Street, the black SUV was still there. I started to drive away and it started to follow. Part of me thought I was just being paranoid as my foot grew heavier on the gas pedal. That stopped after the third right turn.

It was pretty clear to me that I was being followed. I sped up. The black SUV responded by doing the same. With my attention on my rear view mirror, I didn’t notice the sharp turn ahead. When I did, I slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel.

My car screeched and slid to a halt. It turned so I ended up perpendicular to the road. The black SUV kept coming. In fact, it sped up. I tried to straighten up my vehicle, but I was panicked.

Time was running out. The SUV was going to t-bone me. At the last moment, I managed to turn my car enough to dodge the collision. My pursuers sped by, then slammed on their brakes. They hit the guard rail, but not hard enough to cause any serious damage.

I drove as fast as I could back down the way I had come. There was enough separation that I was able to turn down a road out of sight. As soon as I was on the new street, I looked for a hiding place.

Of the two or three homes on the small street, there was one that had a driveway that was mostly hidden by bushes. That was the driveway I chose to hide in. Immediately upon pulling in, I turned off all my lights and killed the engine.

My heart was racing as I climbed into my back seat. I aimed my gun out the window. And I waited. It was the longest two minutes of my life.

Time seemed to stop when I saw headlights light up the road. When the black SUV passed by, it was in slow motion. I could see the person in the passenger seat and the back. All the windows were down, making their mask covered faces visible. The masks were white plastic rabbits.

I waited until they passed, then I thought I should wait a little more, and so I sat in my car in the dark for another fifteen minutes. Luckily, there was nobody home at my impromptu hiding place. Once I was sure that it was safe, I pulled out of the driveway and made my way to Briar Gardens.

When I got home, I took a shower and went straight to bed. My ordeal on the way home had been exhausting. It also did a number on my nerves. Sleep seemed like the only remedy.

I don’t know how long I was lying in bed before drifting off. It’s impossible to know for sure. Funny how that always seems to be the case. You’d think that just once you’d remember.

Before I knew it, both my feet were planted firmly in dream land. In the dream, I was in the Fresh Horizons rehab facility. For whatever reason, I was walking down the hall. The further I went, the more the hall seemed to stretch. No matter how fast I went, there was no end.

I heard the roar of a revving engine behind me. When I turned, I saw the black SUV. It charged down the hallway, straight towards me. I tried to run but my legs wouldn’t move as fast as I wanted.

The black SUV was only feet from me. I prepared for the impact but suddenly found myself outside Pastor Pritchard’s church. Lisa was standing outside. Or at least I thought it was Lisa. It kind of looked like her but people in my dreams often don’t fully resemble their real selves. She was trying to talk to me but I couldn’t understand a word.

A fire erupted inside the church. It didn’t start small and gradually grow. No, it was out of control from the get go. My attention went away from the fire to the grass around the church. Hundreds of white rabbits were bouncing around. Half of them were staring straight at me.

Something started to emerge out of the fire. It took a little while for me to realize what it was. I’d seen it before, when I was younger. Out of the church rose a bird made of golden flames. Though more detailed, it reminded me of the firebird on the hood of Dad’s Trans Am. The golden, burning bird even made the same pose when it was free.

I heard a gunshot. My stomach felt funny. When I looked down I saw a growing blood stain. Then I woke up.

That time, I was prepared. Ever since the Dennis Clark case a couple months before, I had made sure my notepad was right next to me on my nightstand. With the memory of it still fresh, I recorded my whole dream on the small pieces of paper.

I hoped that it would become useful. Maybe there was a clue somewhere in the weirdness. Sherlock Holmes used to get high before solving some of his greatest cases, so I figure it might not have been such a long shot.

July 5 started with a phone call. I had managed to fall back asleep only to be woken up by my ring tone. It was Sam. Why was he calling so early? It was only five in the morning. The sun hadn’t even fully risen yet.

“Hello?” My voice was groggy and vaguely pissed off.

“Sorry to wake you up, but something’s happened that I think you should know about.” Sam sounded wide awake.

“What is it?” I managed to sit up.

“Remember the abandoned marina you followed Martin Goldberg to a couple of months ago?” All Sam knew was that I had followed Marty there. What he didn’t know about was me being drugged and almost drowned. It was better that he didn’t know. Otherwise he wouldn’t leave me alone about how dangerous it was. The last thing I wanted was a lecture.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“It’s in flames.”

“Come again?”

“It’s on fire.”

Somebody set fire to the abandoned marina. The chances of it being an accident were very slim to none, if you asked me. No electricity ran through its ancient wires. I was willing to bet that an unlit cigarette wasn’t the cause.

“Any idea why?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. But the fire marshal from Norfolk is here. The fire department has it under control. In fact, it’s almost out.”

“Do they think it was arson?”

“They didn’t say.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s probably not a coincidence that there were two fires in a couple of days. I’ll take some pictures once it’s safe. I’ll send them to you. Let me know what you think.”

Sam hung up. I got out of bed and into the shower. It was the best way to wake me up. A cup of coffee afterwards helped a lot, too.

By the time I was done with my shower and coffee, Sam had sent me his pictures. He sent them via email. I opened them up. There were about twenty different photos of the remains of the marina.

Most of the photos told me nothing. It was a bunch of burnt wood. Near the end of the group, I found one that caught my attention. In a pile of ash there were pieces of metal. They were melted, exactly like the piping at the church.

I closed the pictures and opened up my browser. What I needed to know was what burned hot enough to melt metals like steel, iron or copper? It didn’t take too long to find an answer.

Thermite. It was a pyrotechnic powder made of iron oxide, aluminum powder and magnesium. It could burn at up to and over two thousand, five hundred degrees Celsius. That was over four thousand, five hundred in Fahrenheit. Certainly hot enough to melt metals. Though it was mostly used in demolition and welding, it was possible to build thermite bombs.

So, if thermite was involved, maybe it was traceable. The next step was figuring out who might use thermite, and who had access. I was relieved to learn that it was a highly regulated substance. Most college chemistry departments could order thermite or the materials to produce it. They got it from chemical suppliers such as Chesapeake Chemicals.

Other than Chesapeake Chemicals, only one other place locally could obtain thermite. It was the Metal Works. I knew the Works well. The lamp in my bedroom was made there. And it was only a couple of minutes outside Stone Harbor.

Before heading out to the Metal Works, I stopped by the local high school. Jefferson High was just outside of Stone Harbor. Teens from towns like Stone Harbor and Saluda all attended Jefferson. I had attended Jefferson.

It was an old building. I remember my high school history teacher telling us that is was built in the early 1900s. The exterior of the structure showed its age. Pieces of the brick were falling off. Once there was a sign out front with their mascot, a knight. That sign had long since been overtaken by weeds.

I hadn’t been back to Jefferson High School since I had graduated over a decade prior. It felt strange. Even the front doors felt heavier than I remembered.

Once inside, I saw the same familiar scuffed-up linoleum floor and rows of blue lockers lining the walls. I got lost once, but a friendly member of the staff helped me find my way to the teacher’s lounge. It was after three in the afternoon, so no classes were in session.

“Hi, I’m looking for Mr. Grant?” I asked the first person I saw in the lounge. It was a mousy woman with thick glasses.

“That’s me!” I heard a voice coming from a circle of large padded chairs, a couple of feet away. A single hand was up in the air.

I walked over to the man who had raised his hand. He was a man about five feet nine inches tall. That wasn’t that big, but taller than me. Atop his head was a horseshoe of hair surrounding a bald top.

“Mr. Grant?” I asked.

The man got up. “That would be me, yes.”

“My name is Riley Reid. I’m a private investigator. I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me?”

Mr. Grant was a little taken aback. It was understandable. “Have I done something wrong?”

I forced a laugh to make Mr. Grant feel more comfortable. “Don’t worry, its nothing like that. Do you want to go somewhere more private?”

Mr. Grant and I went out in the hallway, which was pretty much empty.

“Have you heard about the series of fires in Stone Harbor recently?” I asked, eager to get the mini-interrogation over with.

“Yeah, I just saw it on the new this morning. What about them?”

“Well, I’m working with the Stone Harbor Police Department. We’re investigating the incidents as possible arsons.” I paused to gauge Mr. Grant’s reaction.

The chemistry teacher looked surprised. “Jesus… you think someone set the fires on purpose?”

“That’s right. We think that there might’ve been thermite used.”

“Thermite! That’s a pretty sophisticated way to start a fire. Why do you think they used thermite?”

“The metal pipes in the church that was burnt. They were melted. I figured that a regular fire couldn’t get that hot. My research determined that thermite can burn hot enough to melt metals.”

“Well, you figured right. Thermite can get hot enough to melt metals like iron or copper. The only other thing I could think of off the top of my head is jet fuel. But it’s even more unlikely that someone would be able to get their hands on jet fuel than thermite.”

“Where could someone get thermite?”

“Unless you’re a welder or something, I don’t see you ordering thermite. No, you’d have to order the different ingredients separately.”

I played dumb. “Ingredients?”

“Yeah, let me see…” Mr. Grant held out his fist, upside down. With each ingredient, one of his fingers unraveled. “There’s iron oxide. That comes in a powder. Same goes for the aluminum. Lastly, you’d need magnesium. Those come in strips.”

“Where would you get those?”

“Well, we get our supplies from Chesapeake Chemicals.”

I took out my notepad, wanting to look official. “Chesapeake Chemicals? Where’s that?”

“It’s near Richmond, by the airport.”

I wrote down what Mr. Grant said. “So, if someone was to try and use thermite to set a fire; how would they do it?”

“They could just mix up the thermite powder and light it with a flare or something like that. Or they could build a bomb with thermite in it. It would act like napalm and light up whatever it touches. The thing is, you can’t put it out. You just have to let it burn itself out.”

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Grant,” I held out my hand for the chemistry teacher to shake. He did.

When I left Jefferson High School, I started towards the Metal Works. The Works had started five years earlier when a group of local artists wanted somewhere to create. An old factory in Stone Harbor that once made steel pencil sharpeners was being sold for a fraction of its worth. Those artists had gotten together and bought it.

It took over a year of renovations to bring the building up to code. But when they were done, the beauty of the Works was worth it.  The artists decided to not only make art but sell it at the Works. That included making furniture and sculptures out of metal. Working with metal like that required the use of thermite welding torches.

By the time I reached the large Metal Works building, it had begun to rain. It was overcast when I had woken up earlier but it took nearly a whole afternoon to produce a shower. The building was a hulking grey goliath among empty buildings and some train tracks that harbored weeds instead of passengers.

I pulled into the gravel driveway. Since I had forgotten my umbrella, I jogged to the front door. Even the handles on the doors were pieces of art. They looked like forearms with hands in fists on the top.

Upon stepping inside, the first two things I noticed were the heat and the smell. There was an odor that I can only describe as smelling like pennies. The heat was from the various ovens and torches being used.

One reason why I enjoyed the Metal Works so much was because of the unique way it was laid out. There wasn’t a single showroom for all the pieces. Instead, the artists sold their work right next to where they were working. It was nice that there was no barrier between the artwork and the person who made it.

“Can I help you?” A heavily tattooed woman in her late twenties came up behind me. She had blonde and hot pink hair and a t-shirt with some band’s logo on the front. She was smiling through pierced lips and hotrod red lipstick.

I had to think fast. Since I wanted to see if they had thermite on the premises and who had access to it, I couldn’t admit to being a PI. The nice young woman would most likely get suspicious and paranoid. And my investigation there would hit a wall.

“My name is Stacey Moore with the Newport News Times,” I lied as I held out my hand for the young woman to shake.

As she shook my hand, the tattooed woman introduced herself. “I’m Kimberly Rose, the manager.”

Kimberly Rose? I somehow doubted that was her birth name, but I went with it. Maybe her parents were hippies.

“I was doing a story on local artists and was told that this was the first place to go.”

“You were told right. We have some of the best artists here, not only in the state but in all of the country.” Kimberly motioned for me to follow her through the maze of metal working equipment and sweaty artists. “Here at the Metal Works, we work with everything from bronze to ceramic. We make furniture, statues and even kitchenware.”

“You work with metals?”

“Hence the name,” said Kimberly with a smile.

“How do you do that? I mean… how do you manipulate the metals?” I took out my notepad.

“Well, there are several ways. We use welding torches, benders, smelters and we even have the capacity to melt them down to molten form.”

“Torches, huh? How does that work?”

“I’ll show you.” Kimberly led me over to one of the artist’s work stations.

There were several torches laid out on a table made of a door and sawhorses. They came in all different shapes and sizes. I didn’t know which one was a thermite torch, if any. Luckily Kimberly was more than willing to show me which each one was.

“Right here is an Oxyacetylene torch, this one uses propane and this one right here is an electric welding torch.” Kimberly picked up the longest of all the torches. “This one right here we just got a couple of weeks ago. It’s a thermite torch. Pretty nice, huh?”

Bingo, that was what I wanted to see. Now I needed to know who’d use it. “So, how many people here use those?”

“Everyone who works with metals. So that’d be me,” Kimberly first pointed at herself then other artists. “Eduardo, Christian and Joanna. We all work with metal.”

“Do you guys have business cards or could I get a list of the people who work here and what they do? I just want to be able to accurately identify anyone in my article.”

Kimberly was a little hesitant but quickly gave in. They always do. “Yeah, come on back to my office.”

I got everything. When I left, it was with phone numbers, emails and a list of exactly what every artist did. Sometimes the ends justify the means. At least that’s what I told myself.