Skies of Ash (12 page)

The doctor’s face darkened as she pushed the pictures away. “I’m not an oncologist, but I’ve been a gynecologist for thirty years, and if what I’m seeing… With advanced disease like this… This Christmas would have been Juliet’s last.”

JULIET CHATMAN WAS DYING.

And she had no clue that cancer was killing her.

A house fire, though, would kill her first.

Last Thursday, December 6, out into the world she went. It had been a crisp winter day in Santa Monica. On any other morning, maybe she would have stopped by the spa for a massage or a manicure. Eaten lunch at Shutters, sitting at an outside patio table despite the cold to watch waves crash against the shore. Maybe she would have ordered a Bloody Mary or three. Flirted with the cute waiter. Wandered the aisles of Fred Segal afterward in search of a cute blouse or an interesting hat.

But on that Thursday, she had learned that something inside of her wasn’t right.

It was now half past twelve, and even though I’d gobbled two strips of bacon and an English muffin, I was plagued with shaky hands that came from hunger. But I wobbled past the cafés and bakeries of Santa Monica beckoning me from the sidewalks with their clean round tables and bud vases and lazy twists of steam wafting from pots of fresh-brewed coffee.

Twenty-seven hours had passed since I had caught the Chatman case, and I still couldn’t answer one question: Who killed a mother and her two kids?

The Crown Vic was as cold as a museum, and stinky. No matter how many times I sprayed “crisp linen” air freshener around the cabin, the stubborn odors of man sweat and pickles hung around like an ex-boyfriend with my house key.

I turned the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

My iPhone rang from my bag. A picture flashed on the screen: a big-eyed, brown-eyed woman with caramel latte skin and a smile as crooked as Lombard Street. Syeeda McKay and I (along with Lena Meadows) had been friends and sorority sisters since college. As a member of the fourth estate, though, Syeeda officially chapped my ass. Talking to her often left me limp—and my insides feeling as though they’d been shredded by a metal hook. All good detectives know, though, that one of the best weapons to have is a reporter. Still: I tasted my own blood whenever Syeeda and I had to push our friendship aside to do our jobs.

“Please tell me this case is a domestic dispute,” she said, “and not an arson turned murder.”

“I don’t know what this case is about yet, and good afternoon to you, too. Interesting that you want my opinion as a police officer
now
even though—”

“But you all
haven’t
told the public anything about the arsons. I’m filling a void—”

“With fluff and crap.”

“My last article—”

“Was fluff and crap. Well written, however.”

“Fine, then. Tell me: Should my mom, who lives a half mile away from the Chatmans, freak out? Should she buy a gun, cuz that’s where she is right now? Has the Burning Man upped the ante by killing people—
children
—in their beds now?”

“Sy. Take a knee. And tell your mom to take a knee, too.” Then, I told her the bare bones of the case.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she screeched. “Some… crunked-up psychopath killed two kids and their mom
on purpose
?”

“Is that a journalistic term? Crunked-up?”

“What about the autopsies?”

“Ongoing.”

“Off the record.”

“Ongoing,
girlfriend
.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Yeah, cuz I’m busting up right now.”

“Any suspects?” she asked.

“Not right now. We’re in the process of interviewing friends, family, and neighbors.”

“Your first thoughts?”

I took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Whoever did this is the most disturbed, fucked-up, hell-bound motherfucker outside of an institution, and when I catch him—”

“Or her—”

“I will shove my size seven Cole Haan loafer so far down his throat—”

“Okay, so I only have five hundred words.”

“Hey: Do you know the Chatmans by any chance?”

“No.”

I inched onto the 10 freeway eastbound. Cars, cars, cars, bumper to bumper like a junkyard. Behind the steering wheels, people texted (illegal), people talked on cell phones using their hands (illegal), people lipsticked-blushed-mascaraed in vanity mirrors (not totally illegal, but bitches, please).

“How about Ben Oliver?” I asked. “He’s an insurance attorney—”

“Who’s representing one of the families with a burned-down house.”

“So you know him?”

“No,” she said. “I read. It’s fundamental.” She paused, then said, “Are you asking me to…?”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling. “That is all.”

“No, no, wait. Off the record.”

I paused, which was her answer. Then, I said, “Call your mom, Sy. Tell her not to worry.”

“What am I looking for specifically?”

“Don’t know, but whatever you find, I’ll need receipts.”

“Got it. So I stopped by your house this morning. I wanted some of your busy eggs for breakfast.”

“That would’ve been good,” I said. “But I’m out of green onions. And bell pepper. And eggs. Rain check. I’ll throw in cinnamon rolls.”

She cleared her throat. “So…”

“Uh-oh,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“I saw your husband a few minutes ago. At the Marina Starbucks with some white girl who was making googly eyes at him.”

Pow!
Her punch landed in my midsection. My head snapped forward. Bursts of light twinkled before me, and I almost rear-ended the chick in the Honda who needed to replace that mascara wand with a magic wand.

I took a breath, then said, “Starbucks, huh?”

“Mmhmm.”

“He see you?”

“Can any man
not
see me?”

“So he saw you. Did he turn to stone?”

She chuckled. “No, but his posture changed.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Probably nothing.”

A thick pause, seconds drowned in cold molasses.

“You okay?” she asked. “Should I have kept that to myself?”

I shook my head. “I wanna know. Thanks.”

After ending the call, I exited the freeway and tried to take deep breaths, but I couldn’t—a result of the rabbit punches Syeeda had just dealt. Taking guppy breaths (the only kind available), I pulled into a gas station and parked.

I hadn’t used Bust-a-Cheat for more than a day. Now, though… My clammy hands shook as I tapped the app.

The car felt too hot now. I punched off the heat button and rolled down every window in the car. The roar of traffic overwhelmed me, and I rolled up three of the four windows.

The
RECENT CALLS
log loaded.

Pinballs clanged from my now-vibrating phone.

Greg’s picture—three-day growth, pecan-colored eyes—brightened my screen.

“Hey,” I said with forced cheer.

“I’m out on the bike,” he said, shouting over the whir of hydraulics and the clank of tools. “Martinez needs to put on new brake pads. I was just thinking about you.”

“I was just thinking about you, too,” I said, my chest tight.

“Saw Sy this morning.”

“Yeah?”

“At Starbucks. I was there with Kelly.”

“Who?”

“The girl who wears all those stupid barrettes in her hair? Cosplay Kelly. She wants to move over to Creative, so she bought me a coffee to kiss my ass.”

“Did it work?”

“I pointed out that she misspelled ‘Revelation’ twice on my last press release. Then, I told her that she’s lucky she still has a job.”

I chuckled. “So I guess that’s a no.”

“Wanna grab a quick bite later?” he asked. “Tokyo’s having QA issues, and I won’t be home until late.”

“How about dessert?” I asked.

“Dessert. That means you naked on my bike.”

“And then, afterwards, a trio of crème brûlée.”

“Sounds good. Hit me up when you’re home.”

We ended the call. Bust-a-Cheat had timed out. Fine. I considered that, and all the other apps I had purchased since buying the device.

An app to stream music.

An app to read books.

An app to bust your unfaithful mate.

Too much information.

Bust-a-Cheat would give me an ulcer by Boxing Day.

I eased back onto the freeway. As cars separated into different lanes—downtown here, San Bernardino there—I pressed Bust-a-Cheat until all the apps wiggled, until an X appeared at the top corners of each square. I tapped one X only, Bust-a-Cheat. The icon blipped away, and then my muscles relaxed, tears of relief welled in my eyes, and all suspicion and doubt became foam that would dry and evaporate—and soon I would forget that I had ever doubted him.

Until the next time.

THE TWO-STORY BUILDING THAT HOUSES THE SOUTHWEST DIVISION OF THE LOS
Angeles Police Department is located on Martin Luther King, Jr., Boulevard, a major valve of South Los Angeles. A major valve with no coffee shops, no ATMs (except for the machine in our lobby), and lots of churches.

Noontime meant
siesta
, and the squad room was unusually quiet. Luke’s head drooped over his belly as he caught snatches of sleep. Pepe typed and yawned, typed and yawned some more. The fluorescent lighting tubes buzzed. The soundproof interview rooms where suspects and their mommas came to cry were all empty.

It had been three days since I’d sat at my desk. Three days since I’d smelled stale coffee, Luke’s cheap cologne, and the rankness of weed on a perp’s jacket. Smelling all of this now made my skin tingle and my mind reel with memories, like Proust and his cookie but six times more fucked up.

My desk almost faced a window, but I wasn’t missing much. Kids ditching school. Hookers. Thugs. Homeless. Cops. Traffic. Poverty. Pigeons. No, my view consisted of Colin’s cubicle, its walls tacked with so many pictures of him skiing, tanning, and smiling that you thought he had died too young, too soon.

“At least we’re not the asshole of LA,” Lieutenant Rodriguez always touted. “Seventy-Seventh is a
real
shithole.” Zak Rodriguez had been my boss and mentor since I’d stopped flunking the bar exam and chose instead to mete out justice as a sworn officer of the LAPD. At six foot six, he hadn’t planned to bust in doors and wrestle Bloods to the ground. He’d dreamed of being paid millions of dollars to tackle other big men in big arenas. He’d been on his way to doing that until cancer took away his mother—and his spirit.

He now towered over my desk, a pack of Camels in one dragon-sized hand and a can of RC Cola in the other. “So the Chatman case is where?”

I had just sat at my desk to scroll through the hundred e-mail messages clogging my in-box.
Reporter, reporter, spam.
“Not sure,” I said. “It’s all very strange—the people I’ve talked to so far say the Chatmans were a happy family. But, first: people lie. And, second: happy families don’t carry handguns and stow packed suitcases in cars with full tanks of gas.
Normally
.”

My boss shrugged. “Maybe the gun was for protection since they’d been robbed before. And maybe the suitcases were for emergencies, like earthquakes and riots and whatnot.”

“Maybe.”

“How much longer to turn ‘maybe’ into ‘definitely’?” He paused, then added, “Would be nice to close this out for the year.”

Ah. The coveted clearance rate.

“It’s solvable.” I stretched, and the bones in my shoulders clicked like toppling dominoes. “I should have the arson and coroner’s reports in hand sometime soon. Those should answer most of my questions. Then, we’ll make an arrest and you’ll throw me a parade and—”

“She’s here!” Colin sauntered into the squad room holding a foil-covered plate. “Guess who picked up Porto’s for lunch? And guess who saved you some?”

My stomach jitterbugged as I took the plate and peeled off the foil.

“What’s that she got?” Pepe asked.

“Taggert saved me some potato balls,” I said, my mouth full.

“Hey, no fair,” Luke whined. “You snooze, you lose.”

“Leave her alone,” Colin said. “She’s got my balls in her mouth.”

I shoveled in another lump of potatoes and ground beef, then said, “And they’re delicious, too.” Eating had energized me, and my body felt buoyant again.

“Let’s get an update,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said as he settled on top of my desk. “Lou, you can talk in between eating Taggert’s balls.”

Everyone took a seat as I pulled a small whiteboard from beside my file cabinet. I set that up on a worktable, then cleared my throat. I leaned back in my chair and then told them about my meeting with Dr. Maria Kulkanis, about Juliet Chatman’s Valium prescription, about Juliet’s use of the word “trapped” when speaking about being pregnant again. “What bothers me the most about this case is that Juliet had as much a motive for killing herself as her husband did.”

“What motive does Christopher Chatman have?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked. “Other than ‘nobody wants to kill your wife and kids except you’?”

“Don’t know,” I admitted, blushing. “I’m just being prejudiced: men suck.”

“After the autopsies, after Lou got the warrants in, I went through the family’s medical records,” Colin said, flipping through his notepad. “As far as drugs, Juliet had the Valium scrip. The kids didn’t. Cody had a Ritalin prescription, though, and he’d gone to the emergency room a few times for suspicious burns.”

“Kid was a firebug, right?” Pepe asked.

“Yep,” Colin said. “But back on Thursday, looks like he’d gone in for a bruised ulna.”

“How’d he get it?” I asked.

“Roughhousing,” Colin said.

“Busy day on Thursday,” I said, looking to Luke.

“I talked to the guy who owns the shop where Mrs. Chatman bought her gun,” Luke said, taking my cue. “Sam Duffy’s his name. Said she came on Thursday—he doesn’t see many black women in Gun Runners. He remembered that when she first came in, he looked at her driver’s license and saw that she’d come from LA. She told him that she wanted protection, that she didn’t have any experience firing a weapon. This second visit, she seemed nervous, but that didn’t strike him as much as her just bein’ in the store.”