Skies of Ash (21 page)

“How many pics are there?” I asked.

“On this card, three hundred and thirty-eight.” Colin placed his elbows on my desk. “So what do you see?”

I picked up one contact sheet. “I see… a sad family.”

Christopher and Juliet were sitting in the backyard, on opposite sides of the swing… Strained smiles… Crossed arms…

“I see two adults going through the motions.” Sadness pulled at my limbs and slowed my sifting. “These pictures are killing my vibe.”

Colin studied the shot of the couple on the swing. “I hate this invention.”

I furrowed my brows. “You hate swings?”

He shook his head. “Digital cameras. They cheapen the moment. You can take as many pictures as you want. Awesome, right? Woo-freakin’-hoo. But unlimited pictures means, what? Lots of throwaway pieces of crap, one after the other. Fingers in shots, people blinking… How many cat pictures do you need?” He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Old-school snapshots—the ones we grew up taking? Twelve shots. Twenty-four, if your folks had dough. Those pictures worked cuz the photographer chose
that specific moment
for one of twelve takes.”

I glanced at him and then glanced back at the swing shot. “But then we’d never get to see pictures like this. Shots of people totally over it. People so dissatisfied that you’re convinced that somebody’s about to get pushed off this swing and bludgeoned to death with a sledgehammer.”

“We live for those moments, don’t we?” he asked.

I fluttered my eyelids. “Oh, Colin Taggert. You’re so deep.”

He rolled back to his desk. “Got somethin’ else for you. Video from the Chatmans’ security system. No sound. E-mailing you the file right now.”

I logged in to my e-mail account and double-clicked on the file.

10:53
P.M
., 12/10:
The Chatmans’ front porch.

10:57
P.M
., 12/10:
The same porch shot with the top of a man’s head now visible. He turns away from the front door and strolls down the walkway.

“That Christopher Chatman?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Colin said. “Leaving for work just like he said he did.”

10:59
P.M
., 12/10:
A Jaguar backs out of the driveway, disappears from the frame.

11:00
P.M
., 12/10:
The Chatmans’ front porch. No one standing there.

“Skip ahead to almost four o’clock,” Colin instructed. “Nothin’ happens until then.”

3:51
A.M
., 12/11:
The responding officer runs onto the porch, bangs the door, looks up at the sky, bangs some more, yells into his shoulder mic.

4:00
A.M
., 12/11:
A fireman shouts and bangs on the front door. Another fireman with a blowtorch kneels before the iron door. Sparks fly. The recording blinks. Blank screen.

“And the rest is history,” Colin said.

“So Chatman left the house,” I said, eyes still on the monitor. “And he didn’t return until well after the fire’s start.”

He nodded. “And I looked at the tape from the second camera bolted to the side of the house. Nobody’s lurking around that side until the firemen come and knock it down.”

“What about before this?”

Colin blinked. “Before what?”

“Any recordings before eleven?” I asked. “Say nine o’clock? Or during dinner?”

Colin scrolled through the recordings. “Cameras were off, I guess. They probably disarm them when they’re up and walking around. I don’t know.”

“What if the evildoer was lurking around during dinner?” I asked. “Peeping through windows while the family watched
A Christmas Story
? When everybody was passed out in a Valium haze?”

He cocked his head. “You’re still saying that the threat could’ve been from the outside?”

“I’m saying…” I twisted in my chair. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

No Christopher Chatman at the house.

No black dude wearing an orange hockey jersey at the house.

The fire had started
inside
the house.

And the only adult
inside
the house was the only individual with the Valium scrip, a newly purchased handgun, and a handwritten note threatening to end it all. An adult who’d had both suicidal and homicidal tendencies.

And that adult was Juliet Chatman.

COLIN AND I SIFTED THROUGH ALL 338 PHOTOS PULLED FROM THE CHATMANS’
digital camera. With each depressing or staged shot, my shoulders slumped and my torso caved. By the time Lieutenant Rodriguez charged into the squad room holding a pink box filled with Mexican pastries, my forehead hung just an inch from my desktop.

“Time for an update on the Chatman case,” our boss said, dropping the box on Luke’s desk. He grabbed a
cuernito
for him and another for me so that I wouldn’t have to beat up the three men now swarming around the desserts. He handed me the coiled, sweet bread, then leaned against my desk.

Luke, Pepe, and Colin, each double-fisting pastries, sat back in their chairs.

I licked sugar and cinnamon from the tips of my fingers, then said, “I’m sorry to say that after working this for two days now, I have no suspect. I don’t know who done it.”

The men looked at me with tense smiles, waiting for the punch line.

I took a bite of
cuernito
.

Their smiles dropped.

“Stop jerking off, Lou,” Lieutenant Rodriguez growled, his face dark.

“I’m not, sir.”

“Well,” Colin said, “we keep bein’ pointed in Juliet’s direction but…”

“But what?” Lieutenant Rodriguez snapped.

I squinted at Colin. “But I’m hoping to find more hard evidence before making statements like my partner just did.”

To Pepe and Luke, Lieutenant Rodriguez said, “So what can you guys give Lou that ain’t just supposition and circumstantial?”

“We talked to Baby Ted Bundy,” Luke said.

“AKA Parker McMann, Cody’s BFF.” Pepe nodded to our wall of “Most Wanted.” “He’ll be up there in about six years.”

“So,” Luke said, flipping through his notepad, “Parker says, ‘Hell yeah, Cody hated his dad, kinda hated his sister, but was a momma’s boy through and through.’ ”

“He was plannin’ to do something to the house,” Pepe said, “but nothing like what happened. Just enough so they would have to move.”

“All for Juliet,” Luke continued. “He wanted to make her happy since his daddy couldn’t.”

“So the boy just burned his daddy’s blazers in the meantime,” Colin said.

“Practice,” I said with a nod. “Anything else, guys?”

Pepe scanned his legal pad. “I’m looking at Juliet’s e-mails right now, and as you can imagine, it’s slow goin’.” He passed around stapled copies of paper. “These are just a few of the most interesting so far. On Monday, December 10, around half past eleven in the morning, the office manager from the kids’ school, a Mrs. Benewitz, e-mailed Juliet.”

Sarah Oliver just retrieved Cody and will be taking him back to the doctor. Boys just never settle down, do they? After Thursday’s accident, I thought Cody would give that skateboard a rest, but I guess not. I wanted to send you the attached anyway. It is the Emergency Form for this school year. Please fill it out and return it to me as soon as possible.

At 11:45
A.M
., Juliet had responded:

I filled out the form back in September. Nothing’s different. Thanks for your help and patience today.

In less than two minutes, Mrs. Benewitz had replied:

Hi, Mrs. Chatman. I consulted that form. But when we tried calling your husband’s office number today after not being able to reach you, the operator at the firm said he was no longer in that office. Maybe the phone number has been changed? Thank you again for your attention to this.

“So Cody reinjured his arm on Monday,” I said. “The school called his parents, no one answered, and they called Sarah Oliver, who picked the kid up.”

“Where was Juliet on Monday?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked.

“Getting a CT scan that she never showed up for,” Colin said.

“So we don’t know, in other words,” Lieutenant Rodriguez retorted. “Lou?”

I looked up from the e-mails. “We don’t, but when we get the financials, we’ll figure out where she had coffee, what she ate for lunch, and everything else. When I called Christopher Chatman’s office yesterday, the same thing happened—the operator said he was no longer working there. I didn’t believe her, mostly because she sounded stupid.”

Pepe nodded. “Juliet explains the office thing in the next message.”

Oh yes. That’s right. They’re changing the phone systems and he has a new extension. The regular receptionist is out on sick leave and the new receptionist is a bit dim. She’s probably working with old information. Sorry about that. I’ll get the new number and correct the attached form. Thank you again.

“Did she e-mail Mrs. Benewitz the new number on the corrected form?” I asked.

Pepe shook his head.

I flipped to the next printout.

Weekly newsletter from the kids’ school… Credit card payment confirmation… Free books alert… A message from My Google Voice, (454) 555-2342, on December 10 at 1:15
P.M
.

I read the message aloud: “
I don’t know what to tell you. Wish I did.
” I glanced at Pepe. “Ruh-roh.”

Her original message had been sent seven minutes before:

I’m reaching out to you one more time. If you don’t respond, I’ll assume that we aren’t going forward with this. My heart is broken. Didn’t think I’d even have to ask you to respond after everything we’ve gone through. I shouldn’t put this in e-mail—you always remind me of leaving behind digital footprints—but after today, it won’t matter. I love you. There. I said it. Now what are you going to do?

“Any response from My Google Voice?” I asked. “And whose account is it?”

“No response,” Pepe said. “And it’s a Google anonymous account. To find the user, we’ll need another court order.”

“
Going forward
with what?” I wondered as I reread Juliet’s message.

“
Everything we’ve gone through
,” Colin said. “
Digital footprints
? Doesn’t sound like she’s talkin’ to her hubby.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” I said. “I’ll want to see everything you pull, Pep. Bill payments, the spam folder, the megillah, all right? And find all of these My Google messages.”

“Gomez,” Lieutenant Rodriguez barked. “What about you?”

Luke wiped crumbs from his mustache. “So I’ve started on Chatman’s cell phone.”

“The one we found in the Jag?” Colin asked. “Or the legit one?”

“The legit one,” Luke said, starting on his second
concha.
“So on December 10 at 11:06
A.M
., Chatman receives a call from his wife’s number. A minute long, which means he didn’t answer. She left this message.” He clicked a sound file on his computer.

Where the hell are you, Christopher?
Juliet’s voice was deep, smoky, and pissed.
Damn it, you are just… just… Fine. Call me. Immediately.
Hate and loathing stuck from those words like shards of glass dusted with ricin.

“At 11:27
A.M
., Ben Oliver left him a message,” Luke said. “Asking Chatman to call him back. Around noon, Melissa Kemper leaves the same innocuous request: ‘Call me back.’ Chatman calls Mercedes-Benz Financial around 12:30. That call lasted twelve minutes.”

“I want that recorded conversation with Benz,” I said.

Luke took a big bite of pastry. “Thought you’d say that. Chatman calls Melissa Kemper back after the call with Benz, and
they
talk for two minutes.”

“He ever call Juliet back?” I asked.

Luke shook his head. “No more outgoing calls on that phone for the rest of the afternoon. But she does keep calling him every thirty minutes, one minute each. No messages left.”

“Where the hell is he?” I asked. “Why didn’t he pick up his injured kid from school? Why isn’t he calling her back? A commodities broker without a cell to his ear? No way.”

“Meetings,” Colin said.

“Yeah, right,” I snarked.

“Greg answers every time
you
call?” Colin asked. “Greg calls you back
immediately
every time you leave a message? And where was
she
? Why didn’t
she
pick up her injured kid? We know she wasn’t at the doctor’s office. A housewife without a cell to her ear? No way.”

My cheeks burned, and every man—except Colin—studied his fingernails.

Lieutenant Rodriguez cleared his throat. “Let’s, umm…”

“Tread carefully, amigo,” Luke advised Colin. “Unless you won’t miss your balls.”

“Just doin’ my job,” Colin said. “Just searchin’ for the truth.”

I tried to swallow my anger, but it stuck in my throat like a chunk of carrot. “What about the morning after the fire? Say nine, ten o’clock that Tuesday morning. Chatman use his legit phone at all?”

Luke said, “Nope.”

“He was in the hospital by that time, remember?” Colin said.

“Any calls from his cell like an hour or so before the fire started?” I asked, scanning the call log. “Like, between two o’clock and three?”

Luke said, “Nope.”

“He didn’t use the phone to set off a device,” Colin said. “If that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

“He didn’t use
this
phone,” I pointed out. “There’s the secret cell.” To Luke, I said, “I want the calls off that second cell phone as soon as possible. Give me a list of everything: missed calls, contact lists, Web site downloads, how many times he played
Bejeweled
—I want it all.” I tugged at my earring. “I bet y’all a bag of sour apple Jolly Ranchers that he did all of his sexy talk on that down-low cell phone.”

The men said, “Eh.”

“Why the ‘eh’?” I asked, stunned. “Are you not entertained?”

“Say Chatman was having a ‘thing’ with what’s-her-face in Vegas,” Colin said. “He
still
wasn’t there at the house when the fire started. You just saw the security tape. Not at the house.”

“He didn’t have to be there at the house to start the fire,” I reminded Colin. “He still could’ve timed it either the old-fashioned way or by using that secret cell.”