Midnight Guardians mf-6 Page 13

  “The kid won’t move,” I said. “His girlfriend has him under her thumb, and he isn’t going to do anything that makes him look weak in her eyes.”

  “Machismo,” Billy said.

  “Comes with the territory.”

  Lots of people talk about personal responsibility. When idiots do stupid things that turn out badly, those same people still cry that someone else should have stepped in and saved them. There are times I get sick of it. Billy rarely does. He sees the good in people, despite the world that has unfolded in front of him since he was a skinny projects kid toughing it out in Northwest Philly.

  “I say we turn him in, Max. We give the trailer location to the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office and let them arrest him on the outstanding warrant from the chase. At least in lockup he’ll be safe,” Billy said.

  “Your call, Counselor,” I said. “I’m going home.”

  – 17 -

  A T 7:00 A.M., I was lying next to Sherry when my cell rang. It felt like I’d been in bed for ten minutes. The last vision in my head before falling asleep was of a young girl sitting in the dark, an opened textbook in front of her, her face illuminated by a white flame.

  I reached out and flipped open the phone.

  “I just got a call from my contact in the sheriff’s office,” Billy announced, his voice stoic and businesslike. “Andres Carmen’s trailer caught fire at four this morning. They found three bodies. I have to go tell Luz that her brother is dead.”

  “Jesus, Billy! When did you call in the loca-” But before I could finish, he hung up. I sat straight up, staring at the rippled light against the bedroom wall.

  “What is it?” Sherry said. Her voice was sleepy, but as a cop she was always on alert for calls in the night.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, swinging my feet out of the bed. “I think we lost some people we shouldn’t have.”

  Sherry rolled up on one elbow.

  “The Carmen family?”

  The woman didn’t miss much.

  “The brother,” I said, standing up and grabbing for my pants, which still seemed warm. “His girlfriend, and probably her teenage son.”

  Sherry was silent while I got dressed.

  “You saved him once, Max,” she said just before I left, a last-minute attempt to salve my soul.

  ***

  I parked in the same place I had just eight hours ago. When I opened the door to the Gran Fury, I could smell the place once again, this time differently. The odors of animal feces, cooked fish, and dry garbage were now overwhelmed by that of acidic smoke, melted plastic, and charred wood. My route was less circuitous this time. I didn’t circle and watch. Instead, I walked straight to the spot where Andres Carmen’s trailer once stood, or as closely as the cops would allow.

  A couple of community service aides were keeping onlookers at a fifty-foot distance, back behind the two fire engines that were still on the scene, spinning their red lights through the thick morning air. There was one sheriff’s office patrol car parked where the driveway to the burned trailer used to be. The absence of a medical examiner’s vehicle told me the bodies had already been removed. Residents stood in small clusters, some still dressed in housecoats or hurriedly tossed-on sweatshirts and sneakers. They watched the firefighters rooting through the ashes with crowbars and shovels, turning up clumps of curled aluminum and still smoking wood, as if some survivor were going to rise from the blackness to their astonishment and applause.

  I noted a uniformed official standing at the center of the mass, about where I’d stood talking with Andres and his girlfriend, Cheryl. The officer was videotaping the scene. The fire marshal, designated by his stenciled windbreaker, was at the north end, taking close-up photographs of something at his feet.

  I stood and surveyed the area with my hands in my pockets. You didn’t have to be an expert to see that there had been a sizable explosion. The burn pattern radiated out in streaks, and there was charring in the trees too high and away from where flames would have risen straight up from a normal fire. Soot flash covered the facing walls of both adjacent trailers, but there was no extensive fire damage. The picnic table where Billy, Andres, and I sat two days earlier was flipped on its face, the wooden legs smoldering, but still intact. If I was guessing, ground zero would have been at the north end of the trailer where the bedrooms had been, and where the fire marshal was now. The trailer was obliterated there. What was left of the rest of the structure was peeled back like an enormous charred cigar that had been loaded with a stupid exploding tip.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a tiny knot of people off to the side. A tall, thin man dressed in black trousers and an oxford shirt and tie was bent over like a piece of angle iron, listening to a young girl. He turned his head and looked my way while the child averted her eyes and spoke quietly. I recognized her as the homework girl from my nighttime visit.

  The angular man stood, nodded some sort of thank-you to the parents of the girl, and walked my way. As he approached, he took out a cell phone, made a quick call, and loosened his tie, like a guy who might have to run after something. I stood my ground even when, no, especially when, I saw the detective’s shield clipped to his belt.

  “Hey, how you doin’?” he said as he met my eyes. The accent made me think ex-New York cop, or inveterate watcher of bad television.

  “All right. How you doin’?” I said, mocking the accent, even though I didn’t have a reason to make my situation any worse. His eyes narrowed.

  “I was ah, interviewing some neighbors. Witnesses,” he said. “Do you live here?”

  “No,” I said, and then looked back at the burn. They hate it when you ignore them. I hated it when they ignored me. I wasn’t sure why I was being a jerk.

  “I’m Detective Sheldon Woller from the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office. I’d still like to speak to you.”

  Now the accent was gone. I looked back at him. He was younger than me by several years, had thinning brown hair, pale eyes, and dark frame glasses. He was almost my height, slim in the chest and right down through the hips-an athlete by the carriage, probably a longdistance runner or bicyclist. His shoulders weren’t broad enough for a natural swimmer.

  “I’ll be glad to do so as soon as my lawyer gets here,” I said, and continued watching the fire marshal as he bent to his knees and adjusted his camera.

  Detective Woller took out a pad and pen, like a reporter.

  “I’m going to need your name, sir.”

  “No, you won’t,” I said, continuing to look out at the marshal.

  I heard the guy exhale in frustration. He stayed quiet for a few seconds, strategizing. Then, by the nature of his next question, he took a chance.

  “My information is that you were in the area last night, sir,” he finally said, mustering some authority to his voice. “Witnesses said you were sneaking through the neighborhood and that you were visiting the people who lived in this trailer shortly before the fire.”

  “Witnesses?” I said. “You mean a twelve-year-old who was doing her homework in the dark by candlelight while the boyfriend was beating the shit out of her mom inside?”

  Given that I hadn’t turned toward him, I couldn’t see the open mouth of the detective, or the regathering of his face.

  “Were you in that trailer last night, or weren’t you?” Woller said, the tone of authority changing to pissed off. “In my experience, sir, arsonists like to come back and observe their handiwork. Maybe you’d like to take a trip with me to the station, and we can talk there?”

  I had to admire the guy’s persistence even in the light of the fact that I’d already mentioned my lawyer. He was questioning me without arrest or Miranda.

  “In your experience? Does that mean you worked for ATF before you became a sheriff’s detective?” I said. “Because it’s ATF that investigates most incidences of arson down here. Or did you get that bit about the perp coming back to the scene of the crime from CSI Miami?”

  This time, I turned and looke
d into Woller’s face and saw his lips go into a solid line and his left hand reach behind his back, where I assumed his belt held his handcuffs. He kept the right hand free, hovering above the clip-on holster for his service weapon.

  I couldn’t blame him. I wouldn’t put up with an asshole like me, either.

  Fortuitously, and yes, coincidentally, I looked over the young detective’s shoulder to see a familiar figure walking up the street. I held up my palm to Woller and said, “Look, I’m sorry, Detective, but before you arrest me, you’ll have to deal with my lawyer, who’s right behind you.”

  To his credit, Woller did not turn to look. He held my eyes until he heard Billy’s voice.

  “Detective Woller, I presume,” Billy said in his pleasant greeting voice. “I come with t-tidings from your sergeant, Ray Lynch. M-May I and my investigator, Max Freeman, be of s-service to you, sir?”

  Deferring to Billy, I took a step back. Woller put his hands back in front and clasped them, but watched me suspiciously.

  “And how is it that you know Sergeant Lynch,” the detective said to Billy. “Mister, uh…”

  “Manchester,” Billy said. “William Manchester.” He offered his hand, and Woller shook it. “I’ve known Sergeant Lynch for s-several years and sp-spoke to him this morning on the way here.

  “He informed m-me that you had b-been dispatched due to the deaths of three people. Apparently, it is st-standard to send a detective is such circumstances.”

  I watched Woller looking into Billy’s face. If he was put off by the stutter, it didn’t show. Whether he believed Billy had a connection with his boss, that didn’t show, either. But I had to give him props for holding his tongue when most people would have started responding to Billy’s statement.

  “And…?” he said simply.

  “And we are here to offer any help we m-might,” Billy said, gesturing to include me in the offer. “One of the victims was essentially a cl-client, a Mr. Andres Carmen. Mr. Carmen was the apparent target of a recent gang sh-shooting, an attempt that was, in fact, thw-thwarted by Mr. Freeman.”

  Again, the detective did not immediately respond. I was only a little disappointed when he gave in.

  “And you told Sergeant Lynch all of this?”

  “Yes,” Billy said.

  “That’s weird because it’s always hard to get Rich in the morning. He’s usually taking his kids to school,” the detective said.

  “I don’t know about Rich, but Sergeant Lynch’s first name is Ray, and his t-twin girls are in college up in Gainesville,” Billy said, maintaining his stoic face, even though the detective had essentially just called him a liar. “If you are skeptical, Detective, you should call the sergeant and verify who I am rather than try to game me,” Billy said, and offered Woller his cell phone. “His p-private number is at the top of the recently dialed list.”

  Woller kept his hands clasped. I figured he was probably new to the squad, unsure about bothering his boss. He wanted to show he could handle such simplicities on his own.

  “OK, Mr. Manchester,” he said. “We removed the bodies early at sunup. The ME here is very good, and with all due respect to the dead, we didn’t want to have to take them out with the news helicopters and shit birds clustering around.”

  Shit birds-I’d heard the term before. Cops used it to refer to the rubberneckers and ambulance sniffers who always show up when there’s ghoulishness in the air.

  The detective nodded toward the pile of ash. “The marshal determined they were all in their beds in the back when the gas exploded.”

  “Gas?” Billy said.

  “It’s an old-style trailer, with a propane gas tank and line to the interior heater. The marshal is going on the theory that the connection rusted out or separated with age and filled the back end of the trailer with gas,” Woller said. “Someone inside lit a cigarette, and boom!”

  I thought of the girlfriend, recalled the bobbling Marlboro on her lip.

  “The ME didn’t find anything obvious before they carted them off to the morgue, but then they were burned pretty badly,” Woller continued. “If they don’t find any sign of these people being tied up or shot or bludgeoned or of the gas line being tampered with, they’ll end up calling it accidental.”

  “Even if there was a recent attempt on Andres Carmen’s life?” I said, jumping in for the first time.

  “Forensics, Mr. Freeman,” Woller said, now looking at me. “Unless you get someone to talk, it’ll sit for months on the crime scene backlog. Unless someone high up the line takes an interest. Shit, you know-you were a cop.”

  I matched his look, searching his face, maybe letting the surprise show on my own features. “That obvious?”

  “Pretty much,” the detective said. “You’re working as a PI-probably retired from up north somewhere. Hard to cover up the look of a man out of uniform.”

  “So you’ve already ditched the lead that the little girl gave you?”

  “What little girl would that be?”

  “The one who said she saw me poking around last night.”

  He shook his head, looked away, and smiled a little.

  “Can’t blame me, man. You gotta take what you can get.”

  “I’d have done the same,” I said, and finally offered my hand. As he shook it, I looked over his shoulder and watched Billy walk gingerly toward the fire marshal. I tried to hold the detective’s focus for another few seconds to give Billy the chance to ask his questions.

  “Anybody see any other suspicious strangers in the night?” I asked. “Maybe a couple of gangbangers tossing flaming bottles through a window?”

  “No. And nobody heard anything, either, until they were nearly blown out of their own beds at four in the morning.”

  “Lucky,” I said, taking another peek at Billy.

  But the detective picked up on it and turned. “Hey,” he yelped. “Hey, Manchester, you can’t go in there.” As he started toward Billy and the marshal, the detective turned and gave me an appropriately dirty look.

  Twenty minutes later, Billy and I were standing at his Lexus out beyond the entrance to the trailer park. Billy had gotten little from the fire marshal. Woller was pissed enough to tell us both that if we wanted any more information, it would have to come through “your friend Sergeant Lynch,” and that we would be banned from the fire scene unless we were in the sergeant’s presence.

  “Was it worth losing a good source in the sheriff’s office,” I said to Billy, who was scrolling through a contact list on his cell phone.

  “It won’t be a loss,” he said without looking up from the screen. He punched in a number and looked out at the tree line. After a couple of seconds, he said, “Yes, I’ll wait.”

  “The marshal was more helpful than he w-wanted to b-be,” Billy said, twisting the microphone end of the phone away from his mouth while keeping the earpiece near.

  “He was still tracing the gas p-piping to the outside tank but hadn’t reached an end point. He’s going to have to f-find the outside f-fixture and then determine if it was tampered with. He said it’s p-possible it could have rusted loose or simply fallen apart. The salt in the ocean air down here p-plays havoc on anything whether it’s copper or aluminum or even wood.”

  “So at least they’re looking at the possibility that someone blew up the place,” I said.

  “Yes. Jim Fisher, please,” Billy said into the phone. Then to me, “I’m not s-sure how hard they’ll look. But yes, they are entertaining the p-possibility.”

  “So what did he tell you that he didn’t want to tell you?” I asked.

  But Billy was back on the phone. Usually, I find this kind of cell phone etiquette rude, but Billy can get focused. And after all, he’s my friend, not some dork talking to his girlfriend while having a conversation with me.

  “Yes, Jim. Fine, how are you? Yes, well, I’ve got a bit of a job for you. Right up your alley, my friend. There was a trailer home fire out in Lantana, and the remains of a dog have been left at the s
cene.

  “No, actually, the known family are all dead. The authorities have no interest in dead dogs, but I do.

  “Yes, you will have permission to remove the remains. Are you able to do that?

  “No. I need the results of the necropsy as soon as possible. Yes. Yes. I’m sending you a text with the address right now. Thank you, Jimmy.”

  Billy folded the phone and looked out at the tree line, thinking.

  “The dog?” I said.

  “Did you m-miss that gang of flies buzzing the corner of the fence line? That’s unlike you,” Billy said.

  I shrugged, and looked stupidly back toward the fire scene, even though it was impossible to see it from here.

  “Can you imagine that p-pit bull letting someone crawl in and uncouple a gas line and set a fuse or light a candle or whatever under that trailer w-without taking a bite out of said someone?”

  “No,” I said, remembering the eyes of the beast. “No, I can’t.”

  – 18 -

  I don’t do sympathy well. I know this.

  As a cop, I was useless at consolation when family would arrive at a shooting scene. I could not watch relatives wail at fatal accident scenes. “I’m sorry for your loss” seems rudely inadequate in the face of death.

  I know I made improvements in this lack of empathy after Sherry’s surgery when I spent hours at her bedside, mostly just watching her sleep, watching helplessly as every twitch and mild groan worked at my insides. I was at fault for her pain, and helpless.

  I was sure she saw through my reassuring smiles when she awakened. My inane, happy talk ramblings sounded insincere even to my own ears. My kisses hello and good-bye seemed dry and perfunctory. One day when her strength was up, Sherry finally told me to get lost. She said she’d call me when they released her to go home. But I was in the bedside chair the next morning when she awoke.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” I said to Luz Carmen as I stood uncomfortably before her in the living room of Billy’s seaside hideaway in Deerfield Beach. She did not look up. One of her woman friends, whom Billy had brought to comfort her, had an arm around Carmen’s shoulders, and looked up into my eyes as she subtly shook her head.