The tattered heap of dense charcoal running down the center must have been the bar, where yesterday he'd shared a beer with his brother. The ash sparkled, and it took him a moment to realize it was shattered glassware. And there, in the back, he could make out the brick wall, now half demolished, that marked the storeroom. Somewhere back there was the trap-hatch that led to the basement, from the days of bootlegging, when the place used to be a speakeasy. He remembered sitting in that basement after a day's work hauling shit out of it, Mikey pulling out a bottle of Black Label and toasting-
The rap on the window threw him into combat mode. He spun with one arm up, the other tightening protectively around his nephew.
A woman, big, in a sundress of turquoise and bright orange. Lauretta, owner of the salon and part-time babysitter. She was squinting, her face drawn with concern. He shook his head to clear the memories, his own traces of clinical shock. Understanding could wait. Now he had to act. He rolled down the window.
"You all right, honey?"
His head felt light, like it might float away. "What happened?"
She gestured at Billy, and then shook her head. "Why'n't you come inside?" She gave him a sad smile. "Get William here a Coke."
He nodded. Sunlight splashed like molten iron as he stepped out, hoisting Billy with him, careful to keep his nephew's face buried in his shoulder. Inside the shop, barber's chairs ran along a mirrored wall. On the other side there were tubs that looked like you might put your feet in them. A customer relaxed while her stylist wove extensions into her hair.
Lauretta led him through a curtain to a narrow room where a couch faced a television, the sound on mute. Jason lowered the boy, Billy's grip on his neck tightening at first and then loosening as Lauretta came alongside. Billy sat upright, the muscles of his body rigid, his eyes darting. When they settled on Lauretta, he seemed to relax.
"There you are, baby." She changed the channel to the Cartoon Network, opened a minifridge and came up with a can of soda. "You just watch the cartoons, okay?"
A sudden look of terror swept across his face, but she spoke immediately, her voice honey. "Don't you worry. We'll be right here." Jason followed Lauretta to the curtain, marveling at her ease, how in control she was. He was Billy's uncle, supposedly a guy who could take care of him, but she was the one who knew what the boy needed. Jason wanted to thank her, but what he said was, "What happened?"
"I don't know," she said, her voice low. "Po-lice wouldn't tell me much."
"Is…" He hesitated, afraid to ask the only question that mattered, terror slopping like water against a weakening dam. "Is Michael okay?"
She stared, her eyes soft and sad, and he knew the answer. The levees inside him broke. He heard a faint whimper and was surprised to realize he had made it.
His brother was dead.
Michael had needed help, Jason hadn't been there, and now his brother was dead.
The world tilted. He felt dizzy, put one hand against the doorframe. An iron voice sounded inside of him, a voice he hadn't heard in months. Telling him straighten up, soldier. Telling him this wasn't the time. He took a deep breath, and wiped at his eyes with the back of one hand. "Will you… can you watch Billy for a little while?"
She gave him a look that made him wish he were five again, could hug himself to her dress and feel safe. "Of course."
He knelt beside the couch, his face level with Billy's. The boy was obviously still in shock, but his pupils seemed a little less dilated, the tension in his shoulders a bit looser. Familiar surroundings.
"Buddy, I'm going to go out for a minute. But Lauretta's going to sit with you. Is that okay?"
Billy looked at him, then up at Lauretta. He nodded. Jason squeezed his shoulder, stood up and stepped through the curtains.
"Jason." She fiddled with the belt of her dress, then raised her eyes to meet his. "Your brother, he was a good man, and careful. It don't seem right that he'd have fallen down drunk in his own bar, let it burn around him."
A chill ran down his spine. Again he heard the words in his mind.
I met with the cops.
You mean you informed on a gang?
"No ma'am," he said, his hands clenching to fists. "It doesn't."
CHAPTER 8
She hated when the good guys died.
Cruz had driven over cop-style, stopping at red lights only long enough to check oncoming traffic before rolling through. Parked the unmarked across the street, behind an ambulance where bored EMTs sipped coffee. A couple of beat cops were interviewing bystanders. It was just past noon, the air still and sticky. Blast-furnace heat.
On the ride down, her main emotion had been concern for a guy she knew, a real person in a neighborhood of assholes. Now, nostrils burning with the stink of ash, the anger was starting to come as well. Michael Palmer had been a good man.
She rearranged her cuffs so they didn't dig into her back and crossed the street. The responding units had taped off the sidewalk, and she ducked under it. Men in bunker pants and jackets sorted through the rubble with shovels. The reflective stripes on their clothing shone bright. One held what looked like a portable radio with a wand that he ran above the wreckage, eliciting clicks like a Geiger counter. A tall guy held a hand to his mouth, shouted. "Behind the tape, lady."
She pulled aside her suit jacket to show the star on her waist.
He nodded, gave her a one-second gesture, and started threading his way through the blackened rubble. Each step kicked up a puff of smoky dust that hung in the still air.
"You the fire investigator?"
He nodded, pulled off white latex gloves with a snap of soot, held out a hand. "Tom Huff. You?"
She introduced herself, told him she was with Gang Intelligence, that she knew the owner. "What's the story?"
"It was set last night, late, maybe three or four. Took us a long time to get the flames knocked down."
"Somebody set it? You're sure?"
He pointed to a patch where rubble had been pushed aside to reveal flooring scarred by a large spot that was darker even than the charcoal around it. "You see?"
"Pour pattern?"
He nodded. "When it's that precise, it always means accelerant. Lab'll say for certain, but I'd bet gasoline. Wrong color for butane or charcoal fluid."
Accelerant. Which made this arson. At least. "You find a body?"
He nodded. "One adult male, well-done. On the way to the Medical Examiner now."
Which made it homicide. And the victim had to be Michael Palmer. Who else would be in his bar when it burned down?
Damn it, she thought, remembering his handshake, firm but not out to prove anything. And damn it again for his son. And one last hearty damn it for the neighborhood. Somebody tried to do some good, this was what happened. No wonder the police were always short of witnesses.
"Just called it homicide, so a detective should be here soon." Huff paused, looked to her right, gestured with his chin. "That one with you?"
Cruz turned, saw a man walking down the sidewalk. "No." She moved to intercept him. "Sir, you see the tape?"
He stopped, met her eyes without cruising her body first. Blonde surfer hair. Nicely built. Good-looking in a white sort of way. There was something in his face that was very familiar, and she figured it out just as he said it.
"I'm Jason Palmer. This was my brother's bar."
He'd started in with a bunch of questions, but she'd told him to hold on. Asked him to wait on the other side of the tape, and then gone back to Huff and given him a card. "Can you give me a call, let me know if you find anything else?"