When the snoring reached nuclear-blast level, I saw myself out.
Robin was working her laptop on the living room couch. Blanche napped on an ottoman, her little barrel chest heaving. Not up at Milo’s level, but moving some audio needles with her snuffles and snorts.
Opening one eye, she smiled, dove back into some wonderful canine dream.
The screen was full of Google hits. Mansion arson the keywords. I sat down. Robin kissed me, continued scrolling. “Playing Nancy Drew. Couldn’t think what to cook. Leftovers or out?”
“Out sounds good.”
“My soul mate. Nothing turns up in San Luis, but plenty of fireworks in other cities. Someone builds a dream, someone else can’t wait to take it down. How ugly.”
Years ago, a psychopath burned our first house to the ground. We rebuilt, agreed the net result was an improvement, neither of us talks about it anymore. But a fire station is perched at Mulholland, a short drive to the north, and another sits to the south, near Beverly Glen and Sunset, meaning a fair bit of nights are broken by sirens.
Generally, the banshee howls are short-lived, we touch feet in mutual reassurance, go back to sleep.
Sometimes, Robin sits up, shivering, and I wrap my arms around her and before long, morning’s arrived, sour and disorienting.
She closed the laptop, stood, stroked Blanche. “Okay, I’ll get dressed.”
“Chinese, Italian, Thai, Indian?”
“How about Croatian?”
“What’s Croatian cuisine?”
“Let’s fly to Zagreb and find out,” she said. “Italian’s fine, hon. Anything’s fine, long as I get out of here. Let me freshen up.”
We ended up eating fish-and-chips at a stand on PCH in Malibu, watched the sky waver between coral and lilac, soaking in the final morph into indigo as the sun went off-shift.
When we returned home, I ran a bath. The tub’s not meant for two but if someone’s careful not to bump their head on the faucet, it works out. That kind of togetherness sometimes leads to more. Tonight it didn’t and we read and watched TV and went to bed just before midnight.
When I woke to reverb shrieks, I thought I was dreaming, woke expecting the din to fade.
Full consciousness amplified the noise. Robin said, “That’s the fifth one. They’re heading south.”
Three seventeen a.m.
Siren number six wailed. Dopplered.
“Someone’s life’s going to change, Alex.”
We slid under the covers, touched feet, gave it our best shot.
Moments later, I turned the TV on and we trolled for news through a swamp of infomercials and reruns of crap that shouldn’t have aired in the first place. If something newsworthy was occurring on the Westside, none of the networks or the cable news outlets had picked it up.
The Internet had. L.A. current events blog operating in real time. Some insomniac plugged into the emergency bands.
Holmby Hills conflagration. Unfinished construction project.
Borodi Lane.
Robin’s breath caught. I held her tighter, reached for the phone, punched Milo’s cell number. He said, “I’m on my way there, call you when I need you.”
When, not if. I got dressed, made coffee, told Robin she should try to get some sleep.
“Oh, sure,” she said, hanging on to my arm.
Mugs in both our hands, we plodded through the house, stepped out onto the front terrace. Frosty, dark morning. Warmish for the hour, but we shivered. Above the tree line, the southern sky was dusted with gray. The sirens had waned to distant mouse-squeaks. The air smelled scorched.
Robin said, “Bad news travels fast.”
CHAPTER 24
Borodi Lane was blocked by cruisers and a huffing hook-and-ladder. A uniform scowled as I rolled to the curb, barely edging past Sunset.
A skeptical call to Milo produced a reluctant nod. “But you need to keep your car there, sir, and walk.”
I continued toward the scene, breathing heat, firewood, flame-suppressing chemicals, a hydrocarbon stench evoking the world’s biggest filling station. The asphalt was slick with wash-off. Static and buzz kept up a magpie routine, red engines and hard-hatted firefighters were everywhere. Several more explanations before I was allowed to reach the property.
What was left of Prince Teddy’s dream was black and stunted. Where the ground wasn’t ash, it was soup. A white coroner’s van was pulled up to the open gate. The chain Milo had supplied was on the ground, marked by a plastic evidence cone, and sliced through cleanly into two pieces.
As firefighters streamed in and out, a pair of morgue attendants hauled out a gurney bearing something small and lumpy and wrapped in plastic. I looked for Milo, spotted him near an LAFD ambulance, wearing a limp black raincoat, jeans, and muddy sneakers, staring at the ruins. To his right, on the ground, several objects sat on a black tarp, too dim to make out.
As I stepped next to him, he fished out a Maglite, aimed downward.
Partially melted glass bottle. From the shape and scorched wire around the neck, probably champagne. A single intact wine goblet. A butter knife with a handle melted to blob. A metal tin with an ornate label.
I bent to read. Foie Gras. Imported from France . Milo ’s beam shifted to a long-barreled revolver, clearly antique, wooden grip scorched through, engraved metal blackened.
Next to the gun sat a pair of bolt cutters, seared to well done. I said, “Someone was having a party.”
“Probably Mr. Charles Ellston Rutger,” he said. “Probably?”
“Body’s unrecognizable but Rutger’s Lincoln is parked around the corner and there was a solid gold calling card in the ash, with his name engraved on it. Plus, some dental bridges came out half baked, same for a gold collar pin and initialed platinum cuff links.” He cursed. “Dressing for success. Idiot cut the chain, climbed up to the turret with his Dom Whatever, goddamn goose liver, and no doubt some other comestibles that got vaporized.”
I said, “Picnic under the stars.”
He kicked a clump of mud off a sneaker tip. “Cretin probably convinced himself he owned the place again. Who knows how many other times he went up there, when there was no chain. I warned him but of course he can’t listen ’cause I’m a dumb public servant and he’s a goddamn aristokook. Talk about bad timing, Charlie Three-Name.”
“Story of his life,” I said. “Wouldn’t be surprised if the arsonist saw the broken chain, took advantage. How’d the fire start?”
“What the arson guy’s telling me so far is someone wadded charges of something highly combustible, probably petroleum-based, in at least eight spots distributed methodically throughout the ground floor. ‘Very well thought out’ was his description.”
“Petroleum-based as in vegan Jell-O?”
“Flavor of the month. The neighbors heard only one explosion, whole place went up like kindling, so it looks like a single timer. Coulda been a disaster if the winds were strong and the flames jumped to neighboring foliage. The fact that the lot had been stripped down to bare dirt actually helped.”
“Ground floor ignites, flames shoot up through all that open space, oxygen feeds it. Meanwhile Rutger’s stuck on top with the stairs burned out.”
“Wouldn’ta made a difference, Alex. This was sudden, intense immolation, no chance for escape. Rutger’s drinking champagne, stuffing his face, no one’s the boss over him. So now, he’s toast. Scratch that. Crumbs.”
A stocky gray-haired man wearing a yellow helmet, a blue LAPD windbreaker, and jeans approached us wiping a sooty, sweaty face.
“We’re going to be here for a while, Milo. You can go unless you want to stick around.”
“Better you than me,” said Milo. “This is Dr. Delaware, our psych consultant. Doctor, Captain Boxmeister from the arson squad.”