“Who was that?” she asked.
“Inigo Montoya.”
CHAPTER 11
Valley Road in Montclair, New Jersey, runs south from Garrett Mountain Reservation to Bloomfield Ave. Along the way, it borders the eastern boundary of Montclair State University’s sprawling campus. Coming west from NYC, you’re not supposed to see any of this on your way to the fi re station, but if you make the wrong turn off the freeway like I did, you get to see the sights. While I was doing so, my cell phone rang. Salvatore Bonadello, the crime boss, was on the line.
“You still alive?” Sal said.
“You call this living,” I said. It was still morning, not quite ten. I’d left the coffee shop, and Aunt Hazel, less than two hours earlier.
“I been hearing some things,” he said. “You stepped on someone’s toes big time.” He waited for me to respond, playing out the moment.
“Joe DeMeo?” I said.
Sal paused, probably disappointed he hadn’t been the one to break the news. “You didn’t hear it from me,” he said.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of DeMeo,” I said. “Big, tough, hairy guy like you?” I turned left on Bloomfield, heading south east.
“I don’t gotta fear the man to respect the power. And I got—whatcha call—compelling evidence to respect it. Whaddya mean, hairy?”
“Figure of speech,” I said.
I hadn’t been certain that arson was involved in the Dawes’ house fire but figured if it was, DeMeo was responsible. The fact DeMeo knew I was looking into the fire confirmed my suspicions. Still, I was shocked at how quickly he’d gotten the word. “How long you think I have before the hairy knuckle guys show up?”
“You in someone’s attic or what?”
“Rental car.”
“Okay. You prob’ly got a couple hours. But I was you, I’d start checking the rearview anyway.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Just protectin’ my—whatcha call—asset.”
“DeMeo called you personally? He doesn’t know we’re doing business?”
Sal paused, weighing his words. “He knows.”
I was stuck in a line of cars at the intersection of Bloomfield and Pine, waiting for the light to change. I had nothing else to think about beyond Sal’s comment or I might have missed the clue. I kicked it around in my head a few seconds before it hit me. “DeMeo offered you a contract on me.”
“Let’s just say your next two jobs are—whatcha call—gratis.”
Two jobs? That meant … “You turned down a hundred grand?”
Sal laughed. “It ain’t love, so don’t get all wet about it. I just don’t have anyone—whatcha call—resourceful enough to take you outta the picture. Plus, where am I gonna get a contract killer good as you? Unless maybe that blond fox you use. You tell her about me yet?”
The light turned green, and I eased along with the traffic until I got to the curb cut. “I’ve got to go,” I said.
Sal said, “Wait! We got a deal on the contracts?”
“I’ll give you one free contract,” I said. “You already made fifty Gs giving my name to that homicidal midget.”
“Which one?”
“You know more than one homicidal midget? Vic … tor,” I said, imitating my newest client.
Sal laughed. “I met the little fuck. He’s got dreadlocks.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Long, nasty dreads, swear to Christ!”
We hung up, and I parked my Avis rental in one of the visitor’s parking slots and asked the guys out front where I could find Chief Blaunert. They directed me to the kitchen area of the station house. I walked in and asked the one guy sitting there if he happened to be the fire chief.
“Until October,” he said. “Then I’ll just be Bob, living on a houseboat in Seattle. You’re the insurance guy, right?”
I nodded. “Donovan Creed, State Farm.”
“Seattle’s cold this time of year,” he said, “but no worse than here. The wife has a brother, owns a marina up in Portage Bay near the university.”
From under the table, he positioned his foot against the seat of the chair across from him. His brown leather shoes were well-worn, but the soles were new. By way of invitation, he gestured toward the chair and used his foot to push it far enough away from the table for me to sit down. “Ever been there?” he asked. “Portage Bay?”
“Haven’t had the honor,” I said. I grabbed a Styrofoam cup from the stack near the sink and helped myself to some coffee from the machine.
“Well, some don’t like the rain, I guess. But to us, it’s as close to paradise as we’re likely to get.” The old Formica table in front of him had probably started out a bright shade of yellow before decades of food and coffee stains took their toll. I sat in the chair he’d slid out for me and tasted my coffee. It was bitter and burnt, which seemed fitting for fire house coffee.
“How’s the java?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t be polite to complain,” I said. “Of course, in seven months, you’ll have great coffee every day.”
He winked and gave me a thumbs-up. “You know it,” he said. “Seattle’s got a lot of nicknames, but Coffee Town’s the one I use.” He savored the thought a moment. “Course they’ve got Starbucks and Seattle’s Best. You probably don’t know Tully’s, but that’s a great coffee.”
We were both quiet a minute, two guys sipping bad coffee.
“You have much fire experience, Mr. Creed? Reason I ask, we weren’t expecting an insurance investigator.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Not ever?”
For the slightest moment, he seemed uneasy, but he adjusted quickly. “Not this soon, I meant.”
Chief Blaunert didn’t look much like a fi re marshal. He looked more like the love child of Sherlock Holmes and Santa Claus. He had white hair, a full white beard, and thick glasses with large, round frames. He also had an engaging smile and wore a wrinkled brown tweed suit over a white shirt and knit tie. All that was missing was a pipe and the comment, “Elementary, my dear Creed.”
Lou Kelly had set up the impromptu meeting while I picked up the rental car in West Manhattan. Lou had given Chief Blaunert my State Farm cover story, and Blaunert put Lou on hold a long time before agreeing to meet me. He said he was doing a field inspection at the Pine Road Station, but if I hurried, I could speak to him before the meeting. Finding him wearing a suit instead of his uniform, I doubted he was conducting an inspection. At the moment, I noticed he was eyeing me carefully.
“I’m more of a grunt than an arson investigator,” I said. “I interview the firemen, the neighbors, check the site. In the end, I tell the company if I think a fire’s accidental. Of course, even if I think it is, they’ll still want to send a forensic accountant to check the insured’s books, see if there’s any financial motive.”
Chief Blaunert nodded. “I wish I could save you the trouble,” he said, “but I know your company’s going to want a full report. Still, you can take my word for it—this fire was definitely an accident.”
“You checked it out yourself?”
“Had to, the media was all over it. Pitiful tragedy,” he said. “The whole family dead, all but one child, and she was burned beyond recognition.”
“No motive you’re aware of?”
Chief Blaunert’s face reddened. “Motive? You tell me the motive! What, they’re trying to screw your company out of a few hundred grand? They won the whole damned New York Lottery a few months back, ten million dollars!” He seemed genuinely upset by my question. “You think they’re going to torch their own home, kill their own kids?”