“Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Runyon,” he said. “Much appreciated. Ah, how’s your head?”
“Still sore.”
“Of course. But no serious aftereffects, I trust?”
“No.”
“Good, good.” Battle cleared his throat before he said, “Ah, about your medical costs. You remember I suggested the county might pay for them? Well, I spoke to several officials, but-”
“Don’t worry about it. My insurance will take care of most of it.”
“Good, good,” Battle said again, sounding relieved. “I imagine you’re eager to be back in San Francisco.”
“Eager enough.”
“When will you be leaving?”
“Today.”
“Today, yes, I thought you would be.” He went around behind his desk, sat down heavily. “Difficult times,” he said vaguely. “Very difficult.”
Runyon was silent.
“We’ve been overrun with the media, but I suppose you know that. Have they bothered you?”
“I’ve had a couple of calls.”
“Talked to any of them yet?”
“No.”
“Do you plan to?”
“Not if I can avoid it.”
“I don’t blame you a bit. Vultures, the lot of them.” He produced a handkerchief, mopped his face. “I wish to heaven we could afford air-conditioning. Summer days like this, it’s an oven in here by mid-afternoon. But we’re not a well-off community, much as I hate to admit it. Just don’t have the money in the city coffers to pay for everything we need, even some of the basics. Have to make do with what we have and what we can afford.”
Prepared speech. You could tell by Battle’s delivery and the way his golf ball-sized Adam’s apple bobbed above the knot in his tie. Runyon knew what it was leading into. Subtlety wasn’t one of the mayor’s long suits.
“Gray’s Landing used to be prosperous, you know,” Battle said. He mopped his face again. Sweat beads glistened on the top of his head, but he seemed not to be bothered by those. “Agriculture is our lifeblood. There was a time when there were dozens of prosperous farms in the area, hundreds of acres of fruit and olive orchards, two packing plants that employed more than two hundred people. But times have been lean in recent years. Very lean. First RipeOlive Processors in Stander went to a skeleton crew, then out of business, and right after that Westridge Produce closed its doors. Lost jobs, stores closing downtown, lost city revenue… I’m sure you understand the negative effects on a small community like ours.”
Runyon nodded, listening and not listening.
“And now these terrible arson fires… the murder of a prominent Latino… all the publicity. It has everyone on edge. Frightened, worried. Not themselves. There’s tremendous pressure on public officials like myself, like Deputy Kelso, to put an end to it before the community is so severely damaged it may never recover.”
Battle worked the handkerchief again, watching him over the top of it. Runyon still had nothing to say.
“Good people, Mr. Runyon. John Belsize and his wife; Don Kelso. Good people under extreme pressure.” Rambling a little now. “You shouldn’t judge them too harshly.”
“I don’t judge them at all.”
“Good, good. I know the deputy has been a little rough on you, but I hope you won’t hold it against him. His job… well, it takes its toll on a man. Shortens his temper, makes him seem more severe than he really is. Well, you see what I mean.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, either, Mayor.”
“About… what?”
“I’m not going to make trouble for Kelso, or the Belsizes, or you, or Gray’s Landing. No public denouncements, no reports of harassment, no personal injury lawsuit.”
Battle said hastily, “Oh, well, I never thought-”
“Sure you did. But you can put your mind at rest. I’m not vindictive and I’m not litigious. And I want to see the person responsible for the crimes caught as much as you or anyone else.”
“Yes, yes, of course you do.”
“So now we understand each other.”
“Yes. Perfectly. I… well…”
“That’s all that needs to be said.”
Battle gave him a weak smile, used the handkerchief again-blotted the top of his head with it this time. When Runyon stood up, Battle said, “Thank you, Mr. Runyon. If there’s ever anything I can do…”
“As a matter of fact, there’s something you can do right now.” The label fragment he’d found in the migrant camp trailer was in his wallet; he took it out, laid it on the desk. “Recognize this?”
The mayor squinted at it. “Why, yes. It’s one of Ripe-Olive’s labels.”
“RipeOlive. The processing plant that went out of business last year.”
“That’s right. After forty years. They just couldn’t compete any-”
“You said they went to a skeleton crew before they shut down. Who headed the crew?”
“I believe it was Martin Parnell. Why?”
“Where was it RipeOlive was located? Spander?”
“No, Stander. Five miles south of here, off the frontage road.”
“Many of these labels still around?”
“I suppose so,” Battle said. He turned the fragment over. “On jars and bottles. But this one doesn’t appear to have been used. The glue’s still smooth. How did you come by it?”
Runyon said, “Found it stuck to a shoe,” and retrieved the fragment and put it back into his wallet. Another of the mayor’s sweaty handshakes and a few more murmurs of civic gratitude, and he was out of there.
I n the shade of a locust tree on the city hall lawn, he used his cell phone to put in a long-distance call to the agency in San Francisco. He was pretty sure, now, that he knew what had tweaked his memory when he first picked up the label fragment, but he needed to be certain. He asked Tamara to pull up the file on his routine background check on Gerald Belsize, read him the list of full- and part-time jobs the kid had held since his high-school graduation.
Right. Number two was summer grunt work at Ripe-Olive Processors three years ago.
20
FIREBUG
“Tonight. We’ll do it tonight.”
“Can’t we wait a little longer, make sure?”
“We’ve waited long enough.”
“What if he’s not-”
“How many times do I have to tell you? It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Stop whining! I hate it when you do that.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help thinking-”
“You want me to smack you?”
“No.”
“Then don’t argue with me. We’ll do it just like we planned.”
“What about Runyon?”
“Forget about him, will you? He’s doesn’t know anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure.”
“… All right. Whatever you say.”
“I’m so amped I don’t want to wait until tonight-I want to do it right now. ”
“God, no, not in the daytime.”
“I’m just saying I want to.”
“But we’re not going to until tonight.”
“Fire’s better at night. Brighter, hotter.”
“Yes.”
“It’s what we both want.”
“Yes.”
“Payback.”
“Yes.”
And the flames, the burning.
“Are we going in and… you know, check first?”
“We have to. We can’t leave any traces.”
“I don’t think I can stand it.”
“You’ll stand it, all right. If I can, you can.”
“I’ll probably puke.”
“Then go ahead and puke. I’m gonna laugh. I’m laughing right now.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever laugh again.”
“There you go again. Candy ass! Just shut up and do what I tell you, or I swear I’ll make you sorry.”
“Don’t get mad.”
“I’m not mad. Amped, totally amped.”
“Can I ask you one thing? Then I won’t say another word.”
“Well?”
“Promise me this’ll be the last time?”
“Last time for what?”
“Fires.”