TWENTY

Lake Washington had the big houses. It was where Bill Gates, the Microsoft magnate, had a mansion. Lake Union, its little sister to the west, had a few apartments and condos, but for the most part it was commercial, boatyards and brokerages, a few restaurants at the south end.

The fire had occurred a few days earlier, but the acrid odor of smoke hung over the water like a guest who wouldn’t leave. With the window of his car rolled down, scents of burnt wood and chemicals tickled Sanfillipo’s sinuses as he drew closer.

He could hear the constant buzz of tires on the iron spans of I-5 two hundred feet overhead.

He found a place and parked in front of a canvas shop that advertised dodgers and bimini tops for boats, locked the unmarked car, and walked. A dump truck was backed up on the dock being loaded with debris, piles of charred, water-soaked wood. A floating crane, its boom four stories in the sky, drifted in the current offshore. Workmen in hard hats scurried about. Luther saw one of them with a clipboard, symbol of authority, and got directions.

Sanfillipo made his way around equipment and down the paved incline of a driveway toward the water. The breeze suddenly took the smell in another direction. He could see the ridge line of a small building, what was left of it, poking a few feet above the surface of the water about fifty feet out from the docks. There was a small army standing around. Everything had been shut down since they discovered the body two hours earlier. As he approached, they turned and Luther introduced himself.

“Lieutenant Sanfillipo.” He flashed the foreman his badge, and the guy shook his hand. “I understand they have some business for me?” He saw some uniforms down by the water, but he wanted to talk to the workmen first.

“Coroner’s down there right now,” said the foreman. He pointed to a small work barge where several men, some in uniform, were huddled over a dark bundle.

“They’re not sure if it was an accident or what,” said the foreman. “Our divers found the body at first light. He was tangled in some lines. Looks like maybe something heavy might have fallen on him during the fire.”

“Like half the building,” said one of the other guys.

“How did the fire happen?” asked Sanfillipo.

“We don’t know yet. Fire department thinks it could have been arson,” said the foreman. “With all the paint and other stuff inside, it’s hard to tell. We’re raising it so the fire marshal can find the point of origin.”

“Guess it burned all the way through the dock,” said the detective.

“No. No. It was an old wooden ammunition barge. Makeshift boatyard,” said the guy. “Told it dated to World War One. Wonder it floated anymore.”

“Is the owner around?”

The foreman shook his head. “City’s been chasing him around. A lot of complaints filed on the business. Code violations. That sort of stuff.”

Luther nodded like he understood.

“They think he might have started it?”

“I don’t think so. Apparently he lost everything, tools, the works. No insurance. Three generations in business down the drain. Just like that. Tough break,” said the guy.

“A tragedy,” said Sanfillipo. “But not as bad as what happened to the guy in the bag over there. What about him? Didn’t anybody miss him when the fire broke out?”

“He wasn’t an employee.”

Luther offered up arched eyebrows.

“People from the boatyard don’t seem to have any idea what he was doing there.”

“Maybe he set the fire?” said one of the other workmen. “I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time an arsonist got caught up in what he was doing.”

“Yeah. Sort of consumed by his own work, you might say.” One of the other guys chimed in and they all laughed at his joke.

“A lot of gallows humor in this business,” said Luther.

“Yeah, regular Robin Williams,” said the foreman. “Let’s get back to work.” The group sauntered away unhappy that they couldn’t stay where the action was.

“It’s possible,” said Luther, “that your arsonist is in the bag out there. Though without insurance you wonder why.”

“Firebug,” said the foreman. “They don’t need a reason.”

“True,” said Luther. “Any identification?”

“I think they found a wallet. Coroner’s got it.”

Luther wandered down toward the work barge, one end of which was tied up against the dock, stepped down into it, and wedged his way into the group. There was a diver in a black wet suit, his mask propped on top of his head, his feet in the water, sitting on the edge.

“Harmon.” Luther recognized the deputy coroner.

“Lieutenant.” As soon as he said it, the other men moved aside, giving Luther a little more room and a lot more deference.

“What brings you out here so early?” said the coroner.

“The smell of napalm in the morning.” He looked at the zipped-up body bag on the deck. “Burned?”

The coroner shook his head. “Fire burned through the wooden hull pretty quick. Sank like a rock.”

“What can you tell me?”

“May have drowned. It’s also possible he may have been dead before it went down. Took a little fluid out of the lungs, but not much. Body’s pretty bloated. Been down there over a week. Won’t know more ‘til I get him on a table.”

“Any name?”

The coroner showed Luther a clipboard with a county form, some notes on it, and pointed. Luther looked at it and thought.

“Did he work in the area?”

“Got me. If he did, you’d think somebody would have noticed that he was missing.”

“You would think so,” said Luther. “You pretty sure he went down with it at the time of the fire?”

“Oh yeah. He was buried under fire debris. I would say he was there before it started. Also there were some burns. The divers didn’t even see him ‘til one of them grabbed his foot in the dark.”

“I suppose that might cause a mess in your wet suit,” said Luther. The diver didn’t look at him.

“They tell me you found a wallet?” Luther asked the coroner.

“Yeah.” The man reached for a water-sodden paper bag resting on top of the barge’s winch and poured the contents out on top of a flat area on the machinery. There was a ring, a watch, some change, and a black wallet. The leather of the wallet was soggy and soft. A piece of green lake weed had worked its way inside the plastic window with the driver’s license, but it was still readable. Luther pawed through the contents of the wallet. Inside one of the flaps was the stub from an airline boarding pass showing a flight from LAX, the date and time.

“Lotta possibilities, I suppose,” said the coroner. “If he wasn’t one of the employees, he could have been a customer. Maybe had a boat in the works.”

“Hmm,” said Luther. “But how did this customer get here?”

“Whadda you mean?”

“Without any keys,” said the detective.

The coroner looked at the items spread out on the rusted metal surface on top of the winch. Luther was right. Among the objects found on the body there were no keys, to a car or anything else.

Luther compared the name on the coroner’s notes with the name on the driver’s license, then looked at the picture on the laminated license.

“I don’t think this man was a customer,” he said. “I don’t think this guy was into yachts.”

They took an early morning flight to Atlanta and from there to Savannah. Abby tried to catch a few winks but the stewardesses kept fraternizing. It was the thing that happened with Jack. He was a magnet for women; even the old lady he helped with luggage in the overhead compartment kept looking at him with eyes of wonderment. To Abby it was getting tiresome. He was good-looking, but he was only flesh and bone. If she was right, the warts were all on the inside; boils of arrogance the size of oranges. Jack didn’t seem to mind the gaping looks. She guessed that he’d had a lifetime of it and had grown accustomed to the stares of women.

They landed, grabbed their luggage, picked up the car, and headed for Coffin Point. To Abby, never having seen it, the name conjured up ominous thoughts.

As they drove north, in the direction of Hilton Head, the area served up a generous offering of serenity: white clapboard houses against green lawns, towering oaks overgrown with moss, cricketlike sounds, and the smells of the country. It wasn’t as lush as western Washington, but it had its own kind of beauty. It reminded her of places in the Delta near San Francisco Bay. Only it seemed much larger. They passed through Beaufort with its stately old homes, picture-card perfect.

They stayed on Highway 21 out of Beaufort, crossed the channel to Lady’s Island, and from there to St. Helena Island and toward Frogmore. A few miles on they turned off and within minutes the road turned to dirt.

The thought had crossed Abby’s mind as they left the state highway and headed down the sandy loam road: she didn’t know Jack Jermaine from Adam. She had expected a call from Morgan in Chicago. It never came, and she wondered why. They were supposed to coordinate before she left. Still Morgan had her number at Jack’s house. Maybe he’d left a message there.

They rattled along in the Landcruiser on the dirt road, past picket fences and small houses, a few mobile homes.

The inside of Jack’s car was clean, meticulous, military, though the outside could have used a wash.

“You took a real chance,” said Jack. “What if Bertoli had decided to pull the plug when you told him no more books?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“You saw the line on the floor of the convention center.” Abby didn’t mention the star-struck gaze of many of the women standing in it. Jack’s ego didn’t need any feeding. “They tried and they lost,” said Abby. “Round one.”

“He seemed pretty angry to me.”

“People in New York like to argue,” said Abby. “It’s all part of the Great Manhattan Mindfuck.”

Jack laughed.

“Look at it this way,” she said. “Bertoli gave us his best pitch, at least for this inning. We made him eat it. Now he has something more to play for. If I’d given him the books without a fight, Carla and Alex would have had to go home and take depression meds.”

“Then you intend to give them more books?”

“We’ll see.” She had no intention of tipping her hand to Jack. “They didn’t just want the books, they wanted bondage. They wanted to own me.”

“They were looking at me,” said Jack.

“You. Me. For now it’s all the same.”

“I saved your ass.”

“You saved nothing. My ass was about to walk out of the room.”

“That would have been a mistake,” said Jack.

“Why?”

“Because that would have left me in there alone.”

Abby looked at him and couldn’t tell if he was kidding.

“Hey. I wanted to find out what they were willing to offer for four more books,” said Jack. “Aren’t you at least curious?”

“Whatever it is, it’s not enough.”

“I saw something recently. An author got twenty-four million,” said Jack.

“That was for three books,” said Abby.

Jack looked over at her. She was interested after all.

Abby brushed a string of hair out of her face and then said casually: “I saw it in the paper last week.”

“Oh right. Next to the stock quotes and obits.” He laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with being interested in money.”

“No. It’s just the questionable things it makes you do,” said Abby. She thought, like get in a car with a man I don’t know and head down some lonely dirt road.

“Five months on the New York Times list,” said Jack.

“I wanted to give him a challenge,” said Abby.

“More like a coronary. Did you catch the look? Like you lit him up. I’ve seen people touch high-tension wires with less effect,” said Jack.

“You’re the one got drunk.”

“Puttin’ him on. That’s all,” said Jack. “Who in their right mind argues with an angry drunk? You think I went too far?”

“You were fine. Just your average obsessive author.” She looked at him and they both started to laugh.

“Artsy-fartsy me,” said Jack. “Make me God or I won’t play. The look on his face when you said ten weeks, top of the list, was worth the royalties. Train-struck deer.”

“Carla’s probably still peeling him off the ceiling,” said Abby.

“I could have given him the books,” said Jack. “But then I suppose we would have been in trouble.”

“We wouldn’t have been in trouble,” said Abby, “I would have been in trouble. You forget. You’re my alter ego. In the eyes of the law, you stand in my shoes.”

He looked at her feet. “Now that would hurt.”

“Get serious,” she told him. “You agree to something and I’m obligated to perform.”

“In that case we should visit the red light district in Atlanta,” said Jack.

“Very funny.”

“I could get you a little bustier, some lace on the thigh. Buy myself a purple fedora.”

“Is that the kind of work you do?” said Abby.

“Do I look like it?”

“Looks are deceiving,” said Abby.

“On a dusty road with a man you don’t know. It’s a little late to be asking, isn’t it?” It was something that her father might have said when she was a teenager about getting into cars with strangers. Jack didn’t look at her when he said it. It was also the kind of thing a killer might ask a hitchhiker just before he plunged the knife in or jumped her.

She studied him for a long moment. There was an awkward silence. Abby wasn’t sure if she should treat the question seriously. It would only feed her anxieties or, she thought, lead to something worse.

“I was only kidding,” said Jack. “You’re perfectly safe.”

“Right.” Abby didn’t look at him.

“Relax.” Jack looked at her and laughed. “Listen, you want me to stop?”

“No,” said Abby. It was the one thing she was sure of. She didn’t want him to stop on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere.

“You never told me how your friend, what was her name?”

“Theresa?”

“Yeah. You never told me what happened. The article in the paper was a little vague. Was it an accident?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Someone killed her?”

“It looks that way.”

“Her husband?”

Abby looked at him trying to figure how he would put this together so quickly.

He caught her glance. “Well, it makes sense. An angry husband. Bad marriage.”

“The cops don’t think he did it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a long story.” Abby didn’t want to talk about it. “Can we discuss something else?”

“Sure. Let’s talk about more books. What’s your take? You think Bertoli will bury us now that we’ve turned him down?”

“I don’t think he can afford to.”

“Why not?”

“We’re into him for three million. He’s got to get it back somehow. Plus the film thing. True, we don’t get the big bucks there until they get to principal photography. Just the same, the studio’s on the hook with the star. They have to keep him happy. Why do you think I got three million for book rights?”

“It’s a good book,” said Jack.

“Oh, it’s a fine book,” said Abby. “Marvelous read. But take it from me, the payout wasn’t based on my excellent prose. This has all the signs of a deal driven by the stars.”

“And you think that gives us leverage?”

“On this book, yes. The only way we lose is if they get more books. Then Bertoli can spread the risk. Make it back over the long haul and let the studio worry about their star. Right now we need to keep Bertoli on a short leash, and keep him hungry. If he makes us big . . .”

“Us?” said Jack.

“Speaking metaphorically,” said Abby. “Then maybe it’s time to talk about more books.”

“So if he brings us to the prom, your theory is why not dance with him,” said Jack.

“As opposed to a sock-hop,” said Abby.

She was right and Jack knew it. The tail wagging the dog. It was the movie deal that had the book on a hot burner.

“There’s something else,” said Jack. “Plain as the nose on your face.”

“My nose is plain?”

“Poor choice of words,” said Jack. “That’s why you’re the writer.”

“Not that anyone would notice,” said Abby.

He looked over at her. “In fact, you have a very nice nose.”

She touched it self-consciously with the tip of her finger like maybe it was running.

“Anyway,” said Abby. She didn’t trust him enough to flirt.

“Anyway. There’s another dynamic.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I said at the meeting. There’s something Bertoli’s not telling.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” said Jack. “Early orders for the book. Something from the big chains.” He shook his head in puzzlement. “Something’s turned the buzz up a notch for him to come after more books that way. Kinda frontal, don’t you think? No finesse. I would have figured Carla for finesse. One thing for sure. The books they wanted are worth a lot more than we know.”

Abby thought about this for a moment. “It does make me angry. The garbage about the forces of the marketplace. That he had to recoup his investment. Couldn’t continue to lavish money.”

“Don’t get mad. That’s business. You gave him a price,” said Jack. “His house, his soul, and his firstborn. As soon as Carla rubs his ego down they’ll be back. You gotta think there’s one rule in the jungle. We come and go. The agents live in the sandbox with the publishers. The writer’s always the odd man out. Still she brought you the deal. You couldn’t have gotten here without her.”

“She cut herself a piece of cake,” said Abby. “Question is, can I trust her now?”

Jack looked at her straight across as he gripped the steering wheel. “Who ever told you you could trust anybody?”

To say that cops have suspicious minds is like saying cats land on their feet: an article of faith.

When Luther Sanfillipo called Abby’s house and discovered that her phone had been disconnected, he began to wonder. When he drove over and found a For Sale staked in her front lawn and the house empty, he began to worry. And when he called her office and was told that she’d quit her job and left no forwarding address, he began to act.

He parked his car in a commercial garage. In this neighborhood Luther figured it was the price of keeping his hubcaps. He hiked the two blocks, mostly uphill, to the dilapidated three-story office building. The outside was covered with tattered posters, and a lot of graffiti that would have required decoding by the gang unit.

Downstairs was a video store and a small grocery. In between the two was a single glass door with an address in metal numbers over the top that somehow the neighbors hadn’t managed to pry off and steal. Luther entered and made his way to the top of the stairs over the soiled carpet.

At the top a hallway formed a T going in two directions, with separate doors at the end of each. “Marcia’s Relaxation Center” was painted on one of them. The other bore the name:

C.W. CHANDLIS, COUNSELOR
&
ATTORNEY AT LAW

Luther heard the patter of typing on the other side of the door, opened it, and went in.

“Can I help you?” A man, fairly well dressed, was seated at a desk in an outer office, what passed for reception.

“I’m looking for Mr. Charles Chandlis.”

The man continued to hunt-and-peck at the typewriter.

“You found him.”

Luther looked at him sitting at the typewriter. “You’re the attorney?” said Luther.

“My secretary’s out for a few minutes,” said Charlie.

It was a bad omen. Luther hadn’t even introduced himself and he was being lied to. He’d done a little checking, including employment records. Chandlis’s secretary had filed for unemployment two weeks before along with a labor claim for unpaid wages. The lawyer was on the financial edge, one more reason why Luther thought he might want to talk to him.

“Who are you?” said Charlie.

“Name’s Sanfillipo.” He took out his badge and showed it to the lawyer.

Instant hackles. If Charlie had been a dog, the hair on the back of his neck would have stood up.

“If this is about one of my cases, you can forget it. I only deal with your bosses,” said Charlie.

Luther flexed his eyebrows in question.

“The county prosecutor’s office,” said Charlie. Then he looked at the door as if Luther might want to use it again, to leave.

“Oh. No. No. It’s not about one of your cases. It’s about one of mine.”

The way he said this caused Charlie to pause for a moment and look at him.

“I am looking for your wife,” said Luther.

“I’m not married.” Charlie went back to his typing, and looked at his watch like he was on some deadline. He hit some wrong keys, several letters, and had to back over two of them with the correcting ribbon.

“You should get yourself a computer,” said Luther.

“Yeah, right. And spend six months learning how to use it,” said Charlie.

“Your secretary should be able to do that,” said Luther. He did the kind of Raul Julia smile that so intimidated.

“What do you want?”

“I told you,” said Luther. “I’m looking for Mrs. Chandlis. Abigail Chandlis.”

“My former wife,” said Charlie.

“Yes.”

“As the title implies, we don’t live together anymore,” said Charlie. “You might try her house.”

“I did. It’s empty,” said Luther.

For the first time, Charlie stopped typing and swiveled around in his chair to look up at the cop, more questions in his eyes now than on his lips.

“Do you have an interest in it?” said Luther.

“What?”

“Your wife’s house.”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Because it’s for sale.”

Chandlis considered this for a moment, and unless Luther had lost his ability to judge body language, the lawyer was hearing it for the first time. He returned to his typing.

“Why are you looking for her?”

“An investigation,” said Luther. “Just routine.”

“Did she do something wrong?”

“Not that we know of.” Luther made it sound like a question.

Charlie didn’t bite.

“We would just like to talk to her,” said Luther.

“Did you call the firm?”

“Hmm.” The cop nodded. “She quit last week.”

There was no pause in typing, but several mistakes. Luther might have asked him if he knew about this, but he didn’t have to.

“I thought you might know where she is?”

“I don’t.”

“When was the last time you talked to her?”

“Can’t remember. We’re not that close,” said Charlie.

“Oh. I was under the impression that you kept in touch.”

“And what gave you that impression?”

“The fact that you received six thousand dollars from her ten days ago,” said Luther.

Charlie didn’t say anything but stopped his typing in mid-word and looked at Luther clearly angry that the police were prying into his financial affairs.

“Do you mind telling me what it was for?” said Luther.

“Why should I? You seem to know everything already.”

“Am I safe in assuming a private debt?” said Luther.

“Not anymore,” said Charlie.

“I can assure you . . .”

“You can fuck your assurances,” said Charlie.

“That would be an interesting trick, but somehow I don’t think it would make them any more acceptable to you,” said Luther. He thought Charlie sounded a lot like one of his clients. Perhaps it was contagious.

“How long have you been divorced?” he asked.

“The records are in the courthouse,” said Charlie. “Why don’t you go look?”

It was a possible theory that whoever killed Theresa Jenrico had done so by mistake; that the real target was Abby Chandlis. If so, she might be on the run. Or maybe they’d already gotten her.

“You heard about her friend Mrs. Jenrico?” said Luther.

“Yeah. I heard. Tragic,” said Charlie.

“How did you hear about it?”

“The papers,” said Charlie. “I can read.” He waited for the next question, what he was doing that night, but it didn’t come. Luther wasn’t that frontal.

“You must admit it’s a rather peculiar way to pay a debt?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Mrs. Chandlis paying it to your credit-card account like that.”

“It’s the way she wanted it. For convenience,” said Charlie.

“I see. I’m sure the credit-card company thought it was convenient.” Luther smiled at him. He knew that Charlie was over his limit. The only thing that saved his card was his wife’s payment.

“What business is that of yours?”

“Oh none. But I am curious why she would pay you such a large sum of money and then disappear without telling anyone where she was going?”

“You’d have to ask her that.”

“If I could find her I would.”

“Can’t help you. Now if you’re finished, I’ve got work to do.”

“Do you know where she got the money? To pay you, I mean?”

“No.”

“That’s a lot of money. She isn’t a wealthy woman.”

“No.”

Charlie wasn’t the only one whose financial life was now under scrutiny.

“And the nature of the debt?” asked Luther.

“It was a loan,” Charlie lied.

“What for?”

“That’s private. You wanna know anything more, get a subpoena. And I don’t appreciate your fucking around in my financial affairs.”

“Oh, I assure you there was no fucking around,” said Luther. “We merely called your bank and told them it was a homicide investigation.”

Charlie’s eyes lit up.

“They were most anxious to help,” said Luther.

“Wonderful.” Now all the tellers would be looking at Charlie as if he were an ax murderer.

“We have been very discreet,” said Luther.

“I’ll bet. Now just you and a few hundred of your asshole friends downtown know my credit rating.”

“I had never considered my colleagues in that light before,” said Luther. “But I will tell them when I see them.” He headed for the door.

“Do that.”

Luther turned. “All of this hostility, I assume, comes from your work?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” said Charlie.

“That’s the problem with job stress,” said Luther. “It tends to creep up on you and kill you without your noticing.”