Читать книгу The Sepia Siren Killer - Richard A. Lupoff - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

Whatever Ms. Wilbur didn’t want Elmer Mueller to get his hands on, it didn’t make the broadcast news. Lindsey kept the car radio tuned to an all-news station on his way from Walnut Creek to Berkeley. Reactions to the Berkeley museum fire had degenerated into the usual exchange of name-calling between University of California officials and People’s Park advocates. The People’s Park faction charged that the Anti-Imperialist Front was a phony organization set up by the University, that the fire had been set by the UC Police Force to embarrass the legitimate claimants to the land. After that came something about the Coast Guard and the Immigration and Naturalization Service stopping a Chinese freighter full of illegal immigrants, and then a late-breaking bulletin about the off-season signing of an Olympic high-jumper who was ready to put his talent to use in the National Basketball Association.

The steady stream of oncoming headlights, the announcer’s droning voice, and the warm air inside the Hyundai put Lindsey into a half-hypnotic state.

He took College Avenue to Durant, then wandered around until he found the Robeson Center on Canyon Road. The night air was misty. Water condensed and fell off the great trees inside the gates. Gravel crunched beneath the Hyundai’s tires as Lindsey pulled into the parking lot in front of a gothic building. Judging by its looks, the Robeson Center had been constructed in the 1880s and had withstood the storms, fires and earthquakes of a century and more.

The cold air hit Lindsey as he climbed from his car. The contrast with the car’s cozy warmth shocked him awake. That, and the fire engine that stood in front of the Robeson Center, a lurid warning light revolving on its cab. The crew of firefighters must be somewhere else, because only one person had stayed with the heavy truck.

Lindsey jogged past Ms. Wilbur’s Toyota, a Berkeley fire chief’s car, and a police cruiser. He climbed the front steps, crossed the portico and pushed open heavy doors. They were stained a dark mahogany, with large cut-glass ovals in each. Inside the Robeson Center the air was dry and thin. Like the air on another planet, it felt as if it had not been disturbed for ages. The shabby decor looked as if it had been patterned after a hotel in a Depression era film. A dark-skinned man in a suit and tie stood behind a reception counter. A rectangular badge identified him as Oliver Hendry.

Lindsey asked for Ms. Wilbur.

Oliver Hendry smiled a desk-clerk smile. “You mean the lady who came to see Mr. MacReedy. She’s with him in the coffee lounge.” He tipped his head, indicating a doorway that opened off the lobby.

Lindsey found Ms. Wilbur and Mr. MacReedy sitting at a Formica-topped table. There were cups of coffee in front of them, obviously untouched. Ms. Wilbur spotted Lindsey and gestured him to the table.

Without preamble, Ms. Wilbur said, “Somebody tried to burn out Mr. MacReedy.”

“When?”

“This afternoon. At least whoever did it isn’t a killer. He waited for Mr. MacReedy to leave. He must have done it while Mr. MacReedy was with us in Walnut Creek.”

Lindsey looked at the old man. While Lindsey watched, he lifted his coffee cup to his lips and held it for a long moment, then lowered it to its saucer again. He had still not touched its contents.

“They tried to put it out with fire extinguishers. Then they called 911 and the fire truck got here in a couple of minutes and doused the flames. Didn’t seem to do much real harm, except burn up Mr. MacReedy’s possessions.”

“How can you be so sure?” Lindsey had pulled a chair from the next table. He leaned toward Ms. Wilbur. “I mean, how can you be sure it was arson? Maybe it was just an accident. Somebody smoking or starting a fire in the fireplace or using a heater.”Ms. Wilbur shook her head. “The investigators are here already.”

“Who?”

Ms. Wilbur said, “A fire lieutenant, Vince D’Onofrio, and a police arson squad sergeant, Olaf Stromback.”

Lindsey pulled out his pocket organizer and jotted down the names. Ms. Wilbur never wrote anything down and never forgot anything. Lindsey made notes.

“They still here? I saw their cars outside.”

“They’re in Mr. MacReedy’s room. Come on, you want to see this.” She patted Mr. MacReedy’s shoulder. “You’ll be all right here. Mr. Hendry can see you. He’ll get you anything you need.”

Mr. MacReedy lifted milky eyes. “I don’t need anything, but thank you all the same.” He lifted the coffee cup to his lips once more, then lowered it.

Mr. MacReedy’s room was at the end of a ground-floor corridor. Lindsey could detect the smell of fresh ashes and cold watered embers before he got there. The door frame showed a few areas of charring and smoke had discolored the ceiling just outside Mr. MacReedy’s door, but those were the only signs of fire.

Inside the room everything was different. The air stank. The walls and ceiling were black. The single bed had been badly burned, large sections of water-soaked black showing on the mattress and pillow. An old wooden dresser, a sofa, a ladder-backed chair and a four-drawer file cabinet were all wrecked. All beyond hope of repair. Worst of all were the remains of a couple of corrugated cardboard file boxes. Those were barely recognizable. There was no fireplace, no visible space heater, not even a television set to start the fire.

So much for Mrs. MacReedy’s death certificate and Mr. MacReedy’s claim. Well, he could get a duplicate death certificate easily enough.

D’Onofrio and Stromback were talking in undertones when Lindsey and Ms. Wilbur arrived. Lindsey could tell them apart by their uniforms. They’d brought in a small, folding metal ladder and set it up. D’Onofrio had laid a notebook on one of the rungs. He was leaning on the ladder with one elbow. He said, “Who’s this?”

Ms. Wilbur started to reply but Lindsey stepped past her and handed International Surety business cards to both men. “Insurance,” he said. D’Onofrio and Stromback both looked at the cards, then slipped them into their pockets. Like Hope and Crosby in another Road picture.

Lindsey said, “Was this arson? Ms. Wilbur says it was arson but I want to know what you think.”

Stromback said, “No question. See these marks?” He pointed to some black smudges near the doorway. “Look at the feathering. Somebody threw an accelerant in here and tossed a match in after it. Even found the match. Must have done a good job—looks as if he only needed the one.” He pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket and showed it to Lindsey. The cellophane baggie contained an ordinary paper match. A cardboard information tag identified the location and circumstances of the great discovery, and carried Stromback’s scrawling signature. Fat chance of ever discovering the origins of a charred match.

D’Onofrio said, “You smell that?” He sniffed, as if Lindsey might not know what smell meant. “You smell that stuff?”

Lindsey said he did.

D’Onofrio said, “It’s gasoline. Everyday gasoline. Perpetrator soaked the bed, the file cabinet there, these cardboard boxes. Then he laid a trail back to the door. Then he threw in a final shot of the stuff, tossed in a match, and closed the door behind him.”

“Must have wanted the fire to do its job before anybody even knew about it.” That was Stromback. They picked up for each other perfectly. Like Dan Rather and Connie Chung. “Would have been a lot worse if he’d left the door open, or if he’d thrown something through the window on his way out. Could have got a nice cross-draft. Really made a nice fire. As it was, the oxygen got depleted pretty fast. Didn’t save this room but it saved the building.”

Lindsey frowned. “You’re sure this was set? It wasn’t just an accident?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He went on, “We’re near the university, aren’t we? Do you think this was connected to that fire at the art museum?”

D’Onofrio turned his face to the ceiling. “I don’t know about politics. They’re all crazy, for my two cents. But I saw the report on that fire. Didn’t look like this one. Don’t go seeing patterns just because there were two fires.” He had a green pen in his hand. He pointed it at a fire sprinkler.

Lindsey hadn’t even noticed them before this. “How come the sprinklers didn’t open and douse the fire?”

“See for yourself.” D’Onofrio took Lindsey by the elbow, guided him to the folding ladder. Lindsey climbed a couple of rungs. Near the ceiling the stench of gasoline and burned paper and fabric was stronger. D’Onofrio said, “Look at that sprinkler.”

Lindsey spotted it at once. “Somebody plugged it.” He craned his neck for a better look. “May I touch it?”

Stromback yelped, “Don’t! That’s evidence. Mustn’t touch.”

“Okay.” Lindsey climbed another rung. He was just inches from the sprinkler. “Looks like putty. Some kind of fast-drying putty. He climbed up here and plugged the sprinkler? Look, there are two of these in this room.”

“Got ’em both.”

“Was this ladder here?”

Stromback said, “Nope. Borrowed it from housekeeping. Whoever set the fire was tall—meaning, seriously tall—or more likely he dragged something under each sprinkler when he plugged it. Maybe the bed. Might even have brought a little folding ladder along, and took it away afterward.”

“In other words, it could be anybody.”

Stromback looked up at Lindsey and rubbed the back of his neck. The sergeant’s neck was beefy, and when he turned his face up it made an extra fold of flesh against his uniform collar. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll get him.”

Lindsey climbed back to floor level. “I hope you do. The sprinklers at the museum were plugged, too.”

“Very observant.” Stromback grinned.

“Then there is a pattern, isn’t there?: Lindsey pursued.

“Fair enough. I wouldn’t call that conclusive, but we’ll analyze the putty and see if it’s the same. If it is, that could mean a lot. Do you carry the fire insurance on this building, Mister, ah.…” Stromback fished the business card from his pocket and read it. “Cost a couple grand to fix this room up, but nobody’s going to touch it ’til my gang gets in and takes photos and samples. Including the putty in the sprinklers. But what about you, Mr. Lindsey? You didn’t answer my question.”

Lindsey hadn’t had a chance to answer the question, but he didn’t make an issue of it. “No, I’m not here about the fire. Mr. MacReedy’s wife died recently and my company is processing a death benefit in the case.”

Stromback shook his head. “Then what’s your interest in the fire?”

Ms. Wilbur had stayed outside in the hallway, breathing cleaner air. Through the open doorway she said, “That depends on the reason for the arson, don’t you think, Sergeant Stromback?”

Stromback rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he’d got a crick in it from looking up at Lindsey or at the disabled sprinklers in the ceiling of Mr. MacReedy’s room. “Little bit hard to follow you, Miz, ah.…” He fumbled in his pocket and brought out another card. He must have received this one before Lindsey arrived at the Robeson Center. “Ms. Wilbur. If, let me see.…” He consulted the card again. “If International Surety doesn’t have to pay for the fire damage, why do they care about this at all?”

Ms. Wilbur said, “Mr. MacReedy was in Walnut Creek visiting our office when the arsonist struck. Did the criminal simply wait until Mr. MacReedy was out of the center, or was there some connection with International Surety? Do you think he might come after us next?” She shot a glance at Lindsey. He didn’t give her away.

“You’d better alert Walnut Creek PD, Olaf,” D’Onofrio put in. “Ms. Wilbur might have something there, and if our bozo turns up with his faithful Zippo they want to be ready for him.”

With a nod, Stromback ushered Lindsey from the room. When the room was cleared, Stromback sealed the door and hung a yellow plastic tape across it. “My gang should be here any minute. Meanwhile, want to talk to that fellow at the desk. What’s his name.” He found a card in his pocket. “Yes, Hendry. Want to talk to Hendry.”

D’Onofrio and Stromback, Lindsey and Ms. Wilbur traipsed back to the lobby. Lindsey caught a glance of Mr. MacReedy sitting with his permanent cup of coffee. Lindsey suspected that the coffee had been tepid when he first sat with Mr. MacReedy and Ms. Wilbur. It must be ice cold by now. As Lindsey watched, Mr. MacReedy lifted the cup to his lips, held it there for a few seconds, then lowered it to the saucer. Lindsey wondered if MacReedy would stay there, occasionally raising and lowering his cup, until someone came and led him away.

Olaf Stromback stood questioning Oliver Hendry. Lindsey studied the desk clerk. At first glance he had appeared brisk and natty. Now, Lindsey realized, a layer of fatigue lay draped on the man. Hendry spoke and gestured. Lindsey couldn’t make out his words, but the meaning was clear. People come and go at the Robeson Center. They were understaffed and overworked, and why would anybody want to sneak in here, where the residents were all borderline charity cases? What was there to steal?

Moving together, Lindsey and Ms. Wilbur sat with Mr. MacReedy.

Ms. Wilbur asked, “Did the officers question you, Mr. MacReedy?”

He nodded.

“Do you have any idea why they did this? Who would burn up your room? Why would anyone want to burn up your room?”

Mr. MacReedy turned his milky eyes to Ms. Wilbur. They were watery in the sterile fluorescent light. He shook his head sadly.

Ms. Wilbur put her hand on his. “Will the center give you another room? Will you be all right? Do you have any money or belongings anywhere?”

“You know, we were together for sixty years,” the old man said. “Not many marriages last for sixty years.”

Ms. Wilbur stroked his hand. He turned his opaque gaze on her. He said, “I was much older than my wife. I never thought I would have to bury her. I never thought I would have to live without her.”

Lindsey caught Ms. Wilbur’s eye. She shook her head almost imperceptibly. As if Mr. MacReedy’s milky eyes would detect any but the grandest of movements.

“I used to say, ‘Don’t mourn when I die. You’ll have many years to live, don’t waste them in mourning.’ I didn’t think she would die first. She used to get angry with me and say, ‘Don’t you dare talk about dying. Don’t you dare die on me.’ She could be mean, yes. But no one told me not to mourn. No one warned me.”

He picked up his coffee cup and held it to his lips, then lowered it to the saucer.

Lindsey saw Lt. D’Onofrio leave Oliver Hendry at the desk and head for the exit. Sgt. Stromback strode away from the desk and approached Lindsey and the others. He said, “My gang are here. They’ll take care of the evidence. Then, ah, Hendry there says he’ll have housekeeping clean up the mess in Mister, uh, Mr. MacReedy’s room.”

Well, he was starting to get the names without his cue cards, anyway.

“An’ whatsit, Hendry, says he’ll have another room for Mr. MacReedy to use. And I called McKinley and they’re going to send a patrolman out to stay here overnight in case the bozo comes back which he won’t.” He scratched his head. “And, oh, yeah, Mr. Lindsey. Called Walnut Creek PD and they’re going to keep an eye on your house and your office. Got anything out there the bozo might want, do you think?”

Lindsey said, “I don’t think so.”

Stromback said, “Don’t think so either, but it couldn’t hurt.” To Mr. MacReedy he said, “You’ll be all right, sir. Really sorry for all of this. Really. You’ll be all right.”

He shook the old man’s hand and walked a few paces away. “You call me if you need me. Any of you.” He came back and handed them each a card. Then he left.

Ms. Wilbur giggled.