___________________________
I wasn’t expecting Goldilocks. I didn’t check who’d been sleeping in my bed or eating me out of house and home. Omitting Cinderella, fairytale characters rarely do the dishes. I slid out the Glock and eased open the basement door. The light was definitely on down there, casting long oblong shadows up the wall from the wooden steps. Either my new housemaid had left it that way by accident, or there was somebody in my den.
If an Englishman’s home is his castle, then an American man’s den is his home. Put simply: any kind of invasion will be met with absolute force.
I squinted against the light as I tiptoed gingerly down the first wooden steps. Without descending more than halfway I couldn’t see beyond the squared-off outcrop where the first floor formed the basement’s ceiling.
I hollered: “Police!” Then remembered I was FBI. Didn’t correct myself audibly.
Either way, there was no response. No interlopers scurrying to escape.
I followed the Glock down more steps. Got low enough to grab a peek underneath the outcrop.
Not only had somebody invaded my sanctuary, they’d kindly rearranged the furniture, too. The big projection TV was moved over to the far wall, covering most of my
Undertaker
notes still pinned there. Facing it, with its back to the stairs, sat my big leather La-Z-Boy. The computer desk was pushed over to one side, with cardboard packing boxes stacked on and around it, no signs of the desktop. Handwritten words on the boxes such as
party gear, personals, paperwork
. The collapsible cot bed from the storage room upstairs was installed against the opposite wall, with linens nicely folded open. The beer cooler was chilling out next to the recliner, with an opened bottle of two-year-old
Samuel Adams Octoberfest
standing to attention on its surface.
My basement. My cooler. My Sammy Adams.
Heat bloomed in my gut.
I descended another two steps.
The TV was turned on, I saw. What looked like a chick flick was playing in silence on the screen. I could see a tearful Julia Roberts giving lip service to a grinning Cameron Diaz. A curly cable stretched across the gap between the TV and the La-Z-Boy, where it joined up with a pair of big padded headphones sitting either side of a man’s head.
My home invader was watching the TV!
I jumped the remainder of the steps and came round between the cot and the La-Z-Boy. Glock aimed. Heart thudding.
The intruder was sprawled across the recliner, unclothed, apart from a pair of shocking-white Calvin Klein boxer shorts. Fortunately for me, there was a bucket of
Redenbacker’s
popcorn on his lap. A big stupid grin splitting his big stupid face. He was lapping up the chick flick with a fervor, so engrossed in it that he hadn’t seen me sneaking up and aiming the gun at his too-close-together eyes. I lifted a foot and jabbed his knee with the toe of my hiking boot.
The salty treat promptly launched itself into the air as he tore off the headphones and gawped like an adolescent found trying on his mom’s underwear.
“What gives, Tim?” I asked as it started raining popcorn. “Why are you in my house and who the hell gave you permission to drink my beer?”
___________________________
I have known Tim Roxbury longer than is good for my health.
We first met in January, during my investigation into The Undertaker Case. I was power-napping in a parking lot at the time. Pendulous drool and a bib full of broken potato chips. He was an Alhambra PD motorcycle cop, checking out a suspicious-looking sleeper in an old jalopy. We hit it off like The Odd Couple confined to a phone booth. A few days later, Tim went on to save my self-respect after I was drugged in a nightclub on Santa Monica Boulevard. Six months after that, during my investigation into the Piano Wire Murders, he effectively trashed that same self-respect after a botched chase culminating in the death of an innocent citizen.
Detective Tim Roxbury of the Alhambra PD wasn’t exactly the Robin to my Batman. More like that pesky Donkey in the Shrek movies.
I kept the Glock centered on the small indentation between his eyes. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t arrest you for breaking and entering.”
His hands were in the air, flapping. Popcorn popping from his mouth. “Jeez Louise, Gabe – because I’m your friend?”
I kept the Glock aimed.
“And because this isn’t what it looks like,” he added, fishing for tips.
I made a disgruntled grunt and stowed the gun. “I’ll tell you exactly what this looks like, Tim. You spied your chance to take over while I was away. You moved in. Made yourself right at home. Okay, so you’ve done the place up. Caught up on all the jobs I’d been meaning to do these past two years. You’ve given the old place a new lease of life. Probably brought smiles to the faces of all my despairing neighbors. You took siege of my basement. Got merry over Christmas on my beer. You entertained yourself with my dead wife’s DVD collection. And you didn’t bargain on me coming home for the holidays. Doesn’t make it okay. How am I doing so far?”
He lowered his hands. “You got me dead to rights. Go ahead, throw the cuffs on and march me off to jail.” He nodded at the logo on my shirt. “What’s with the Kodiak tourist tee?”
“It’s a long story. And not really any of your business.”
“You’re angry.”
“You broke into my home.”
“That’s not exactly true. One of your neighbors aided and abetted.
She gave me a key.”
“Under false pretenses.”
“Not at all. Mrs. Pearson knows me from my patrol days. She had no problem handing it over.”
“Did she know you were staying?”
“Sure. She even baked me a pie. We’ve been throwing Tupperware parties ever since.” He stuck out his tongue. There was an indentation in it, made by a previous piercing. “
I guess we have a lot to talk about. Didn’t you miss me even a little bit?”
“Like an abscess in a root canal.”
Tim got to his feet and opened his muscly arms. A six foot something side of tanned beef in white boxers. He waggled fingers. “Come here. It’s Christmas. Give your old pal a big hug.”
I made weary a face. “Don’t make me regret not shooting you, Tim. I’m making coffee. Then you’re going to explain yourself.” I retreated to the stairs. “And put some damn clothes on.”
___________________________
On the whole, people have genuine reasons for behaving the way they do. Different when you’re in the box than out of it. Often, we act on impulse –
seemed like a good idea at the time
– or make decisions based on a set of personal rules and parameters built up over time and through experience. We all are different – which means, given the same set of circumstances, we are likely to think something different and act accordingly.
Tim’s story had a tent pitched in both camps and went something like this:
As of the end of September, the fortysomething rookie detective had lived with his mom in rented accommodation on Kendall Drive – less than a mile as the crow flies from my house on Valencia. His mom had suffered with emphysema for a number of years and had lost her battle. The landlord had had other plans for the tenancy and Tim had found himself homeless. Instead of doing what anyone in his position would have done – namely renting someplace else or staying at a motel until the right bachelor pad came along – he’d moved into my home and used what money he should have been paying out in rent to do the house up. According to Tim, he’d been keeping a voluntary eye on my place since I’d fled to Florida in February. With my vanishing into thin air, Tim’s moving in had killed two birds with one stone. He’d sweet-talked Mrs. Pearson into giving him my spare key, then he’d kicked off his pink cowboy boots and settled in.
I wasn’t happy about his home invasion. Who would be? It wasn’t like Tim was family, or an old and needy friend. But I was mindful of the fact he’d made good in my absence. The new improved me had brought out the old amenable me, and somehow I understood. My life wasn’t a Dickensian drama; no way I’d see anyone out on the streets at Christmastime, even if they got paid for it.
“To cut a long story short,” Tim breathed as we sat in my tidy kitchen and drank coffee, “it was never meant to be a permanent solution. The area had a spate of burglaries while you were away. They broke into a house a few doors down. I spent the night.”
“Then one thing led to another and before you knew it, the holiday season was here and there was no going back.”
Tim nodded. “Look, my sister has a place over in Pomona. I’ll give her a call. See if she can squeeze me in. Don’t worry; I’ll be out of your hair come morning.”
“Tim . . .”
“No, seriously, Gabe. I don’t want to be an incongruence.”
“Encumbrance.”
“It’s a small one-bed apartment and she has three kids and another on the way. Then there’s the two dogs. German Shepherds, too. But I’m sure there’s room on the couch.”
I sighed, “Tim.”
He looked at me over his coffee.
“There’s no need to rush. I’m not heartless. I understand you’re in a tight spot. I know it’s not easy finding a new place this time of year. Truth is, I’m through fighting over lost causes. Charity begins at home, right?”
Tim gawped at me like I’d just confessed undying love. It was the last thing he’d expected. “You mean it?”
I nodded. Sometimes living with an itch is better than scratching the skin away and opening things up to infection. “I’m hardly ever here as it is. And I am grateful for all the hard work you’ve put into the old place. You’ve done a fine job of making it habitable again. The least I can do is let you stay until you get fixed up with a place of your own.”
His face lit up like one of those illuminated snowmen. “No catches?”
“Just don’t get under my feet or start mothering me.”
“What about bringing guys home?”
“Don’t push it, Tim.”
He tapped his cup against mine. “You got a deal.”
We drank coffee.
Tim’s company wasn’t as uncomfortable as it had been a year ago. Like fungi on a tree trunk he’d grown on me. Or I’d mellowed. Not yet close friends, but I had a feeling it was Tim’s goal.
“Say, now that we’re on speaking terms again,” he said, “what did you make of my emails?”
“The truth?”
He nodded.
“I haven’t read them.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, Tim, I’m not. I’ve been busy working undercover.” I didn’t mention I’d been behind bars since the summer.
Tim made a huffing noise, got up from the breakfast bar and disappeared into the living room. A few moments later, he returned with an iPad and slid it across the granite counter.
“You have got to see this. You won’t believe your eyes. For all of sixty minutes it was hot property on YouTube. And I mean blazing. In total, there were at least twenty other videos just like it. I succeeded in downloading five – including this one – before YouTube pulled the plug on them all.”
I tilted the iPad to get a better view. There was a jerky video playing, I saw, on full-screen. A crackly soundtrack of scratchy traffic noise punctuated with horrified screams. I put my readers on and peered closer.
The homemade movie had been filmed outside on a busy street from a camera phone held at arm’s length. Looked like a few famous Hollywood landmarks in the background. Looked like a bright day. I could see crowds gathered in the periphery of the shot – many of them holding up smart phones, all of them looking shocked or spellbound, all of their attentions focused on a gushing column of orange fire in the middle of the screen. At first I thought it was a protest march and somebody had torched a full-sized human effigy. Then I realized with horror that there was movement within the fire. Arms and hands thrashing futilely at the flames. The semblance of a face melting away.
“This happened last week,” Tim said, bring me back into the quiet kitchen. “On the sidewalk outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater.”
“On Hollywood Boulevard?”
He nodded. “Seems unbelievable, doesn’t it? The place was jam-packed with visitors.”
I could see. Dozens of pausing passersby, all there to enjoy the Christmas nostalgia, but all witness to this horror show instead. I watched with morbid fascination as the burning figure fell to its knees and collapsed face-first to the glittery sidewalk. Arms and legs still twitching.
“By the time anyone thought to grab an extinguisher, the poor shmuck was burned beyond recognition. What a way to go, huh?”
I froze the blazing video.
I’d seen enough. This was too close to home right now.
Tim took the iPad and flicked at icons on its screen. “Hollywood Boulevard was closed down for two hours while the emergency services cleaned up. I hear they had to scrape him off the sidewalk.”
The coffee in my belly was turning to tar.
“Why are you showing me this, Tim?”
He spun the iPad back my way and touched the
play
icon on another downloaded video. “Watch and all will become clear.”
Against my better judgment, I looked on.
This second home movie had been shot from a different angle. By the looks of it, filmed from across the street. Same crowds gathered. Same sunny day in LA. Same guy in the middle of the shot – only at this point in the recording he wasn’t engulfed in flame.
Curious, I spread my finger and thumb across the screen. The image zoomed in to show the guy was dressed in a Santa costume, complete with fluffy white beard and black buckled boots. Nothing extraordinary for Hollywood at Christmastime. He was standing on the curbside, facing the road, with the famous Chinese theater in backdrop. A sandwich board hung over his shoulders. Fountains of bright sparks were spurting out into the air on either side. Fiery plumage drawing attention. I could hear people wondering out loud what the guy was doing. See onlookers pointing. The guy in the Santa suit looked like he was part of a promotional campaign. One of those gimmicks to lure punters off the street and into one of the nearby restaurants. Then I noticed the writing on the sandwich board, and zoomed in until it completely filled the screen.
No lunchtime discounts here. No exclusive show tickets for the Cirque du Soleil at the Highland Center.
Just five uppercase words written in bold red paint:
THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT
I watched, mouth dying, as fire swept suddenly across the lettering and turned the sandwich board into a raging inferno.