Burners (4 page)

T
he last time I saw Alex Chapa I’d almost arrested him for B&E. He talked his way out of it, and wound up playing a significant role in solving a string of homicides. While I wasn’t fond of his profession—cops and reporters are like oil and water—he was okay by me.

Seeing him on the stand, participating in his state-mandated civic duty, I figured he wanted to be here as much as I did. Which is why I found it odd that his answers indicated a desire to be selected as a jury member, especially since that didn’t seem to be the route he was taking up until he noticed me.

Either he had the hots for me, or he thought there was a story to be had—Chapa sniffed out stories like hounds tracked foxes. I might have butted in, told the court that we knew each other, which probably would have resulted in his dismissal, but I had two good reasons to keep my mouth shut. A quick view of the courtroom showed me the jury hadn’t been fully selected yet, and if Chapa was bounced it could be hours before he was replaced. Also, I was here in Birch Grove alone. If my stay in this quaint little suburb lasted for more than a day, and he was after a story, he’d no doubt want to talk to me, which would result in a few free drinks, maybe even dinner after the trial was over.

Plus, I’d once saved Chapa’s life, so he owed me a drink—at the very least.

My stomach growled, and I realized I needed something more substantial than the Snickers bar I’d eaten back when I thought I’d be out of here around lunchtime. I exited the courtroom, intent on grabbing something nearby. Though a tourist town, Birch Grove was still old-fashioned enough to have a proper main street, and no doubt I could find a café or deli within walking distance.

When I got into the lobby, I ran into two men. I identified one of them as Officer Nicholas James, the cop who took my statement after the print shop fire. On that day, he’d been in his Birch Grove uniform. Today he was dressed to the nines, an Armani suit with creases so sharp they could slice day-old bread, and polished loafers that could be seen from space. The man with him was no slouch in the clothing department, either. I knew a bit about fashion, and pegged his jacket as Valentino. Both were tailored, fitting so perfectly they couldn’t have been wearing shoulder holsters.

Though I liked to dress well, the vast majority of my clothes were bought at discount stores or the Home Shopping Network. Maybe I needed to quit the CPD and get on the Birch Grove force.

James was deep in hushed conversation when he noticed me, and stopped mid-sentence. He was tall, young, and I guessed his military haircut was a holdover from a recent tour of duty. His expression went from surprised, to neutral.

“Welcome back to Birch Grove, Lieutenant. This is my partner, Emmanuel Lewis.”

His partner was black, and upon hearing his name I immediately began to search for any resemblance to the child star who played
Webster
on that old 80s sitcom.

“I’m not that one,” Lewis said, reading my mind.

There was a quick round of handshaking. I noticed James had a Submariner Rolex, and Lewis had a much less ostentatious Movado that was a larger version of the one I was wearing.

“You staying at the Weatherby House again?” James asked.

“I love the fireplace.”

James nodded. “Well, hopefully you’ll be able to testify soon, get back to chasing real criminals in Chi-town.”

I couldn’t tell if he was being respectful or sarcastic. James had the cool cop demeanor down to a tee.

“Seems like you’ve found some real criminals here in Birch Grove. A murder/arson is a pretty big deal anywhere you go. Enjoying your newfound celebrity?”

James had been the arresting officer.

“Just doing my job. The people here have been pretty worried about the fires, so it’s good they’ve ended. Too bad someone had to die in the last one.”

“Fires?” I said. “There have been more than one?”

James and Lewis exchanged a glance.

“Been real tough around here,” Lewis said. “Shop owners have been terrified. But there hasn’t been another fire since the arrest. More proof we got our perp.”

“What was the motive?” I asked, knowing I was overstepping my bounds. “Pyro?”

“We really can’t discuss that, Lieutenant,” James said. “No talking about the case. You understand.”

“Well, can you tell me where to get a decent sandwich nearby?”

“Knuth’s, around the corner. He’ll set you up. Turn left when you exit, then another left.”

“Thanks.”

I nodded my goodbye and walked away, feeling their eyes on me. So the accused, Tony Beniquez, was a serial arsonist? I’d met a few pyromaniacs in my day, and they shared many traits with serial killers. Vivid fantasies, compulsive behavior, no remorse. In fact, many budding sociopaths started fires when they were children, before graduating to murder. If Beniquez was that type, it was a damn good thing they got him off the streets when they did, before more people were killed.

I pushed through the revolving door, leaving behind the stale courthouse air and walking outside into a beautiful summer day. As I walked Main Street, I passed the print shop Beniquez allegedly burned, its storefront windows boarded over with plywood, black char marks still on the brick frames. I recalled the last time I’d seen it, fire belching through those windows, drawn to the scene while my boyfriend was in the bathroom of the bar across the street. James already had Beniquez face-down on the sidewalk and cuffed. While I hadn’t seen the crime, I’d bumped into Beniquez a few minutes prior, running in that direction, carrying a duffle bag. My boyfriend hadn’t remembered him, but I had. Something about the teenager’s face. Something between frantic and excited. I distinctly recalled thinking that the kid was up to something.

 I stopped for a moment, sniffing the air. Even three months later, there was still a faint odor of burnt wood. I looked on either side of the print shop, but the other businesses attached to it hadn’t been touched. The fire department had responded extremely fast.

I strolled by, turning left where instructed, and spotted the Knuth’s Deli sign, neon and ceramic and probably unchanged since the 1960s. The inside was cool, smelling of cold cuts and fresh baked bread. I had to wait in a short line, and during that time I read over the list of sandwiches handwritten on the dry erase board behind the register. When I made my selection, I checked out the meat through the cooler windows to make sure it looked good.

It looked good.

An older man in a white apron took my order. He had a paunch and the bushiest eyebrows I’d ever seen. If he ever shaved them, he’d have enough hair to knit a sweater. A large sweater, that no one would want to wear.

“Is the Rueben good?” I asked.

“Everything is good,” he said with a trace of a German accent. “The Rueben is very good.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Half or full?”

My stomach growled. “How big is half?”

“Big.”

“Sold. And some kettle chips. Thanks.”

He padded over to the refrigerator and removed a slab of corned beef with his gloved hands, taking it over to the slicer. I didn’t bother telling him I wanted it thin, trusting him to his work. Instead, I asked something else.

“So, I hear there have been some arsons in town.”

The proprietor stopped mid-slice. After two full seconds he started up again.

“Terrible thing,” he said.

“How many, so far?”

“Four.”

“All business owners?”

“Yes. A shame. This used to be such a nice town.”

“Isn’t it okay, now?”

“Hmm?”

“They caught the guy. No more fires.”

He might have snorted, but it was so brief I couldn’t be sure. “Sure. No more fires. That would be wonderful.”

“So what were the other shops that—”

“Look, Miss, I really don’t want to talk about this.” He put the corned beef back in the cooler with more force than necessary, shaking the counter. “You want regular or Asian coleslaw?”

 ”Regular.”

He finished making my sandwich in silence, leaving me to puzzle over what had upset him. When it was time to pay for it, he didn’t even try to upsell me on a drink.

“Eight-sixty-five,” he said.

I placed my purse next to the register and hunted through it to find my wallet. As I tugged it out, the shopkeeper’s eyes went wide. I followed his stare and saw he was staring into my purse, at my badge case. My gold shield was visible.

“I’m sorry, Officer. I didn’t mean to be rude.” He was smiling from ear to ear.

“Huh?”

“The Rueben is on the house.”

“You really don’t have to…”

“I don’t know what we would do in this town without the good work of the police. Please. It’s on me. I insist.”

I thought about paying anyway, because I wasn’t the type to trade on my authority. But it really is rude to refuse a gift.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the sandwich and the chips. He replied with a broad smile.

I walked out of the deli, my free lunch tucked under my arm. Maybe I really should move to Birch Grove. The cops here seemed to have it a lot better than I did.

  

T
he first day—first afternoon, really—consisted entirely of opening statements from the two sides. The whole thing took about an hour-and-a-half. All the while, Judge Malvo fluctuated between appearing to be in agony, listing to one side, and nearly nodding off. A couple of times he moaned quietly and the proceedings came to a temporary stop as the attorneys waited to see if His Honor had something to add. He didn’t.

I was certain the judge was a goner at one point when he spent the better part of fifteen minutes resting his chin on his fist, his only movement an occasional twitch that snapped him back to life. The guy was either heavily medicated or completely disinterested. Or maybe it was the heat, since apparently the county had forgotten to pay its electric bill and air conditioning wasn’t an option. Or at least that’s what I assumed, as another bead of sweat rolled down the side of my face.

Jack Daniels, on the other hand, looked far too icy to sweat as she passed the time fidgeting in a seat near the back of the courtroom. From time to time she would glare at the prosecutors, who never appeared to share as much as a glance with the Lieutenant.