Chapter 11
An hour before lunch Chuck was introducing the class to the battles of Lexington and Concord when Rene Hayes, the office assistant, stuck her head in the door.
Chuck said, “Can it wait? I’m about to fire the shot heard round the world.”
Miss Hayes didn’t smile. “I don’t think it can.”
Chuck went to the door.
“Mr. Hunt needs you at the office,” she said, low so the kids couldn’t hear. “It’s the police.”
“What?”
“I’ll take class till lunch.”
“Um, yeah, okay. Have them do the worksheet on page whatever it is.”
To the class he said, “Miss Hayes is taking over for a bit. If you’re good, we’ll do the harpoon song this afternoon,
with
the props.”
The kids cheered.
Ray was waiting with the cops in the teachers’ lounge. He introduced an African American woman, maybe mid–forties and on the hefty side, as Detective Epperson. The other one, younger, white, was named Mooney.
Then Ray excused himself, saying they wouldn’t be disturbed.
“Thanks for your time,” Epperson said. She had friendly brown eyes. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
It sounded like she could have meant Julia. “What’s going on?”
“We’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“About my house?”
“The fire department handles that,” Epperson said. “We’re homicide detectives.”
“Homicide?”
“Let’s go to square one.” Epperson seemed calm, understanding. Mooney kept his lips pursed as he jotted notes. If this had been an interrogation, it would have been a no brainer to see the good cop-bad cop routine playing out.
Epperson said, “Let’s start with how you first learned your house was on fire.”
“I thought this wasn’t about the fire.”
“This is about timing.”
“Why is this important?”
“If you’ll just bear with us for a few minutes,” Epperson said, “we’ll let you get back to teaching.”
Fine. “I was driving home and I saw smoke, and that’s when I saw the fire.”
“Were you driving home from here?”
“No, I picked up my brother from work. He works at Ralphs.”
Mooney said, “He was there from when to when?”
“What does my brother have to do with this?” Chuck said. “You don’t think he had anything to do with a fire.”
Epperson spoke through Mooney’s glare. “It’s just background for us, Mr. Samson.”
“He was at work all day, he always is. Check it. I pick him up after I’m done at school. Around four-thirty or so, usually. I did that, we were driving home, I saw the smoke, I thought it was close to our house. It
was
our house. That’s how I found out.”
Nodding, Epperson said, “Do you have any idea how it may have started?”
Chuck wondered how much to tell them. The voice on the phone had warned him not to talk to the police. But he knew he wasn’t going to get very far on his own. He had to have help.
“All right,” Chuck said. “Something weird happened to me yesterday. I was getting an early start, taking Stan in to the store, then I was going to go on to school. There was this black Escalade a little ways down from our house, with a guy in it. Sitting there. I looked at him, he looked at me. I drive on. Next thing I know, the guy pulls in front of me and jams on his brakes, and I hit him.”
“A rear ender?” Mooney asked.
“A set up,” Chuck said.
“Why would he set you up?” Mooney said.
“That’s the thing. No idea. He had an accent, or it sounded like one, and he pulled a knife on me.”
“Can you describe him?”
“About my age and height, long brown hair parted in the middle, blue eyes, a little red in them. He had something to drink, I’m pretty sure.”
Epperson leaned in. “Go on.”
“I got out to talk to him, and he starts saying I was looking at him on purpose. I was trying to tell him I wasn’t, then he grabs me by the throat.” Chuck demonstrated with his left hand.
“How’d you get the scar?” Mooney asked.
“Afghanistan.”
“Marine?”
“Navy chaplain.”
“Chaplain?” Mooney said. “You look like a guy who could fight.”
“So?” Chuck said.
“Just an observation. Where were you assigned?”
“A unit in the Helmand province, right before Operation Khanjar.”
Epperson said, “How does the Navy get involved with the Marines?”
“Marines don’t have their own chaplains,” Chuck said.
“How do Navy chaplains get scars?” Mooney said.
“I was captured. I was cut. I don’t really see how any of this is relevant.”
“Just asking,” Mooney said. “Go back to the guy grabbing your throat.”
“I blasted his head back, like this.” Chuck showed his palms up move.
“This guy had a knife?”
“Butterfly knife, you know, with the flip blade?”
Epperson said, “So this guy followed you and made you hit him, then grabbed you and threatened you with a knife?”
“That’s right. Then a guy came along and stopped and the Russian put the knife away and drove off. And the guy in the car, he saw the knife, and called in a 911.”
“Right,” Mooney said.
“What do you mean
right?”
Chuck said.
Mooney said nothing. Epperson shot her partner a quick look.
“You guys know about this?” Chuck said.
“We do,” Epperson said.
“Uh-huh. And you didn’t want to share that little bit of information with me?”
“We wanted to hear it from you fresh,” said Mooney.
“Next time, why don’t you just tell me up front what you know,” Chuck said. “Pretend we’re all grown-ups.”
Mooney started to say something, but Epperson cut in. “I’m sorry, Mr. Samson,” she said. “This is not any reflection on you. It’s how we gather information, that’s all. Routine, as they used to say.”
Chuck said, “Can we get on with it?”
“Tell us about your wife,” Epperson said.
Chuck just looked at her.
“More background,” Epperson said.
“You can tell me what this is really about now,” Chuck said. “And I’ll decide if I want to tell you anything else.”
“That’s fair,” Epperson said. “We know your wife was killed in a hit-and-run in Beaman, up near the Grapevine.”
“Then you know what I know.”
“What was she doing in Beaman?”
“Working on a story. She wrote for a weekly covering Southern Cal.”
“And Beaman meant what to her?”
“Why are you asking me all this?”
“Please, Mr. Samson.”
“They have that alligator farm up there. She was doing a piece on the history of alligator farms in . . .” Chuck stopped, the words bunching in his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Epperson said.
Chuck said nothing.
“Just a couple more things,” Epperson said, “and we’ll get out of here. At 6:42 a.m., yesterday morning, the 911 call came in from a Mr. Grant Nunn. He reported the incident you’ve described.”
“Yeah, sure,” Chuck said. “I didn’t know his name, though.”
“Mr. Nunn was an administrator at DeVry University in Sherman Oaks.”
“Was?”
Mooney said, “He never made it to work.”
Chuck shook his head. He felt like they were lowering some sort of net on him. “And?”
“He never made it home, either,” Epperson said. “He was found shot to death in his car in a store parking lot.”
Chuck swallowed hard. It was like a fist of ice going down. “What does any of this have to do with me?”
“Let us ask the questions,” Mooney said.
“I don’t like your questions,” Chuck said. “I don’t know anything except what I’ve told you. Why should I know––”
“What about Lucy Bowers?” Mooney said.
Chuck eyed him. “I don’t remember mentioning Lucy Bowers.”
“We’re mentioning her,” Mooney said.
“What about her?”
Epperson said, “She’s been reported missing, too.”
Chuck stood. Too much information at once. He felt tight around his throat, like the Mad Russian had him in his grip again.
“I have to get back to class,” Chuck said.
“Your boss said it’s almost lunch time,” Mooney said.
“Then I need to get to my sandwich,” Chuck said. “You got an issue with that?”
“Maybe,” Mooney said.
“Then deal with it on your own time,” Chuck said.
Epperson handed him her card. “Will you just let us know if any thoughts on these matters occur to you? That’s a direct number there. I’d appreciate it.”
Sure, Chuck thought. The way you appreciate people putting ropes around their own necks. He slid the card in his back pocket and walked out.
Wendy Tower caught up with him just before he got to his classroom.
“I heard about your house,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
Chuck nodded.
“Where are you staying?”
“The Ritz,” Chuck said.
She smiled. “All you need now is a home cooked meal.”
He was going to say no, as he had before. But maybe he needed this. Maybe he should take a chance. “Twist my arm,” he said.
“Would you like—”
“What time?”
“Say six.”
“Six.”
“See you then.” She turned and walked off toward the high school. She moved gracefully, like a dancer. It reminded him. The first time he met Julia, they’d done swing. He was the worst dancer ever, but in her arms that night he felt like Astaire.