Authors: Rochelle Krich
“You're a reporter.” She cocked her head. “I don't remember seeing you before. Are you with the
Chronicle
?”
The local paper. “I freelance. Apparently, there's real friction between the two sides.”
“I wouldn't call it
friction.
” Her smile was tight, as though she were afraid to crack a facial mask. “People have opinions. That's healthy.”
“According to police reports, a number of homes in the area have been vandalized lately. The victims seem to be on one side of the HARP issue or the other.” I turned to Dorn. “I understand
your
home was vandalized this week.”
A woman screamed. Something crashed. I turned to my right. One of the easels had been toppled.
“You put that there!” the woman yelled at the silver-haired Seltzer. She pointed to the floor.
“It wasn't me!”
Linda Cobern tightened her lips. “Excuse me.” She headed toward the easel, Dorn at her heels. Whatever had prompted the scream was making people keep their distance.
I followed them. Lying on the floor next to the fallen easel was a dead bird.
C
HAPTER
E
IGHT
Thursday, November 6. 7:53
A.M.
1300 block of South Curson Avenue. “I'm gonna kill you. I wanna see blood. Red is my favorite color,” a man yelled across the street at a neighbor. (Wilshire)
“A
DEAD BIRD,” CONNORS SAID. “VERY HITCHCOCK.”
“I think it's a symbol for a Harpy. A plundering bird. That's what some people call the HARP board members.”
“I know what a Harpy is, Molly. In mythology, an ugly, filthy creature with the head of a woman and the body of a bird. More loosely, any rapacious person or animal.”
“I'm impressed.”
“I got a thirteen forty on my SATs. Okay.” He clasped his hands behind his head. “'Splain it to me, Lucy. From the beginning.”
Connors had borrowed a chair for me and pushed back his own, propping his tan cowboy boots on his desk (“table” in cop talk). Even sitting, he gives a tall appearance, and though his face is unremarkable, and he has a significant bald spot on the crown of his thinning brown hair, there's something enormously appealing about him. Sexy, too.
I started with Fennel and Strom, then told him about the other vandalized homes. “Highland, Larchmont, Arden, Hudson, McCadden, Schumacher. There seems to be a war going on between HARP proponents and opponents.”
“Homes are vandalized all the time, Molly.”
“True.” I nodded. “But three of them belong to people who are on HARP boards. Or in Fennel's case,
used
to be. But he's still involved. There may be a fourth, in Carthay Circle. I haven't checked that one yet.”
I was encouraged by the interest in Connors's hazel eyes. One boot came down. “Go on.”
“That's it. Well, except for the bird, which raises the creepiness level. Obviously, someone's targeting HARP board members, and from the escalating violence, it looks like his anger is growing. One of the victims needed stitches. Next time it could be worse.”
“Any idea who's doing this?”
Roger Modine's name popped into my head. “Not really.”
“Ennhhhh.” Connors imitated a buzzer. “Try again. You've spent three days on this. You must have something.”
I wanted to talk to Modine first, but Connors is generous with information. “There's a contractor who's lost projects thanks to delays imposed by the homeowners groups. Some of his remodels have been vandalized. But there were a lot of anti-HARP people at last night's meeting, Andy. Any one of them could have brought in the dead bird.”
“Who's the contractor?”
“Roger Modine. RM Construction.”
Connors wrote that down. “You could have told me all this over the phone, Molly. Why the visit? Not that it isn't a treat to see you.”
I handed him a list of names. “I got this off the Internet last night. These are the members of all the HARP boards in the city. I'm hoping you can find out if any of their homes have been vandalized lately. I need it ASAP.”
“For your pattern,” Connors said.
“And my story. My deadline is in four hours.” I'd worked on the story until three in the morning. If Amy had it by noon, it would run in Friday's morning edition.
He scanned the list. “A lot of names.”
“Sixty. Five members on each board.”
“Do you know any of them?”
“Jeremy Dorn. I met him at the meeting. He's on the Miracle Mile HARP board. And Rita Benton.” The Lemon Bandit's victim. I'd spoken to her and her husband. “She chairs the Angelino Heights board.”
Connors tapped the list against his fingertips. “I'll check into this.”
“FASTRAC?”
“D-C-T-S.”
I smiled. “I'm not even going to ask.”
“Detective Case Tracking System. But there are two conditions.” He fixed me with his I'm-not-kidding look. “One, you don't talk to Modine until I say so.”
I had enough sources without him: Jeremy Dorn, Linda Cobern. Rita and Hal Benton had insisted on anonymity, but a dozen other neighborhood residents hadn't.
“What's the second condition?” I asked.
“You don't mention the dead bird.”
“Why not?” I needed the bird. The bird gave the story edge.
“Because it's a detail that may be valuable if we find this guy. And we don't want to encourage copycats.”
“There were over a hundred people at the meeting last night, Andy. They all know about the bird. Believe me, the bird has flown the nest.”
C
HAPTER
N
INE
I
'M NOT A GOOD WAITER, AS YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED.
And my deadline was looming like the
Titanic
's iceberg. I finished my
Crime Sheet
column, checked the data against my notes and the police reports, and e-mailed the file to my editor.
Zack had phoned when I was out. I returned his call and learned he was visiting a congregant at the hospital. I didn't like the way last night had ended—my fault. I'd been preoccupied with the dead bird, and though he'd said he understood that I couldn't do our nightly phone marathon because of my deadline, he'd seemed distant. Maybe he was annoyed. Maybe he welcomed the reprieve.
Maybe my imagination was working overtime. Zack had dumped me in high school. My ex-husband had cheated on me. So, yes, I'm insecure when it comes to men. Zack was different now, and I trusted him. But
I
was pondering our relationship. He probably was, too. Did he want me “as is”?
With the soundtrack of
Mamma Mia
to keep me company
(I love everything ABBA), I dusted and vacuumed and folded the laundry I'd washed yesterday. Then I resumed work on the galleys. I'd reread thirty pages when Connors phoned.
“Four homes in the past three weeks, not counting Fennel, Dorn, and Benton.” He sounded tense. “One of them late last night.”
“Four more?” That was more than I'd expected.
“I thought you'd be thrilled. Not enough for your story?”
Connors likes to kid around, but he was touching some of my buttons. “I'm not thrilled that homes are being vandalized and people are traumatized and injured. But, yes, I'm gratified that I'm right. Now that we know, maybe we can put a stop to it.”
“We?”
“You. The men in blue.” His attitude was really annoying. “You should be thanking me. What's your
problem
?”
“Vince Porter.”
I frowned. “What?”
“I called him about the vandalism, since a lot of it's in his backyard. He's pissed you didn't go to him. He thinks you're trying to make him look bad.”
I rolled my eyes. “You
told
him I asked you to check this out?”
“He guessed. You asked a lot of questions about vandalism on Monday, he said. You mentioned HARP. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together. And, yeah, I forgot.
Thank
you. Nice work. I mean that.”
“Thanks.” I didn't relish a confrontation with Porter. “Seven homes isn't a coincidence, is it, Andy?”
“I don't think so.” He was glum now.
“What kind of vandalism?”
“What you saw, for the most part. Graffiti, shattered windows, smashed concrete. One woman had stitches. No dead birds, in case you're wondering.”
I ignored that. “Which HARP areas were involved?”
“Angelino Heights, Carthay Circle, Whitley Heights, Spaulding Square.”
“The Carthay Circle house is the one on Schumacher?”
Connors didn't answer right away. “Yes.”
“What's the homeowner's name?”
“Sorry.”
I had the address in my police report. I could find out. “Can you tell me which other homes were vandalized?”
“Again, sorry.”
Sometimes I can push. I could tell this wasn't one of those times. I wondered why. “What about those FASTRAC pages? When do you think you'll have those for me?”
“It'll take some time. I've been busy running these names and following up.”
Something told me he was holding back. Maybe Porter had pressured him to shut me out. “Following up?”
“We've issued a crime bulletin to all the divisions with the names and addresses of all HARP board members. We're talking to Burglary in all divisions with HARP districts. I already talked to Porter. Carthay is his. So is Harvard Heights. Rampart covers Angelino Heights.”
“What jurisdiction is Spaulding Square?”
“Ours. So are Whitley Heights and Melrose Hill. We're increasing patrols and alerting board members. I assume the other divisions will be doing much the same thing. It's a hard line, warning people without frightening them. Which brings me to your story. What are you writing?”
“What I said. That not everyone's happy with HARP, that there's been a suspicious amount of home vandalism, that it all seems to be connected.”
“You didn't talk to Modine, did you?”
“I promised I wouldn't. Have I ever lied to you?”
“Not that I know of. That doesn't mean you haven't. Don't mention that the victims are board members, Molly.”
“Are you writing this, or am I?”
“This is serious, Molly.”
“Exactly. I'm a reporter. I report news. This is news. You said yourself it's not a coincidence.”
“I said I don't
think
it is. What if we're wrong? You print that, you could be panicking people for nothing.”
“What's the downside, Andy? People are more careful? Neighbors look out for each other? Ooh, how
horrible.
”
“I don't want our guy to know that we know. Okay, Lois Lane? It gives us an advantage. If he knows we're watching board members' homes, where does he go then?”
“You're going to stake out sixty houses?” I said, ignoring Connors's question. I had to admit he had a point. Still . . . “I'll have to see how it plays out.”
I returned to my computer and my story, but Connors had bothered me. It wasn't what he didn't want me to write. It was what he hadn't told me—the names, the addresses. His hedging about FASTRAC. I'd attributed his attitude to pressure from Porter, but maybe it was something else. And maybe the police weren't planning on watching sixty houses.
“Walter Fennel's house was vandalized,” I told my computer screen. “So were Jeremy Dorn's and Rita Benton's. Rita and Dorn head HARP boards. And Fennel . . .” I tried to remember what Mindy had said.
I checked my notes. Fennel had chaired his HARP board until a month ago. I phoned Hollywood, asked for Connors, and played computer mah jongg while I waited.
“Did I mention I'm busy?” he said when he came on the line.
“The four other homeowners who were vandalized,” I said. “They were heads of their HARP boards, right?”
“No comment.”
“That's a yes.”
“You print that, and don't ever ask me for help again,” he warned.
“Andy—”
“The vandalism last night? Someone threw a torch through the front window.”
I shut my eyes for a second and sighed. “Was anyone—”
“
Luckily,
the owners had moved out. They're doing extensive restorations.
Luckily,
there wasn't much damage. There are five other HARP board chairs. We plan to watch every one of their houses. We want to get this guy, Molly. But if you print this, he won't show, will he? And next time we might not be so lucky.”
I can tell you it wasn't an easy decision. I agonized for some time, inserting the fact that six of the victims (seven, if you counted Fennel) were heads of HARP boards. Deleting it. Inserting it again. One little sentence, but it made a huge difference.
I asked myself what Woodward or Bernstein would do. What would Ellen Goodman do? Wasn't it my responsibility to tell my readers the complete truth? Or was that ego masquerading as righteousness?
And what about the public's safety? What if all board members were being targeted? Shouldn't they all be warned?
I saved three versions of my story on the computer. “HARPs—Sweet Chords or Discord?” At 11:47 I addressed an e-mail to Amy Brod at the
Times
and attached the version that speculated about HARP board members being targeted, but didn't narrow it down to the board chairpersons. A compromise. I kept the bird.
I tapped the computer mouse, deliberating. I won't tell you it was a portentous moment. It wasn't. And while I'm not a fan of the if-only-I'd-known school of writing, I do sometimes wonder whether things would have turned out differently if I'd never pressed
SEND
. Connors says no, but I think he's being kind.
C
HAPTER
T
EN
Friday, November 7. 7:28
P.M.
11100 block of Venice Boulevard. A woman reported that she went to her car in the morning and found a note on the windshield. “Nice car, hope it stays that way? Still buying lots of beer. Loser.” (Culver City)
M
Y FAMILY AND I HAD FINISHED THE
BIRKAT HAMAZON
(grace after meals) when we smelled the smoke. It curled into the dining room through the inch of open window, and we
realized why the fire engines we'd heard earlier, their sirens
a shrill accompaniment to the Sabbath
zemirot
we'd been singing, had seemed so close. Only three blocks away, we soon learned.
My dad and my brothers—Noah is twenty-four, Joey is two years younger—pushed their chairs away from the table and stood in unison, their movements choreographed by curiosity.
“We'll be back soon, Celia,” my dad told my mom.
He slipped on the suit jacket he'd draped over the back of his chair. My brothers did the same.
“You and the boys should take coats, Steven,” she called as they hurried out of the room, her smile a half reproach. She removed the cream-colored lace mantilla from her shoulder-length chestnut brown hair and folded it.
“Where are they going?” Bubbie G asked, searching my face with her once-bright blue eyes.
“To see where the fire is.”
Bubbie harrumphed.
“Nahrishkeit.”
Silliness.
She pushed herself out of her chair and, using her cane, walked toward the family room. My nineteen-year-old sister, Liora, followed at a discreet distance to make sure she was all right. Bubbie doesn't like us to hover.
My dad is fifty-six, but when it comes to sirens and fire engines in particular, he's as much of a kid as my brothers. So is my ex, Ron. I guess it's a guy thing. Norm, Mindy's husband, would probably be there. Zack's parents live on Poinsettia near Oakwood, seven blocks away from my parents. Maybe he'd heard the sirens, too, and followed them. I suppose that's why they call them sirens.
Taking a napkin, I brushed challa crumbs off the white tablecloth into my cupped palm.
“He's cute, isn't he?” my mom said, stacking plates.
“Zack?”
“Your dad. Zack, too.” A smile deepened the fine lines around her brown eyes. Even with the lines, she looks younger than her fifty-five years.
I blushed. “Very cute. You picked a good one.”
“I think so. Is Zack coming later?”
“He didn't say.”
Zack usually walks over Friday nights when I stay at my parents' home on Gardner (my Blackburn apartment is about a mile and a half away). We'd talked yesterday for over an hour. This morning he'd called to congratulate me on my story but had to hang up to prepare his Sabbath
drash
—his sermon. Fridays are
his
deadlines. Maybe making plans about walking over tonight had slipped his mind.
“Could be he's tired, Molly. I wouldn't read into it.”
“I'm not,” I lied.
After clearing the table, I went into the family room. Bubbie G was sitting next to Liora, her thinning, short silvery hair a sharp contrast to Liora's thick, glossy dark brown mane; their ankle-length, A-line navy velour zip-up Sabbath robes striking against the tan leather of the sectional sofa. My mom and I were in robes, too. (My mom's was a sable brown; mine was black velour, part of my trousseau, but I didn't hold that against it.) It's always been our Friday night garb, and if you peek into Orthodox homes across the country, you'll probably find a number of women and girls similarly clothed, some of them in robes so elegant you could wear them to a banquet.
Bubbie was listening raptly as Liora read aloud the week's Torah portion and commentary. Even large-print editions don't compensate for her failing vision. I sat at the end of the sofa's
L
and was engrossed in the local Jewish newspaper when the men returned.
“It's a small one,” my brother Joey said, taking off his jacket and tossing it onto the couch. “Two trucks.”
“Don't leave that there,” my mother chided gently. She's been asking Joey not to leave his clothes around for most of his twenty-two years. I would've given up by now. She turned to my dad. “Was anyone hurt, Steven?”
He shook his head. “Norm said the place has been vacant for months.”
“Thank God,” my mom said.
“Baruch Hashem,”
Liora echoed. She's the most pious in the family, and since her return in May from a post-high-school year at a Jerusalem girls' seminary, she's been sprinkling more of her conversation with Hebrew phrases.
“I talked to some of the firemen,” Noah said. “They wouldn't say, but I think it was arson.”
I put down the newspaper. “What makes you think that?” I asked, my tone sharper than I'd intended.
“The living room window was shattered. And I heard a fireman say something about lighter fluid.” Noah is a third-year law student at UCLA and shares my interest in crime, though our reasons are different. “You're thinking this ties in with the other vandalisms in your story, huh?”
It wasn't my first
Times
byline, but my dad had bought extra copies of the paper, and we'd talked about the HARP conflict after kiddush. My parents are anti-HARP, in case you're wondering.
“Maybe you're prophetic,” Joey said.
I scowled at him. “Don't say that!”
He raised his hands in mock defense. “Hey, I was joking. Chill.”
He was right. I was overreacting. “How do you know the house was vacant?” I asked my dad.
“According to the neighbors, it's been for sale for some time. I don't know why it hasn't sold. It's a nice house, and Fuller is a great block.”
Fuller. Fuller like the brush.
I felt a knot in my stomach, the kind I get when I'm in a roller coaster a second before it begins its descent. “A two-story on the west side between First and Second?”
“How did you know?” My dad was frowning.
I told them about Professor Linney. “It doesn't fit the pattern,” I said, brooding aloud. “And the vandal already struck in Miracle Mile.”
“Your pattern could be wrong,” Noah said, tentative. I could tell he didn't want to hurt my feelings.
“Maybe.” I wondered how Amy Brod would react if my story was punched full of holes. But the pattern was
there.
Connors had seen it, too.
I stood. “I'm going over there.”
“What can you do tonight?” Liora said. “It's
Shabbos.
”
I caught the brief eye contact between my parents and knew they were wondering the same thing. Since my return a few years ago to Orthodox Judaism, they've been tiptoeing around my religious observance, which is basically the same as theirs. But there are nuances, like this one.
“I won't be long,” I said, not answering Liora's question, ignoring the inner voice that said she was right. I headed for the hall closet and my coat.
“Go with Molly, Noah,” my dad said. “I don't want her walking alone at night.”
“How come you didn't ask
me
?” Joey said.
It was Margaret Reston's house.
I'd never witnessed a fire. I'd written a book about a torched church and interviewed the surviving victims—some disfigured, all emotionally scarred. I'd seen news coverage of fires and their devastation and had found the scenes frightening. But news coverage doesn't transmit the awesome, mesmerizing power of the fire that had engulfed the Fuller house, or the ominous, crackling sounds, or the acrid smoke that made my throat burn and my eyes water. I raised the collar of my jacket over my nose and mouth.
Neighbors were in the street, on the sidewalk. Some, like me, wore coats over their robes. I saw a few yarmulkes, a few women with scarves covering their heads. I looked around and found Tim Bolt. He was wearing a heavy black sweater and had covered his mouth with a black shawl.
I left Noah talking to someone he knew and walked over to Tim. “Do they know what happened?”
For a second he didn't recognize me. Then he did. “You drove Professor Linney here.”
I nodded. “Molly Blume.”
He returned his attention to the house. “A neighbor on the other side called it in. They think it may be arson. How did the bastard know no one was inside? Or that the fire wouldn't spread?” The glow of the fire illuminated his fierce glare and created a halo around his head.
Fire has its own drama. We watched and listened in silence as firefighters directed wide arcs of water at the burning house. After half an hour the blaze seemed under control, although fugitive flames leapt here and there.
Catch me if you can.
Night made it hard to see the damage.
“I'd better go,” Tim said with reluctance. “I told my wife I'd be a few minutes, and I've been here two hours.”
Minutes later—it could have been ten, it could have been twenty—a fireman entered the house. A while later he emerged from the front entrance. He walked over to another fireman and pointed toward the house.
The second fireman accompanied him back inside. A few minutes later they returned. The second man walked over to a firefighter standing near the fire engine cab. Now
he
pointed to the house and shook his head.
I made my way to the fire engine.
The man near the cab had a phone at his ear.
I moved closer.
“. . . told by all the neighbors that the house was empty, and there was no sign anyone was inside,” he said into the phone. He paused, listening. “An old man.”