The Sepia Siren Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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.”