Alvarez and her crew were acting, they must already suspect arson.
But she couldn’t keep Mick away, and she owed it to him to find out whatever she could.
So Cat drove the rental car, with Mick riding shotgun and Grace in back. As they turned onto Coral Way, Grace smelled the smoke. Where Mick’s corner studio had been was a mass of charred beams and broken glass. Water left over from the firehoses pooled and dripped. Tendrils of smoke drifted up out of the sodden, burned mess. A palm tree that had filled the two-story bank of studio windows was nothing but a burned stump, its pot cracked and leaking water and soot.
As the three of them gaped at the wreckage, a woman in a pink peignoir clapped over to them in silver mules. Her unnaturally red hair was in curlers, a gauzy yellow scarf tied around them. Grace had met Rose de la Crem the night before; she was one of the artists with studio space in the same building as Mick. Her prominent brow ridge and masculine feet revealed the gender of her birth. But other than that, the transformation to woman was a convincing one.
“Mick!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Mick.” She wrapped her arms around him.
The four of them gazed at the burned structure, one whole exterior wall now gone, the studio’s remnants exposed to the full moon’s judgment.
“I’m the one who called nine-one-one,” explained Rose. “I smelled the smoke. Oh, God, Mick. Donnie. I can’t believe it. At first the cops thought he was you—but I told them you were at the party. They found Donnie’s ID bracelet on him.”
Grace remembered that Donnie was diabetic. He wore a Medic Alert bracelet, which would have made his identification easy, no matter the condition of the body.
Sergeant Alvarez was on the scene, chatting with the fire marshal. Grace sidled toward them and stood within earshot. She heard the word “accelerant” several times. She waited for a break in their conversation and then moved in to talk with Alvarez when the fire marshal returned to the burnt studio.
“Do you suspect arson?”
“That’s police business.” Alvarez began to walk away.
Grace raised her voice to Alvarez’s departing back. “If you do, it won’t be a secret for long.”
The sergeant turned. “If we determine this was arson, your brother is a suspect. He arrived at the hotel after this fire was set. And he has no other alibi so far.”
Grace set her voice to calm. “I believe my brother was the intended victim. If it weren’t for our visit, he would have been working in his studio tonight. The only reason he went to the hotel is because I insisted.” Then Grace motioned toward her granddaughter, who was talking with Mick and Rose de la Crem. “I thought the party would cheer up Cat. She’s been depressed.”
“That’s very interesting.” Alvarez did not seem swayed.
A stretcher was wheeled into view, toward an ambulance. It held a body bag.
Mick went to it. “Can I see him?"
Alvarez blocked him. “I’m sorry, but it’s better if you visit him in the morgue.”
Wanting to leave with a gesture of cooperation, Grace drew the paper with the contact information for the Hineses out of her pocket and handed it to Alvarez.
“Here’s how to get in touch with Don Hines’s parents. Let Mick call them first, though. Please. Give him some time.”
Alvarez nodded and took the paper.
Cat stepped in then, speaking to Alvarez in an authoritative voice, the likes of which Grace hadn’t heard much since Lee’s death. Her granddaughter had been distant and cerebral ever since, and she’d shied away from any case that seemed the least bit exciting. They had yet to take a murder case, and it had been more than a year.
“We’d like to see the evidence reports,” Cat demanded. “We’ll need to see the lab and autopsy reports, too. We’re happy to comply with any further questioning you have for us.”
Alvarez surveyed the trio. “Don’t any of you leave town.”
Chapter
But she couldn’t keep Mick away, and she owed it to him to find out whatever she could.
So Cat drove the rental car, with Mick riding shotgun and Grace in back. As they turned onto Coral Way, Grace smelled the smoke. Where Mick’s corner studio had been was a mass of charred beams and broken glass. Water left over from the firehoses pooled and dripped. Tendrils of smoke drifted up out of the sodden, burned mess. A palm tree that had filled the two-story bank of studio windows was nothing but a burned stump, its pot cracked and leaking water and soot.
As the three of them gaped at the wreckage, a woman in a pink peignoir clapped over to them in silver mules. Her unnaturally red hair was in curlers, a gauzy yellow scarf tied around them. Grace had met Rose de la Crem the night before; she was one of the artists with studio space in the same building as Mick. Her prominent brow ridge and masculine feet revealed the gender of her birth. But other than that, the transformation to woman was a convincing one.
“Mick!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Mick.” She wrapped her arms around him.
The four of them gazed at the burned structure, one whole exterior wall now gone, the studio’s remnants exposed to the full moon’s judgment.
“I’m the one who called nine-one-one,” explained Rose. “I smelled the smoke. Oh, God, Mick. Donnie. I can’t believe it. At first the cops thought he was you—but I told them you were at the party. They found Donnie’s ID bracelet on him.”
Grace remembered that Donnie was diabetic. He wore a Medic Alert bracelet, which would have made his identification easy, no matter the condition of the body.
Sergeant Alvarez was on the scene, chatting with the fire marshal. Grace sidled toward them and stood within earshot. She heard the word “accelerant” several times. She waited for a break in their conversation and then moved in to talk with Alvarez when the fire marshal returned to the burnt studio.
“Do you suspect arson?”
“That’s police business.” Alvarez began to walk away.
Grace raised her voice to Alvarez’s departing back. “If you do, it won’t be a secret for long.”
The sergeant turned. “If we determine this was arson, your brother is a suspect. He arrived at the hotel after this fire was set. And he has no other alibi so far.”
Grace set her voice to calm. “I believe my brother was the intended victim. If it weren’t for our visit, he would have been working in his studio tonight. The only reason he went to the hotel is because I insisted.” Then Grace motioned toward her granddaughter, who was talking with Mick and Rose de la Crem. “I thought the party would cheer up Cat. She’s been depressed.”
“That’s very interesting.” Alvarez did not seem swayed.
A stretcher was wheeled into view, toward an ambulance. It held a body bag.
Mick went to it. “Can I see him?"
Alvarez blocked him. “I’m sorry, but it’s better if you visit him in the morgue.”
Wanting to leave with a gesture of cooperation, Grace drew the paper with the contact information for the Hineses out of her pocket and handed it to Alvarez.
“Here’s how to get in touch with Don Hines’s parents. Let Mick call them first, though. Please. Give him some time.”
Alvarez nodded and took the paper.
Cat stepped in then, speaking to Alvarez in an authoritative voice, the likes of which Grace hadn’t heard much since Lee’s death. Her granddaughter had been distant and cerebral ever since, and she’d shied away from any case that seemed the least bit exciting. They had yet to take a murder case, and it had been more than a year.
“We’d like to see the evidence reports,” Cat demanded. “We’ll need to see the lab and autopsy reports, too. We’re happy to comply with any further questioning you have for us.”
Alvarez surveyed the trio. “Don’t any of you leave town.”
Chapter
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