Ridley Pearson - Beyond Recognition

He had bright red cheeks and either dark skin or a 200-watt tan.

“The last note read, Suddenly a flash of understanding, a spark that leaps across to the soul . Mean anything to you?”

“He’s one sick mother, you ask me. Sparks leaping? I don’t know. You can overanalyze this stuff, you know? It’s some shitbird’s way of playing heavy. It’s a power trip-send this stuff ahead of time. He’s a tease is what he is, but he’s a killer too.”

“It’s Plato.”

“Is that right? Plato? Probably got it off a box of cornflakes.”

“Can I ask you a couple of personal questions?” she said, feeling for the cassette tape recorder that ran in the pocket of her coat, counting on it for transcripts later.

“Shoot.”

“Did you know either Dorothy Enwright or Melissa Heifitz, personally or otherwise?”

“Certainly not,” he said defensively, his voice strained with tension. He looked at her quizzically, suddenly more curious.

“The reason I ask is because it might help explain the threats coming to you-someone who knows you’re connected with the women.”

Garman said brusquely, “Not connected. I never knew either of them, never had so much as heard their names. Listen, I don’t want these things. Have you guys checked with the other Marshal Fives, other firemen? Do we know for sure that I’m the only one getting them?”

“I haven’t heard otherwise.”

“Well, neither have I, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“One of the things Sergeant Boldt has asked me to do is act as liaison. There’s the Arson Task Force investigation, and there’s the Homicide investigation,” she said, indicating one of her hands for each department. Weaving her fingers together, she said, “My job is to help marry the two, now that Bahan and Fidler are so actively involved. We don’t think the weekly meetings are enough, and Boldt is no fan of meetings to start with. He says everything gets talked about and nothing gets done.”

Garman allowed a grin. “I’d go along with that.”

“You’ve worked over two hundred arson investigations,” she informed him, without consulting any notes. She wanted him to know she had been researching his record, wanted to have her eyes on him to judge any reaction. She was disappointed by the slight blush to his neck. He averted his eyes in what to her was an act of modesty. She realized she had lumped all firemen into cocky macho types despite her efforts to avoid prejudging.

“Suspicious fires,” he corrected. “Some we call as arsons. Some not.”

“Twenty-two arrests, nine convictions,” she added.

“Listen, I don’t keep notches on my gun or anything. It’s a job. You quote those numbers, and it depresses me. We only clear fifteen percent of our cases. You guys, it’s what? Seventy or eighty, I think? Vehicle fires are the worst. Last year we lost forty-five thousand vehicles in this country to suspicious fires. Forty-five thousand! Can you believe that? And we wonder why our insurance costs so much! Maybe half my stuff is vehicles. Most of the rest, abandoned structures. Every now and then revenge or a vanity fire.

“First thing I did,” he continued, “when I connected the Enwright fire to that note, was go back through my files. That’s what Boldt asked about; that’s what you’re going to ask too, so I’ll save you the time. I can’t place a single one of those shitbirds in something like this. A couple are still locked up, a couple more moved on. And every one of them was an obvious pour. Gasoline. You don’t convict them on anything less. Every drop of gasoline has its own fingerprint, did you know that? Every batch that comes out of a refinery is a little bit different, chemically speaking. A guy does a pour; we pursue him as a suspect; we find a can of gas in his garage and, bingo! the lab gives us a match. At that point we convict. Anything short of that, they walk. And I’ll be damned if I can make any one of my convictions stick for this thing.”

“Your arrests?”

“Same thing.”

“But why are you receiving these notes?” she asked. Again, Garman’s neck went florid, but this time his soft eyes went cold and hard; he nervously rolled a pen between his fingers. It was not what she expected; she registered that look, not wanting to forget it.

“Marshal Five, I suppose. There are only a few of us. Could have mailed it to any one of us. I got lucky, I guess.”

“Enemies?” she asked. “Anything in your past that might-”

“No,” he interrupted. The pen began to spin again. She used it as a barometer.

“How about your Air Force serv-?”

“Listen!” he interrupted again. “What is it with all the questions about me? It’s this torch we’re after, okay?”

“He’s chosen you for some reason, Mr. Garman.”

“Steven,” he corrected.

“Do we chalk it up to coincidence? To chance? Let me tell you something about Lou Boldt, if you haven’t already heard it. The word coincidence isn’t in his lexicon. It doesn’t exist. He’s a fatalist: Everything happens for a reason; there’s an explanation for everything. These victims?” she asked rhetorically. “Chosen at random? Don’t suggest that to Lou Boldt. There’s a reason, no matter how obscure. And Boldt will find it, mark my words.” The pen stopped moving. “These notes coming to you?” she asked in the same tone. “To Boldt there’s a reason for that. No roll of the dice is going to explain it. And my job is to provide him with a believable explanation. There isn’t a hell of a lot to go on in this one. You are about all he has. Why Steven Garman? he keeps asking. He wants an answer-and let me tell you something else about Boldt: He gets to the truth.” The pen started spinning. “He gets the answers. You want to talk clearance rates? Boldt’s is in the nineties-and we’re talking over a fourteen-year career on Homicide. You want to talk amazing?” The red flush crept back into Garman’s neck, and Daphne knew she had a live one. Like every other living human being, the man had secrets.

“So that’s the question he wants answered: Why Steven Garman?” A thin film of perspiration glistened under his hairline. “I’m asking myself if it doesn’t go back to your Air Force days. Something out of your past.”

Garman swallowed heavily. His eyes were soft again, but they were scared. His pupils were dilated; he was mouth breathing.

Talk to me , she encouraged silently.

“Nothing I can think of,” he said. His voice cracked and belied his words.

Got you!

She wanted to stay there the rest of the day, to keep working on him until he asked if she were hot or loosened his tie or opened a window. She had no idea what was hidden inside him, or if it bore any real significance to the investigation. People inflated their own self-worth. But she wanted to get at it. She wanted to sweat him. There were a dozen ways to trip him up, but she would go gently. Consult Boldt, play it his way. She said, “You mentioned that you were stationed on a base.”

“It isn’t relevant. Seriously. It was-what? — nine, ten years ago. The world changes a lot in ten years.”

“You were married then,” she said, adding a little tug to the hook.

Garman’s eyes went to glass. If the pen had been a pencil it might have snapped between his powerful fingers. He glanced away, then back at her, then away again, unable to decide where his eyes should light. There was anger concealed within him. Rage. Its bubbles broke the surface, indicating the roiling boil below. “Exactly what is the purpose of this meeting?” he inquired tightly.

Instinctively, she switched off the role of interrogator. She had more than enough to present to Boldt. To push further without backup, without surveillance in place, would be a mistake. Garman was a suspect. She felt a flood of hot, almost sexual energy pass through her chest and through her pubis and down to her toes. “The purpose of this meeting was to get to know each other, that’s all. I have the jump on you in that regard. Sorry if it came off as the third degree. Product of the profession, I’m afraid.” She had saved one last gem, held it in her bag of tricks from the moment he had confirmed his service in the Air Force. Kept it ready, compartmentalized in her mind, one hand on the door. She opened that door by telling him, “The ATF lab believes the accelerant was some kind of rocket fuel.”