Combustion

  Combustion

  Martin J. Smith

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Martin J. Smith

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition September 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-919-1

  Also by Martin J. Smith

  The Memory Series

  Time Release

  Shadow Image

  Straw Men

  The Disappeared Girl

  For Molly Boulware

  1

  The closing credits were still scrolling up the screen of Starke’s iPad when his cell phone jolted him straight up in bed. What time had he finally fallen asleep? He scanned the darkness for some sign of the time.

  His phone chirruped again, like a cricket trapped somewhere in his one-bedroom cave. Where’d he left it? He moved the tablet to the side, slid his feet off the twin mattress and onto the worn carpet, and stood with a riotous popping of cartilage. He was naked. The compressor of his window air-conditioner had been busted for months. Since the apartment was above the Suds-Your-Duds laundromat on the ground floor, the dryer vents leaked warm, moist air through the ductwork. It was like living in somebody’s armpit, but he just hadn’t had the energy to move, or do anything besides work, since Rosaleen.

  Chirrup.

  The pocket of his jeans? He found them draped over the single folding chair in his kitchen, but no phone. He glanced at the microwave clock. Nothing good could come of a phone call at 4:43 in the morning.

  The third ring drew him to the counter, where the phone glowed beside his Toast-R-Oven. He unplugged it from its charger and carried it to the refrigerator, opening the fridge door to enjoy the cool air. Good thing he wasn’t hungry. Not much you can do with condiments and half a sixer of Newcastle.

  He cleared his throat and answered. “Ron Starke.”

  Donna Kerrigan’s voice brought him fully awake, like a nearby screech of brakes or a late-night smoke alarm.

  “He’s dead,” she said.

  Starke reached for a Newcastle and pried off its cap. Man, it was hot. “A cheerful good morning to you as well, Chief Kerrigan.”

  “I know it’s early, but I need you at the morgue.”

  “You’re sure it’s him?”

  “Ninety percent. I want a fast start on this.”

  Starke had a flickering thought: TV news would be all over the story, and Paul Dwyer’s family shouldn’t find out that way. While he was no fan of Shelby Dwyer, the new widow deserved better. He took a long pull, certain the delay was spiking the blood pressure of a woman whose smile he had yet to see during her first few months as his boss. She was a puzzle.

  Finally: “OK, what do we know so far?”

  “Body dump. In one of the ponds where they’re building that residential tract, the big one—Villa Cordero, I think it’s called.”

  One of Dwyer’s own developments, Starke thought. Interesting.

  “Some high school kids partying up there last night found him,” Kerrigan said. “Condition puts DOD at weeks, not days, meaning he’s been dead since right after he disappeared. That’s all we know at the moment. But you need to roll now. They’re waiting for you to start the exam.”

  “The notification?” Starke said. “They have a daughter, a teenager. Somebody needs to tell Mrs. Dwyer soon.”

  “Agreed.”

  He remembered the unexpected note Shelby had written him two years before. It hadn’t helped. But given their complicated history, he’d appreciated the gesture.

  “I’ll swing by their house on my way to the morgue,” he said.

  “No.”

  He waited a long moment for Kerrigan to elaborate. She didn’t. “What’s the media situation?” he said at last.

  “I’m sure they heard the radio traffic.”

  “Then I really think someone needs to—”

  “I’ll go,” Kerrigan said. “You need to be there for the exam. I can handle the notification. Widow’s name again?”

  “Shelby.”

  Starke pressed the cold bottle to his forehead, then dumped the rest of the brown ale into the sink. He set the empty bottle on the counter. Kerrigan was probably right. He needed to be there for the initial examination of Paul Dwyer’s body. For a lot of reasons, he also wanted to handle the notification, to look into Shelby Dwyer’s eyes at the moment she heard the news for any sort of tell. Both things needed to be done now, and he couldn’t be in two places at once.

  “Just—don’t wait, OK?” he said. “Get there before the satellite trucks.”

  “Walking to my unit now,” Kerrigan said.

  Starke hoped what he was about to say wouldn’t sound patronizing, but he didn’t want to leave it unsaid. “This one’s wide open, you know.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Watch her carefully.”

  This time, Kerrigan took her time responding. “You think the wife knows more than she’s saying?”

  He hoped Shelby didn’t. He hoped her husband’s murder was a business deal gone bad, or a carjacking, or a life insurance hustle, or a jilted lover’s revenge. He hoped Paul Dwyer had some sort of secret life that would explain it all and provide a logic for his death.

  Because, more than most, he knew death without logic was the worst death of all.

  “It’s just—” Starke swallowed hard. “It’s wide open.”

  “Never met a woman without secrets. On my way,” Kerrigan said, and ended the call as abruptly as she’d started it.

  Starke closed the refrigerator door slowly, erasing its wedge of light until he was alone again, sweating naked in the dark.

  2

  What drew her to the front door that Saturday morning, Shelby couldn’t say. It started with an improbably hot breeze, as light as a lover’s touch, that stirred the curtain beside her bedroom’s open French doors. It seduced her from the bed where she’d been crying, into her satin robe, into a crackling alert mode. That’s when she noticed the low thrum of a motor as it eased up her long driveway, followed by the thump of a heavy car door. By then she already was at the mirror in the marbled front hall of the silent house, checking the redness of her eyes.

  She opened the door as her visitor reached for the bell, catching the woman by surprise.

  “Oh,” the woman said, finger poised. “Shelby Dwyer?”

  “Morning.”

  “The driveway gate was open.” She stuck out her hand. “Chief Kerrigan, Los Colmas PD.”

  Shelby looked past her. Had Chloe left the gate open again? She took the woman’s offered hand and looked her directly in the eye. “Nice to meet you.”

  There had been other cops in the past twenty-one days, maybe a half dozen. The first two had been women. They’d taken the empathetic approach, sister to sister, trying to coax information from her. When the women came up with nothing useful, they’d sent men, good-cop-bad-cop players she’d found laughably transparent. Now what? This lady cop was less manly than the first two—pretty, in fact, with her auburn hair pulled back and tied with a navy-blue silk ribbon that matched her business suit, which was nicely tailored to the small hips of an athlete without children. The whole executive top-cop package was softened by almond eyes tha
t dipped at the corners, giving her the face of someone who Cared Deeply.

  The lady cop reached for her ID, actually held out the badge and ID long enough that it was easy to read the full text: Donna Kerrigan, Chief of Police, City of Los Colmas, San Bernardino County, California.

  “Where’s Ron?” Shelby said.

  “Ron?”

  “Detective Starke.”

  Kerrigan raised one perfect eyebrow. “So you have a personal relationship with Detective Starke?”

  Shelby just smiled. “Small town. But you’re new here, right?”

  After a long moment, Kerrigan continued. “He had another appointment this morning. But yes, it’s his case. Mrs. Dwyer, I’m—”

  Shelby snapped her fingers. “The Dwyer Foundation. Fall fundraiser, two years ago. You and your husband drove all the way from LA to deliver that wonderful donation. You were talking to Paul.”

  Kerrigan flushed pink, then opened her mouth to answer. Nothing came out. She tried again, managed: “I go to a lot of events.”

  “I’ve got a memory like an elephant,” Shelby said. “Your husband’s gift made a huge difference that year.”

  Kerrigan smiled, but it seemed forced. “Ex.”

  Shelby cleared her throat and waited. Finally: “I’m sorry.”

  “But that’s—I have some news for you and your daughter, Mrs. Dwyer.”

  Something in the way she shifted told Shelby this was different. Donna Kerrigan was working, watching her for a reaction. Shelby caught herself before she could look away, fixed her eyes on the stranger’s with the anxious stare of someone who desperately wanted to know whatever news she’d brought. She bit her tongue and waited. She’d never given anything away, and wasn’t going to start now.

  “There’s a pond up near the new Villa Cordera tract, Mrs. Dwyer. Know it?”

  Shelby untied and retied the satin belt of her robe. “Known Jean and Harv Shepherdsen a long time. That was their ranch. But it’s been years since I was up there. Can’t imagine there’s any ponds left in those foothills.”

  The police chief nodded. “It’s building up so fast. One of your husband’s residential projects, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Shelby nodded. “Can’t build on water, he always says.”

  Paul Dwyer was one of the few locals not troubled by the sparkle-creep of million-dollar tract homes across the remaining swathes of wild Southern California. Development was what most people bitched about here, like rain in Seattle or snow in Buffalo. Los Angeles was caught in a human tidal wave that was pushing the strivers into the inland foothills, where her husband sold them master-planned four bed, three bath, 2,400-square-foot Mediterraneans for two-thirds the median price of homes in the city they’d just fled. “Win-win,” Paul used to say, even though their salaries ended up in his pocket, and four of their Dwyer Development dream homes would have fit neatly inside the house where she and the police chief now stood. But watching the landscape of her rural childhood scraped clean by earthmovers was particularly rough on Shelby, who’d grown up to become the second wife of the man some of her hometown friends accused of destroying their paradise. She’d adapted.

  “We found a body yesterday, Mrs. Dwyer,” Kerrigan said at last. “Adult male. At the bottom of the pond. Looks like somebody sunk it there on purpose.”

  Shelby reached behind her, feeling for the edge of the doorframe. When her right hand found it, she eased herself backward and leaned her full weight against the solid wood. It wasn’t a calculated reaction. She felt suddenly lightheaded. The bottom of a pond? Less than five minutes’ drive from their house?

  “No final ID yet; they’re working on it now.” Kerrigan paused. “You should know—Mrs. Dwyer, we’re proceeding on the assumption that, if this is your husband, he was killed shortly after you reported him missing twenty-one days ago, maybe even before. Right now that’s all we know.”

  Shelby knew this woman was watching her every gesture, waiting, analyzing, sifting for the precise wording she would use for this latest chapter in the investigation file the cops were keeping about Paul’s disappearance. Spouse’s immediate reaction to the news? Spouse’s demeanor in the moments afterward? In the past, Shelby had performed for these official visitors. This time, her reaction was genuine. She guided herself down the door frame until she was sitting on the apron of travertine stone that spread in an elegant fan from her front door. She crossed her legs yoga style.

  “You must think it’s him,” she said. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

  “We’ll know soon enough, Mrs. Dwyer. Are you OK?”

  Shelby nodded. “Who found him?”

  Kerrigan waited a beat before answering. “High school kids. I’m told the pond used to be about an acre, acre and a half.”

  Shelby had skinny-dipped there for the first time, or at least the first time with a boy.

  “Of course, it’s not that big anymore,” Kerrigan said. “Golden Creek used to drain into it, but apparently your husband diverted the creek so he could build out Villa Cordera. So—” Kerrigan paused again. “With no rain for so long, and the creek diverted, the pond’s drying up. Just a puddle now. Almost gone. So that’s how the body was discovered.”

  Shelby looked away. “That’s it, then? It’s over?”

  “What’s over, ma’am?”

  She waved her hand and found herself watching it flutter. “All this, then. If it’s him, it’s over.”

  The new chief hooked her badge over her belt and smoothed the sleeve of her midnight-blue jacket. “If it is him, that’s one question answered, yes ma’am, if that’s what you mean. Nearly a month since he went missing. Maybe now he’s not.”

  Shelby’s eyes fixed on a crease in the concrete. “But you all, it won’t stop. You’ll still have questions, won’t you?”

  “Depending what the coroner finds, yes, we will. We may have a lot more questions. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mrs. Dwyer?”

  Shelby stared across her vast front lawn, where dozens of sprinkler heads were maintaining the illusion of a lush paradise despite the governor’s drought-relief order. How would it all end? How could a life so carefully lived have led her to a juncture as improbable as this?

  The chief of police eased forward. Shelby caught a whiff of good perfume, and for a moment Kerrigan looked like she actually might reach across the distance between them and pat Shelby’s shoulder, or push the strand of fallen blond hair back off her forehead. But she didn’t. Instead, she lifted one leg onto the porch step and set her tanned forearm on her own slender knee. She leaned in close and pitched her voice real low.

  “Don’t leave town, Mrs. Dwyer. We’ll be in touch.”

  3

  Ron Starke peered through the tiny, double-sealed window into the main examination room of the San Bernardino County Coroner. Except for the gruesome mass at its center, the exam area was impossibly bright and cheerful. Riotous spider plants hung in every upper corner to mitigate the airborne stew of alcohol, formaldehyde, and xylene. The only sound coming from in there was the constant trickle of water down the angled, stainless-steel autopsy tables.

  “Today’s your lucky day, detective,” the deputy coroner said, clapping him on the back. “A big ol’ floater.”

  Starke was already fighting one of the monster headaches he got when the Santa Anas were blowing. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was about to step into a cool and verdant glade. “How long in the pond?” he asked, eyes still closed.

  Eckel, the deputy, grinned. “At least two weeks, maybe three. Nice’n ripe.”

  Starke sighed, smearing his upper lip with the VapoRub Eckel offered. He snapped on a pair of gloves and they stepped into the exam room.

  Starke looked away. Seeing the body and smelling it at the same time was too much at once, a sensory overload. He gagged as his eyes roamed the room, from spider plants to Stryker saw to washbasin. He steadied himself on the edge of a gurney parked just inside the door. When his eyes finally settled,
they did so on Eckel and his satisfied grin.

  “I’ve seen that shade of green before,” Eckel said, “but never on someone’s face.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, and gagged again.

  Eckel’s grin got wider, and he flared his nostrils. “He sure smells like a developer.”

  “Stop. Just show me what you’ve got.”

  What they found on the table looked like a smallish Macy’s parade float, the result of what happens when a submerged human body fills with the off-gasses of decay. The body’s face was a tight mask of swollen tissue, puffed and unrecognizable. Bits of moss and mud clung to the hair like stubborn crabgrass. But that wasn’t what most interested Starke. He stepped in for a closer look at what appeared to be a large portable TV, its busted screen a maw of jutting glass shards. Besides the bloated body, it was the biggest single item on the table. A length of plastic-coated steel cable had been looped through its carrying handle, looped again around the body’s neck, then fastened with what looked like a combination lock.

  Eckel nudged Oswaldo, his assistant, who’d done the prep work for the initial exam. “I could be wrong,” he said, pointing to the unorthodox anchor, “but this may suggest foul play.” He turned to Starke. “‘Like a midget at a urinal, he was gonna have to stay on his toes.’”

  Starke recognized the paraphrased quote right away. “Frank Drebin. Naked Gun 33⅓: The Final Insult. Nice pull, Eck.”

  He’d worked with the pair on other cases. They were jesters on the most macabre imaginable stage, but he appreciated their exuberance. In Oswaldo’s case, it was especially incomprehensible, because he wasn’t salaried, just a $15-an-hour lackey. But not even the rankest chores seemed to dampen his enthusiasm.

  “Thanks,” Eckel said. “I know you’re a connoisseur of fine cinema.”

  Starke nodded to the TV. “So what am I looking at here?”