Burn (26 page)

“I've had some exposure, ” Timms said.

“Firsthand?”

“Close enough.”

“Then you understand what I mean when I say that eventually even I found it difficult to discern which was worse for her: the drugs or the illness itself. I can't say I blame her for choosing the illness. After a point, she refused the medication altogether.”

Timms nodded again.

Lomax waited a moment before continuing.

“I expect Gregor and Barbara must have become intimate before she moved out of the house, ” he said. “Looking back over the years, I can see now that they must have been. In photos of the three of us together, for example. It seems to me now almost as if the photographs themselves have changed. There's another symptom of vanity, Detective. The inability to see beyond your own viewpoint.”

“Or a symptom of being human.”

Lomax smiled gently. “In any case, I do love my wife. But loving my wife didn't make me a good husband. I was inattentive in many ways.”

“I've had some experience there, too.”

“I think Gregor wanted to believe that I knew about the two of them, ” Lomax said. “Even though her doctors eventually recommended institutional care for Barbara's own safety, I think on some level he must have wanted to believe I'd sent her away purely out of pettiness. I expect it would have eased his conscience to villainize me at least a little.”

Timms listened.

“The fact is, I had no idea. Not until a year or so ago.”

“About the time Mr. Tavlin left your company.”

Lomax nodded. “That's correct.”

“What happened?”

“One afternoon I went to Mountain View to sign some renewals, releases, things I'd been putting off. I rarely visit my wife. It tends to upset her, for many years’ worth of reasons that aren't worth going into. But since I'd made the trip I thought I'd see if she needed anything. On my way to her unit, I noticed Gregor's SUV parked around back. I went back to my
car and waited there until I saw him leave. Around dawn the next morning.”

“Ah.”

“I reacted strongly at first.”

“I don't blame you.”

“After giving myself a few days….” He raised his hands. “The truth is, my wife is happy in the mountains. Or she's found peace, which may be the same thing. In any case, I'm not vain enough to claim it's a state I've had any real part in restoring. Outside funding her care and residency fees, that is.”

“You're saying you decided to turn a blind eye to Mr. Tavlin's affair with your wife.”

“I'm saying that I brought myself
not
to stand in the way of what happiness my wife could find for herself, ” Lomax said. “Her new home. Her children. Even her lover. But her lover was right: I
can
be petty when it suits my mood. Possessive, too.”

“I take it there was never a divorce in the works, then.”

“You take it correctly. As for Gregor, I wasn't about to
pay
the son of a bitch to leave.”

“Sir?”

“I have friends in enterprise who would laugh me out of the room if they knew how I do business with those I trust. But until Gregor, I'd never seen that trust betrayed.” Lomax shrugged. “He and I had another kind of marriage, really. It turned out to be a bitter divorce.”

“I'm still not sure I'm following, ” Timms said.

“I think you're following well enough. You're just having trouble believing that any man would mock his own professional reputation just to prove a point. But I did. I liked the idea of using Gregor's so-called integrity against him. Funny how integrity can be so selective.”

“I assume you're speaking about—”

“Our acquisition of LifeRite, Incorporated, yes. I knew Gregor would never stand for it, and he didn't. It would have been cheaper to sack the son of a bitch, but money wasn't the point. When I told you Gregor left the company because of a territorial squabble, Detective, I was telling you the truth.” Lomax patted the tabletop with his palms. “What I didn't tell you is that Gregor Tavlin wasn't the alpha male. I was. And I would have spent millions if that's what it took, as long as I never put another dime in that man's pocket.”

He grinned a sad grin.

“Maybe that's the final truth about vanity, ” he said. “Eventually, it always undermines itself.”

Timms finished his coffee. He turned the empty cup in his hand, rolling the Styrofoam out of true. After a bit, he put the cup down on the table.

“Commissioner, ” he said, “why did Mr. Tavlin come to see you on thirty July?”

“I honestly don't know. I only know that's the day my son learned about Gregor and his mother.”

“So neither of your kids ever …”

“Heather … my daughter … I think she may have known. I'm really not certain. We've never spoken about it. But I'm sure David had no idea. And it was David I worried most about. He's got far too much of me in him.”

“I see.”

“He came to me, ” Lomax said. “David did. After he'd seen Gregor. He'd suffered quite a blow, and I'm afraid it put him on the ropes.”

Timms didn't interrupt.

“My children have great reservoirs of spirit. They get
that from their mother. I know you have a daughter yourself, so I'm guessing you can imagine how you might feel if she comes to you one day with a broken spirit.”

“I try not to.”

“Wise. If it happens, there won't be much you can do anyway. There wasn't much I could do for David. Except what he requested, and I wasn't willing to do that.”

Timms nodded. “What did he request?”

“A meeting, ” Lomax said. “David wanted the three of us to meet. Gregor, and myself, and him. I don't know what he thought it might accomplish. He was … he was troubled that day. I suppose he wanted to interrogate us in some way, and I can't say I blame him, even though the idea would have been ridiculous. I don't think David was so idealistic as to think we might have resolved anything.” Lomax sighed. “So I refused. I wish now that I hadn't.”

Timms nodded. He pondered his next words before he chose them. “David didn't just find out about the affair between his mother and Mr. Tavlin. Did he?”

Lomax tilted his head. “I'm sorry?”

“He found out about the pregnancy, ” he said. “And the … termination. So had Mr. Tavlin. That's why he came to see you that day. Isn't it, sir?”

Lomax sat so quietly for so long that Timms began to wonder if the man had lost his capacity to speak. His tired eyes changed during this silence.

“Detective Timms, ” he finally said. “Please explain the question you're asking me.”

Timms reached across the table and squeezed the man's hand. He didn't know why he did it. But he did it anyway.

“We're going to stop here, Commissioner, ” he said.

“I'm going to leave you alone now. When your attorneys arrive, we'll speak again. It's only fair to let you know that under the circumstances we'll need to approach our discussions a bit more formally from here on.”

“Detective Timms.”

He really doesn't know,
Timms thought. The man had no idea.

It was going to be one hell of a long day.

“I'm going to give you some time alone, ” Timms said, and rose. “We'll speak again when your attorneys arrive.”

He left Lomax sitting at the table the same way he'd found him, gazing at the backs of his hands.

On his way into the head, Timms bumped into another detective on his way out.

Aaron Keene clapped him on the shoulder.

“Congrats, Top Cop. That thing in the newspaper's really bringing 'em out of the woodwork. Good thing you thought of it.”

Timms looked at the spot on his shoulder Keene had touched. He looked at Keene.

“Better go back and wash, ” he said. “I think you've still got shit on your fingers.”

Keene smirked and ignored the comment. “Lomax must really be a fan. So what does the old man have to say, anyway?”

Timms took a step back. He reached inside his jacket.

“Actually, he asked me to thank you.” Timms took out the photocopy of the Lomax letter and unfolded it.

“No kidding. What for?”

Timms shook his head slowly. He held up the letter.
“You're really covering all your bases this week, aren't you, Aaron?”

“Not sure what you mean.” Keene's eyes flickered briefly at the letter, then fogged into innocent blanks again. “What's that?”

“Need a closer look?”

Timms pushed the letter forward. He held it by the top edge, between his thumb and forefinger, right over Keene's smirk.

Then he punched the letter right in the center.

Keene's head rocked back. His eyes went wide, and he grunted. By the time Timms lowered the letter, Keene had already clamped his left hand over his mouth and nose. Blood oozed between his fingers.

Above his fingers, his eyes flared hot.

“You scum-eating prick, ” he said.

Or something like that. Timms couldn't be sure. Keene's words came across muffled.

“That one's gonna cost you.”

Timms leaned forward. “Press charges, asshole.”

Just then, the inner door to the bathroom opened. Vaughn Chester, one of the bulls on Team One, came out zipping his fly. He stopped and looked at Keene. He looked at Timms.

Timms looked back.

Something tugged at the corner of Chester's mouth.

“Hey, Keene. Shit, man. Did I get you with the door?” Chester glanced at Timms. Back to Keene. He reached out and touched Keene's elbow. “Sorry, guy. I didn't even see you there. I gotta be more careful.”

Without a word, Keene jerked his arm away, shoved past Timms, and stalked down the hall toward the water fountain.

Timms and Chester stood for a moment, watching, neither of them saying a word.

“Detective Timms, ” Vaughn finally said.

Timms nodded. “Detective Chester.”

They stepped around each other and went their ways.

ANDREW
waited for dusk to settle before he packed up and walked down to the beach.

He picked a spot down toward the water, past the closed lifeguard station, just beyond the reach of the surf. The air was a few degrees cooler this close to the ocean, the breeze clean and salty. The sand was hot and dry on top, cool and moist underneath.

He dug his pit there, three feet deep and three across.

Andrew spent a few minutes collecting up driftwood beneath the darkening purple sky. A helicopter passed overhead, chopping toward the mountains, where the sky lightened again to a hazy orange glow.

Back at the pit, Andrew used the pages of Larry's masterpiece for starter. He crumpled the typed sheets into tight balls and dropped them into the hard-packed hole. Driftwood next, then the storage unit's patchwork wallpaper, followed by the scrapbook of newspaper
clippings and the videotapes. He held back the sex shop effigy, now deflated to a shapeless blob.

Andrew stood and uncapped the lighter fluid, doused the pit until its contents were soaked. Then he popped the top of a kitchen match with his thumbnail. He dropped the match while it flared.

The flames leapt high.

Andrew sat and watched awhile, elbows on his knees. When the fire gained momentum, crackling and sparking and sending up black smoke, he tossed in the inflatable man. He watched the plastic melt, watched the flames change color.

He remembered the rental agreement for the storage space, still in his pants pocket. Andrew dug that out for the fire, too. As he unfolded the thin white sheet for one last look, the heavier black backing rubbed off onto his fingertips.

For some reason, the carbon on his skin got him thinking back to different jobs from over the years. He thought about all the various structures—all of them built by workingmen—that he'd reduced to insurance money, or warnings, or open lot space in his day. He thought about this fire in front of him. He thought about the one in the mountains up the coast.

It all reminded him of something the miserable prick his mother married had once told him. He'd been eight or nine years old at the time; this had been after the guy had finished putting his belt to Andrew for playing with Mom's cigarette lighter, after he'd finished putting his knuckles to her for leaving it around.

Fire doesn't give a shit.
Quite the sage, he was, after a twelve-pack and a shot or two.
It'll heat this dump or burn it down. You can sit there and cry about it if you want to, but

I'm not going to catch you playing around ever again. You'd better believe it.

Andrew, too young and too scared, had let almost two more years pass before finally proving him right. Fire really would burn the dump down. And the son of a bitch didn't catch him. Mom had been in the emergency room again that night. It had been her third trip in six months.

Now here's what this dumb asshole did wrong,
he'd say. These were his glory stories, the only ones he ever liked to tell. He'd make Andrew and Mom sit there on the couch while he tipped the bottle and recounted his latest triumph on the job.
If he'd wanted to do it right, not get caught, here's what he should have done.

At least Andrew couldn't complain that the son of a bitch never taught him anything.

He sat and watched the fire.