A Question of Fire

Chapter 2

-2-

Wednesday - Thursday

Cathy floated through the rest of the night

cushioned by a haze of shock, but the time still seemed to drag.

She remembered standing over a cracked basin in a shabby police

department restroom, making a futile effort to wash the blood off

her dress. Sort of remembered, anyway; her eyes had traced the

cracks in the stained basin as though they might provide a map to

describe her course through the evening. The effort didn't save her

clothes, in any case, but she did get the red smears off her hands

and arms. She'd stared into the mirror for a long time, wondering

if that pale, shadowed face really belonged to her.

It wasn't until she joined several official

types, including a tired, rumpled man who identified himself as

Lieutenant Norfolk, in a conference room that she began to emerge

from the fog. A cup of hot, strong coffee helped. She must have

called her editor, too, at some point. Ray clomped into the room an

hour later, in the midst of her second detailed recounting of the

events of the evening.

He plopped into a chair in a corner, nodded

to her, shut his eyes, and gave a good imitation of falling asleep.

Cathy wasn't fooled. Ray might look like a large, sloppy puppy, but

the mind behind the unruly brown hair and rounded features was

sharp and alert. More than could be said of her at that point.

Lieutenant Norfolk flashed a glance toward

Ray, then at another person in the room, and resumed his

questioning. "Miss Bennett, you said you'd gone out to the garden

to get some fresh air. There wasn't anyone else out there at the

time?"

Ray opened his eyes and looked at her,

raising curious eyebrows. He didn't say anything, but his stare

echoed the doubts in the lieutenant's tone.

"There were people outside," Cathy said, "but

they were all on the deck or close to the house. I was at the other

end of the yard."

The lieutenant swirled the brew in his

styrofoam coffee cup. "You were at the party on business?

Representing the newspaper, you said."

"The society editor was sick." Cathy glared

at Ray. "I agreed to take her place. Just for tonight."

"It's not your regular beat?"

"I cover local government. I’m pretty new at

it, though."

“You just moved here to North Carolina?”

“From Florida,” she confirmed.

"You'd finished your work for the paper when

you went outside?"

"No." Cathy sighed, a long exhalation that

took some of her tension and shock with it. "I was taking a break.

I don't really like parties very much, and it had been a rough

evening."

"The social scene isn't your favorite area?"

The lieutenant's lips twisted into a sympathetic grimace.

Cathy looked down into her cup and shrugged.

"I'm your basic social klutz," she admitted. "And I'd already

outdone myself tonight." She hoped no one would ask for the

details. She almost squirmed remembering some of them. She'd barely

arrived at the house when the lavish sprays of roses had set off a

sneezing fit, and while rummaging in her bag for a tissue, she’d

managed to land an elbow in the solar plexus of Horace Carter, a

prominent and powerful businessman in the city, almost knocking him

off his feet. His gallantry and good-humor about the accident had

failed to relieve her chagrin.

Then there was the cracker incident and her

subsequent conversation with Gary Terril, which had seemed for a

while to reverse the fortunes of the evening. The assistant

district attorney was handsome, personable, charming and had a good

line of banter. Their interchange had lightened the burden of duty

for a while. Until she'd looked up to see the man she'd later

learned was Peter Lowell glaring at her with enough venom to supply

a rattlesnake convention. Worse yet, Gary's wife, Lydia, had sought

her shortly thereafter to stake a prior claim in the gentlest,

friendliest way possible.

Cathy shook herself out of her reverie when

she realized the lieutenant was watching her. He didn't ask for her

thoughts, but shifted his cup from hand to hand a couple of times.

"Tell me about the victim—about Bobby. Everything he said."

Cathy quoted again the young man's words as

best she could remember them, nagged by a feeling of guilt when she

repeated his request that she not give the message to anyone other

than Peter Lowell. Would he still feel the same way now? The

situation had radically changed.

"You got the impression he was afraid?" the

lieutenant asked.

Cathy considered the dregs in the bottom of

her cup. "He was terrified. And desperate."

"He didn't tell you who he thought was after

him? You think it was someone he knew?"

"No idea. He didn't say anything about it.

But he glanced toward the bushes a couple of times like he knew

he'd been followed."

"He didn't say why someone wanted to kill

him?"

She shook her head. "I got the impression it

was because of the message. The one he was trying to get to

Lowell."

"Tell Lowell that Danny was framed," the

lieutenant repeated thoughtfully. "I've got the proof; in the air."

He paused and picked little pieces of styrofoam out of the top of

the cup. "It doesn't help us much."

"No." Cathy looked at the clock, amazed to

discover it was only twelve-thirty. It felt like four in the

morning.

"You'd never met the deceased before

tonight?"

"Never. I still don't know his last

name."

He ignored the hint. "What about Peter

Lowell—you knew him?"

"Not before tonight. We were introduced at

the party."

The policeman wiped bits of plastic off his

suit. "You told the deceased you weren't sure Lowell would come if

you asked him. Why?"

"He didn't seem—I don't know," Cathy said.

"He wasn't very polite or friendly when we met, and he seemed to

have something against me."

"You don't know what?"

Cathy shrugged; she hadn't understood Peter

Lowell's antagonism. "He saw me talking to another man, and he

seemed annoyed about it, but I don't see why that..." She gave up.

The thought wasn't going anywhere.

"You've never met Lowell in the course of

your work?"

"Should I have?" Cathy asked. "The name

sounds familiar, but I'm sure we haven't met before."

"He's a lawyer. Criminal. He's argued a

couple of cases that've gotten a lot of ink."

"I thought I recognized the name." The coffee

was beginning to hit her bloodstream and the fog dispersed. "Was he

defending Bobby—the deceased?"

"Not recently," the lieutenant answered.

"You know who Bobby is, don't you?"

The policeman looked at Ray, then back at

her. "We have an I.D., but we have to ask you not to print it until

the family can be notified."

She nodded agreement. That was standard

practice.

"Bobby was Robert William Stark. Age 22."

"Record, I presume?" she asked.

Lieutenant Norfolk chugged the remains of the

coffee and grimaced. “Dealing drugs. Several years ago. No

conviction, though. He seems to've stayed clean the last few years;

had a steady job in an auto shop."

"Married?"

"No, but there's a girlfriend. She's seven

months pregnant."

"Lord."

"Yeah," he agreed. "It's going to be kind of

tough on her."

Cathy sat up straighter as another thought

occurred to her. "Do you know who Danny is?"

Norfolk looked at her, then at Ray as though

debating how much to tell them. "Daniel Wayne Stark is Bobby's

brother. He's next door, waiting trial."

"Charges?"

"Arson and murder."

"Arson?"

"Remember the fire at the old Youngblood

apartments a couple of weeks ago? Danny Stark was found unconscious

on the premises with gasoline on his hands and a cigarette lighter

in his pocket."

"Unconscious?"

"The place was old. Had a lot of wood in it.

We figure it must've blazed quicker than he'd anticipated. A beam

fell on him while he was trying to get out."

"A man was killed in that fire," Cathy

remembered.

"That's why we've got a murder charge."

"But Bobby said he had proof his brother was

innocent."

Norfolk frowned at her. "He came to us last

week and said the same thing. Turns out someone in a bar said

something about a fire. Bobby didn't even know the person's

name."

"He seemed awfully sure of what he had

tonight," Cathy said.

The lieutenant sighed and rubbed a finger

along the side of his nose. "Bobby Stark was a forty-watt bulb. He

didn't have a clue. Don't pin any hopes on it, Miss Bennett; the

case against Danny Stark is solid. He's guilty."

"But somebody killed Bobby," she pointed

out.

"Yeah." Norfolk sighed again but didn't

volunteer anything more.

"What's the connection with Peter Lowell? Is

he defending Danny?"

"He got Bobby off a few years ago; I guess

Bobby called him to help his brother."

"Does Danny have a criminal record?"

"Got a record with the juvenile authorities,

mostly small-potatoes stuff."

"No other adult arrests?" Cathy asked.

"One misdemeanor assault seven months ago.

Bar fight. He's just barely eighteen."

"I see." Cathy sighed, feeling the effects of

the evening dragging at her spirits.

The discussion continued for another half

hour, mostly reviewing facts already covered. Neither of them

learned anything new. Ray finally got up, asked if they were

finished, then excused both himself and Cathy, all but dragging her

out of the room. "We have a story to turn in," he reminded her.

Fatigue weighed her limbs, but she dutifully

went along with him and managed to compose a story for the

morning's edition. She suspected, though, that if Ray hadn't been

editing right behind her, the article wouldn't have been

comprehensible.

When she finally got home to her apartment,

the clock said four-twenty. Cathy tore off her clothes and left

them, uncharacteristically, in a heap when she rinsed under the

shower, then dove into bed.

The blare of the phone woke her shortly

before seven. A local TV reporter wanted to interview her for their

early morning newscast. In a sleepy haze, she told him she'd call

him later and hung up, then changed her mind, took the phone off

the hook and buried it under a chair cushion.

The next time she woke, the clock read twelve

twenty-three. Cathy stared at it in disbelief. Earlier, she'd been

too exhausted to bother to reset the alarm. She took another

shower, debated between breakfast and lunch, a semantic question

since she intended to have an egg and toast in any case.

Considering the hour, she decided to call it lunch. Only when a

second cup of coffee hit her system did she begin to feel normal

again.

By the time she was fed, dressed, groomed,

and crossing the gravel parking lot to her car, she was also

working her excuses for being late into a speech that would

convince Ray to give her the time and flexibility to work on the

murder story. Even if she hadn't been so preoccupied, she probably

wouldn't have noticed the dark gray Chrysler pull out of a space

several hundred feet up the lot. Cars came and went all day

long.

The sudden, straining roar of a motor

responding to a heavy foot on the accelerator made her look up.

Shock froze her in place when she realized a couple of tons of

glinting metal and glass were bearing down on her with reckless

speed and careful aim.