Ashes to Ashes cover

Copyright © 1988 by Mary Monica Pulver. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

The phone burred softly, just as the cattle stampede was really getting out of hand. It burred again and Zak reached for it without taking his eyes off the TV screen. John Wayne was galloping headlong after the lead animals, trying to turn the herd.

“Yeah,” Zak said into the receiver.

“We’ve got a request for a ten-fifty at 901 East Baron,” said a woman’s brisk voice.

Zak straightened and glanced at his watch. Quarter to midnight; another fifteen minutes and they’d've called Ron. “Okay,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

His wife looked up from her needlepoint as he hung up the phone. “Where is it?” she asked, knowing what.

“Over on East Baron. Warehouse district.”

She nodded, relaxing a little. No bodies piled up in a hallway this time. “Better put on a sweater; it’s cool out tonight.”

He went upstairs, a short, broad man in his late fifties with graying brown hair, a droopy mustache, and dark, tame eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. He changed his house shoes for steel-toed lace-ups, then pulled a thick gray sweater over his flannel shirt. He took a metal box out of the back of a dresser drawer, unlocked it, lifted out a clip-on holster and an aluminum-frame Colt Agent revolver. He fitted the holster to the back of his belt, and tucked the gun into it. He was zipping up a hip-length jacket as he came back down the stairs.

She waited at the bottom with his big Thermos. “Be careful, dear,” she said.

“I will,” he said, offering his cheek for a kiss, and went out the door to his little Datsun.

Zak skirted the small downtown area, turned onto Baron and east toward a cluster of warehouses. As he approached, he noted a haze of smoke in the air and then the sharp stink of burning building. He slowed, pulled to the curb to look. Ahead was a single story building with smoke boiling up and outward from the roof, window openings at one end glowing. The building was old, half a block long, divided into four stores. The biggest store, Crazy Dave’s TV and Appliance, on the end, was well alight. It looked as if two alarms had been called, and the place was busy with pumper and ladder companies: red lights flickering, spots lighting the building’s face, pumper engines roaring. There was virtually no wind, but the fire appeared to have gotten a running start on the fire fighters.

Zak leaned over sideways to punch the glove box open. He reached in for a pad of graph paper and a soft pencil. When he straightened he saw a pair of firemen smashing the window of Tell the World T-Shirts next to the appliance store. As the window broke, a large gout of gray smoke was released. A team swinging axes was on the roof of the Bear Foot sporting shoe store. As Zak watched, orange flame leaped up between them. So Say It Again Used Books on the end probably only appeared untouched. Zak grunted, tucked the pencil away in a pocket. He got out of his car, went around to the back and put the tablet on the roof. He opened the rear hatch and fumbled out the big boots and yellow rubber coat of a fireman.

Zak buckled himself into the coat, and reached back into the trunk for a red fireman’s helmet. A several-layered scream of approaching sirens said a third alarm had been called in. He rolled the tablet and put it into his coat pocket as he walked slowly toward the burning building, noting the windows in the appliance store had broken outward, that the smoke roiling out and up was dark in color, that pale hoses tumescent with water led into it. He pulled the strap of his helmet under his chin, looked for and found the white hat that marked the Battalion Chief, counted the number of citizens–nine–who had braved the hour and November chill to stand and watch. A police officer was standing in front of them, and they were all watching a ladder-pipe being cranked up. The firemen on the roof were climbing down.

Zak angled across Baron Avenue and continued up Ninth. There was a pumper near the alley, and another behind it; fat five-inch hoses linked them to a hydrant at the curb and pale snakes of smaller hoses intertwined from them up the block and into the alley. He’d heard fourth alarm trucks arriving, not third.

A squad car blocked the street near the corner, lights blinking–not that there was any traffic to divert. A fierce dance of reflected flame lit the windows of a big old warehouse across the alley from the burning building; the fire was leaping through a double doorway and a small window in the burning building, scattering light up the face of the warehouse.

He retraced his steps to Baron, angled across again, and stopped on the corner to watch. The ladder-pipe spat once, hugely, then began pouring its thick “master stream” of five hundred gallons per minute onto the roof. The spectators made appreciative noises.

The policeman turned and saw Zak and gestured at him to cross, but Zak shook his head. One of a pair of women in bowling jackets said, “This is a serious fire, isn’t it?” The fire engines’ roar enveloped her voice, made it flat

“Yes, ma’am; I’m afraid it is. Was it already burning when you got here?

“Yeah, but not as bad as it is now.”

“Were you the first spectators to arrive?”

“Huh-uh, but we were next. We were on our way home from the League Night banquet, but decided to stop awhile. I didn’t know you went right into a place that’s on fire. I thought you stood outside to spray water.”

“And they broke the door down to get into that shoe store,” said the other woman. “Is that legal?”

“Yes, ma’am. Who was already here when you arrived?”

The second woman pointed at the trio of businessmen next to her.  “They were.”

Seeing themselves pointed out, the trio came around the bowlers and stood in the gutter facing Zak, engulfing him in a cloud of alcohol. One said, “Yah, we seen the whole thing, right, guys?” and they all agreed they’d seen the whole thing.

“Were you the first to arrive?”

“You bet,” said the man proudly. “We followed the fire trucks. Saw them barrelin’ along an’ followed. Very interestin’ to see how fast they set up.”

“Would you mind telling me your name?” asked Zak.

“Me? Why?” asked the nodder, abruptly suspicious.

“Because I’ll be investigating this fire, and you may be able to tell me something of value. But I won’t know until I can go in for a look; so rather than ask you to wait around, perhaps for hours, I’ll take your names and phone numbers and call you if I need to talk to you.”

“Oh. Sure, why not?”

Zak reached for his paper and pencil. The men gave their names and said they were computer marketing reps, in town for a regional seminar. They all agreed Zak could call and leave a message at their motel if he had any questions.

Zak also took the names of the lady bowlers and four college sophomores, one of whom was finding the scene totally awesome.

Zak put the notepad back in his pocket and crossed the street, bound for a pair of firemen in white helmets. Here the engine noise was louder, and the two were bending in turn toward one another’s shoulder, shouting an exchange of information. As Zak stepped up on the sidewalk near them, one nodded in comprehension, clapped the other on the shoulder and climbed into the back of a big van, which was the department’s newest acquisition, a mobile command post.

The other, preferring to supervise out in the open, stepped back into the street for a look at the master stream drenching the roof.

Zak followed. “You sent for me, sir?” he shouted politely. The man, much bigger and taller than Zak, started. “Oh, hi, Zak! When did you get here?”

“A couple of minutes ago! Is it as bad as it looks?”

“Worse!” Battalion Chief Tellerman said gloomily. “I think we’re going to lose the whole building! Here, let’s get back where we can talk!” He led the way up the street, to a place away from the burning building, then turned to listen.

“Where was the fire when you arrived?” asked Zak.

“Just in the appliance store. Two fires, back and front, much bigger in the back.”

“Completely separate?”

“I guess not, but linked by a thin line. It was the smoke made me call you. It was dark enough to make you think this was a refinery fire. And when the first team broke in, they reported a smell of gasoline.”

“Damn. Are you close to knocking it down?”

“In the appliance store, maybe. In another twenty minutes.” Tellerman smiled down at Zak. “How about you lend a hand while you’re waiting? I’ve got a spare air bottle.”

Zak grinned back up, his droopy mustache lifting to display small, square teeth. Tellerman was teasing, of course. Years of eating smoke had damaged Zak’s lungs. When his heart had begun complaining of the extra work, they’d offered him the job of arson investigator to hold him until he could retire, which would be next year. But it was kindly teasing, a way of saying, I know you’re still a fireman, that you remember how. “No, thanks. I’ll check in with the Deputy Chief. Then can I come back and talk to you some more?”

“Sure. I’ll wait in my car.” Where it would be quieter.

Zak found the Deputy Chief busy and distracted in the command post, so he merely announced his presence on the scene. The man waved over his shoulder in acknowledgment; Zak closed the door and climbed back down.

Tellerman’s official red sedan was parked kitty-corner from the burning building, engine running, heater on. Zak climbed into the passenger side of the front seat and produced his pad of graph paper. “You must have put in a call for me as soon as you arrived,” he said.

Tellerman had removed his white hat and unbuckled his coat, but was still a massive presence in the car. He consulted his watch. “Yep, I’d make that about forty minutes ago.”

Zak noted the estimation of time. “How did you get into the building?” he asked.

“Front and back doors of the appliance store,” said Tellerman. “Both locked.”

“Any sign of forced entry?”

“One small windowpane broken in back. Snap lock, you can reach it from the window. Talk to Breck; he led the handline in back there, and reported the window.”

“But it’s a double door, isn’t it?”

“Double width, but just the one door. I went back for a look myself.”

“Other windows intact when you arrived?”

“The front windows blew outwards just as we got here. Apart from the window in back, that’s all there is.”

“What about the other stores?”

“You’ll ask, of course, but I didn’t see any sign of a break-in, and no one else has said anything. They broke into the appliance store, Zak, must have. You can’t get from one store to the other from inside, and the fire started in the appliance store. But once it got up into the attic, it just ran along and fell into the other stores and spread all through them. Not a thing we could do to stop it. There’s not a wall in the place that’d slow a fire down for more than fifteen minutes. No firewalls, no sprinklers, and a common cockloft–my favorite recipe for losing a building.”

“Anyone inside?”

“No, thank God.”

“Was there anyone around outside when you arrived?”

“Huh-uh. There was a carload that must’ve followed us. But nobody already here having multiple orgasms over the flames, if that’s what you’re hoping. And no guilty-looking car speeding off, either. No traffic at all, in fact.”

“Who cut the utilities?”

“Breck, I think. He found the boxes.”

“Who turned in the alarm?”

“It came in on the 911 number. We got a report of flames in the warehouse, but it turned out it was the store. Reflection of flames in the windows.” Zak nodded, remembering how real the reflected flames had looked when he’d walked down Ninth.

“You’re sure the fire started in the appliance store?”

“It was going very well in there with no sign of it anywhere else when we arrived.”

“You said black smoke?”

“And your characteristic dark red flames, and this fire was a real boomer.”

The big walkie-talkie on top of the dash said, “Tellerman?”

Tellerman picked it up. “Yes, Chief?”

“The owner of the building, David Wagner, has arrived. He’s asking to speak to someone in charge.”

“Ten-four,” said Tellerman with a sigh. He said to Zak, “You’ve heard of him, no doubt.”

Zak frowned. “Have I?”

“He’s Crazy Dave, remember? The guy who did those wild radio commercials a few years ago. He sold stereo equipment for weird prices, like ninety-seven dollars and twenty-two cents for a turntable.”

Zak nodded. “That’s right, I remember now.” His son and daughter had listened to the rock station playing those commercials which, for awhile, were almost as popular as the terrible music they sponsored. Funny how something as pervasive as that could almost vanish from memory once the repetitions of it stopped. “I’ll come with you and talk to him.”

“Be my guest.”

Dave Wagner was a handsome man with a strident voice, so well proportioned they were close before Zak realized how small he was. He was standing in the street in front of the spectators, arguing loudly with the policeman that he should be allowed to cross. His dark sweatshirt had a white motto on it, and his pale jeans ended in clean white sneakers. “That’s my place! All my stuff is in there!” he was yelling. “Get outa my way, dammit!”

“Mr. Wagner?” said Tellerman when they were close enough to be heard.

“Yeah! Can you tell this turkey to get outa my way?” The motto on his sweatshirt said Hell I’m Better.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir. I’m Battalion Chief Tellerman. I understand you wanted to talk to me?”

“I got a lot of money tied up in this building, you know. You gonna let me try to rescue some of my stuff, or would you prefer we stand around and watch it burn up?”

“It’s like this, Mr. Wagner. I can stand here and argue with you over the merits of your going into a burning building full of superheated air without so much as a hat for protection–or you can promise to behave like an intelligent person, and I can go back to my job.” Tellerman’s voice was perforce loud, but his tone was gentle.

“So how about in the meantime some of you firemen try saving some of the merchandise? That building’s gone, right? I mean, look at it! But I got some big-screen TV sets in there, VCR’s, and high-quality microwave ovens. We got plenty of sidewalk over there; can’t you bring some of my stuff out before it all burns up?”

“No, sir. Our task is to get the fire extinguished.” He raised a forestalling hand. “Now wait, now wait, we have a salvage man; and he’ll see that as much merchandise as possible is rescued–once the fire is out.”

“Once it’s out– Are you telling me just to stand here and watch my whole life go up in smoke?” yelled Wagner.

“Surely you carry insurance,” offered Zak mildly.

Wagner scowled at him. “Who the hell are you?”

“Captain Isaac Kader.”

“Well, that’s terrific! Now there’s two of you not doing your job! Shouldn’t you be squirting water or something?”

“No, sir, I’m from the Arson Squad.”

“… Arson?” It was as if someone unscrewed a buttock and drained all the fury out of Wagner. Suddenly he was hard to hear. “You think someone set this fire?”

“I’m here to determine the cause, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

“Can I assume from what you just said that you own the entire building, not just the appliance store?”

” … So what?”

“Nothing, except that the owner should be notified of the fire.

Belligerence crept back into Wagner’s voice. “So I’m notified, okay?” He turned his shoulder to Zak to ask Tellerman, “Where’s this salvage man you say is around here?”

“I take it you are refusing to answer any more of my questions, Mr. Wagner?” said Zak.

Wagner turned to Zak. “What are you, a cop?”

“No, sir; I’m a fireman.”

“So what does that mean? You don’t have to tell me I’ve got a right to remain silent?”

“Do you think you need to be warned?  I was thinking I ought to find out what happened before I arrest anyone.”

Wagner shifted to confront Zak, frowning. Tellerman stepped back out of range, and when no one objected, he turned and hurried away. The uniformed patrolman, still recovering from Wagner’s fury of two minutes ago, remained watchful.  Wagner asked, “If you’re only a fireman, how can you arrest anyone?”

“I get a warrant from the county prosecutor,” said Zak, with an air of stating the obvious. “But first I have to find out if anyone needs to be arrested, and I do that by finding out what happened. Do you have any objection to that?”

Wagner glanced at the burning building. Smoke was still choking the broken windows, despite the broad stream of water pouring across the threshold of the appliance store. He made a grimace of disgust. “Hell, there’s probably nothing worth saving in there anyhow.  What do you want to know?”

“How about we get out of the way of the firefighters here? My car’s parked just up the way, and there’s a Thermos of coffee in it. We might as well get comfortable while we wait.”

“Sure, okay.”

Zak’s glove box held a bag with half a dozen Styrofoam cups in it. He removed two, filled one and handed it to Wagner. “It’s decaffeinated, I’m afraid,” he said. “And there’s no sugar or creamer.”

“I like it black,” said Wagner, taking the cup. “Thanks.” He sipped gingerly; the coffee was very hot.

Zak filled the other cup for himself, and leaned back in the seat to look at the fire. The entire building was now involved, despite the aerial ladder’s efforts. “Do you have a list somewhere of just what was in your store?”

“Sure, only it’s in a hanging file in a drawer of my desk in my office, in my store.”

“Does that file come before or after the one with your insurance policies in it?”

Wagner laughed. “Just after.” He sipped again. “My policies are at home, actually. My insurance agent has an appointment with me Monday evening to discuss increasing my coverage. How’s that for locking the barn door after the horse has been cremated?”

“Do you know if there are any code violations in the building? Wiring or heating, like that?”

“No, the building inspector was in early this summer. We had to replace a light bulb in an exit light, and a couple other little things, as I recall. All taken care of months ago.” Wagner snorted. “A freakin’ light bulb, as if that makes any difference now!”

“You were very prompt on the scene, if I may say so. How did you find out the building was on fire?”

“Hell, we were the ones who called you!” Wagner grinned at Zak. “Sounds crazy, right? Just like the old Crazy Davey–but it’s the truth! I was engaged in a friendly game of cards with four buddies and we saw it out a window. Counted the streets over and by-God it’s right behind me—we thought it was the warehouse, y’see. We called 911 and then I got to thinking how narrow that alley is between the warehouse and my place, so I figured I better come on over, and son of a bitch, it’s my place all the time!”

“You saw it out a window?”

“Yeah.” Wagner looked over his right shoulder and pointed. “See those three high rises over there? Summerside Condos. I was in the middle one, twelfth floor, place belongs to Ray Tollefson.” He looked back, saw Zak writing, and added, “The other three were Toby Modreski, Murray Jones and Dennis Baer.” He spelled the names. He didn’t know Dennis’s street number, but gave his phone number and the addresses of the two others.

“You’d all been there some while before you noticed the fire?” asked Zak.

“Oh, hell, yes. Been there all evening. Toby and I had supper there with Ray, then Dennis and Mur came over and we started playing.” He looked out the window at his building and sighed. “Should I call my tenants tonight or try to catch them in the morning?”

“That’s up to you, Mr. Wagner.”

“Is there going to be anything worth saving when this is over?”

“Not much, I’d guess.”

“Then what the hell, let them get some sleep. It’s the least I can do.”

The fire was still burning in the bookstore when Zak sent Wagner home. He consulted with Tellerman, who agreed he could begin looking around.

Burdened with his heavy metal kit, prepared to drop it and run at a shouted warning of collapsing roof or flashback, he picked his way around puddles and over water hoses to the entrance of the appliance store.

There, he stood and let his nose confirm what Tellerman had reported. Sure enough, there was definitely the raw stink of gasoline under the greasy stench of burnt building.  He put the heavy steel box down, pulled the graph paper tablet from his pocket, twisting it between his hands to remove its curve, and fished for his pencil.

The ceiling was partly intact, though firemen from the ladder companies were using long pikes to pull down what was left of it. Above the ceiling Kader could see giant holes in the roof acting as chimneys for the smoke still in the air. Several large, heavy floor lights had been brought in. Their beams cast eerie shadows, piercing the gloom like lighthouse beacons on a foggy night.

The wrecks of appliances were everywhere–except the center of the floor, which had a hole about twelve feet in diameter in it.

Partially burned console TV sets formed an uneven row along the front wall under the broken windows, their imploded screens like eyeless sockets. A ruin of refrigerators lay on their backs near the rear of the store, doors open; beside them, a sextet of stoves looked–in the smoky light and at this distance–as if nothing more than a good scrubbing would restore them. Filthy water stood in pools over what had once been carpeting.

A half dozen fire fighters were sifting debris in a search for remaining crumbs of fire, walking gingerly on the weakened floor and staying well away from the hole.

The face masks fire fighters wear distort vision, and the air tanks are cumbersome, so they are removed as soon as possible. A man working near Zak was snuffling loudly and his blackened face was tear streaked, but his face mask hung loose around his neck.

Zak began a swift sketch of the store’s layout, confirming what Wagner had told him about it. Television sets in front, VCRs, stereo tape decks, record turntables in what remained of the middle, stoves, microwave ovens, refrigerators, towards the back. Small appliances over there, floor and table lamps on this side–he bent and picked up a flap of metal, rubbing it with a gloved thumb to disclose a tarnished, partly-melted brass leaf. The floor lamp it had come from was leaning against what had been a big window fan, and Zak noted its location on his diagram before going back to the kit for a small, empty, unused paint can and a Sharpie pen. He put the fragment into the can, marked the can with the pen.

The appliance store had once been two stores, and the wall between them had been only mostly removed; a ruined partition thrust out from the back. Zak went cautiously to the front of the partition, squatted to note the depth of the charring at its base, looked up to trace the burn pattern where the flames had climbed to eat into the ceiling. He marked the place on his sketch, then squatted to press his fingers into the gunk on the floor. He sniffed at the sample thus gathered; then went back for another, larger, paint can and a spatula, and collected a few ounces of the gunk.

Paint cans were relatively cheap, chemically inert and airtight. They were harder to break than glass bottles, and they didn’t tear like plastic bags. Zak marked and initialed the can, then looked for other significant evidence. He wasn’t being thorough at this point, merely gathering sights and samples that might evaporate or get moved out of place.

Woven-wire shelves on the partition had held telephones. Wilted metal parts stood up around the plastic puddles that had been their shells. Beyond them more melted plastic–radios? tape recorders?–made surrealistic shapes on the shelves. This had been a quick, very hot fire.

A line of char formed a narrow line along the base of the partition. He followed it to the rear wall and through a set of doors to a room where appliances were delivered or sent out. At one end of the room was a big old freight elevator, interior blackened, and beside it a stairway to the basement, its shattered door hanging open, its steps badly spalled. Zak went down.

Appliances from the first floor had fallen through the hole into a jumbled heap in the middle of the basement, and water pattered from a dozen places around the edge of the opening like an unholy fountain. Otherwise the basement was mostly empty. Three refrigerators loomed blackly above and beyond the shattered jumble in the center, and near the back two stoves huddled together like frightened orphans.

Keeping an ear cocked for warning shouts or the creak of disengaging timbers, Zak moved slowly away from the foot of the stairs. A fireman was on the other side of the basement, pulling crumbling boards from the brick wall.

Nearby was a waist-high heap of mushy stuff that might once have been flattened refrigerator boxes. Zak stooped and used his pencil to probe the mush, measuring its depth. It became solid a few inches down, and he used his gloved left hand to lift the mush aside. It was cardboard, all right, and in the middle intact, barely even wet. He lifted an edge; further down it became charred again. He looked around. The boxes had probably been leaning against that wall, falling over after the fire had reached them, to burn again on top, sandwiching the unburned section.

The heaped shape of the cardboard made it appear to be draped over something. Zak lifted it further to look–and dropped it, backing off, swallowing. The fireman pulling down the plaster saw his hasty move and called, “Whatcha got? More fire?” Without waiting for a reply, he came at a trot and used his pike to lift aside the burnt cardboard–then backed off himself, sucking air through his teeth. A new smell wafted into the room, a sweet smell mixed with the stench of burnt meat. “Oh, Jeez!” whispered the fireman. “Oh, Jeez!”