Had he thought I was home? Or had he watched me leave with Martha and sent me a warning? How could Chuck Hanni be that person?
I’d had meals with Chuck, worked crime scenes with him, confided in him. Now I was reconfiguring him in my mind as a killer who knew everything there was to know about setting fires. And everything there was to know about getting away with murder.
But why would a man who was this smart leave his damned calling card in my apartment?
The signature of a killer was actually his signature?
It made no sense.
The pounding in my temples was building up to a five-alarm headache. If there’d been anything in my stomach, I would have heaved it up. When the phone rang at 1:14, I read the caller ID and grabbed the receiver on the first ring. Joe stirred beside me. I whispered, “It’s Conklin,” and Joe mumbled, “Okay,” and dropped back down into sleep.
“You got something?” I asked my partner.
; “Yeah. You’re not going to like this.”
“Just tell me. Tell me what you’ve got,” I half whispered, half shouted. I got out of bed, stepped over Martha, and walked out into Joe’s living room with its night view of Presidio Park, its tall eucalyptus trees swaying eerily in the moonlight. Martha’s nails clacked on hardwood as she followed me, slurped water from a bowl in the kitchen.
“About the book . . .” Rich said.
“You found Latin written inside?”
“No. It’s Chuck’s book, all right —”
“Man oh man.”
“Let me finish, Linds. He didn’t leave it in your apartment. I did.”
Chapter 71
MY MIND SCRAMBLED as I tried to understand what Conklin was telling me. “Say that again,” I demanded. When he answered, his voice was contrite.
“I left the book at your place.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
He had to be. I couldn’t imagine any circumstances under which Conklin would leave a fire and explosion manual in my fire-ravaged apartment.
“What happened is, I got together with Chuck, like you said to do,” Rich told me in measured tones. “We had a no-hard-feelings dinner and I picked up the tab. And I told him I’d like to learn more about fire investigation from him. I mean, he’s the pro.”
Rich paused for breath and I shouted at him, “Go on!”
“We went out to his car, Lindsay, he practically lives in that thing. Pop-Tarts wrappers all over the seats, his computer, clothes hanging from the —”
“Rich, for God’s sake!”
“So, just as he finds the fire investigations manual to lend me, Jacobi calls and tells me your apartment went up. I told Hanni, and he said, ‘I’ll drive,’ and I was still holding that book when we entered your place.”
“You put it down on the telephone table.”
“Didn’t think about it again until Jacobi called me,” Rich said miserably.
“Has Jacobi already spoken to Hanni?”
“No. He wanted to talk to me first. Hanni knows nothing about this.”
It took long seconds for me to sort it all out, put Chuck Hanni back into his role as friend, and realize that the essential truth hadn’t changed. I was shivering, and I wasn’t cold.