Tin City Tinder (A Boone Childress Mystery) Read online

  “Close enough. Listen, I need help with a case.”

  “A case of what?”

  “A forensics case.”

  “Too bad. I don’t consult anymore. I’m retired.”

  Abner was still moping about his forced retirement from the university. “It’s a fire case, Doc. A human finger was found on the scene.”

  While the line crackled with static, I got in the cafeteria line. The static was a good thing. It meant that Abner was actually considering it.

  “I’ll take a Big ol’ Burger,” I said to the cashier. “No onions. Absolutely no onions, unless you like me to die of anaphylactic shock in your parking lot. And an extra large coffee. Black.”

  “Onions?” Abner said. “What’s onions got to do with a finger?”

  “No, no,” I said.

  “No, no what?” the cashier asked.

  “No onions.” I pressed the phone against my chest. “And a large Coke, too. No ice. Yes, I want both coffee and Coke.”

  “No ice what?” Abner said. “Thought you said this was a fire case.”

  “It is!” I yelled. “Look, Doc, I’m ordering food. Hang on a minute, before the cashier decides I want my Big ol’ Burger with a side of spit.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  “I did!”

  “You always were a colicky baby.”

  “Inherited it from you.” I paid for lunch and found a seat in the corner. “Sorry about that. I was starving.”

  “You in school?”

  “In between classes.” I told him about the Tin City fire and the finger. “There was a similar fire to this last week in Duck. A sudden fire in a deserted farmhouse. Lots of unusual debris. I'm going visit the Duck site later. What kind of evidence do I look for if I suspect arson?”

  “Arson?” he said. “Hell, Boone. It’s worse than that. You’re looking for a bomb.”

  8

  As soon as the word “bomb,” left my grandfather’s lips, I knew there’d no waiting until tonight to investigate the fire that happened last week. I wolfed down my burger and ran for the parking lot.

  Duck was a wide place in the road only a few miles from Galax. If I hurried, there was time for a quick look around the burned farmhouse there before my next class.

  It took longer than expected to find the house. It was set off from the highway, hidden behind a pine forest owned by Carolina Pacific. I passed it three times before finally stopping at a roadside vegetable stand to ask directions.

  “Who’s wanting to know?” the old man running the stand asked.

  I flashed my badge. “Fire investigation.”

  “Bout time somebody came poking around.”

  “You think the fire was suspicious?”

  “An empty house gets blow to hell in the middle of night. What d’you think?”

  I followed his directions. But when I finally reached the driveway, I lost hope of finding any useful evidence.

  The house looked like ground zero. There was nothing left except a stone foundation and a toppled chimney. The fire had burned fast, and it had burned hot.

  I parked nearby.

  The foundation was twenty feet square. A small house. Built by hand. The stones were smooth. Probably river rock mined from a stream nearby. The back corner was crushed. I walked around to take pictures and found something interesting.

  A crater.

  There was a hole at least six feet deep in the crawlspace. Rubble, chunks of plaster, and ashen timber filled the hole. Mixed with the aroma of burnt plastic and wood, I noticed the stink of rotten eggs.

  Sulfur.

  This wasn’t kids playing with matches. Somebody had set off a bomb. Just like Abner predicted. Just like Stumpy said he’d heard at Tin City.

  I checked my watch. It was getting late. The sun was sinking toward the tree line, and my class was due to start. The search could wait till tomorrow. The evidence wasn’t going anywhere.

  Neither was I. Not until I had at least taken a look around.

  My search path started outside the foundation. It widened in ever-growing circles until it reach a small creek nearby. It wasn’t more than a foot deep in the middle. The bed was lined with smooth rocks like the foundation stones.

  I checked my watch again. I was about to go when something shiny caught my eye. A chunk of metal, uniformly curved and jagged, was stuck between two rocks.

  Still in my boots, I waded over and pried it out. The chunk was the size of my palm. It was cast iron pipe, the kind once use for the toilet stack in old houses. The pipe was covered in black residue. I scratched it with my knife blade, removing carbon and a fine silver power. I rubbed the powder between my fingers and smelled them.

  Sulfur.

  I carried the pipe back to my truck. There was a box of freezer bags in the glove box. I zipped the pipe inside one and used a laundry marker to note the time and location of the find. Next step was to get the pipe analyzed.

  My phone alarm went of. Twenty minutes till my North Carolina History class started. The analysis would have to wait until I’d learned about farm bills during the Great Depression. All things being equal, I’d rather run into a burning building than sit through that lecture.

  My truck was only a half-mile down the road from Duck when Cedar called.

  “What’s up?”

  “Change of plans,” she said. “I need a little favor. For Luigi.”

  “Well, if it’s for Luigi. Because if it were you, then we’d be square, and I’d be off the hook for dinner.”

  “You want off the hook?”

  Oh no, she wasn’t going to catch me in that little trap. “I say what I mean, and mean what I say.”

  “I’ll take that as a no, then.” She sounded relieved. “So. Could you take Luigi to meet his benefactor tonight? My coach called an emergency meeting for seven, the same time as his social thing.”

  “Be glad to. If you can do something for me.”

  “What does this favor entail?”

  “Not much, just take a trip to Stumpy Meeks’ house. I’ve got to get to class, but there’s an item he’s wants me to pick up.”

  “An item like what?”

  “A finger.”

  “Any of his fingers in particular?”

  “Not his. The one he keeps in his fridge.”

  “Boone Childress,” she said with a tone mixed with disgust and fascination, “you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  9

  The new jewel in the Allegheny County Medical Center’s crown was the Ethel Landis Children’s Hospital, a state-of-the-art facility for children. It boasted wings dedicated to birth and delivery, neonatal care, pediatrics, and teen health. It was paid for by a capital campaign led by the Titan Foundation, a philanthropic group created by the late Ethel Bayer Landis, wife of G.D. Landis and mother of Trey Landis, the siren chaser from the Tin City fire and as it happened, Luigi’s benefactor.

  The Titan Foundation also funded student exchanges with foreign countries. Ethel Landis was a world traveler, and she believed that the school children of Allegheny County deserved to study other cultures. Since she couldn’t fly the children to the countries, her foundation brought foreign students to Allegheny County. Luigi was one of several recipients of an exchange grant. The grant dictated he visit the sponsor to formally give thanks.

  “It sucks to be you right now,” I told Luigi as we approached the Titan Foundation office.

  “It is expected.” Luigi was dressed in a gray herringbone suit. His spiky hair had been tamed with a comb and a handful of hair gel. “But thank you for accompanying me.”

  “No problem. I’d like to see Mr. Landis up close.”

  I pulled the door open. Wind swept in, lifting a stack of paper off the receptionist’s desk. The receptionist slapped them down, set a paperweight on the pile, and glared at us.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t know it it was so blustery.”

  “It’s fine,” she lied through her teeth. “Do you have a
n appointment?”

  Luigi pulled out a business card. He offered it with two hands while bowing. “My name is Ryuu Hasegawa. I have an appointment with Mr. George Deems Landis, III.”

  “That’s Landis.”

  “Yes.”

  “You said Randis.”

  “Ah,” Luigi said. “Forgive my pronunciation. My English is not so good.”

  Her English wasn’t so good, either, but she didn’t see us making fun of her accent.

  She flipped the card over. His name was written in English on the front and Japanese on the back. She spent a few seconds puzzling at the kanji. “I’ll tell Mr. Trey you’re here.”

  When she was out of earshot, Luigi asked, “Who is this Trey?”

  “The man you’re supposed to meet. George Deems the Third. His nickname is Trey. It’s an idiom.”

  “It sounds like an object for serving tea.”

  “Or for carrying a cafeteria lunch.”

  We laughed until the receptionist returned.

  “This way.”

  She led use to an office, knocked, and waited. I surveyed the building. Plush carpeting. Maple paneling. Solid core doors. Several large modern paintings hung on the walls. One looked like a Pollock.

  “Mr. Trey’s personal collection,” she said. “He wanted to be a painter, but the family business was his true calling.”

  To the left, I noticed a door ajar. The nameplate read G.D. Landis, CEO Emeritus.The office was furnished with an oak desk and a plush leather sofa. Parked near the windows was an electric wheelchair. A man with silver hair slept in the chair. His head was tilted to the side and resting on a neck pillow.

  “Josie?” Trey Landis called the receptionist from his office. “Y’all can come in now.”

  “Go on in, boys.” Josie frowned at me. “Just don’t touch anything.”

  “Ryobi!” Landis came around the ten-foot-long glass desk with his hand extended. “Come in, come in.”

  Luigi bowed and offered his business card.

  Landis waved him off. “No formalities here, boys.” He stuck a hand out to me. “I don’t believe I know you. Trey Landis.”

  “Boone Childress.”

  “Not Mary Harriet’s boy?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Your mama’s a damn fine vet. My daddy’s got this old cat he’s had since before they invented sliced bread. If it wasn’t for your mama, it would’ve been dead and buried years ago. Truth is, I should’ve put to sleep three times over, but Daddy’s so fond of it.”

  Luigi snuck a look at me and mouthed, Help me.

  “What’s that?” I pointed at a model on a conference table

  “This, boys, is the Sistine Chapel, the Mona Lisa, and the Last Supper all rolled into one.” He threw his arms wide like a used car salesman. “It’s my masterpiece, Autumn Hall.”

  Autumn Hall was a massive mixed-use development planned to skirt the new freeway extension the state was constructing.

  “Market it and they will come. That’s my motto.” Landis slapped us both on the back. “You’re like me, Rudy. Making your own way in the world, I admire that.”

  The receptionist knocked. “Time to go, Mr. Trey.”

  “You got Daddy all set?”

  “His nurses just took him across the street.”

  “Thanks, Josie. I appreciate you.” Landis turned his attention back to Luigi and me. “Boys, been good meeting you. Hate to run off, but I’m expected at the hospital for a ribbon cutting. No rest for the wicked. Take care now.”

  He shook hands with us again. The receptionist showed us out.

  “Nice to meet you boys,” she said and locked the door behind us.

  “That was different,” I said.

  Luigi wiped his brow. He was sweating profusely. “I am pleased you agree. It was nerve reeking.”

  “Wrecking.”

  “That, too.” Luigi pointed to a row of tents set up on the hospital grounds. “Would you like a hot dog, Boone-san?”

  As part of the ribbon ceremony, they were giving away food and drinks. People were milling around the new wing, along with a handful of reporters with microphones. One of the Winston stations was setting up for a remote broadcast. I had never seen so many outsiders in town.

  “Hot dogs?” I never turned down free food. “I could handle one or three.”

  “Yes,” Luigi said. “That would be a good snack before stupor.”

  “Supper.”

  “That is what I meant.”

  10

  Between us, Luigi and I devoured a half-dozen hot dogs, four cans of Coke, and one jumbo-sized dill pickle. We only stopped eating when the vendors closed.

  “Excellent snack.” Luigi patted his hard belly. “American food is the best.”

  “Don’t let Cedar hear that. She’s a hardcore organic treehugger.”

  “She hugs trees?”

  “Metaphorically.”

  “Ah.”

  We drifted toward the ceremony. The crowd was gathering. The TV cameras were rolling. Trey Landis guided his father’s wheelchair to the stage. The crowd applauded, and Landis waved. His father nodded and waved his cane.

  George Deems Landis was known as G.D. or Deems to his friends and God Damn to the men who had done business with him before he found religion. He sat quietly on the platform. A shrunken, knotted hand rested on a sliver-handled cane. His suit was immaculately tailored, but it was his shoes that gave him away. They were orthopedic slip-ons with flat soles. Shoes for old men too feeble to walk.

  When the emcee called on G.D. to cut the ribbon, he tried to stand. For a few seconds he teetered. Then Trey lifted his father by the elbow and half-dragged him to the lectern.

  “Mr. Landis,” the emcee said, “please accept this as a token of appreciation.”

  He handed G.D. a large plaque. He almost dropped it. Trey saved the plaque and lifted it up like an Olympic gold medal.

  “This is for you, Daddy!”

  G.D. waved for him to stop. “The important thing,” the old man said in quavering voice, “is the children this new cancer wing are going to help. Let’s get the doors open. There’s young folks who need helping right now. Don’t y’all think?”

  G.D. cut the ribbon with a pair of oversized yellow scissors. The crowd broke into applause. Trey helped his father into the wheelchair and steered him off the platform.

  I wondered what Ethel Thayer Landis would think about her son building McMansions instead of hospitals.

  “Boone!” Cedar walked up behind me and Luigi. She was wearing a tennis dress. "I have your item."

  "Hey! Thought you were in meeting."

  "Got out early." She slapped a plastic container into my hands. “Don’t ever ask me to do this again.”

  “Sorry. I know a severed finger is disgusting.”

  “The finger? I meant Stumpy’s trailer. Oh my god. And then, he refused to hand it over.”

  I peeked inside, then quickly shut the lid. “How did you get it away from Stumpy?”

  “Negotiation is my forte,” she said with a straight face. “I threatened to dissect him like a rat.”

  “You were not serious?” Luigi asked.

  She gave him a not-so-reassuring smile.

  Luigi offered his hotdog to Cedar. “Would you like some?”

  “Think context,” she said. “Finger plus food does not equal appetite. It equals regurgitation. Don’t you need a ride home?”

  “I will walk,” Luigi said. “My host family lives only one mile away.”

  “That’s a long walk,” I said, “and it’s almost dark. I’ll give you a ride.”

  “No thank you, Boone-san. In Japan, I walk three miles to the train station every day. One mile is nothing. I need to make my legs stretchy.”

  “That’s stretch your legs.”

  “It is the same thing, no?” Luigi wiped his face with a napkin. He ran his hands through his gelled hair, making it spike in all directions. “Much better. Now when Gretchen sees me, she will rec
ognize me.”

  “Because you’re so hard to pick out of the crowd?” I asked.

  “Exactly.” He waved. “See you in class, partner.”

  We waved back.

  Luigi turned down the road toward his host family’s house. His shiny ankle boots were completely wrong for walking. Blisters were in his future.

  “He has a thing for Gretchen?” I asked.

  “Huge crush. Didn’t you notice how he tries to get her attention? Juggling. Drawing her with manga eyes. Giving her little gifts.”

  “Hadn’t noticed.”

  “I am totally not surprised. You pay too much attention to molecules and let the big things slip by.”

  We walked to Cedar’s car, a yellow VW Bug. It matched her sundress.She got in and rolled down her window. There was a tennis racket beside her. “Still on for dinner tomorrow?”

  “Worried I changed my mind?”

  “Not in the least.” She flashed a smile. “My schedule’s pretty full, and I don’t like to change it.”

  “You can count on me. I won’t call a surprise practice.”

  “Sorry to be neurotic. I’m not very good at curveballs.”

  “Some theorize that a curveball is actually an optical illusion.”

  “Hate to break it to you.” Cedar tilted her chin just so. Even sweaty from practice, she looked amazingly kissable. “Lyman Briggs used wind tunnel testing to prove that the backspin on the ball causes it to break, so a curveball does curve.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, in case I need to throw one.”

  “Don’t even try it with me, mister,” she said. “I feast on the curve.”

  Cedar backed out, pulled onto the highway, then sped off. She took the next turn on two wheels. Her taillights disappeared into the night.

  “I bet you do,” I said and looked down at the plastic container.

  Condensation had formed on the outside. It needed refrigeration. I put the container in my glove box and fired up the truck. How did just a finger, I wondered, end up in Stumpy’s yard? Who did it belong to, and where was the rest of the body?

  Abner would know.

  I dialed my grandfather and got voicemail. “Hey, Doc. There’s some evidence I want to show you. Call me back before it starts to rot.”