Rusty Nail

Unlike the exterior, the inside was an unholy mess. What wasn’t burned black had been soaked with water. Gray puddles (closer to Magnesium than Titanium Pearl) spread across the kitchen floor, each pool several inches deep. Jea

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“Bullet casings. Someone shot at me from here.”

“Do you have any bullets on you?”

“In my gun.”

“Show one to Kevlar.”

I unholstered my.38 and removed a round, passing it over to Jea

“Kevlar, scent.”

The German shepherd sniffed the bullet, which easily could have fit into one of his huge nostrils.

“Kevlar, find.”

She unclipped his leash and the dog shuffled off, snorting here and there.

“Kevlar is one of four dogs in the state’s canine arson unit. I’ve been handling him since he was a puppy.”

Jea

“How long have you worked for the Office of the State Fire Marshal?”

“Seven years. I bring Kev in on maybe thirty investigations a year.”

“Are there many deliberate cases?”

“Last year the office investigated over a thousand. About four hundred confirmed arson. Usually we don’t need the dogs – the signs are obvious, like in here. See how this patch of carpet burned away hotter than that patch? Gas spill.”

“So why bring Kevlar along if you already know it’s arson?”

“He hates being left out.”

Kevlar whined, and Jea

“Good boy, Kevlar.”

Jea

“There might be others,” I said. “Do you mind if I borrow the flashlight?”

Jea

I wandered back into the kitchen, tripping over the curtains that had almost been my shroud the night before. I played the Maglite over the entire room. Nothing jumped out at me.

I crept into the living room, and then the dining room, my Nikes quickly becoming waterlogged. The house had gone from Dante’s Inferno to the Addams family, dark and damp and creepy, filled with long shadows and unpleasant odors. Near the wall in the dining room stood a strange-looking pile, and I nudged it with a wet toe and saw part of a handle.

A suitcase.

I squatted and picked through the cinders. Everything was burned pretty good, but two things stood out. The first was a five-inch flat wire, curved into a half-moon shape. The second was a congealed knot that I recognized immediately by its distinctive smell.

Human hair.

“Did you find something?”

“Maybe. Can you check the cabinets in the kitchen, see if any garbage bags survived the fire?”

“Sure. Watch Kevlar for me.”

More poking produced nothing but ash and melted globs. I’d take it back for the lab guys to interpret.

Jea

I placed the wet bag in my trunk and called Mason.

“How’s the search for the car going?”

“Narrowed it down to six gray Mitsubishi Eclipses with Illinois plates begi

“Send out some squads to visually check the cars for missing mirrors. What about the sixth?”

“Owned by a car rental place.”

She gave me the address, on Irving Park. It wasn’t too far, so I decided to check it out.

The office was typical for Chicago; a tiny building next to a cramped parking lot crammed with vehicles. The lobby was the size of my closet. A stained coffeemaker with a quarter-full carafe sat next to the unoccupied counter. A floor plant, brown and shriveled up, sat in an oversized plastic pot, next to a magazine rack that contained a single copy of Car and Driver and nothing else. I rang the bell.

“Just a second.”

He took his time. I stared at the coffee, cooking away on the warmer, probably since the morning. Against my better judgment I poured myself a Styrofoam cupful. It had the consistency of mud, which was pretty much how it tasted.

Should have trusted my better judgment.

I dumped it on the dead plant. Probably wasn’t the first to do it. Probably was the reason the plant had died.

“Help you?”

The guy was older, several days’ growth of beard on his face, grease embedded in his wrinkles and fingernails. He wore equally stained overalls, and a sewn-on name tag that said Al.

I flashed my star.

“Have you rented out a gray Mitsubishi Eclipse lately?”

He stared, then shook his head.

“Nope.” Then he said, “I did rent out a Titanium Pearl Eclipse, though.”

I bit back my first response.

“We have reason to believe it was involved in an accident. Can you show me who rented it?”

“Lemme get the book.”

Al plodded off, and eventually plodded back, nose pressed into a cracked binder. This time he had on a pair of bifocals thicker than ice cubes.

“Rented it out last week to a fella named Mayer. Mike Mayer.”

“You get a copy of his driver’s license?”

He handed me the book. “That’s the law, ain’t it?”

I checked out the info on Mr. Mayer. White, thirty-seven years old, had an Indiana license that said he lived in Indianapolis. The car was rented for the next two weeks. There wasn’t a credit card receipt. I wondered why.

“Paid cash. I’ve got the card number, though. In case of damage.”

“Where’s that?”

Al frowned, and disappeared again. I spent the time counting the cigarette butts in the dead plant. Nine, plus a cigar stub, a lottery ticket, and something that looked like a Tootsie Roll. I hoped it was a Tootsie Roll.

“We keep the card numbers on file in here.” He set a metal lock box down on the counter and fumbled with the combination.

Three eternities later, squinting through his glasses, Al had found the slip.

“Were you here when Mr. Mayer rented the car?”

“I’m the only one works the counter.”

“A testament to your efficiency. Can you describe Mr. Mayer?”

“Looked like his driver’s license picture, I reckon.”

“I’d like to hear it from your own mouth.”

“Thin. My height. Blond beard. Sunglasses, those kind that look like mirrors. Curly hair.”

He sounded like a dead ringer for the guy who dropped off the videotape at the station. I had a Xerox in the car, and asked Al to wait for a moment. He grunted.

When I returned with the picture, Al was gone. I rang the bell. He took his time.

“Busy day,” he said. “Lots of work.”

I made a show of looking around. “Yeah. They’re lining up out the door for rentals.”

“Rentals are just a side business. We’re part of Ma

“Is Mr. Mayer getting his car repaired here?”

“Nope. Just the rental.”

“Do you get a lot of people who rent cars without leaving one to be fixed?”

“Some. Not a lot.”

I handed Al a copy of the Identikit picture, the one that looked like the Unabomber.

“Looks like the Unabomber,” Al said.

“Is that Mr. Mayer?”

“I thought Ted Kaczynski was the Unabomber.”

He had to be putting me on. No one was this slow outside of HEE HAW.

“Does this resemble Mr. Mayer?”

He squinted. “Yeah. Could be.”

“Anything else you remember about Mr. Mayer?”

“He had a cold. Talked quiet. Did some coughing.”