Every dog in Claims was immediately called in from whatever he or she was doing. Every adjuster, maintenance person, lunchroom worker, supervisor, whatever, who wasn't already fighting the fires. Cal Fire and Life had some trucks of its own, but Billy also emptied every Ryder and U-Haul lot in Costa Mesa, and within a couple of hours, trucks were loaded with supplies and heading toward the fires. Waiting like benign vultures by the sides of the roads until all the fire trucks had arrived, and then Billy gave the order to get in there.
So Jack knows that while a lot of the supplies that went to the shelters and to the people fighting the fire was brought in by the Red Cross and the National Guard that day, a lot of it also came from Cal Fire and Life. And when he was standing on the beach thinking the fire was going to blow them all into the water – or worse – Goddamn Billy was right down there with him, working a pump and grumbling that they better get this goddamn fire out soon so he could light a goddamn cigarette.
You have to love Goddamn Billy, Jack thinks as he pulls into Laguna this particular day. He's remembering that night because he can't help remembering that night anytime he comes to Laguna.
It'll happen again, Jack thinks. Here or somewhere else.
He parks in the public lot behind Fahrenheit 451 bookstore and walks down PCH to Vince Marlowe's gallery.
The Marlowe Gallery.
Which Jack thinks is a lot better than some cutesy name like Ages Past or Bou-Ant-ique or something.
Vince Marlowe sells furniture. Antique, expensive furniture. Vince furnishes items to the million-dollar homes with ocean views. Jack's used him maybe twenty times to evaluate losses in the aftermath of the big fire.
Jack walks into the shop, which smells of wood polish.
Place is just jam-packed with old wooden cabinets, desks, tables, chairs, dressers, mirrors…
Vince himself – early sixties, gray hair, a salmon-colored polo over white slacks and sockless penny-loafers – sits behind one of the desks punching numbers into an adding machine.
"Uh-oh," he says when he sees Jack. "Something burned."
Voice as smooth as old scotch.
He gestures Jack into a seat at the desk.
"Do you know Nicky Vale?" Jack asks.
"Know him?" Vince says. "I named my pool after him. 'The Nicky Vale Memorial Swimming Hole.' Oh God, it's not memorial, is it?"
"His wife, Pamela."
Vince slumps in his chair. "Pamela?"
"You really hadn't heard?"
Vince is very wired into the south coast elite.
"I've been out of town," Vince says, as if it needs no explanation. Like, Laguna in August? Please.
"She died in the fire," Jack says.
"The children?"
"They weren't there," Jack says. "Only Pamela."
"They were having problems," Vince says. He mimes a glass tilting toward his lips. "How's Nicky doing?"
"He's concerned about his furniture."
Jack hands Vince a copy of Nicky's inventory and asks, "Could I buy some of your time to take a look at this, tell me if the values are in line?"
Vince scans the pages. Says, "I'll run it in detail, but I can tell you right now that they're about right. Hell, Jack, I sold Nicky half of these pieces."
"So they're the real thing?"
"Oh, very real," Vince says. "Nicky knows his stuff. Sometimes I think he spent more time in this shop than I did."
"Not lately, though."
"Things have been a little flat all over," Vince says.
"Did he try to sell you some pieces?"
"Some," Vince says. "Not the better pieces – he was too attached. But yes, he wanted me to buy some of the lesser works."
"Did you?"
"No."
"Consignment?"
Vince shakes his head. "Space is money. It's a business for me. People want to sell when the economy is flat, but of course then no one is buying. You either have all sellers or all buyers, depending on the times."
"How are the times now?"
"Picking up, thank you."
"So you could sell them now."
"Probably."
"For these values?" Jack asks, pointing at the inventory.
"I don't want to harm a customer and a friend," Vince says.
"Are you talking about me or Nicky?"
"Both."
"Relax," Jack says. "If these prices are roughly in line with what he should have paid for them at the time of purchase, we'll pay those numbers. I'm not interested in playing hardball here."
"Then assuming I could sell the pieces, the prices would be a little lower," Vince says. "Call it a market correction."
"Did he try to sell the bed?"
"Noooo," Vince says. "I might have bought that piece for myself. The bed is…"
"Ashes."
"A real shame."
"So run these for me, Vince?"
"Of course," Vince says. "Give me a day or two or three?"
"Whatever you need to do it right."
"Can I buy you a cappuccino?"
Doesn't anyone drink just coffee anymore? Jack wonders.
"I have to run," he says. "Rain check."
"Keep it in your pocket."
Jack gets up and shakes his hand. Starts to leave and then asks, "Hey, Vince, you remember the night of the fire?"
Vince actually shudders. "Who could forget?"
"Did you think it was going to be the end of the world?"
"I don't know about the whole world," Vince says. "I think I thought it was going to be the end of our world."
"Yeah."
The end of our world.
65
Letty del Rio has a headache.
She has a headache for precisely the reason she knew she was going to have a headache – she's sitting in Uncle Nguyen's den talking to Uncle Nguyen.
"From one policeman to another," Nguyen is saying, "I know how these things are."
He's a handsome old dog, she thinks. Full head of silver hair, bright eyes, a glow to the skin. Maybe thirty pounds overweight, but it looks good on him. Nice clothes, too – a plum Calvin Klein polo over a pair of white slacks.
"Then perhaps you can help me," she says.
"Difficult," he says. "These cases are difficult."
"Very difficult."
She finds it distracting that Nguyen is looking over her shoulder. The Angels are on television. Edmonds is up in the eighth with one out and a man on base.
Id rather be watching the game, too, she thinks.
"Tranh and Do?" Nguyen asks.
"Tranh and Do."
For like the seventh friggin' time.
"Missing?" he asks.
Her head feels like someone's drawing needles through her ears.
"Missing," Letty says.
"Who reported them missing?" Nguyen asks.
"Tommy Do's mother."
Nguyen watches Edmonds take a called strike, mulls over the call for a while, then says, "Tommy Do's mother."
Letty thinks maybe she has a brain hemorrhage. She turns around, lowers the volume on the television and says, "Uncle Nguyen, can we cut through the shit?"
Nguyen smiles. "Two cops? Two cops should be able to cut through the shit."
"Good," Letty says. "Then stop jerking my chain. And please stop repeating everything I say. I know you run everything around here. I know that nobody as much as pees in Little Saigon unless they ask you first if they can unzip their fly. I know this, so you don't have to prove anything to me. Okay?"
Nguyen nods his head in acknowledgment.
"So I know that you have to know something about these two boys."
"They are neighborhood boys."
"They were connected with a chop shop-"
"Chop shop?"
"Oh, come on," Letty says. "Look, I arrested five boys this afternoon who pretended they never heard of Tranh and Do when I know damn well that Tranh and Do worked there."
This is not news to Nguyen, who was informed of the raid before Letty even left the chop shop. Nguyen is royally pissed that one of his shops got busted and that he loses that income and has to spring for bail for an entire covey of young incompetents.