Finding Isadora(53)

“Made by a client. That barter system we were talking about the other night.”

“Is the design a thunderbird?”

When he nodded, I recalled what I knew about Pacific Northwest native art. Birds and animals were symbols representing human qualities. “A mystical creature. It’s one of the most powerful symbols, isn’t it?”

He nodded again and said, almost reluctantly, “Power, leadership.”

I ran my hand over the carved image. “Your client chose this design for you.” This time it wasn’t a question.

This time he didn’t bother to nod. “You going to sit down?”

I gave the thunderbird one last caress then went to sit on a battered couch. Gabriel held his glass out toward me and I raised mine uncertainly. He clunked his against it. “To Valente,” he said. “Chasing those gulls. And to you, Isadora. I don’t envy you your job.”

Was that a compliment or an insult? I took a sip of wine, then reached for the bottle. “What is this? It’s really nice.” The hand-printed label read, “Vinnie’s Red 2010.”

“I like it too. The building manager, Vincenzo Vecchio, makes wine in the basement. Always smells of fermentation down there. You can get intoxicated doing laundry.” He stretched his shoulders, as if to ease tension from them. “I’m starving. Can’t remember when I last ate. How about you? Pizza okay?”

“I love pizza.” Security food was exactly what I needed, alone with Gabriel in his apartment.

“Place down the street makes a good Greek one. Onions, olives, peppers, tomatoes, feta.”

“Sounds great.”

He surged to his feet and strode over to the phone on his desk. Then he swung toward me. “What about your dog? Pogo. Will he be okay?”

How astonishing he’d think of that. “My neighbor’s looking after him.”

“Good.”

He placed the pizza order then hung up. Curly damp hair tumbled forward and he raked it back absentmindedly with one of his beautifully-shaped hands. If he picked up the guitar, I swore I’d run out the door.

When he finally sat down, back in the leather chair rather than on the couch beside me, I asked quickly, “Anything new on Jimmy Lee’s case?”

His face lit up. “Great news. I’d forgotten, what with the dog. But it looks like Cassie McKenzie is going to recover. She’s conscious, even talking—croaking—a little.”

My relief was such an overwhelming sensation it brought tears to my eyes. I blinked them back. “That’s wonderful, Gabriel. Wonderful for her and her child, and damned good luck for Jimmy Lee.”

“On the negative side, the evidence is pointing strongly toward arson, probably with gas, rags, and a clock. An amateur job, which doesn’t help Jimmy Lee any.”

“What would a pro use?”

“Something like propane. From what I’ve learned, propane sinks to the bottom of the building and sits there, waiting. The arsonist sparks it with an outside detonator whenever he chooses to, and bang, the whole building goes up. Often leaving no evidence.”

“If someone’s trying to frame Jimmy Lee, they’d want it to look like an amateur job and they’d want evidence to be found.”

He nodded. “Yeah, though that’d be simplistic. Hell, you can learn how to build a bomb on the Internet, much less set a fire.”

I sighed in agreement. “So it doesn’t prove anything, one way or the other.”

“Nope. Crown’ll argue it one way, I’ll argue it the other. That’s the best I can do unless we can come up with something more solid, like finding the * who’s framing your dad. You got any thoughts on that?”

I’d been musing about this but, like my parents, I couldn’t see any of their friends or colleagues being so horrible. “A frame job suggests enemies, and I don’t think he has any. The people who dislike him most are the cops, but I can’t imagine any cop being mad enough to frame him.” I sipped wine. “I guess there are also the people he protests against, like Cosmystiques. He can be a real pain in the butt. But they’re hardly likely to burn down their own place in hopes of getting him thrown in jail.”

“Hmm.” Gabriel rose and walked over to the desk, where he scribbled a note. When he sat down again he said, “I’ll check out Cosmystiques, especially their financial situation. The animal rights picketing and the initialed lighter have had everyone—me included—focused on Jimmy Lee. But the first thing you usually think about when there’s an arson is whether the building owner did it.”

“Wouldn’t the police have already checked into that?”

“Should have, but maybe not. They’re fixated on Jimmy Lee.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Besides, they’d figure a big company would hire a professional arsonist who’d use propane.”

“So you’re thinking Cosmystiques might have hired a pro, but the pro chose a mickey-mouse method and planted the lighter to frame Jimmy Lee?”

“Might’ve even skipped the pro. It’d be way cheaper—and more satisfying—to check the Internet, pick an amateur method, set up a guy who’s been pissing you off.” He tossed me a flash of smile. “Good thought, Isadora.”

“Actually, it was your thought.” I grinned at him. “I just opened the starting gate.”