Letty del Rio is standing in a chop shop in Garden Grove, hip deep in cut-up cars, and she's got five Vietnamese kids against the wall with plastic ties around their wrists and not one of the jokers will tell her anything about what she wants to know.
That is, what were Tranh and Do up to when they did their duet Houdini act.
And she doesn't really want to run these boys in for the cars, because it is a major pain in the ass for little results, but that's what she's going to do unless they start showing a marked improvement in their attitude.
Letty says to the interpreter, 'Tell them they'll get five to eight on the cars.'
She unwraps a stick of gum and pops the Juicy Fruit into her mouth as the interpreter translates her threat and gets a response.
'They say they'll get probation,' he tells her.
'No,' she says. 'Tell them I'll personally fuck them with the judge. Tell them that.'
He tells them that.
He gets their answer and says, 'They say your sex life is your business.'
'Cute boys,' Letty says. 'Very cute boys. Tell the cute boys they better not have sheets because I'll rattle their probation officer's cage until he violates them. Tell them I'll make sure they get into one of those tough-love juvenile boot camps where they do push-ups till they puke. No, don't tell them that. I know they speak English.'
Shit, Letty thinks, these kids were born right here in Little Saigon, which is technically in California but in real-life terms is still in the Republic of (South) Vietnam. They all speak English until they get popped, then they dummy up and go for the interpreter bit because they know it's hard for a prosecuting attorney to work up any mojo when he has to wait for the translation.
It pisses Letty off.
'You speak English, don't you?' she says to the kid who looks the oldest. The kid who's been giving the other kids the shut-your-mouths looks. Checks his ID and the kid's name is Tony Ky. 'I'm looking for Tranh and Do and I know they were involved with your little parts dealership here. So I'm going to bring the heat on you, and I'm not ever going to stop bringing the heat until you help me out. No, don't say a word to the interpreter — I don't need your smart mouth. You just think about what I'm telling you.'
Like it's going to do any good, Letty thinks.
This is a closed world Little Saigon, and it ain't going to open up for her. So she's pissed off at these kids, and she's pissed off at her boss for sending a Latina into a closed Asian, male world.
Like they're going to talk to me, she thinks.
And she's also pissed off that she's going to have to go talk to Uncle Nguyen, who is the one person who could open up mouths for her, and Uncle Nguyen just gives her a headache. Uncle Nguyen used to be a cop back in Big Saigon, the old Saigon, so he has this annoying we're-all-cops camaraderie bullshit and he also isn't going to tell her a thing. Or tell anyone else to tell her a thing.
Shit, if Tranh and Do have been whacked, Uncle Nguyen would have had to okay them getting whacked so that's probably a dead end. But it's a street she has to walk down to make the boss happy.
But I'll get a headache, she thinks.
She tells the uniforms to take the kids in and then she starts searching the shop.
The thing you have to love about the Vietnamese, Letty thinks, is that they keep records. Here they have this beautiful scam going, stealing each other's cars and stripping them, selling the parts and collecting the insurance, and they just have to keep lists of whose cars they 'stole' and how much they paid.
Thinking, like the old-time bookies, that they can flash the paper before the cops come through the door.
Sorry, you lose. Deputy del Rio is faster than your average cop.
Smarter, too.
And much faster and smarter than your average fucked-up kid who doesn't have the cojones to at least try to get himself into a junior college or something and chops cars instead.
Letty has no sympathy.
So Letty's poking around the shop, looking for the record books, and she collects every slip of paper in the joint. Logs them in as potential evidence and has them translated.
Tells the translator, 'I want to see — right away — anything with the names Tranh or Do on it.'
Which, Letty thinks, is kind of like standing down in Chula Vista and saying you want to see anything with the name Gonzalez on it. But what are you going to do?
44
Fire burns up.
Because that's where the oxygen is.
Fire burns up… unless…
… it has a reason to burn down.
Jack knows that there's a limited universe of possibilities as to what that reason could be. Anything poured on the floor to get a fire going — in the lingo, an accelerant — seeps down, as any liquid will. Down — into the flooring — and the fire follows. Follows down because now it has a reason, the accelerant, which is better fuel than oxygen. The fire eats up that nice tasty accelerant — gasoline, kerosene, styrene, benzene — and then burns up. Fast, hot, and mean.
So Jack's looking at this hole in the flooring — about two feet long and a foot wide — where the fire burned through and he's wondering why. He shines his light into the hole and onto the floor joist. The top of the joist directly beneath the hole is charred. The bottom looks unaffected. Jack leans over and shines the light onto the joist just beyond the hole.
Sees what he expects to see: finger-shaped stains on the top part of the joist.
'Note splatter pattern on joist beneath hole in closet flooring,' he says into the tape.
That's all. He doesn't say that this is what you'd expect to see in an accelerated fire — the splatter pattern where the poured accelerant has seeped through the flooring and along and into the joist.
Fucking Bentley, Jack thinks. Lazy fucking Bentley. Sees his point of origin, brushes some ash aside, and pronounces cause and origin. Gets the poles out and goes fishing.
Doesn't bother to look, doesn't bother to do a dig-out.
You have to dig out the char before you can determine the cause of the fire. At least this is what Jack was always taught. You have to do a dig-out. And not just where you think the point of origin is, but over the whole structure.
See, it's hard to burn a house.
Most people think that it's easy, but most people are wrong. A fire needs a lot of oxygen and a lot of fuel to get big and grow strong, and in a lot of house fires, there just isn't the oxygen or the fuel load to sustain a real hummer of a fire. Arson fires that Jack has worked, he goes in and finds holes punched in the walls to vent the fire, or windows left open. He once investigated a fire in a house that was under construction, and they'd taken the frigging drywall out so that the fire would have enough oxygen to spread through the house.
And it isn't just a matter of oxygen and fuel load — it's a matter of time.
Time before the fire trucks roll in.
In the old days it was different — the country was more rural, houses were farther away from the fire stations, nobody had automatic alarms and sprinkler systems and all that happy crap.
But now — especially in the Southern California megalopolis — everything is wired. Everybody's hooked in. A fire goes off, it trips the sprinkler system, it trips the security alarm, the Fire Department is at most ten minutes away and firefighters arrive in force.
You want to burn a structure down — or burn out a wing of your house — you're in a game of Beat the Clock. You start the fire in just one spot, you're bound to lose that game. The unrelenting math of physics is just against you.
You have to reset the math.
