Fire Trap, page 1
FIRE TRAP
RICHARD MANN
A Novel
Floating Dock Comics
P.O. Box 8247
Portland, OR 97207
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 Richard Mann
All rights reserved
Original Cover Art by Rick Marcks
Copyright © 2012 Richard Mann
ISBN: 0985844507
ISBN-13: 978-0-9858-4450-9
ISBN: 0985844515
ISBN-13: 978-0-9858-4451-6 (ebook)
DEDICATION
To my wife Ellen
whose love and support
make all things possible.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A special thanks for the assistance of my wife, Ellen, my daughters, Barbara Leese and Sylvia Mann, and Sidney Gold for their detailed feedback and Mike Gold for a laboratory science check. Also, kudos go to my editor, Jenefer Angell, for her detailed input and to Sally Pore, Marion Canedo, Ethel Mann and Peter and Lynda Freedman for their careful reading.
PROLOGUE
Furnace gas flowed by tables of flasks and beakers, by shelved bottles of reagents, past freezers and vacuum hoods and by incubation shakers holding twenty culture flasks each, mixing constantly through the night, stirring to the slow circular motion of the trays gripping them.
In the next lab, above the furnace room, a man in a white coat lay on the floor. He coughed once as the gas enveloped him. An active experiment was in progress. Blue liquid, in a flask, bubbled and vaporized, rising up a fractionating column, distilling clear drops into a collecting tube at the end of the apparatus. A Bunsen burner’s open flame powered the chemistry, boiling the blue liquid.
When gas met flame, the shock wave blew out the windows. Light burst from the second floor. A maintenance door slammed further open on the first. All the windows of the Genetrix building’s old-wing exploded outwards. A deep base ‘whummmp’ shook buildings for three blocks in every direction.
Everything burnable ignited at once in the superheated air. Oxygen rushing back through the maintenance door and broken windows fueled fires. The man on the floor jerked once as his hair burst into flame and blisters rose across the backs of his hands, then his white lab coat blackened and flashed into flames.
On the first floor, heat sensors got the message and sent brief wailing alarms into the night before melting into silence again. Individual fires merged into a single great inferno. The roof fell. The second story floor fell. Fire trucks screamed in the distance.
Ultimately, the laboratory wing was knee deep in melted ceiling tiles, broken glass and charred furniture long before the first hose streams hissed against the charcoal of fire-eroded beams and cooled the cindered remains of the old wing’s exposed corpse.
CHAPTER 1
The traffic lights on Twenty-Third were timed for twenty-five miles per hour, but I goosed my Porsche at green and punched the brakes on red, rattling the glass bottles in the cloth grocery bags to the point of breaking. It wasn’t the prospect of the trip to San Jose. An insurance investigator expects to travel. It was Mr. Thomas Wright, good ol’ Tom, pressing me to break one of my ten commandments. Not the biblical Ten, I mean my ten. Number Four was “Thou shalt not give thy all to more than three clients at the same time.”
Violate one and soon they’re all at risk, like Number Two: “Be thou a successful single parent to thy independent, opinionated, peer-driven teenagers.”
If you’re consumed day and night by work, you can’t keep commandment Number Two. There have to be rules.
The more important question, I suppose, is why work at all. I know I’m driven to unravel puzzles and that killing the Saturday crossword’s satisfying, but not as satisfying, for me, as the simplest insurance investigation. Though I strive to collect a fair payment for services rendered, I don’t do it for the money. My parents, bless ‘em, provided for me in all ways before they passed on. Money was just one of the things I inherited, the Vic was another.
Named by my mother after the Old Vic in London, the Victorian Playhouse was now mine and it took more work to manage than the rest of my inheritance combined. Here, the work wasn’t a puzzle, but I was driven by determination to keep Mom’s legacy alive.
I swung the Porsche in under huge pale spring chestnut leaves and took in the Vic’s marquee, The Tempest. The marquee crowned our double-door entryway and the blue rain awning that protected theatergoers from Portland’s ubiquitous Oregon rain. I had taken Sandra to the play’s opening last night. The play was a smashing success and even my troubles with Sandra didn’t spoil my pleasure in the new stage. I‘d paid the price of a small house to get that stage installed.
When I was in sixth grade, my parents moved to Portland and bought two neighboring Victorian homes, joining them together. They tore out walls and ceilings in the center, creating a huge open two-story room which they filled with ninety-six movie theater seats they’d rescued from a scrap heap.
To the left and right, stairways led to what remained of each home’s second floor hallway whose inner wall supported the creation of tiny balcony boxes holding four seats in a row each. Half of each second-floor front room became the main balcony. The main balcony added a projection room and fifty more seats bringing the seating total to a hundred and sixty-two.
Originally, there was a simple stage at the back of the great room, but only ten feet deep. Now, I’d nearly doubled that space by moving out the building’s back wall. An underground story supported a lift and orchestra pit and its new foundation allowed the general seating to be stacked, which my mother had always wanted, but never got around to doing.
My mother (you might know her by her stage name, Mary Champion) was obsessed with the theater and everything about it. If you added up the hours she gave, she never made minimum wage from it. Her money came from television, though she hated its canned conventions. She claimed television lacked soul. She’s responsible for my unconventional name, Random Devon Justice. My father wanted Randolph, but her sense of humor required Random Justice. She knew people would corrupt it to Randy, but she thought that was equally amusing.
The Vic was not just a theater—it was her life, the home I grew up in and now the current office of my business, Justice Investigations LLC. I rent two narrow rooms along the left side of the building on the first floor. Why I rent rooms from myself, I’m not sure, but my accountant thinks it’s a good idea.
I was still fuming as I parked behind Arnie’s Mustang, blocking it in. I hefted the groceries and took the side stairs two at a time. Juggling my way through keys and groceries, I dumped both on the kitchen table.
Because the theater took more than half of each house, the outside stairs were what led to the narrow row of upstairs rooms the kids and I called home, opening on the kitchen. Left, was Billy’s room, a tiny affair behind the bathroom. I didn’t feel too guilty about Billy’s small room, because it had been mine when I was a boy. Toward the front came Sally’s room and then my twelve-by-twelve master that had once been my parents’.
The kitchen’s most unusual feature was a wrought iron circular staircase that descended to the Justice Investigations workroom below. Ascent was its current function, as my business partner, Arnie, was demonstrating. Use of my kitchen was a natural perk of my business.
Arnie’s broad ebony features and receding hairline loomed up from below. At forty, he had four years on me and regularly instructed me to listen to my elders. He took his usual seat at the kitchen table, back to the theater, at the center of our household.
“I’ve been thinking about the McClelland interviews,” he began. “I could do those. You might take the paperwork for Johnson Lumber with you and work on it in San Jose, if you take the case.”
“How are you going to do surveillance and interviews at the same time?” I said, taking a seat.
“It’s not like we haven’t already proved Mr. Andrews’ fraud. We’re just going for tightening the case, and making sure there aren’t any surprises. I thought I’d change the plan to morning interviews with the McClelland folks. I’ll track Mr. Andrews to work, jump to the interviews, then pick up Andrews again for his lunchtime activities.”
“That could work, this time,” I said, frowning. “I just don’t like the precedent of Tom pushing a fourth case on us. He knows our arrangement.”
“Is it just Tom,” Arnie said, raising an eyebrow, “or is leaving town part of it?”
Arnie had a habit of exposing the truth when you’d just boxed it your own way and were satisfied with the wrapping paper you’d picked. It was sometimes valuable and often exasperating, but he always declared battle with a raised eyebrow.
“All right, “ I said, declining to enter the lists. “This San Jose case breaks my rule and it’s inconvenient.” I got up and started making coffee. I’m generally a private guy about relationships. With Ms. Sandra Armitage, even more so. Although he was the best friend I had and he was right, I wasn’t going to tell him Sandra and I hadn’t slept together for a couple of weeks and every time we talked we added bricks to the wall growing between us.
“Inconvenient?”
“Sandra and I aren’t getting along.”
It was always
“You breaking up?”
“No,” I lied. “We’re doing dinner at Cody’s tomorrow.”
Arnie stood.
“Stay for spaghetti,” I offered, in a lame attempt to change the subject.
“Okay,” He said, sitting back down.
I threw a pot of water on the stove, caught a whiff of scented gas as blue flames raced around the burner, then cranked the handle to high. “About San Jose,” I said, “will your folks be able to back you up if the kids need help and you’re not around?”
“Sure. What’s Sally …” Arnie began as the door flew open and Sally flounced in.
She was frowning from her vague “Junior Activities” which added an hour to her regular school day. At least it was better than three-hour daily play rehearsals when she was in the Spring musical.
“Speak of the devil.”
As she caught sight of Arnie, she tossed her book bag on the table, smiled, and gave him a kiss on his bald spot.
“Where’s my kiss?” I complained.
“Not talking to you. You were supposed to help me study algebra for the test today, but you took Sandra out.”
She turned her back to me and her long windblown blonde hair flew prettily over her shoulder. I don’t know where she got the hair, mine’s brown and Rachel’s is black. Neither Rachel’s parents nor mine had blonde hair. I’m also sure it wasn’t the milkman. For all of Rachel’s faults, running around wasn’t among them. At least, it wasn’t before she left us to pursue her dancing career in New York. I suppose we had Sally too early in our marriage. We were freshmen in college. Rachel never had time to “find” herself before parenting descended with a vengeance. She escaped to theater rehearsals while I studied and watched Sally. For three years we struggled as students and parents, then Billy arrived. We graduated, but coasted that last year on momentum alone. We argued every chore until we couldn’t stand to look at each other.
Sally plopped into the chair next to Arnie and stared accusingly at me, as if reading my thoughts. I hauled myself back to the present.
“It was opening night,” I said, “I had to be there. When I said I’d help you, it didn’t register that that would conflict with the Monday night opening. Sorry, I screwed up. I’m human. I goofed.”
“Well, I probably flunked.”
“If you did,” I added, “that will be my fault?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm. Would you like a cup of coffee?” I got three mugs and poured without waiting for a reply. “I’m making spaghetti, want to put it in the pot?”
I sat down and took a sip.
Sally took a sip.
“What’s the deal in San Jose?” Arnie said into the lengthening silence.
Sally got up and went to the cupboard for the pasta.
“The case is really in Santa Clara, with a company called Genetrix, so the San Jose association is just the airport I’m flying in to. Tom set up a meeting for tomorrow morning. I’ll know more then. One of their research scientists died in a fire. Western had a big keyman policy on him.”
“Keyman?” Sally said, forking noodles down into the boiling water.
“Like regular life, but for a lot more money, in this case for five million. When company profits depend on key individuals, they want to reduce their risk if they die unexpectedly. The beneficiary is the company and there are often restriction clauses.”
“Sorry I asked.”
“It’s common to require, for instance, that covered executives not fly together on the same plane.”
A bit later, just as spaghetti was served, Billy slammed in from his off-season soccer practice still in cleats and shin guards. He slipped by Sally and made for his room.
“Wash up,” I yelled after him, “and take the cleats off.”
The phone rang.
Sally answered, handed it to me, and went back to doodling in her sketchbook.
A recorded voice said, “Your child (pause) William Justice (pause) was missing from one or more periods of school today (click).”
Billy returned in stocking feet, his black hair still pasted to his forehead from the exertions of soccer. He grabbed a plate, heaped spaghetti and cheese and took the last place at the table. Billy had none of my height, would be lucky to reach Rachel’s five-six, yet he was solidly built. His low center of gravity made him a demon on the soccer field, and a bit of a demon elsewhere as well.
“That was school on the phone,” I said.
“Yuh.”
“Seems you missed a class.”
“First period. That jerk always screws up attendance.”
“Then you didn’t miss first period?”
“No.”
“And you weren’t late?”
Billy stared at me without blinking, gauging his chances. Two of the same calls last week meant the “teacher screw up” excuse was wearing thin. He decided on some truth. “I might have been late.”
“Since you’ve been leaving for school a half-hour earlier and you’re late for first period, what are you doing before school?”
“Just hanging.”
“But you can’t walk in the door when the bell rings?”
“He can’t hear the bell,” Sally chimed in without looking up from her sketching, “because he’s down at Starbucks having coffee with his buds.”
“Bitch.”
“Oh, more Adult-off-Campus behavior?” Sally said, finally looking Billy in the eyes.
“Quit playing Mom,” he yelled, blushing, “I can’t wait until after next year when you’ll be gone.”
“I’m gone now,” Sally said, taking her books and sketches to her room.
Arnie took a last pull from his coffee and took his half-finished plate down the spiral stairs. “Talk to me tomorrow before you take off.”
“Absolutely.”
Billy and I were left with each other. “Calling your sister names isn’t impressing me.”
A minute passed in silence.
“But she… ,” Billy began.
“Told the truth?”
“So, you’re going to San Jose?” Billy tried.
“Probably, but that’s not the subject.” I didn’t think coffee was great, and I really disapproved of “late”, but this wasn’t failing grades, drugs or carrying a gun to class. All single parent doubts crept over me. Too strict, he’ll rebel further. Too soft, he’ll follow friends into worse trouble. “Cullum is first period, history, right?”
“Yeah. What a bore. He reads from the book! It’s not as if I’d miss anything.”
“Your grades will show what you missed. Why can’t you meet and still make it to class?”
“And the coffee?”
“Not thrilled. Even if it doesn’t stunt growth, I still think it’s bad to start young.” I started coffee in college, but he’d already heard that in a prior lecture. “Soon you’re going to be managing all your habits on your own. Coffee might be an easy one to practice on.”
“You mean it’s up to me.”
“Being late to class, no. On coffee, try two cups instead of the bottomless restaurant method. If you can’t do that, it should teach you something about what’s lacking in your own willpower.”
“They’re great guys. Their parents aren’t uptight.”
“If you leave Starbucks in time for class, these great guys would laugh at you? Drop you as a friend?”
“No, but I would miss stuff. That could work out the same way.”
“Why not meet even earlier, unless missing class is the point.” I reminded him again about Melville’s Bartelby the Scrivener. Bartelby got to make his choices, but he also got the major consequences, all of them.
