Fire trap, p.14
Fire Trap, page 14
Ten.
“Oops.”
The bell rang and I slipped inside to safety, fifty minutes of safety. Maybe they wouldn’t be there after class. Right, maybe the sun would fall out of the sky and it would rain dollar bills. I thought all period about Bobby Hanson’s advice. “Stay out of sight” wasn’t going to work anymore. “Give ‘em what they wanted” was the problem—what did they want? They were making fun of my briefcase. They didn’t “want” it. I couldn’t figure it out. In the end, I decided to ignore them. Sooner or later they would get tired. They didn’t.
They were there after class. They were there the next day. “Oops.” Week after week they battered my new case, shuffling behind me from class to class. They followed me home. They followed me to school. Apparently, I was class one entertainment, and we were engaged in some kind of contest of endurance.
I tried Bobby Hanson for more advice. “Leave the briefcase at home,” he suggested. That sounded sensible, but I knew instinctively it was wrong. The briefcase was the target today, but leave it home and there was still one target left.
One day in my room at the Vic it came to me. It wasn’t about my briefcase, they were trying to make me afraid of them, and they were doing a great job. I feared and loathed them completely. But if they were so successful, why didn’t they stop? Because I kept the fear and loathing bottled up inside. They couldn’t see their complete success.
Understanding converted fear to anger. Even the loathing changed. Now it was tinted with amusement that I had concealed from them the reward they were looking for. I knew then that you couldn’t give in to the gang or walk away from them. You had to confront them regardless of the black eye or broken tooth.
The next day at school, by the lockers outside my math class, I felt the familiar boot. I turned to Mike Randall and looked him in the eye. “Once more,” I said. “Kick it once more.”
What thug since the dawn of time could resist such an invitation, certainly not Mike Randall. I turned away and “Whack”. I swung the briefcase back into his gut and piled on top of him pounding his face with my fists, my thin arms doing all the damage I could summon. We rolled on the floor, and he pounded back, then suddenly we were suspended. Our feet came off the floor and our heads rose above the lockers. We were pinned to the wall by the powerful arms of Mr. James, a P.E. teacher. He held us there until the fight went out of us then marched us to the principal’s office.
The pink-ass gang never kicked my briefcase again. They didn’t stop because the principal intimidated them. They stopped because both Mike Randall and I got detention. In detention I lagged quarters with Mike and won fifty cents. I had become a human being who fought, got detention, and gambled. I was briefly tribal, and they accepted me. I never went on to join the gang officially and moon the citizens of Portland, but the experience convinced me that sometimes you have to put everything on the line.
I woke up feeling like hell, but my mind was clear. Blue Spikes and Jerry weren’t cartoon characters, their threats were real, and they had me scared, but not stopped. Today my investigation would accelerate, not slow down. Lane Stevenson was going to be driven out into the open, and Simon Gallagher’s murderer would be flushed out at the same time. If they planned to ambush me again, before I got to them, let ‘em take their best shot.
CHAPTER 12
Arnie nodded at me as he came out of the security area at San Francisco International Airport, then raised an eyebrow when he saw Jean with me. The eyebrow alone told me the separate-room mystery had been cleared up in his mind. I introduced them, we collected Arnie’s bags and headed back to the Park Plaza.
On the drive, I asked him about the kids.
Nothing new to tell. The night before they were at the Smiths and he’d left before they got out of school, as planned. Of course he’d left them the note, as I’d asked, and had talked to his mother about keeping an eye on them.
Jean smiled as she watched me parenting-at-a-distance with Arnie.
I switched subjects to the bomb.
By the time I got Arnie to his room, he was pretty well up to speed with my latest hospitalization. His room was the mirror image of mine, with a bath left of the door as you entered. Jean sat at the little table at the end of the room while I unmade Arnie’s extra bed and built a backrest from the pillows for myself. I made myself comfortable, stretching out my left leg and letting the throbbing subside.
“Have you two eaten?” Arnie asked. We shook our heads and he dialed room service for three ham sandwiches and beers.
Arnie unpacked as if we had left him alone. When he was finished, Arnie took off his shoes and tried out the other bed, arranging the pillows as I had. “What’s the agenda for today?”
“Genetrix board meeting this evening, but for the rest of the afternoon, just an errand or two and showing you around.” I looked at Jean for input.
“This afternoon is normally tennis with Janice,” she said, “But I’m flexible.”
I said Arnie and I could keep ourselves company for the afternoon, but maybe she and Janice would join us for dinner before the board meeting. I liked Jean a lot, but had fumbled the tightrope walk between business and personal issues. I hoped dinner might get the pendulum to swing at least as far back as friendship.
She looked at me, trying to decide if my offer was business, covering up a mending of our relationship, or a social thank-you for her support last night. I think she gave up reading my expression and decided to let the evening unfold on its own.
“I’ll call Janice,” she said.
The sandwiches arrived while she was on the phone and Arnie tipped the waiter. He slid me my sandwich, opened a beer and passed it over, treating me like the invalid I was.
I sipped and chewed and thought about the board meeting. I needed to stir things up at Genetrix so word would get back to Lane and cause him to act. Time was against me, but I could speed things up by changing the afternoon agenda with Arnie. Maybe I could speed things up at both ends by visiting Mr. Lane Stevenson at home, in San Francisco.
After sandwiches, Jean left to meet Janice, agreeing to meet at five at La Casa Mendoza, a great Mexican restaurant on Stevens Creek Boulevard. Then Arnie and I settled down to business. He took notes at the table, and I sat propped up on the bed calling from my cell.
First was Linda Westlake, a Western Insurance investigator who had access to reverse phone directories. She extracted Lane Stevenson’s address from his unlisted number in five minutes. He lived on Filbert, not five blocks from Chez Charles. For fun, I tried Lane’s number. No answer. Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t home.
Before Arnie and I tried to surprise him, I decided to introduce Arnie to the local arm of the law. I have found, from practice, that the police are a community within a community and it pays to keep in touch, especially since ex-officers still have some status.
At the Santa Clara police station, we went directly to the lunchroom to corner Dale Andrews, but he wasn’t in his normal haunt. We discovered him in the evidence room filling out paperwork. He looked pleased to see me and pleased to have an excuse to set down the paperwork. He shot a questioning glance at Arnie, and I introduced them, dropping in an aside about his history as a police officer in Portland.
“Did you know Denny Alverez?” Dale asked Arnie. “Moved down here from Portland three years ago.”
Arnie had known Dale and there followed about five minutes of cases and network connections that left them both smiling and planning to get together tomorrow with some of the other detectives for beers after work. I envied them their fraternity, but finally butted in with what was really on my mind. “Did you get the analysis of the soot?”
“Yes,” Dale said, becoming serious. “It was from the Genetrix fire all right. I think you better let me know where you came by it. You offered the source if I got the analysis,” he reminded me.
“I’ll give it to you now, if you promise not to act on the information for a few days.”
“You know I can’t promise that.” Now he was frowning.
“Then right now, today, I’d have to say I collected that sample as I was inspecting the charred remains of the Genetrix building.”
“Bullshit,” he said, turning purple. “Why would you ask me to verify its source if you already knew it came from the fire scene?”
“Just to prove that such identification was possible, in case it was needed to verify evidence we might uncover in the future.”
“Lying to me is felonious obstruction. I can haul you into court to produce the source of that sample.”
“All you’ll produce is the statement I just gave you,” I said, unmoved by his frustration.
“Give Randy a little room,” Arnie suggested, coming to my rescue. “We can make more progress with a quiet investigation. We’ll stop back tomorrow and give you a full account,” he added, looking at me for agreement.
Dale cocked his head to the side, meaning “possibly”.
I shook on the deal with my own nod, then pressed Dale for another favor. “Does the coroner’s office still have any of Simon’s blood from the amitriptyline workup?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he replied, still miffed.
“Could you find out?”
“Why?”
“I’d like to ask you to have them screen it for HIV.”
“What?”
I had Dale’s curiosity aroused now and finished planting the hook. “It appears Simon might have been infected. Obviously, Genetrix would not like publicity about Simon’s personal life unless it bears directly on the case. The test for HIV will help set the facts straight. Could you keep this information to yourself for the time being?”
Dale had been in Simon’s apartment and I could see him accepting the truth of this new development. We left him only partially satisfied, but still working with us, still cutting us some valuable slack.
Arnie drove to San Francisco.
If I’m thinking about a case, I don’t pay attention to anything but the traffic. I’m halfway on auto-pilot. I don’t have car wrecks, but I’ll drive past destinations or take wrong turns, backtrack, try again and only, finally, reach my goals by a series of corrections. These detours don’t bother me, but they can be trying on passengers. Arnie’s history with me had trained him to volunteer as pilot.
Lane’s address turned out to be a second floor flat in a well-kept block of duplexes and apartments. His building was newly painted, the gables and moldings done in two darker shades of brown, the clapboards in a pleasing tan.
There were two doorbells set by the common front entrance. The upper bell was labeled “Stevenson” and the lower “Knight”. When no one answered Lane’s bell, we found our way around the building to the back where Arnie discovered a retractable fire escape. With a boost from him, I was able to reach the lower rungs and haul it down. Happily, it made no noise.
From the landing on the second floor, we could see in two windows and, through one, down a hall. The flat was empty. Not just unoccupied, empty. There wasn’t a stick of furniture in sight. My guess, if we got inside, was that there wouldn’t be so much as a fingerprint to be found.
We went back to the front door and rang the Knight’s bell. A dowdy woman with prematurely graying hair and an apron opened the door. “Hi,” I said, introducing myself and Arnie. “We’re looking for Lane Stevenson. Has he moved out?”
“The U-Haul was here the first thing this morning,” she said. “They were gone in a couple of hours.”
“They?” Arnie asked.
She explained that Lane had two young friends helping him.
“One with blue hair?”
“Out to here,” she said, laughing and indicating the length with a flour-dusted hand.
“Could you describe Lane?” Arnie said.
“I thought you were friends of his. Are you the police? Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“No,” I said, “It’s just an insurance claim we’re investigating.”
“It wouldn’t have surprised me if he was wanted for murder.”
“Really?” I said.
“He had visitors at all hours of the night, all men,” she said, giving me a significant look. “You wouldn’t believe the sounds that came through the ceiling. My husband said they was having sex, but it sounded more like the torments of the damned to me.”
I didn’t ask her to elaborate, but steered her back to a description. The best she could do was identify Lane as a big middle-aged white man with a ponytail. Black hair or brown? She couldn’t remember. I thanked her and gave her my card, “If your husband can think of anything that might help us locate Lane…”
Arnie and I went back to the Chevy and sat. “Ideas?”
“This guy is smart. He didn’t assume you would cave into those threats. There’s something more to find out, some connection to Genetrix or Roark Labs, or he wouldn’t be trying so hard to stop you. He was probably Simon’s lover, but that’s not a motive for murder. Maybe Simon gave Lane AIDS, and he killed him in revenge. Lane sets fire to the lab to make it look like an accident.”
“Maybe, but I’m backing a different idea. Take the Bay Bridge over to Oakland and I’ll tell you my theory.” By the time we reached PIC, I had convinced Arnie of my suspicions, but he pointed out I had no proof.
Inside, Sandy Eldridge beamed at me in recognition. I asked my favor. She returned in a few minutes and gave me what I was looking for.
“Fifty,” she said.
“You’re a sweetheart,” I responded. “If you won’t sue me for unwonted advances, I’ll give you a kiss.”
“Just this once,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye, and presented her cheek across the counter. I leaned over and took my liberties.
As we headed out of the building, Arnie restrained my growing enthusiasm. “You’ve confirmed one item, but still no proof.”
It seemed time was suspended as we drove back to San Jose down the east side of the bay past Hayward and Fremont. The air conditioning was low and the heat of the day filled the car and seeped into my bruised body. I fell asleep.
Arnie woke me for final directions to the Park Plaza. I navigated him in and we went up to his room where we spent the afternoon making phone calls. Arnie did the calling and I worked on my report to Western during the inevitable redials, on-holds and transfers. In the end, Arnie had collected the results of the inquiries he had started two days ago into the finances of the Genetrix executives and Daniel Gallagher.
Standard credit reports had been used by Jinny, in Western’s secretarial pool, to obtain further details. She had contacted banks for the most current information.
Mark Foringer had a five-figure balance, owned two homes, two cars and an airplane. A lot of baggage for a single guy.
Neal Wilson had almost nothing in the bank and no mortgages, but Jinny had hacked a loan application that listed stock assets of over two hundred thousand dollars. Lane had also listed partnership interests in several properties totaling nearly half a million which seemed consistent for a chief financial officer – everything invested.
Lester Rosemen was the major debtor with two mortgages, three car payments, student loans and a massive VISA balance. He had five figures in the bank, however, which might mean that he was keeping it all together.
Daniel Gallagher had no credit history at all. Apparently, Simon hadn’t passed him any major assets, or, if he had, Daniel wasn’t investing them in anything requiring credit. Spending your life in the army, with all the basic needs supplied, it was possible to avoid a credit history, but still unusual.
Jinny had gotten a number for Daniel in Chicago and we decided to try it. Arnie placed the call and Daniel answered immediately. “I’m Arnie Johnson, with Justice Investigations. I’m calling from California about Simon. Do you have a moment? … Yes … insurance investigators … Yes, investigating the fire at Genetrix … When was the last time you spoke to your brother? … I see … Did he sound depressed at that time or concerned about his work? … He told you he was contemplating another job, that he was planning on leaving Genetrix? … So he didn’t say specifically who made the offer? … I see, well thank you for your help, goodbye.”
“Did I hear correctly?” I said. “Simon was going to leave Genetrix.”
“According to his brother. But we don’t know who the offer was from.”
“I do,” I said, and I told Arnie what Jean had told me about Roark Labs’ efforts to win Simon over. What I didn’t know was whether Jean knew she had succeeded.
“If Jean knew, then she had no reason to be involved in the Genetrix fire. Her being there might have been a coincidence,” Arnie reasoned.
“But if she didn’t know Simon was accepting the offer, if Simon led them to believe he wasn’t going to leave Genetrix, perhaps as a way of forcing them to sweeten the offer further, eliminating Simon would have been almost as good as hiring him away. Genetrix would be missing their major asset and Roark Labs would be better able to compete.”
“But this afternoon you had a theory about the murderer,” Arnie protested, “and that theory didn’t point to Jean. Are you changing your mind?”
“No,” I said, “but I never said it was a single person. I wish I were certain Jean wasn’t involved.”
“Christ,” Arnie muttered, “dinner should be interesting.”
La Casa Mendoza was packed despite the early hour. The bar was full. A line went out the door and halfway around the building. When we checked in, we found Jean and Janice had arrived before us and had a nice table. As we sat down and made introductions, a waiter appeared. In a few minutes, we had splendid margaritas. Arnie marveled at the service.
