E is for Evidence (2 page)

At any rate, I'd glanced at my watch and decided I might as well head on home. I switched on the answering machine, grabbed my jacket and handbag, and was just locking up when Darcy Pascoe, the receptionist from the insurance company next door, popped her head in. I had worked for California Fidelity full time at one point, doing investigations on fire and wrongful death claims. Now the arrangement is informal. I'm more or less on call, doing a certain number of investigations for them, as needed, in exchange for downtown office space I couldn't otherwise afford.

“Oh, wow. I'm glad I caught you,” Darcy said. “Mac told me to give you this.”

She handed me a file, which I glanced at automatically. The blank form inside indicated that I was being asked to do a fire-scene inspection, the first in months.

“Mac did?” Mac is the CFI vice-president. I couldn't imagine him handling routine paperwork.

“Well, actually, Mac gave it to Andy and Andy said I should give it to you.”

There was a memo attached to the file cover, dated three days before and marked
RUSH
. Darcy caught my look and her cheeks tinted faintly.

“It was stuck under a big pile of stuff on my desk or I'd have gotten it to you sooner,” she said. Darcy's in her late twenties and something of a flake. I crossed to my desk, tossing the file on top of some others I was working on. I'd catch it first thing in the morning. Darcy lingered in the doorway, guessing my intent.

“Is there any way you can get to that today? I know he's anxious to get somebody out there. Jewel was supposed to handle it, but she's taking two weeks off, so Mac said maybe you could do it instead.”

“What's the claim?”

“A big warehouse fire out in Colgate. You probably heard it on the news.”

I shook my head. “I've been down in L.A.”

“Well, the newspaper clippings are in there, too. I guess they want someone out there superquick.”

I was annoyed at the pressure, but I opened the manila folder again and checked the property-loss notice, which was posted on top. “Wood/Warren?” I said.

“You know the company?”

“I know the Woods. I went to high school with the youngest girl. We were in the same homeroom.”

She looked relieved, as if I'd just solved a problem for her. “That's great. I'll tell Mac maybe you can get out there this afternoon.”

“Darcy, would you knock that off? I've got to take
somebody to the airport,” I said. “Trust me. I'll make an appointment for the earliest possible moment.”

“Oh. Well, I'll make a note then so they'll know you're taking care of it,” she said. “I have to get back to the phones. Let me know when you have the report and I'll come pick it up.”

“Terrific,” I said. She must have decided she had pushed me far enough because she excused herself and disappeared in haste.

As soon as she left, just to get it over with, I put a call through to Wood/Warren and arranged to meet with the company president, Lance Wood, at 9:00 the next morning, Christmas Eve day.

Meanwhile, as it was 3:45, I tucked the file in my handbag, locked up, and headed down the back stairs to the lot where my VW was parked. I was home ten minutes later.

 

During our little pre-Christmas celebration, Henry gave me a new Len Deighton novel and I gave him a periwinkle-blue mohair muffler, which I had crocheted myself—a little-known talent of mine. We sat in his kitchen and ate half a pan of his homemade cinnamon rolls, drinking champagne out of the matching crystal flutes I'd given him the year before.

He took out his plane ticket and checked the departure
time again, his cheeks flushed with anticipation. “I wish you'd come with me,” he said. He had the muffler wrapped around his neck, the color setting off his eyes. His white hair was soft and brushed to one side, his lean face tanned from California sun.

“I wish I could, but I just picked up some work that'll get my rent paid,” I said. “You can take lots of pictures and show 'em to me when you get back.”

“What about Christmas Day? You're not going to be by yourself, I hope.”

“Henry, would you quit worrying? I've got lots of friends.” I'd probably spend the day alone, but I didn't want him to fret.

He raised a finger. “Hold on. I almost forgot. I have another little present for you.” He crossed to the counter by the kitchen sink and picked up a clump of greenery in a little pot. He set it down in front of me, laughing when he saw the expression on my face. It looked like a fern and smelled like feet.

“It's an air fern,” he said. “It just lives on air. You don't even have to water it.”

I stared at the lacy fronds, which were a nearly luminous green and looked like something that might thrive in outer space. “No plant food?”

He shook his head. “Just let it sit.”

“I don't have to worry about diffuse sunlight or pinching back?” I asked, tossing around some plant
terms as if I knew what they meant. I'm notoriously bad with plants, and for years I've resisted any urge whatever to own one.

“Nothing. It's to keep you company. Put it on your desk. It'll jazz the place up a bit.”

I held the little pot up and inspected the fern from all sides, experiencing this worrisome spark of possessiveness. I must be in worse shape than I thought, I thought.

Henry fished a set of keys out of his pocket and passed them over to me. “In case you need to get into my place,” he said.

“Great. I'll bring in your mail and the papers. Is there anything else you need done while you're gone? I can mow the grass.”

“You don't need to do that. I've left you the number where I can be reached if the Big One hits. I can't think of anything else.” The Big One he referred to was the major earthquake we'd all been expecting any day now since the last one in 1925.

He checked his watch. “We better get a move on. The airport is mobbed this time of year.” His plane wasn't leaving until 7:00, which left us only an hour and a half to make the twenty-minute trip to the airport, but there wasn't any point in arguing. Sweet man. If he had to wait, he might as well do it out there, happily chatting with his fellow travelers.

I put on my jacket while Henry made a circuit of
the house, taking a few seconds to turn the heat down, making sure the windows and doors were secured. He picked up his coat and his suitcase and we were on our way.

I was home again by 6:15, still feeling a bit of a lump in my throat. I hate to say goodbye to folks and I hate being left behind. It was getting dark by then and the air had a bite to it. I let myself into my place. My studio apartment was formerly Henry's single-car garage. It's approximately fifteen feet on a side, with a narrow extension on the right that serves as my kitchenette. I have laundry facilities and a compact bathroom. The space has been cleverly designed and apportioned to suggest the illusion of living room, dining room, and bedroom once I open my sofa bed. I have more than adequate storage space for the few things I possess.

Surveying my tiny kingdom usually fills me with satisfaction, but I was still battling a whisper of Yuletide depression, and the place seemed claustrophobic and bleak. I turned on some lights. I put the air fern on my desk. Ever hopeful, I checked my answering machine for messages, but there were none. The quiet was making me feel restless. I turned on the radio—Bing Crosby singing about a white Christmas just like the ones he used to know. I've never actually seen a white Christmas, but I got the gist. I turned the radio off.

I sat on a kitchen stool and monitored my vital signs. I was hungry. One thing about living alone . . . you can eat any time you want. For dinner that night I made myself a sandwich of olive-pimento cheese on whole-wheat bread. It's a source of comfort to me that the brand of olive-pimento cheese I buy has tasted exactly the same since the first time I remembered eating it at the age of three and a half. Resolutely I veered off
that
subject, since it connected to my parents, who were killed when I was five. I cut the sandwich into four fingers, as I always did, poured myself a glass of white wine, and took my plate over to the couch, where I opened the book Henry had given me for Christmas. I checked the clock.

It was 7:00
P.M.
This was going to be a very long two weeks.

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, December 24, I jogged three miles, showered, ate a bowl of cereal, packed a canvas tote with supplies, and was heading toward Colgate by 8:45, a quick ten-mile drive. I'd reviewed the file over breakfast, and I was already puzzled about what the big rush was. The newspaper account indicated that the warehouse was gutted, but there was no telltale closing line about arson, investigations pending, or any speculation that the nature of the blaze was suspect. The fire-department report was included, and I'd read that twice. It all looked routine. Apparently the origin of the fire was a malfunction in the electrical system, which had simultaneously shorted out the sprinklers. Since the materials stored in the two-story structure were largely paper goods, the 2:00
A.M.
fire had spread rapidly. According to the fire inspector at the scene, there was no sign of firetraps,
no gasoline or other flammables, and no sign of obstacles placed so as to impede the work of the firemen. There was no indication that doors or windows had been left open to create favorable drafts and no other physical evidence of incendiary origin. I'd read dozens of reports just like this one. So what was the big deal here? I wondered. Maybe I was missing a crucial piece of information, but as far as I could see, this was a standard claim. I had to guess that somebody at Wood/Warren was putting the squeeze on California Fidelity for a speedy settlement, which might explain Andy's panic. He's a nail-biter by inclination, anxious for approval, worried about censure, in the middle of marital problems, from what I'd heard. He was probably the source of the little note of hysteria that had crept into the case. Maybe Mac was leaning on him, too.

Colgate is the bedroom community that adjoins Santa Teresa, providing affordable housing for average working folk. While new construction in Santa Teresa is closely regulated by the Architectural Board of Review, building in Colgate has proceeded according to no known plan, though it leans toward the nondescript. There is one major street lined with donut shops, hardware stores, fast-food establishments, beauty salons, and furniture stores that feature veneer and laminate, velour and Naugahyde. From the main thoroughfare, tract homes stretch out
in all directions, housing styles appearing like concentric rings on a tree stump, spiraling out decade by decade until the new neighborhoods peter out into raw countryside, or what's left of it. In isolated patches there are still signs of the old citrus groves that once flourished there.

Wood/Warren was located on a side street that angled back toward an abandoned drive-in theater that functions as a permanent location for weekend swap sales. The lawns of the neighboring manufacturing plants were a close-clipped green, and the shrubs were trimmed into perfect rectangles. I found a parking place out front and locked up. The building was a compact story and a half of stucco and fieldstone. The address of the warehouse itself was two blocks away. I'd inspect the fire scene after I talked to Lance Wood.

The reception area was small and plain, furnished with a desk, a bookcase, and an enlarged photograph of the FIFA 5000 Hydrogen/Vacuum Furnace, the mainstay of the company fortunes. It looked like an oversized unit for an efficiency kitchen, complete with stainless-steel counter and built-in microwave. According to the data neatly framed nearby, the front-loading FIFA 5000 provided five thousand cubic inches of uniform hot zone for hydrogen or vacuum brazing, for metallizing ceramics, or manufacturing ceramic-to-metal seals. I should have guessed.

Behind me, the receptionist was returning to her desk with a fresh cup of coffee and a Styrofoam container that smelled of sausage and eggs. The laminated plastic sign on her desk indicated that her name was Heather. She was in her twenties and apparently hadn't yet heard about the hazards of cholesterol and fat. She would find the latter on her fanny one day soon.

“May I help you?” Her smile was quick, exposing braces on her teeth. Her complexion was still ruddy from last night's application of an acne cure that so far hadn't had much effect.

“I have an appointment with Lance Wood at nine,” I said. “I'm with California Fidelity Insurance.”

Her smile faded slightly. “You're the arson investigator?”

“Well, I'm here on the fire claim,” I said, wondering if she mistakenly assumed that “arson” and “fire” were interchangeable terms.

“Oh. Mr. Wood isn't in yet, but he should be here momentarily,” she said. The braces infused her speech with a sibilance that amused her when she heard herself. “Can I get you some coffee while you wait?”

I shook my head. There was one chair available and I took a seat, amusing myself by leafing through a brochure on the molybdenum work rack designed specifically for metallizing alumina at 1450°C. in a bell-style hydrogen furnace. These people had about
as many laughs as I do at home, where a prime source of entertainment is a textbook on practical aspects of ballistics, firearms, and forensic techniques.

Through a doorway to my left, I could see some of the office staff, casually dressed and busy, but glum. I didn't pick up any sense of camaraderie among them, but maybe hydrogen furnace-making doesn't generate the kind of good-natured bantering I'm accustomed to with California Fidelity. Two desks were unoccupied, bare of equipment or accouterments.

Some attempt had been made to decorate for Christmas. There was an artificial tree across the room from me, tall and skeletal, hung with multicolored ornaments. There didn't seem to be any lights strung on the tree, which gave it a lifeless air and only pointed up the uniformity of the detachable limbs stuck into pre-bored holes in the aluminum shaft. The effect was dispiriting. From the information I'd been given, Wood/Warren grossed close to fifteen million bucks a year, and I wondered why they wouldn't pop for a live pine.