Fire Trap

2 - Genetrix

I parked the Porsche in the First Interstate Tower garage because the Western Insurance Group validates. Even though I'm flush, I hate wasting money. I think that came from my mother. Theater people save and re-use everything, sets, costumes, and jokes.

I wore khakis and a sweater to combat the air-conditioned boxes where Western plied its trade. I didn't do business in suits. I had a few, but they only came out for weddings and funerals.

My black zipper case, a concession to the corporate world, held progress reports on my two current Western projects.

I'd been on the Johnson Lumber case for three months. There'd been a winter logging accident, a death, several injuries with multiple insurance claims, workman's compensation, property damage, and three different legal actions stemming from the illegal logging of an adjacent government parcel.

I was evaluating the physical evidence from the scene, witnesses, and victims and correlating it with depositions taken by lawyers. I was looking for inconsistencies. The legwork was done. What was left was a suitcase of paper which, as Arnie appropriately pointed out, I could take with me.

The McClelland Company interviews troubled me more. I had just started them. Western was insuring all the executives as a group and the interviews were a negotiated pre-condition to receive a discounted rate. If no instabilities or dangerous extracurricular activities turned up, they got the low rate. Otherwise, it was discharge the executive or take a rate hike.

Turning the interviews over to Arnie didn't feel quite right. Arnie's physically intimidating. He's, how can I say it... he's like the Terminator, only shorter. He's an ex-policeman, ex-logger. He's only ten pounds heavier than I am, but his two hundred twenty, at five foot nine, looks twice as big. Who knows, maybe he'll get more out of the interviews with intimidation?

#

The elevator let me off on the twenty-second floor. Behind glass doors in a glass wall, the lobby of Western's corporate headquarters stretched to consume a million dollars of skyscraper space. Jungle plants and bland modern art led me to a black cherry reception desk where an ex-stewardess noted my appointment with Tom that was penciled on her calendar. Then she smiled, showed me a seat and called Tom to see if Tom really wanted to go through with the scheduled meeting.

Apparently he did. The investment in the lobby was paying off.

Tom Wright, the general of Western's small army of adjusters, strode to me all smiles and handshakes and led me to the impress-the-hell-out-of-you conference room with its soft gray-leather swivel chairs, great oval table and glass panorama of the Portland waterfront. I was impressed again, even though I sit down there with Tom at least once a week.

Coffee and individually-wrapped cookies arrived a moment after we took our seats.

Tom set down a laptop across the table from me and lowered himself into one of the gray leather chairs. He leaned back, interlaced his fingers over his ample belly and pinched up his lips. Little kissing sounds escaped while he collected his thoughts.

"I know you're not happy starting another case for us right now, but we need you on this one. You're the best."

"Come on, Tom, you say that to all the boys. I'm just Randy Justice of two-bit Justice Investigations, one of twenty-plus outfits that do your leg work."

"That's right," he said, while shaking his head 'no'. His kissing morphed to tssk tssk. "Nineteen of those firms are low on work right now and would jump at this job. So why am I forcing it down your throat?"

That was a good question. I'd worked for Western less than a year, but my workload with them was growing. I thought it was coincidence, since, in two of my four completed cases, the settlement payout increased.