Fire Trap

7 - Lydia

I continued driving up the bay to the San Francisco airport, and wrote my weekly report to Western on the flight to Los Angeles. Simon's mother lived in Palms, not far from LAX, and I took an Uber to her apartment.

Palms really did have a few palms, but mainly it had acres of two-story apartment blocks that differed from each other in color and little else. Simon's mother, Lydia, lived on the second floor of a light gray building that was well kept up. All the apartments had exterior entrances and I rang her bell leaning cautiously back on the black wrought-iron railing of the concrete walkway. Street lights were coming on even though it was still light outside.

The woman who opened the door had the same aquiline nose I remembered from Simon's photograph in the Genetrix lobby. She was small, though, and I realized Simon must have gotten his height from his father. Lydia's white hair was drawn back tightly in a bun. Her red-rimmed eyes looked out through wire-rim spectacles with a keen intelligence.

"Randy Justice?"

"Yes," I said, "sorry not to have given more notice."

"I had to cancel so many appointments to fit you in," she quipped, turning her back and leaving me to open the screen and follow her into the apartment.

#

Her living room was strange. Aside from a small sofa, coffee table, and recliner, it was filled with house plants. And one wall had the most enormous big screen TV I had ever seen. The plants filled two tiers of tables to compete for the light coming in from the front picture window. Other pots and drainage trays filled the remaining floor space except for a path leading through them to the sofa. At least the path wasn't graveled. Perhaps she tuned in gardening shows on the big screen to entertain her horticultural companions.

The kitchenette, traditionally furnished, was partially separated from the living room by a half wall.

Lydia put two cups of water into the microwave. "Tea or coffee?"

"Tea," I said, following her, though I had had plenty to drink on the plane.

"With caffeine, or without?" she said, opening a cupboard.

"Without."

"Peppermint or Ruby Mist?"

"Peppermint," I said. "Shall we talk in the kitchen or the living room?" I added, turning the tables on her.

"Living room," she said, without missing a beat, but there was a little smile at the corner of her mouth that said she enjoyed playing games and that her grief hadn't entirely consumed her.

She followed an involved coffee-press ritual for herself, and, when she finished, we went back to the living room. As she sat in the recliner, I noticed that the far side of the half wall had been turned into a Simon Gallagher shrine, with photographs, awards, and newspaper articles.

"May I?" I said, indicating the wall.

"Certainly."

There was a family photo in the upper left corner that showed Simon, in cap and gown, graduating from collage. Lydia and a tall man I tagged as her husband were there and, apparently from the facial resemblance, a brother in an army uniform.

There was also a copy of the same photo I had seen in the lobby at Genetrix with the three founders, Gallagher, Roseman, and Wilson, around the bar table with champagne and the check.

As I scanned through the articles, I saw that most of them dealt with Simon's discoveries at the Oregon Biotechnology Institute or Genetrix. Liposomes and monoclonal coatings were mentioned several times and, in one article, there was a picture of Richard Roark with Mark Foringer. The article included the history of all the Genetrix management. It appeared Mark had worked for Roark Labs prior to being CEO at Genetrix. I found it interesting that Mark hadn't mentioned that to me.