Fire Trap

10 - Lester Roseman

A few hours later, when Jean returned and collected me in my Chevy, she refused to let me drive. Her father drove her black Mercedes and followed us down the bay to my hotel. When we arrived, I persuaded them both to come upstairs for a drink.

The trip had taken less than an hour in the light Saturday evening traffic. I spent the time thinking through the events on the boat and in the water. The hospital had released me 'Against Medical Advice' with much paperwork, as Jean had foreseen, but their final indignity was rolling me out in a wheelchair. Since I had absolved them from any and all crimes of omission and commission, performed or contemplated, they could have thrown me down a flight of stairs and I would have been paying, both for any damages my body caused to the stairs and for their attorney's costs in collecting from me. Therefore, I concluded, they insisted on the wheelchair out of spite.

I sat, obediently, in the passenger seat and watched Jean drive. We talked about her tennis game. Her backhand was weak and her serve wasn't as strong as Janice's. They played singles three times a week and tournament doubles on some weekends.

She apologized twice more, in different ways, for almost drowning me. I pointed out that she also saved me, but that didn't seem to satisfy her. I talked about my kids and avoided the divorce when she asked. She had a disconcerting habit of looking at me when she was talking, even while she was changing lanes. She apparently felt little need to consult the roadway. I asked if she'd had many accidents. None. I offered my opinion that her first one would be a dozy. Also, she shouldn't feel any need to prove my lack of wisdom, in leaving the hospital.

Every once in a while a bit of her perfume reached me and I saw the woman instead of the daughter of the Genetrix competition. She was taller and heavier than Sandra. No, heavier is a terrible description. She was more athletic, more curvy and her complexion was flawless. Let's just say she was impressively feminine. She fixed me with her eyes at the end of this assessment, as if she were reading my mind, and gave me the edge of a smile.

#

We reached my room at the same time as the bottle of Scotch I requested the concierge to send up. The white-coated waiter put down a little bucket of ice and three glasses. I gave him a nice tip, wondering if the Park Plaza room service had its own express elevator. We certainly hadn't lost much time in the lobby.

Jean and I sat at the table. Richard stretched out on the queen bed nearest us. "Your wet things are in an old boat bag in the back of the Chevy," he said. "You can keep the bag or throw it out."

"Thanks for getting me out of the hospital. I spent a month in one once, as a kid. A bad month. I don't like them, given any alternative."

"Our pleasure," Richard said. "What's next for you?"

"An interview with Lester tomorrow morning and an errand at the Civic Theater," I said. "That's it."

"Civic Theater sounds far afield from biotechnology and insurance," he said, sounding puzzled.

"I own a theater in Portland, the Victorian Playhouse," I said. "It was the dearest possession of my parents. We're doing a musical this summer, a first for us, so I'm dropping by the Civic Theater with an open call for singing talent. How are your voices?"

"Mine's great," Richard said, "but Jean... well, not everything inherits."

"I love the theater," Jean said, "from the audience side, that is."

"Would you like to come with me tomorrow? I'll throw in dinner." She didn't respond for a minute, staring at me, reading my intentions. I tried to look inscrutable and sipped my Scotch.

"If it's casual."

"I'm amazed, Randy," Richard said. "Jean doesn't usually go out with people she tries to drown."

"Can you imagine growing up with a father like this?"

"Serious psychological damage I'm sure," I agreed.

"What time would you like me to appear?"

"I'll pick you up at one."

"Ridiculous, I'll meet you downstairs in the lobby tomorrow at two o'clock. Why spend two hours driving to San Francisco and back?"

"Two o'clock downstairs." It wasn't smart asking Jean out. I usually don't introduce new elements into an investigation, but I'd already picked up on a shared sense of humor. She'd be fun to be around. I guess, this time, I didn't think things through any further than that. My kids would say I was on the rebound, but I felt pretty sure that breaking up with Sandra didn't have anything to do with my interest in Jean.

We all got up and I walked them to the hall. "Good night," I said, "it was quite a day. I enjoyed almost all of it."

#

Lester Roseman lived in a development of upper-class homes in Palo Alto. There were four cars parked in the driveway in front of his three-car garage. The new silver Mercedes, custom license BBXMNR, didn't jibe with an aging green Volvo. A white Toyota Landcruiser and a Chrysler Le Baron convertible seemed toys for grown children. A half-acre of manicured lawn led to an arched brick entrance. As I walked by the Volvo, I noticed a Genetrix parking sticker in the corner of its front window.

A thin young man in a Grateful Dead T-Shirt answered the door. He had long wavy black hair and an unusually penetrating gaze.

"Lester at home?"

He turned and yelled into another room. "Mom, it's someone asking for Dad." He opened the door further and let me in. The hallway was quite a production. Sunlight streamed through skylights onto a polished parquet floor with inlaid hardwood borders and a thick Persian carpet in the center. A double-wide staircase curled up to the second floor with a sweep of carved railings.

Mrs. Roseman entered the hall from the living room, whose wall-to-wall carpet picked up the tones of the Persian rug in the hall. I could see the living room was decorated in a modern style with strategically placed antiques to give it character.

Mrs. Roseman was short and somewhat younger than the Lester whose photograph I'd seen. She was dressed in a business suit. "I'm Annette," she said, offering her hand, "You must be Mr. Justice." We shook, but before I said anything, she continued, "You'll have to forgive me, but I'm on my way out. Alan will take you up to Lester's study, won't you, dear?" she said, turning to him.

"Sure."

"He headed up the staircase and I followed. "Your mother's a pediatrician?"

"Pediatric surgeon actually, how did you... oh, the license plate," he said, answering himself. "You're investigating the fire?"

"Yeah."