Fire Trap

13 - A new direction

Back at the Park Plaza, I phoned Western, actually reaching Tom Wright on the first try. He complained about the rain in Portland. I said that the San Francisco Bay was a trifle cool this time of year. After that, we got down to keyman insurance. I filled him in on the overdose and the coroner's insistence that the actual cause of death was still the fire. I included my comments to the executives about their chances being in the neighborhood of twenty-five percent.

"You were generous," Tom said, "and failed to tell them the legal battle would take two years."

"Don't get excited," I cautioned him. "I'm not even close to my usual this-case-is-closed feeling. I'll be here the rest of the week at a minimum. Life was going too well for Simon to pick suicide, from my point of view. He had money, he was king of his job, he had subjects to rule and he took care of his mom in L.A.. There could still be something in his seemingly non-existent personal life, but the suicide theory felt wrong."

"You said he had depression."

"Yes," I agreed, "but what did he have to be depressed about? Lester tells me his work, but I don't believe it."

"Well, he sure timed his suicide poorly from Genetrix's point of view," he said, ignoring my remarks.

"What do you mean?"

"In another month," he said, "the suicide exclusion clause would have lapsed. We would have had to pay."

"Who knew that?"

"Anyone who read the policy."

Tom told me a few more times what a great job I was doing, so I knew he wasn't listening to my cautionary statements. All he heard was drug overdose. The waters were muddied and the payout wouldn't be anytime soon. He was thrilled. I finally managed to hang up the phone.

As I lay back on the bed, my eye fell on the Johnson Lumber briefcase, at the side of the desk, where I had left it. But I had left it flush against the wall and now it was several inches closer to me. The maid must have moved it while cleaning, I thought, and went back to considering my agenda for the day. Certainly a visit to Hillberg Partners and maybe Dr. Baxter, if I could get in to see him.

My eyes went back to the briefcase and the gap between it and the wall. It didn't look like an area a busy maid would bother with, but maybe the maids here were very conscientious. I got up, went over to the briefcase and opened it. Everything looked okay. I checked my closet and all of the dresser drawers. All okay.

I opened the drawer of the night stand by the bed where I had left my tape recorder after listening again to the Lester Roseman interview. The number in the little window that shows the position of the tape said 181, almost exactly where I had left it, but the numbers were perfectly registered in the window. Last night, part of a 0 was showing. I remembered, because to memorize the spot, I couldn't decide between 180 or 181.

The maid had no reason to listen to my tape or to rewind it. I had had a visitor. I took the Glock 19 out of my luggage. I put in the nine-millimeter shells one by one, then checked that the safety was on. Arnie claimed that true PIs, ones that carry guns, sleep with them at their side, not under the pillow or on the floor. If I was going to sleep with this thing, I would be double-sure the safety was on.

I got ready for bed, checked the door and windows, and probed the shadows in the closet. Then I crawled into bed. I slid the Glock under the covers and down against my knee. It felt strange and cold, but I wasn't checking shadows anymore, and in a few minutes I was asleep.

#

I awakened to the shrill insistence of the telephone. I hung up on the automatic wake-up recording. Sunlight leaked into the room around the edges of the leaded draperies. I sat up in bed and remembered the Johnson Lumber briefcase. It hadn't advanced an inch on me during the night. Good.