Рита Браун - Hiss Of Death

As they turned onto Harris Street, billows of black smoke curled upward. Even with the car windows closed, the smell of fire crept in.

Harry and Susan counted many friends among the business owners on Harris Street. Their worry was immediate.

Fire trucks blocked the way to Charlottesville Press.

“Oh, God, hope it’s not the pet store or Chuck Grossman’s business. Or Rodney,” Susan exclaimed.

Rodney was Rodney Thomas, owner of Charlottesville Press.

“Harry, we’ve got to turn around.”

“I know, but hold on one skinny minute.” Harry hit the brakes, pressed the flashing-light button, stepped out of her Volvo, and ran up to Luke Anson, an officer with the Charlottesville police whom she recognized.

“Luke.”

“Harry, turn round.”

“What’s burning?”

“Pinnacle Records. Go on, Harry. Everyone’s out of the building, even the dog.”

“Okay.” Back in the Volvo, Harry informed Susan.

Pinnacle Records housed hard copy, some of those records going back to 1919. They also had sliding metal trays in temperature-controlled vaults for CDs, floppy disks, even removed hard drives. Two years ago, Pinnacle had developed another temperature-controlled small vault for the tiny thumb drives now coming into use.

Even though technology surged ahead, with files and backup becoming ever smaller, huge companies soon ran out of storage room, no matter how carefully they’d planned. The proliferation of materials was overwhelming. Pinnacle provided a much-needed service to many organizations. Of particular concern to some of their clients were their old papers, particularly if the paper was cheap, such as newsprint. Such articles disintegrated rapidly. Pinnacle worked with various libraries’ special collections, most notably the University of Virginia, keeping abreast of the latest developments in preserving historical documents. The old inks remained as long as the paper could hold them. Experts could pinpoint the chemicals in various inks, too. It was historically vital to preserve the actual paper document. Fortunately, many companies realized this.

Pinnacle carried insurance and was supposed to be fireproof.

“Pinnacle has so much sensitive, really important material.” Susan immediately grasped the problem.

“Not anymore.”

T hursday, the day after Pinnacle Records burned, many law offices, medical offices, and businesses—from insurance companies to the tire dealer on Route 29—all checked their in-house records. They had used Pinnacle Records for backup, for storage, especially for materials that were old, older than computer files. With few exceptions, everyone was fine.

Safe Tire, for whatever reason, either had misplaced the files for 2002 or the computer ate them up. People who drove the usual fifteen thousand miles per year had replaced the tires purchased in 2002. However, a few customers barely put fifteen hundred miles per annum on their vehicles. Franny Howard, the owner, immediately hired a geek to comb through the computers.

People didn’t expect a woman to own a tire store. Franny, smart, hired men on the floor. In the garage, she had one female employee, the rest men. She worked in her sumptuous office behind the showroom. Even with the economy downturn, Franny made money. Many people feared things wouldn’t get better. Instead of buying a new car, they put a new set of tires on their old one.

Apart from Safe Tire, by the end of the day, many companies utilizing Pinnacle Records relaxed.

At four, Coop drove to the site of the fire. Rick usually drove, but he sat next to her, working a laptop computer. The state kept adding new license plates. He pulled up the latest ones to refresh his memory. Sure was easier when there was one plate and that was that.

Virginia’s plate background for the last three decades was white and the letters and numerals were dark blue, easily read from twenty yards. Now plates had yellow swallowtail butterflies, the state insect. Others celebrated Jamestown, the beginnings of English settlement in 1607. Others honored war veterans, the exact war being specified. Foxhunters even had their own license plates—very pretty, too. You could get plates signifying your college. Pleasant though it was for those people willing to pay the extra dollars for the license plates with some meaning to them, this personalization created confusion.

Sheriff Shaw, Coop, and the people in his department, as well as any law enforcement officer in Virginia, simply memorized the plates. But a citizen in an accident—say, a hit-and-run—might not be able to identify the license plates on the fast-receding vehicle. The various surrounding colors and logos obscured for them the vital information, plus people in accidents were rattled as it was.

“I’m waiting for golfers to get their plate.” Rick closed the laptop as Coop parked the squad car.

“The logo will read ‘Put a tiger in your tank.’ ” Coop used the old Esso ad slogan from decades past but referred to the world’s most famous golfer.

Rick laughed. “If I’d done even ten percent of the stuff that guy did, I’d be singing soprano. Helen scares me,” he said, naming his wife.

“Oh, she does not.”

As they both got out of the squad car, he replied, “Just a little. Helen sees things I don’t. I can never tell if it’s because she’s a woman or if it’s because she’s so damned smart.”

“A little of both.” Coop liked Rick’s wife.

A sharp odor made them cough. The ruins still smoldered. Firemen remained on duty. But this was a bit different than the usual charred timber, insulation ashes smell.

“Plastic?”

“Dunno.” Rick shrugged as they walked toward Big Al Vitebsk, Pinnacle’s owner, who was talking to one of the firemen.

As Pinnacle was on Harris Street in Charlottesville, this was not Rick’s jurisdiction. Al and Nita Vitebsk lived in the county. Everyone knew Big Al. He was one of those guys who throws himself into any charity work with enthusiasm. For years he had headed the Easter Seals drive, as well as giving generously to the Reformed Temple, of which he was a valued member.

“Sheriff.” Big Al turned to greet Rick. “Hello, Coop. Well, this is a goddamned mess.”

“Yeah, came to see it myself. I’m sorry, Al,” Rick commiserated.

The six-three, three-hundred-pound man shrugged. “My turn, I guess.”

“I’m glad everyone got out safely.”

“Even JoJo.”

JoJo, a medium-sized adorable mutt with floppy ears and a coat the color of apricots, sat in Big Al’s Range Rover, windows down. Big Al didn’t want his best friend to rush into the hot ruins and burn his pads. JoJo was smarter than that, but if Big Al had walked into it, so would JoJo. Rescued from the pound at five months old, JoJo loved Big Al as only a dog can love. And Big Al loved him in return.

“Nita okay?” Rick asked.

“She’s tough. Hell, she married me,” Big Al joked.

“Got that right.” Rick smiled. “Do you know how this started?”

“Right now, no. Until they can get in there, I don’t think we’ll know. I just hope it’s not something like faulty wiring. I run a tight ship, Rick, but things can slip by or just fool you. Look what happened down at Round Hill Industries. The whole roof collapsed last winter, and the roof had been built to code in 1995. Stuff happens.”

“It does, but we live in a society where blame has to be apportioned and attached to a person. I’m with you, buddy, whatever went wrong, I sure hope it isn’t something like wiring.”

“I hope the records in the heavy vaults survived. Once the terrible heat subsides, I’ll open them. Might take a day or two. I wouldn’t want to touch the locks, even with firemen’s gloves.” He stopped. “The old records, the ones back to the forties. I don’t know.”