Джозеф Файндер - House on Fire

She asked for an email address. I gave her the fake one, at DeloitteUS.com, that Dorothy had set up for me. It would auto-forward to me. I don’t even think DeloitteUS.com was a real domain name, but five minutes later she had emailed me the building plans for Phoenicia’s world headquarters.

Then my phone rang again.

“Mr. Heller? This is Catherine from Phoenicia Health Sciences. You’re interested in participating in a clinical trial?”

“Yes, that’s right.” I settled back in my chair.

The woman’s voice over the phone was businesslike but friendly. She had a great Boston accent. “This is a clinical trial that requires taking an investigational drug or a placebo.”

“Okay.”

“Mr. Heller, this study will involve a blood draw or an IV as well as an ultrasound and an overnight stay.”

“I understand.”

She then asked me a series of questions — race, ethnicity, height and weight, blood pressure, did I smoke, how many alcoholic drinks did I have per week... Did I know where Phoenicia was located. The study, she told me, started next Wednesday. That was too far off.

“There’s nothing sooner?”

“That’s when this study begins. Why, is that—”

“I know I probably should have gotten to this earlier, but my week off started yesterday, and I wanted to make some money as soon as I can. I was hoping to get into a study tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Not possible?”

She hummed to herself, loudly tapped at keys. “We actually have a cancellation in a study that begins in three days. I guess the volunteer took sick. This study requires a healthy donor. You’re not a smoker, are you?”

“No.”

“Does that work?”

“I think I can make it work,” I said, smiling. I thanked her and hung up.

There was a knock at my office door, and Gabe entered. He was wearing his black leather jacket. I said, “Hey.”

“Hey, Uncle Nick, can I borrow a car?”

“You already heard from your grandfather?”

He nodded. “I’m going to drive out there tomorrow morning. I got the day off from the record shop.”

I thought a moment. “Not the Defender. I need it. Plus, like I said, you don’t want it on the Mass. Turnpike. It’s loud.”

“That’s okay.”

“You can take my Toyota. But be careful.”

“Cool. I will. Not a scratch.”

I was only a little worried about my car, but I let it go, because my intercom was buzzing again.

“Nick, it’s Patty Lenehan.”

I picked right up. “Patty?”

Her voice was raspy. “Nick, I’m so sorry, but I really need you back here.”

“Everything okay?”

“I can’t — I just can’t — it’s Brendan. He’s angry all the time, and he’s taking it out on me. He’s been breaking things, and he refuses to do anything I ask him to do. He says he hates me. I just can’t get to him. He needs you. I need you.”

I hung up and tossed Gabe, my other surrogate son, the keys to the Toyota.

Seven years ago

When news of General Garrett Moore’s sudden and unexpected early retirement came out, Maggie’s reaction stunned me.

She was livid.

“You gave me your word, Heller!” she yelled. Her eyes were wild. “You promised me you wouldn’t do anything about it.”

For a moment I didn’t know how to respond. “You think I could have this guy walking around with impunity after what he did to you? With power over other people? That was unacceptable.”

“Oh, unacceptable? Nick, this was never about you and what you think is acceptable or not. No, you don’t get to do that. This was my fight, and you wanted to make it yours — and you don’t get to do that.”

I stared in disbelief.

“What happens when people find out? They’ll think you took revenge on him because I had eyes for him. For the general.”

“Well, that’s bullshit.”

“How easy do you think it is for me to continue in my job after this? For you this is just one battle. For me — for any woman in my position — it’s a war. It’s something we deal with day in and day out.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Men always know better,” she said hotly, “right?”

That evening ended our relationship. My apologies did nothing. She was furious at me, and, though it took me a while to get it, I eventually came to understand. It wasn’t my battle to fight. It was hers.

I’ve always taken on other people’s battles, even when I shouldn’t. It’s a lesson I still haven’t really learned.

Early the next morning I gassed up the Defender — the hundred miles or so from Boston to Westham would use more than half of the Defender’s tank, and the fuel tank held fifteen gallons. I headed out through rush-hour traffic down the Southeast Expressway, that terrible, always-choked highway out of Boston. Patty Lenehan had sounded like she was at her wits’ end but said she could wait until today.

My mobile phone rang, and I glanced at it. A 914 area code, which meant Westchester County. I knew it wasn’t Sukie, because her cell started with 917. I didn’t recognize this number.

“Is this Mr. Heller?” A gruff male voice.

“Speaking.” I changed lanes and headed toward Route 3.

“This is Detective Goldman from the Town of Bedford Police.”

“Oh, yes,” I said.

“Remember I said I might have some additional questions regarding the death of Margret Benson? So a couple of things have come up, and I wonder, are you available to talk for a few minutes?”

I suppose I could have told him that I was driving and call him later, but I was far too curious about what he was calling for. Because I had a pretty good idea where this was going. He’d seen me on the surveillance video at Kimball’s house. What else could it be?

“Sure,” I said, my stomach tight.

“A couple of loose ends came up. When we talked at the Kimball residence, you told me that you spent the night sleeping in your bedroom in the east wing, does that sound right?” Cars were starting to pass me. The Defender engine roars loudly when you step on the gas, so I was instead easing up, trying to keep the noise level down. I moved to the right lane.

“That’s right.”

“Which parts of the house did you visit when you stayed there?”

“Let me see. Besides my bedroom on the second floor, I saw the rooms everyone else saw — the smaller dining room, the library, the kitchen... Let’s see, the room where you questioned me in the morning...”

“No other rooms in the house?”

“The game room in the basement.”

“Any other rooms?”

“It’s possible, but not that I can recall right now.”

“I see.”

He was silent for long enough that I thought the call might have gotten cut off.

“Hello?”

“Yes, Mr. Heller. Would there be any reason why we might find any information that said you were in a room that you say you weren’t in?”

A carefully worded question. And an accusation. We have information proving you were in parts of the house you’re not telling us about.

You’re a liar.

“Sure, it’s possible. I forget what-all I saw. I was a guest of Sukie’s and I went where she went.”

He wasn’t happy with that answer. “You said you slept through the night, is that right?”

“I don’t think I said that.”

“You said, ‘I was here, sleeping in my bedroom in the east wing.’”

“I don’t think I said I slept through the night. I never sleep through the night.”

In fact, I usually do sleep through the night, most nights. I’m untroubled, usually, by insomnia. And to be indelicate, I usually don’t have to get up to pee in the middle of the night like a lot of guys.