by Greg Dinallo
At about the same time, Dan Merrick was in his Chevy Blazer on a jammed freeway, popping Tums like peanuts. Someone up ahead flicked a cigarette into the darkness, sending up an explosion of orange sparks. Merrick cursed the thoughtless stupidity and took the Rosecrans exit to Manhattan Beach. Like most oceanfront towns, its clean air, fine schools, quaint shops and restaurants made it a great place to raise a family.
Pyromaniacs and gridlock weren’t the only things burning a bole in Merrick’s stomach as be parked in front of the stucco-and-tile bungalow that used to be his house; the house he was still paying for; the house be was still paying for while his ex-wife, Joyce, lived in it with another man. He stared into the darkness, wondering how all the happiness and hope had turned to such bitterness and pain. The sound of the Blazer’s door opening pulled him out of it.
Jason Merrick’s round face looked up at him from beneath a backward cap that proclaimed KINGS. Large block letters across the back of his oversized jersey spelled out THE ENFORCER.
“Hey, how’s it going, Dad?” Jason chirped as be clambered into the seat next to him.
“Great,” Merrick replied, tugging Jason’s cap down over his eyes playfully. “How about you?”
“I’m banging in there.”
“Hanging in there?” Merrick echoed with concern as he pulled away from the curb. “That clown your mother’s living with giving you a hard time?”
“Naw, Steve’s okay.”
Merrick took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette and exhaled. “Then what?”
Jason waved at the pungent haze. “Mom says I shouldn’t be around people who smoke.”
“She’s right. It’s a filthy habit.”
“So why do you do it?”
“Because it pisses her off.”
“Come on, Dad. She said secondhand smoke is—”
“Hey, it’s no longer open for discussion. Am I coming through?”
“Yeah,” Jason muttered dejectedly.
Merrick stopped in front of another house and tapped the horn, then sighed with remorse. “Sorry I snapped. You know how I get when fire season rolls around.”
Jason nodded. “Mom thinks you’re a nutcase.” He noticed his two friends hurrying toward the Blazer, and quickly added, “I told her it takes one to know one.”
“Hey!” Merrick said, trying to conceal the fact that he was pleased. “I don’t want you talking to your mother that way . . . unless she calls me a nutcase.”
Jason studied him curiously for a moment, then they both began to laugh.
Twenty miles north in Las Flores Canyon the Econoline van was snaking along a dirt road that ran behind the secluded houses. It turned into the brush just below the windblown crest and creaked to a stop. The driver lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Then, eyes aglow with complex emotions that ranged from shame to anger and culminated in a sense of awesome power, placed the unlighted end inside a matchbook, closed the cover, and tossed it out the window.
The tip of the cigarette traced a spiraling path through the darkness to a clump of mesquite. The glowing embers burned from one shred of tobacco to the next until the first match ignited, turning the matchbook into a miniature blowtorch. The intense flash lasted just long enough to set the parched brush ablaze. The tiny circle of flame quickly grew to a diameter of several feet; then, like a lost hiker, it paused in the darkness until a gust of wind gave it direction and force. Half an hour later it had grown into a raging firestorm that sent particles of flaming debris through the air like wind-driven rain, igniting million dollar houses, mobile homes, and makeshift shanties with equal ardor.
While the flames ravaged Las Flores Canyon, the van climbed to a ridge that gave the driver a panoramic view of the inferno. Few fire starters were motivated by festering hatred, few carried out personal vendettas, few used sophisticated ignition devices to keep their distance. Most were driven by more basic urges. This one was no exception. Stimulated by the dazzling pyrotechnics that lit the sky, by the thrill of creation, by feverish hands slipped inside unzipped jeans, the driver writhed in ecstasy and emitted a chilling scream.
Dan Merrick was screaming too, and jumping out of his seat with excitement. While Las Flores burned, and Los Angeles sizzled, he was in the coolest spot in town.
Ringed by Romanesque columns that stood stark white against a crumbling inner city neighborhood, the L.A. Forum housed a half acre of ice on which violent young millionaires were fighting over a disk of rock-hard rubber. Merrick and the boys cheered as a group of players slammed into the boards in front of them, their fierce eyes, clenched jaws, and flailing sticks just beyond the shatter-proof glass.
The Kings center came up with the puck. In an electrifying display of stick-handling, he split the Toronto defense and beat the goalie with a stinging backhander. Lights were flashing, sirens screaming, bells ringing, and thousands of Kings fans were going wild when Merrick’s phone began chirping—which was why he didn’t hear it.
The cellular hung on Merrick’s belt inches from his son’s ear. Jason knew what it meant and wrestled with his conscience before tugging on his father’s sleeve. “Dad? Hey, Dad! Your phone!”
Merrick groaned, then slipped it from its sheath and thumbed receive. “Merrick.”
The L.A. County Arson Squad was housed in an art deco building in Chinatown near the Convention Center. Duty officer Mike Gonzales sat at his console, squinting at the flashing indicators on the wall-sized status map. “Hey, Lieutenant, I got a gig for you.”
“Chrissakes, Gonzo,” Merrick admonished, turning the phone toward the arena. “You bear that?”
“Kings game. You got the box tonight.”
“You’re a genius. Get somebody else, will you?”
“No can do. Decker specifically asked for you. Said he wants it done right.”
“Bullshit. Decker hates my guts. He said that because I’m at the game. Where’s the gig?”
“Malibu. Nasty wildfire. He’s set up on PCH and Las Flores Canyon. Says he has a witness.”
“Somebody spotted the pyro?” Merrick exclaimed.
“What he said.”
“Tell him I’m rolling.”
While Merrick was dropping off the boys, the blistering Santa Anas were driving the wildfire in an ever widening triangle, consuming thousands of acres of vegetation and hundreds of homes. Despite the efforts of firefighters, the flames had reached the coast and were threatening the multimillion-dollar estates in Malibu Colony—the beach-front enclave where Hollywood’s power elite resided—and the area was being evacuated.
It was about a forty-minute run from Manhattan Beach at this hour; but the wildfires had the freeway backed up, and five lanes of stoplights greeted the Blazer as it came down the curving 405/10 interchange. Merrick hit the brakes and bounced a fist off the steering wheel in disgust
He had spent the first ten years of his career fighting fires, and the next ten catching the nuts who started them. Part cop, part psychologist, part scientist, he used dogged gumshoe work and painstaking forensic analysis to assemble the charred pieces of the puzzle, and hoped the picture identified the arsonist. Catching one was like the Kings making the playoffs, convicting one like winning the Stanley Cup. The arrest rate was the lowest of any felony. And only one in ten of those went to jail. Identify, arrest, convict—they were Merrick’s special skills. The irony was he needed-a tragedy to put them to use.
His impatience had gradually turned to gut-burning anger as the Blazer inched forward. He was reaching for the bottle of Tums when something dawned on him. A relaxed smile broke across Merrick’s face as he settled back in the seat, savoring it. A witness, he thought; son of a bitch, I got me a witness.
CHAPTER FIVE
On this night the gusts that swept into Lilah’s bedroom had taken on an acrid bite that went unnoticed by its occupants. Several hours had passed since they’d burrowed beneath the covers. Now, while Kauffman lay beside her, Lilah tossed and turned, tormented by a familiar litany: The Lord giv
eth and the Lord taketh away. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. The Lord giveth and . . . over and over, the words rang in Lilah’s head.
It was her mother’s favorite saying, and Lilah always thought of it after having sex. Not that her mother ever said it to her in that regard. They never talked about making love, as Marge Graham’s generation called it. No, the saying came to mind because the euphoria and the blissful sleep that followed inevitably gave way to harrowing nightmares.
It was always the same. A spiraling descent into a netherworld where, emotionally spent and physically naked—her flame-red hair, tumbling in sweeping waves across her breasts and pelvis, cloaking her demurely like a modern-day Botticelli—she soared through suede-black darkness to the pinnacle of emotion, then spun out of control and crashed headlong into an explosion of colored lights. The intense bursts were always violet, yellow, and white, and were always ringed by neon-green tentacles that tried to ensnare her.
Lilah fought ferociously, terrified of being caught and of the eerie silence that she tried desperately to shatter, only to find herself unable to whimper, let alone scream. It was like a virtual-reality encounter with no sound track, an encounter she’d had hundreds of times without once getting to the end. This wasn’t because she would suddenly awaken in sweat-soaked terror, but because the nightmare would suddenly stop as if someone had pulled the plug, leaving her with a nagging feeling of uncertainty when she finally awakened hours later.
This time it was intensified by a flickering glow that came from the far side of the room. Lilah pushed up onto an elbow, squinting into the glare; then she recoiled at the sight of a raging blaze. Everywhere she looked she saw fire. She frantically rubbed the sleep from her eyes, to discover that the sheets of flame were marching across her television screen, not through her condo; and, having been multiplied by the collection of mirrors, were merely illuminating, not incinerating, the figure in jeans and T-shirt at her desk. “Kauffman?” she muttered sleepily.
His lanky body sagged like a hammock between the chair and a file cabinet where his bare heels rested. He grunted in reply, keeping one eye on the televised inferno, the other on the textbook in his lap.
“What’s going on?”
“Wildfires,” he explained, getting to his feet. “This town’s going up in flames.”
Lilah nodded knowingly and sighed with relief. “That time of year . . .” She found the remote next to the pack of Virginia Slims on the nightstand and shut off the television. “Happens every October.”
Kauffman was about to protest but sensed she was unsettled and let it go. “You okay?”
“Yeah, thanks, I’m fine. Why?”
“You were really rocking and rolling there for a while. Kinda like you locked horns with things that go bump in the night.”
Lilah nodded vulnerably. “Always do after I’ve been with someone.” She sat up against the headboard, the flame-red waves swirling about her shoulders and across her breasts, then reached to the nape of her neck and ran both hands up into her hair several times, her slender fingers gathering it into a flaming column that she began weaving into a chignon with practiced grace. She’d been doing it for decades; ever since her mother denounced her waist-long tresses as unruly and threatened to cut them; and, over the years, it had evolved into a sensuously choreographed ballet—which Kauffman found wholly intriguing. He was still savoring the performance when Lilah pulled a cigarette from the pack with her lips and struck a match to light it. It burst into flame with a sharp pop, revealing the fascination in her eyes. “Something about matches . . .” Lilah said in that seductive whisper, holding it up to him. “The way they sound, the way they smell, the way the tongues of flame start licking at each other and become one . . .”
“You see everything relative to getting your rocks off, don’t you?” he prompted with a little smile.
She lit the cigarette, then blew him a kiss, exhaling a stream of smoke that extinguished the flame. “Well now that you mention it . . .”
Kauffman’s eyes rolled. “Women are weird. This art major I used to go with said her orgasms were like diving headfirst into a de Kooning.”
“I’ll have to try that sometime,” Lilah said with a mischievous grin. “But I need to dive headfirst into a cup of coffee first. You make any?”
“No. I’ve been studying.”
“Sans caffeine?” she teased incredulously. “You sure you’re from Seattle?” She stood up stark naked, took a drag of the cigarette, and headed for the bathroom, pulling a thin layer of smoke after her. Kauffman sat there watching, fascinated by the dimple that winked at him with each step.
Lilah emerged shortly, wearing a clingy robe and a few dabs of her favorite perfume. She had experimented with many over the years, initially favoring the more potent ones that could strike the target from afar; then, on finishing her residency, whether as a symbol of her maturity or an admission that she was an old-fashioned girl at heart, she settled on Chanel’s legendary No. 5, the subtle, alluring scent that sophisticated women had been using for decades as a clincher in intimate moments.
Lilah tossed some beans in the grinder, cranked up the cappuccino machine, and soon they were sitting at the counter, sipping industrial strength espresso from cups the size of soup bowls. “My turn,” Lilah said, sensing the kid’s distance. “You okay?”
“Uh-huh. It’s nothing. Really.”
“That wasn’t very convincing, Joel,” she said with gentle concern.
Kauffman took a thoughtful sip of coffee, then made his decision, and gestured to a framed snapshot at the end of the counter. “That’s you and Professor Schaefer, isn’t it?”
Lilah nodded.
“I think I have him for psych next semester.”
“Heard the rumors, huh?”
“Looks like they’re true.”
“Were true,” Lilah corrected with a little sigh. She circled the counter and pushed the picture with the tip of her forefinger until it toppled facedown. “Why?”
“Feels a little weird, that’s all.”
“You mean a student making it with a professor who’s been having an affair with another professor who happens to be a shrink with a wife and three kids? What’s weird about that?”
Kauffman laughed and loosened up.
Lilah suddenly scooted off as if she’d remembered something, and returned with her briefcase. “Right arm or left?”
Kauffman looked baffled.
“I need a blood sample.”
“Blood sample?” he echoed defensively. “Hey, you’re not worried that”—he paused awkwardly—“I mean that I’m—”
“HIV positive?”
He nodded. “I’m not. Really, I’m not.”
“I know,” she said, opening one of the vacutainer kits she used to take blood samples. “Your hemo report. Nice job by the way.” In her class, the students ran batteries of tests on their own blood, and on occasion their professor graded more than their lab skills. “Besides, it’s a little late to be worried about an exchange of bodily fluids, don’t you think?”
“A little,” Kauffman replied with a sheepish grin, aching to exchange them again as a tingling sensation spread from the pit of his stomach down the inside of his thighs. The fantasy ended with the glint of steel, the cool swab of alcohol, and the pinch of a needle.
“Come on, make a fist,” Lilah said, slipping the vacutainer—a test-tube-like vial with color-coded stopper—into the plastic holder to which the needle was attached.
Kauffman watched it filling, then felt a little queasy and looked away as she released the tourniquet. “What are you testing for?”
“A genetic mutation.”
“Very funny.”
“Seriously—and by the way, the word is probing. I need all the random samples I can get.”
“I have to sign something?”
“I think we passed that stage last night.” Lilah chuckled lasciviously and ran her free hand through his sleep-tousled curls. “Yeah, ever
yone does. I mean, I don’t care who has the mute and who doesn’t. I’m just into the statistics; but informed consent is a hot-button issue these days.”
“What mutation you looking for?”
“An MAOA defect.” Lilah removed the vacutainer and slipped the needle from his arm. “It’s an X-linked phenotype found at the XP11 locus between DXS14C and OTC.” She saw his blank expression and added, “Monoamine oxidase A. Number 309850 in Mendelian, if you want to look it up. It’s an enzyme that processes serotonin.”
Kauffman’s brow knitted in thought as Lilah fetched a consent form, peeled off one of the bar-code stickers—there were a half dozen with the same number and code in a row across the top—and affixed it to the specimen tube. “Serotonin . . . It’s a neurotransmitter or something, isn’t it?”
Lilah nodded and slid the form across the counter. “A stress modulator—controls impulses—unless the gene is a mute and your brain’s in sero withdrawal. Couple of studies have linked it to antisocial behavior. Which, if you’re into cause and effect theories . . .” She let it trail off suggesting he supply it.
Kauffman’s pen paused over the consent form as he thought it out. “A defective MAOA gene—retards the processing of serotonin by the brain—resulting in antisocial behavior.”
“Uh-huh. And if we dispense with scientific procedure and cut to the chase, we might conclude that—what?”
The kid saw it immediately and hissed, stunned by the import of what he was about to say. “That some people are genetically programmed to be violent.”
Lilah nodded, then grinned seductively. “Maybe even sexually violent.” The words were still coming in that sexy whisper when she lunged toward him, burying her hands in his hair, and drove him back against the counter, her hungry mouth devouring his until his lower lip was captured between her teeth. He winced and recoiled, pulling the flesh taut but not free. Lilah held it for a long moment, then smiled slyly and released it. His entire body began trembling in anticipation as she worked his jeans to his thighs, then undid her robe and pressed her body against his. They were clinging to each other in frenzied passion when he cupped her bare bottom in his hands and lifted her onto the counter.