Touched by Fire

by Greg Dinallo

  Lilah nodded, squinting at the reflection that came from his badge.

  “Lieutenant Merrick, Arson Squad. How’re you doing?”

  She sighed and mumbled, “Rotten.” “Me too.” Merrick took a family-size bottle of Tums from a pocket and pulled the cap. He tossed a few into his mouth, then offered it to her.

  “No thanks, but I’ll have one of those,” she replied, pointing to his cigarette.

  Merrick slipped the pack from a pocket and thumbed the top. “The captain tells me somebody mailed you a hot potato.”

  Lilah lit one cigarette from the other and nodded.

  “What’d it look like?”

  “A box,” she replied, sizing it with her hands.

  “Addressed to you?”

  Lilah nodded again.

  “Scribbled? Printed? Neat? Sloppy?”

  “Neat. Bold, black printing.”

  “Any idea who sent it?”

  She shrugged forlornly, then exhaled, filling the space between them with smoke. “I just want to get back into my lab, Lieutenant. I’ve got a conference in less than a month and—”

  “It’s a crime scene, Doc,” Merrick interrupted. “Nobody goes in there till I check it out; and I can’t do that until it—”

  “Cools down. I know,” she said wearily.

  “You have any enemies?”

  “Not that I know of. I guess I rub my share of people the wrong way, like everybody else.”

  “Any of ’em loners?”

  Lilah shrugged, then shook her head no.

  “Low self-esteem, poor verbal skills?”

  “This is a university, Lieutenant,” she replied with a smile.

  “Yeah, well,” Merrick grunted impatiently. “Pyros are loaded with problems. Some are real good at hiding them. You ever get any threatening calls or mail?”

  “No, never,” she replied, baffled by it all.

  Merrick was mulling it over when Captain Singer joined them. “We can go in now.”

  “We can?” Lilah said, brightening.

  “It’s your call, Dan,” Singer said.

  “No, it’s mine,” Lilah corrected. “It’s my lab, and I have to get in there.” She pushed past Merrick and strode toward the entrance. The determination in her voice moved him, but it was the matter of life-and-death plea in those soulful blue eyes that convinced Merrick not to stop her.

  In the lobby, a fireman directed them to an elevator that had been cleared for use. “You teach?” Merrick asked as they got in and it started to rise.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ever flunk anybody?”

  “Came close a couple of times.”

  “What about a Dr. Kildare wannabe who couldn’t get into med school?”

  “There are jillions of them, but I’m not involved with admissions.”

  “What do you do in your lab?”

  “Bench research.”

  “You use animals?”

  “No. Humans.” She cocked her head, reconsidering, and smiled. “Some of them might qualify.”

  “I was thinking the animal rights gang.”

  “I know. They broke into some labs here a couple of years ago. Contaminated all the experiments . . . a disaster.”

  “You think of any groups who have it in for you?”

  “Other than large segments of the psychiatric and sociological communities, neuroscientists, all major religions, and most minority and antidefamation groups, no.”

  “That narrows it. What’re you into, kiddie porn?”

  “Molecular biology.” She sensed his uncertainty and added, “Genetics. You know. The crazies who are going to make two-headed monsters with rat tails and shark’s teeth.”

  “Are you?”

  “Naw,” Lilah replied with a pregnant pause. “We already have enough politicians.”

  Merrick had become preoccupied with a thought and nodded blankly; but Captain Singer laughed. He was still smiling when the elevator came to a stop. The door rolled open, and the acrid smell of fire hit them with an intensity that made their eyes glisten and bum. A smoky haze was drifting in the corridor. Water was gushing from under doors and rolling across the carpet.

  “Genetics a competitive field?” Merrick prompted.

  “They all are.”

  “What about jealous colleagues?”

  “Ditto. You suggesting it was sabotage?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Anything’s possible, I guess.”

  Merrick nodded pensively and led the way into the lab. Steam hissed from piles of smoldering rubble. Charred debris floated in inch-deep water. Columns of smoke twisted upward, mushrooming against the ceiling in the dim glow of emergency lights. The lab was a mess, but the sprinklers had saved it from being completely incinerated.

  Lilah paused briefly, taking it all in, then, ponytail swinging from side to side, she ran to a room at the far side of the lab where the freezers were located. The digital thermometer on each control panel read –70, as did the circular graph—visible through the Plexiglas window that protected it—on which a stylus had charted temperature variations over the entire incubation period. This meant that, like the contents of standard household refrigerators, which often survive fires, the hundreds of DNA samples that the laboratory freezers contained—the painstakingly prepared blots that had been made radioactive and sandwiched with X-ray film to produce autorads—hadn’t been destroyed. Lilah sighed with relief and crossed toward her office.

  Twisted and misshapen by the intense heat, the steel door frame stood alone amid heaps of rubble that had once been walls. It looked more like a coal mine that had caught fire than an office. Lilah was shocked by the extent of the destruction, and stared into the cavern of charred surfaces, smoldering hulks of furniture, and mounds of sopping wet gunk. Most of the ceiling panels had vaporized; sections of the aluminum grid had sagged or fallen, causing lighting fixtures to hang from their cables at odd angles. The shattered window perfectly framed the fireman atop the ladder outside. Manning work lights and water cannon, he seemed to levitate in the darkness, ready to pounce on any flare-ups.

  Merrick was standing amid the debris, sniffing the air, when Lilah entered. “Real careful, Doc,” he ordered. “Don’t touch anything.” He sniffed the air again, nose wrinkling curiously at a whiff of something familiar.

  “Gasoline?” Lilah ventured.

  Merrick shook his head no. It had the same head-clearing impact of most petroleum-based accelerants but a more pronounced nose-burning sting. “Napthalene.”

  “What?”

  “Napthalene. Probably from mothballs. They’re a popular ingredient in home-brewed incendiaries.”

  Lilah raised a brow in tribute.

  Merrick produced a small flashlight and studied the burn pattern that radiated from what had once been a wall of bookshelves. The table that had stood in front of them—the one that had held the incendiary device—had been destroyed by the fire. The granite top had broken into pieces when it crashed to the floor. Merrick put the flashlight in his mouth to free his hands and used a telescoping pointer to gently poke through the charred debris, uncovering remnants of the corrugated box, a few bits of wire, the shattered casing of the battery that had exploded, and an unidentifiable blob of melted black plastic from which a length of wire protruded.

  “Find something?” Lilah prompted.

  Merrick waggled a hand and took the flashlight from his mouth. “Might be part of a timer or triggering device. What’s left of it anyway. This wasn’t some nut tossing a book of matches into a canyon to get his rocks off.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be crude.”

  “I’m not offended, Lieutenant,” she said. “I was just curious what you meant.”

  “Well . . .” He paused and slipped an evidence bag from his attaché case. “A lot of arsonists are sexually stimulated by fire.”

  “Really?”

  Merrick nodded matter-of-factly.

&nbs
p; “Are you?” Lilah prompted flirtatiously, making eye contact when he looked up.

  Merrick held her gaze. “I get off by catching them, Doc,” he retorted smartly, his lip curling with a mixture of discomfort and disdain.

  Lilah did a little double take, certain she’d seen that expression before. “You know,” she said, trying to place him, “you look kind of familiar.”

  “Lots of people say that.”

  “The TV,” she said as it dawned on her. “You’re the guy who saved those firemen up in Malibu, aren’t you?”

  Merrick nodded humbly, then picked up the lump of melted plastic with tweezers and slipped it into one of the evidence bags. He was filling in the data block when his cellular phone started twittering.

  It was Gonzalez calling from the Ops Center.

  “Come on, Gonzo. I’m still at UCLA for Chrissakes . . . Where? . . . Calabasas? No, dammit, it’s not on my way home, and you know it . . . Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . Fuck . . . Okay . . . Hey, take yes for an answer, okay?” Merrick clicked off, then crossed to Captain Singer, who was supervising the cooling down operation. “I got another call, Cap. You’re gonna have to seal this place off for me.”

  “He’s your man,” Singer replied, introducing Merrick to Chief Copeland, director of campus security. A retired deputy LAPD commander, he was having dinner at his home in Simi Valley—an hour’s drive from UCLA—when notified of the fire, and bad just arrived.

  “I’ve already ordered the C.S. be secured,” Copeland said in a tone that rang with territorial imperative.

  Merrick sized him up, then nodded. “Just out of curiosity, your surveillance cameras tied in to VCRs?”

  “Exterior units only. We’ll run the tape for CRD and let you know if anything turns up.”

  “Appreciate the offer,” Merrick said, deciding that if there was any crime-related data on the tape, he’d find it himself. “But I’m gonna need a copy. Leave a message with dispatch, and I’ll pick it up.”

  Copeland nodded grudgingly.

  “By the way, nobody touches anything in there until I say so. Dr. Graham included.”

  Lilah was staring numbly at the black hole that had been her office when she noticed Merrick leaving the lab. She hurried past Copeland and dashed between the work-stations in pursuit, bursting into the corridor to see Merrick entering the elevator. “Hey! Hey, Lieutenant, wait!” she called out, managing to slip inside just as the door was closing. “Where you going?”

  “Another fire.”

  “What about this one?”

  “It’s on hold for a while.”

  Lilah’s eyes clouded with disappointment.

  “Sorry. Hot weather brings all the weirdos out of the woodwork. It looks like one of them tried to turn you into a french fry.” Merrick fished a business card from a breast pocket and handed it to her. “Give me a call if you think of anyone who’d want to kill you.”

  A surge of adrenaline set Lilah’s heart pounding wildly in her chest. She was thunderstruck by the remark and was staring at him in stunned silence when the elevator stopped. Merrick bolted through the door before it had fully opened. A few seconds passed before Lilah pulled herself together and ran after him, hurrying across the lobby and through the door into the plaza. Merrick was on the far side pushing through a group of reporters who had converged on the Blazer. He climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, and set the emergency flasher on the roof. Lilah pressed on undaunted. She was a few feet from the vehicle when Merrick slammed it in gear and drove off without so much as a nod.

  Lilah recoiled at the ear-piercing screech of tires, then watched numbly as the Blazer’s taillights vanished in the distance. The wail of its siren rose in intensity along with the unnerving feeling in the pit of Lilah’s stomach. She swallowed hard to keep from wretching, then looked about anxiously at those around her. Merrick’s offhanded remark had pierced her armor, shattering her carefully crafted denial; and she had suddenly realized that her reckless disregard for her own safety, her obsessive concern for her work, her initial hostility toward Merrick, her subsequent attempts at levity and coy flirtations had all been part of a subconscious diversion, a way to avoid coping with the terrifying knowledge that someone had tried to kill her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Serena Chen and Paul Schaefer had been at the security desk in the lobby when Lilah ran from the elevator after Merrick. They were among a group of researchers who’d heard about the fire and were trying to get up to their offices and labs. Only those with Mac-Med ID were being allowed inside, and even they were told to wait in the lobby until the building was declared safe. Lilah had been too intent on her pursuit to notice her colleagues, but they saw her dash past. The Blazer was long gone and she was still standing at the curb, staring blankly into the darkness when they caught up to her.

  “Lilah?” Schaefer called out. “Lilah, what happened?”

  She turned toward him but was blinded by lights mounted atop TV cameras as a jostling mob of reporters encircled her, elbowing her two colleagues aside.

  “What did happen up there, Dr. Graham?” one of the reporters demanded, thrusting a microphone in Lilah’s face.

  “Was it an accident?” another shouted.

  “We heard an arson investigator was here!”

  “Was the fire intentional?”

  Lilah looked confused and overwhelmed. “I don’t know,” she replied weakly, too shaken to explain. The questions were still coming rapid-fire when Serena knifed her wiry frame between two reporters. “That will be all for now,” she announced, her voice ringing with clipped British authority. “Dr. Graham will have an official statement tomorrow.” She took Lilah’s arm and smoothly extricated her.

  Schaefer ran interference as they crossed to the entrance. One of the security officers cleared them into the lobby; others kept the media from following as Serena impulsively pulled Lilah into an embrace. “Good heavens,” the junior researcher exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

  Lilah nodded and clung to her tightly. Her colleague’s reaction was clearly heartfelt, and more than welcome, despite their professional jousting.

  “I’d just arrived home when security called,” Serena went on breathlessly. “Have we lost everything?”

  “No, thank God. The reefers are okay, and I saved most of the—” Lilah stopped abruptly and looked around as if she’d misplaced something. Spotting Captain Singer standing amid the tangle of hoses that covered the floor, she rushed toward him. “My briefcase, my shopping bag? What happened to them?”

  The captain smiled reassuringly and directed her to the security desk, where he’d stashed them for safekeeping. Lilah was just rejoining her colleagues when she glimpsed Kauffman peering through one of the windows and averted her eyes.

  “I know this isn’t a good time, Lilah,” Schaefer said, “but what do you want to do about Monday?”

  Lilah appeared puzzled. “Monday?”

  “The prison . . .”

  Lilah shrugged, obviously unable to deal with it.

  “Why don’t you let us arrange a postponement?” Schaefer offered. “You know, a few days, until you’re back up to speed.”

  Lilah smiled numbly and nodded.

  “Well,” Schaefer said, sensing she was hoping for a bit of chivalry he couldn’t provide, “I’d like to see you home, but I’ve really got to get going.”

  Lilah nodded and tried to contain her emotions. Schaefer’s instincts were right She felt vulnerable and alone, and had wanted him to escort her. And, more than ever, she wished she had someone to come home to.

  “I’ve a thought,” Serena said brightly. “Why don’t I drop you off? I’d be happy to keep you company for a while. Perhaps we can catalogue this data you’ve rescued? Take your mind off things . . .”

  Lilah hesitated, wondering if Serena had an ulterior motive, but petty animosities paled in comparison to her fragile state. “Thanks, that would be nice.”

  Kauffman watched from a distance as they left th
e building and hurried through the windy plaza toward the parking structure. He knew the nature of their relationship kept Lilah from acknowledging him, but he still felt empty as he slung his backpack over a shoulder and started down the broad staircase.

  A short time later the two women were in Serena’s Mazda, winding up the hill to the condominium complex. They parked on the street and were walking through the courtyard when Lilah’s eyes darted anxiously to the bank of mailboxes. Several were adorned with a yellow slip of paper, indicating a package in the receiving room; but none had been taped to hers.

  Greatly relieved, she led Serena into her apartment, then excused herself to shed her damp clothes, take a quick shower, and pull on some sweats. When she returned Serena was sitting on the living-room floor hunched over a laptop computer. She’d removed a packet of autorads from the Macy’s shopping bag and was logging the bar-code numbers.

  Lilah fetched a couple of beers and began removing the boxes of computer diskettes from her briefcase. “That was quick thinking before. Thanks for getting me out of there.”

  “I didn’t think a whit, believe me,” Serena confessed, typing in another bar code. “I just did it. By the way, who was that grungy fellow who drove off?”

  “The arson investigator.”

  “An arson investigator, driving a Blazer?” Serena exclaimed incredulously. “Takes his work seriously, doesn’t he?”

  Lilah nodded glumly. “He thinks someone tried to kill me.”

  Serena’s jaw slackened. “You’re quite serious, aren’t you?”

  “Quite.”

  “My God, Lilah, I’d no idea. Really, I thought perhaps a bit of levity might . . .” Serena let it trail off and shuddered at the thought. “Good heavens . . . why?”

  Lilah shrugged, and pulled her knees up under her chin. A long silence passed before they resumed cataloguing the items. They’d been at it for almost an hour when Serena got to the bottom of the shopping bag and came upon the bright red teddy.

  “Lilah!” she exclaimed, whisking it out of the bag.

  Lilah shrugged. “It’s going back,” she said, preferring not to get into the details.

  “Really? I find it rather fetching.” Serena eyed her as if making a decision, then dangled the slinky lingerie in front of her. “And I daresay, I’d find it all the more fetching on you.”