Touched by Fire (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

The workout rooms in UCLA’s Wooden Center—the vast complex named after the legendary basketball coach who led the Bruins to ten national titles—were packed with panting, red-faced students. Fueled by designer water four times more costly per gallon than gasoline, their bodies struggled with clanking chrome-plated torture racks while their minds came to grips with the downsizing of corporate America.

It was always a student when Lilah really needed to be in control. She spotted this one at the far end of a row of exercycles, and smiled at the irony when she recognized him. The insecure ones often made the most outrageous comments in class. Faded undergrad T-shirt hanging from his bony frame, thatch of hair plastered to his forehead, eyes riveted to a textbook that was bending the rack affixed to the handle bars, big-boobs-or-small Kauffman was pedaling for all he was worth. Lilah jogged on an adjacent treadmill until he was finished, then orchestrated an impromptu meeting.

“Sorry,” he said as she brushed past him, their sweat-slick bodies making brief contact.

Lilah pirouetted, her flame-red ponytail sweeping the
air, and smiled flirtatiously. “Hey, I don’t know about you, but that was the best sex I’ve had in months.”

He laughed and pawed clumsily at the floor with his Reeboks. “You know, you look kind of familiar.”

“So do you.”

“Joel Kauffman,” he said, trying to place her.

“Lilah. Lilah Graham,” she said, adjusting the straps of her halter. Translucent with sweat, the taut spandex covered her breasts with the same attention to detail as a coat of spray paint.

Kauffman couldn’t help but stare; then he grinned nervously, head tilting this way and that. “Graham?” he wondered with a glimmer of recognition. “Lilah Graham . . . We have a class together or something?”

“We sure do, Kauffman,” she replied in her most professorial tone.

“Oh God, I’m so lame,” the kid prattled, his face burning with embarrassment. “Dr. Graham. Genetics.”

“That’s me.”

“You got me pretty good there this afternoon.”

“I got you pretty good now,” she said, her face alive with that combination of childlike vulnerability and mature sexuality that men found attractive.

“Yeah, well, you look . . . I don’t know . . . younger, I guess. Y-y-your—” he stammered, searching for a word, any word but the one his cupped hands unwittingly described. “Your
leotards
are really cool,” he finally blurted. “I mean, like, like you look so different without your smock and glasses.”

“Like, you should see me without the leotards . . .” Lilah’s eyes—a soft dark blue with the soulful depth of sapphires, which sparkled with intelligence—left no doubt she meant it.

Kauffman forced an uncomfortable smile, his mind racing to find a way to disengage. “Yeah, well, hey, I’ve got to hit the shower and get back to this,” he said, indicating the textbook as he backed away.

Lilah grabbed the ends of the towel draped around his neck, stopping him. “Where you from, Kauffman?”

“Skagit Bay. It’s a little town about fifty miles north of Seattle. Why?”

“Rains a lot up there, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess . . .”

“Well, L.A.’s working on a five-year drought, and you can do something about it.” Lilah pulled on the towel to bring his face down closer to hers; so close he could see the microfine beads of perspiration on her bosom; then she put her lips to his ear and, in a breathy whisper, said, “Conserve water. Shower with a friend.”

Kauffman’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a channel marker. How to handle a horny genetics professor wasn’t one of the case studies in medical ethics class. “Well, Lilah,” he said, deciding this was one of those moments when valor wins hands down over discretion, “I knew there was a reason I didn’t go to NYU.”

Minutes later, still in workout gear, they were hurrying across a pedestrian bridge toward the precast concrete parking structure adjacent to Mac-Med. Darkness had fallen, but the wind was still blistering hot, and their faces were smarting and taut by the time they reached her car. The green Jaguar sedan was a 3.8 model from the mid-sixties, with wires and a sunroof.

“Nice set of wheels,” Kauffman said as Lilah swung out of the parking structure, beading toward Le Conte.

“Extravagant set of wheels,” she cracked. “I always wanted an old Jag. Something civilized and classy about
them. And one day, there it was, waiting for me. I couldn’t afford it, but I did it anyway.”

“Pure impulse, huh?”

“Nothing pure about it, nothing whatso—oh shit.”

“What?”

She reached for her briefcase—a leather tour de force of pockets, pouches, and compartments that served as purse, doctor’s bag, and document case—slipped the cellular phone from its assigned sleeve and pushed one of the autodial buttons. “Hi, it’s me . . . No, that’s why I’m calling. Something’s come up. I can’t . . . Uh-huh. In the morning. First thing.” She listened indulgently, nodding, grunting, as she made the turn into Gayley. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Mom? Mom, can I . . .
Mom,
can I get a word in here, please? I just said, I’d be there in the morning . . . Yes, I know. I’m sorry about dinner. Tell him I’ll be there, okay? . . . Yes, I promise . . . Love you too.” Lilah hung up, then sensed Kauffman’s curiosity. “She’s worried about my father. He’s old, he’s sick, and he has a daughter who’s a doctor.” A daughter who cares for him deeply, she thought; a daughter who is terribly frustrated by the fact that—despite all her training, knowledge, and connections in the medical community—there isn’t a thing she can do to save him.

“Something serious?”

Lilah slipped the phone back into her briefcase and nodded. “Waldenstrom’s disease.”

“What’s that?”

“An abnormal proliferation of lymphocytes and plasma cells.”

He looked off thoughtfully. “That’d thicken the blood and effect immune response, wouldn’t it?”

“Very good,” Lilah said, shifting into lecture-hall mode,
which provided some emotional distance. “So once a month we do a CBC to check his . . . what?”

“White cells, no?”

“White cells, yes. And plasma count.” She punched the gas. The Jaguar responded with a throaty growl and accelerated up the hill toward the glittering lights of Spanish-style condominiums. The tightly clustered units were roofed in tiles of burnt orange clay, and sheathed in soft-edged stucco the color of adobe. Like many such complexes in Southern California, each unit had a subterranean garage directly beneath it, with automatic door opener and stair-case within that led up into the living area. But Lilah drove past the ramp that led down to the garages and parked at the curb.

Kauffman’s brow furrowed with uncertainty. “You leave this thing on the street?”

Lilah splayed her hands. “I could say it’s easier to pick up my mail this way, which it is; but actually I’m an incurable pack rat and my garage is loaded with junk.” She got out of the car, set the alarm, and sauntered toward the security gate, her ponytail beckoning Kauffman to follow with its rhythmic bob.

Lilah had already picked up something far more interesting than mail; but as they passed the bank of mailboxes in the courtyard, something caught her eye. The slip of yellow paper taped to her box indicated she had a package in the receiving room where oversized mail and deliveries were held. She considered fetching it, but her curiosity was no match for the sexual current that had been surging through her since she had left the gym. The package would keep till tomorrow, she thought; till next week, if Kauffman’s appetite for her matched the hunger in his eyes; indeed, till eternity, if she knew what it contained.

Lilah took his hand and made a beeline for her condo. “Buckle your seat belt,” she purred in a sexy whisper as she unlocked the door and pulled him into the darkened entry. “You’re in for the ride of your life.”

The door had barely latched when she buried her hands in his hair and kissed him passionately. The next thing Kauffman knew, their clothes were strewn across the floor in a haphazard trail that led to the bathroom, and they were caressing beneath a tingling shower. Lilah soaped his lean body until he was lost in the ecstasy, then turned the water to full cold. He yelped, trying to avoid the icy blast, as Lilah slipped from the enclosure, her naughty laughter echoing off the hard surfaces.

“You bastard,” Kauffman gurgled good-naturedly, stumbling into the bedroom after her, where they lunged into each other’s arms, their glistening bodies sliding sensuously against one another. “Oh, wow,” he exclaimed, fascinated by the synchronized movement in the mirrors. “Like we’re everywhere at once.”

“Make love to me, Joel,” Lilah whispered through trembling lips. “Make love to me everywhere.” Kauffman soared with passion and began backing her toward the bed. “No. No, wait, wait,” Lilah said, kissing him as she spun him around in the opposite direction. She guided him into a chair in front of the mirrored wardrobe and straddled his thighs. “This way. It’s always better for me this way.”

In truth, she’d never been with a lover and been beneath him. Never. The mere thought of it filled her with claustrophobic terror which she could neither fathom nor tolerate. But it had never been a problem. On the contrary, men always seemed relieved at her taking control. Even her first time, the eager high school wrestling champion with the
rock hard body and short fuse had happily spent the entire time pinned to the shaggy carpet in the rear of his van. Maybe it was some sort of primal resonance that made them submit, she thought. Some pleasurable memory of their mothers hovering over them with a fresh diaper and a can of baby powder that made them so trusting.

Joel Kauffman was no different. His eyes widened in brief protest, then glazed in watery abandon as Lilah eased back slowly, capturing him in her tight wetness. “I take it back,” she moaned, noticing she was literally face-to-face with her reflection, which, thanks to their position and proximity to the mirror, made Kauffman appear to be salaciously sandwiched between Lilah and her identical twin. “What I said about your shortcomings, I mean.” She emitted a naughty giggle, then dipped a shoulder, letting one of her nipples graze his lips. He turned his head this way and that, chasing after it like a hungry infant. His eager mouth soon found its target, sending waves of erotic sensations rippling across Lilah’s flesh. She savored the rush and quickened her pace, her flame-red mane snapping wildly from side to side, the soft blue cast of her eyes burning with unbridled passion.

Kauffman arched his back, raising his hips to meet her, then shuddered as the sensation intensified. At these moments, he always thought of a sex education book his parents had given him as a child that likened an orgasm to a sneeze.

For Lilah it was more like an incendiary whoosh. Like an entire book of matches igniting at once, and then igniting again, and again, and again.

CHAPTER FOUR

An entire book of matches igniting at once—a perfect analogy for Los Angeles at this time of year: no dazzling foliage, no crisp arctic air, no frost on the pumpkin here. No, while much of the country reveled in autumnal bliss, Angelenos sizzled in stifling desert heat.

They had a quirk of nature to thank for it.

In mid-October the jet stream, which blew west to east the other eleven months, reversed direction over Utah and backtracked across the steaming Mojave. The superheated air rose over the mountains, emerging as the Santa Ana winds, and raced at freeway speeds down the hundreds of canyons that slashed across Southern California from desert to sea. The humidity plunged to five percent, the temperature soared to ninety-plus degrees, and hundreds of thousands of acres of vegetation turned into brittle tinder. Like ill-fated lovers, the hot winds and dry terrain needed only a spark to unite them in a passionate, self-destructive frenzy until only smoke and ash remained; and every fall, there was always some nut itching to play matchmaker and set their lonely hearts aflame.

Tonight, the nut wore sunglasses and a baseball cap with a ponytail pulled through the back, and drove a dusty Econoline van. It turned into Las Flores Canyon south of
Malibu and began the twisting climb past fine homes set on the lush hillsides above the Pacific. The driver had the serene demeanor and hyperactive eyes of someone who’d been living on the edge of reality and had just fallen off.

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.