Fire

            by Andrea Morris

 

            Fingers of ash curled up the wall and reached towards the gilded frame of the men’s room mirror.   The once tan and brown marble countertop was now a universal gray, as was the rest of the once glittering bathroom of Garibaldi’s on College Avenue.

            “It was arson alright,” Oakland Fire Department Chief Daniel Dolby stated matter of factly as he surveyed the charred scene with gritted teeth. 

            “You’re sure?” asked a man in a navy blue suit and bowler with a small red feather.

            “A fire that only messes with the bathroom of a 200 seat restaurant?  Yeah.  That doesn’t happen by accident.  A kitchen fire, or even the employee bathroom, maybe.  That could happen, but this?  Somebody wanted this.”

            “At least nobody was injured, and the rest of the restaurant is fine, so the owner said they would reopen by this Friday and use the women’s bathroom for everyone.”

            Dolby considered this for a moment as he scratched the soul patch of beard on his chin.  “Interesting.  I just hope they’re aware that arsonists rarely leave a place alone after just one fire.”

            “Hmm.  I guess you would be the person to know about these things.  I’ll keep my eyes open.  Any idea of how they might have started the fire?” 

            “What are you, a detective?” Dolby asked.

            “Yes, actually, I am.  That’s why I’m here – the owners hired me privately, to make sure the job gets done right,” the man said as he extended his hand.  “Alan Mark, wish we could have met under better circumstances.”

            “I never trust a man with two first names. Daniel Dolby.  I’m assuming you know who I am.”  The two men gave a single firm hand shake as Mark involuntarily clenched and unclenched his free hand at the joke about his name that he’d heard a hundred times before.

            “Well, I never trust a man with double initials, so I suppose that we’re even. And, yes, I have heard of you, and I also have heard that your specialty is figuring out the source of fires, so would you please tell me about this one?”

            “I suppose.  If it had been started in the trash can, then I would assume someone had simply lit some toilet paper on fire, but I’m positive it started in the flower arrangement,” Dolby stated as thought it was obvious.

            “How are you so sure?” Mark challenged with a practiced sneer that he thought matched his suit.  “Both of those are completely burned.”

            “The flowers would have been placed in a florist’s foam block in the vase to hold them in place.  Much more flammable than the metal garbage can,” Dolby said as though he were teaching a five year old how to tie his shoe.  Seeing Mark open his mouth, he quickly continued, “If you ask me, this was started by someone who knows this restaurant fairly well—I can see that they tampered with the hidden video camera behind the mirror and the smoke detector under the counter.  If I were you, I would question the staff.”

            If there was one thing that Mark hated most, it was being told how to conduct his investigations, especially if the advice was right.  “Thank you, Mr. Dolby, for your advice.  However, you are not me, and I am not a fireman, so let’s each do our own jobs the way we see fit.  Now, I am going to question the staff, as I was going to do before your recommendation.  I’m sure we’ll meet again about this.  Good day to you.”

            Dolby simply bent down to examine the ashes more closely.

 

            Richard Tapp, Rich to his friends, was a hairy, mid-thirties guy who worked the pizza oven for the dinner shift.  His large hands were callused from years of working with open flames.  His burly build and brooding face drew Detective Alan Mark to him immediately. 

            “Mr. Tapp, I’m Detective Alan Mark, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about the fire on Tuesday, if you wouldn’t mind,” Mark said from across the counter of the open kitchen.

            “Two first names, eh?” Rich sniggered to himself.  “It’s four o’clock on a Friday.  I’ve got a lot to do here,” he grunted as he kneaded some dough for the nightly pizza, pausing only to roll his sleeves up to his elbows.

            “Not even just a couple questions?  I’m trying to catch the person who started the fire.” Mark silently cursed himself for giving away so much information.

            “And you think it’s me?” color flowed to the cooks already ruddy face.  He ducked behind the counter and returned with several blocks of cheese and a grater. 

            “What’s that near your elbow?” Mark asked as he spotted an unusually pointed burn partially hidden by Rich’s sleeve.

           “It’s a star.  I used one of Nikki’s cookie cutters.”  Rich showed the rest of the outline, still blistered and pinkish-red.

            “Who’s Nikki?”

            “She’s the pastry chef, why—you gonna question her next?”

            “I might.  How’d you get that to stay on your arm?”

            “I heated it in my oven and then pressed it on my arm.  I have a maple leaf outline on my left calf from a couple Thanksgivings ago, too.  It’s not hard to burn stuff here…might as well make them look good,” he chuckled at his own gruesome joke.

            As Mark felt a wave of nausea pass over him, he slapped his hand on the flour covered countertop. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Tapp.”  Then he leaned back towards the man and added, “I have my eye on you.” 

 

            Sarah Belter had been doing two things since the first day she had graduated from Stanford and moved to Fremont four years ago:  smoking cigarettes and drinking gin martinis with two olives at Garibaldi’s bar every Friday night.  This Friday was no different.

            She entered and went immediately to the bar, sitting next to a tired looking man in a blue suit and an unusual hat.  The bartender was already straining out the ice.

            “I’ve never seen you around here.  Have you been before? I come here once week, even though I live in Fremont.” She took in the stranger’s business attire and large notebook before eagerly turning her attention to the glass the bartender had set down in front of her.

            “I’ve been here a lot in the past few days, but not before that.  I’m Alan Mark.  And you are?”

            “I’m Sarah Belter.  Care to join me outside for a smoke?” she tossed her flaming red hair back and drained her drink.

            “Aren’t you a little young to smoke?”

            “I suppose so, but I’ve always found it so appealing.  The idea of holding fire between your fingers, sucking it in as it smolders.” She picked up the fresh martini the bartender had just brought her. “Fire itself is fascinating, don’t you think?”  she asked rhetorically as she emptied the glass that had been nearly overflowing a moment before.  “The way it consumes everything…I used to love lighting bits of napkin or food in the candles on the dinner table when my family had company over.”  Martini number three arrived at her place.

            “A bit of a pyromaniac, are we?” Mark cut in half-teasingly while Belter took a less than graceful swig of her drink.  “Have you ever thought about burning larger things, like, say, buildings?”

            “Oh, no.  I limit myself to, hic, cigs.”

            “Ah.  That’s good. Why do you come all the way to Garibaldi’s for martinis?  There are plenty of bars in Fremont.”

            “Have you tasted this guy’s drinks?  They’re amazing.”  She paused to take another sip before turning to the bartender, who was standing on the ladder to reach for an unusual liqueur.   “Hey, you, come make this guy something!”

            As many well dressed diners turned to look for who was making the racket, Mark wanted nothing more than to simply disappear.  “I’m sorry, sir.  I don’t really want anything to drink.  You might want to do something about this girl, though.”  He hurriedly explained to the annoyed bartender.

            “Oh, we can’t do anything to Sarah.  Her daddy designed this place, so she can basically behave however she wants,” the bartender explained with a roll of his eyes.

            “She’s the designer’s kid?  Is the designer himself around?”

            “I doubt it.  He and the owner haven’t been on the best terms lately.” 

            “Oh really?” Mark feigned offhandedness.  The key to a good detective is staying undetected, he reminded himself.  “What happened?”

            “Nobody really knows, but there were some raised voices about a month ago.”

            “Does Ms. Belter know?” Mark said as he watched her giggle to herself.  

            “She must.  She and her parents used to come here together—they would eat in the dining room, while she would hang around here.” 

            “Why does she still come around?”

            “Free drinks, probably,” the bartender said with a shrug before narrowing his eyes. “Why are you so curious, anyway?”

            “Hmm,” was all Mark could say as his mind began to race with possibilities.  He needed to think.  He needed to get some time away from the luxurious room of increasingly loud Oakland elite.  He got up from his stool and wandered until he found the one empty area: what once was the men’s bathroom.

            Furtively pulling aside the linen curtain and ducking beneath the yellow tape, he wedged himself into the one not scorched corner and pulled out his notebook.  Most detectives used laptops these days, but Mark felt that a detective’s office needed stacks of paper littering the desk, not a cheery voice exclaiming “You’ve got mail!”

            So, he now had two very compelling suspects.  On one hand, there was Rich Tapp, the erratic pizza cook, who spends his day reaching in and out of an open fire and brands himself with hot cookie cutters when he gets bored.   On the other, there was Sarah Belter, a budding alcoholic with a possible grudge against the restaurant, and a definite affinity for fire.  The key question here is who would more likely know about the hidden video camera and fire alarm?

            Becoming increasingly perplexed, detective Alan Mark got up and paced the room.  Belter could have found out from her dad where he placed surveillance equipment, but she was a girl, so she would have a harder time getting into the men’s room in the first place.  Tapp, on the other hand, would only have had to explain that the employee bathroom was busy and that he really had to go.  Yes, Mark could see it now: the cook would nonchalantly enter the bathroom, holding a burning napkin or maybe the pastry torch, lock the door, tamper with the electronics, reach his scarred hand into the flower pot, and leave to pull another pizza out of the flames before it burned.  But there was no apparent reason for him to want to burn the place down.  And how would he know about the camera and smoke detector anyway?  Maybe they weren’t as hidden as Dolby had claimed?

            Mark bent down and looked for signs of a plastic device below the counter.  Nothing, and the same for the video camera behind the mirror.   Perhaps they had been melted away in the fire?  It was time for more investigation.

            Mark made his way back over to the bar, where he could see Ms. Belter was sobering up and nibbling on some wood fired flatbread.  “Excuse me Miss, but I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about the building, since I hear your father designed it.”

            “Um, okay,” she said with a bit of a puzzled look, still rocking slightly on her stool.

            “Thank you.  Do you know if your father put any secret place behind the mirror in the bathroom?”

            “A secret place?  I don’t get what you mean.”

            “Like a hole in the wall to fit something like a surveillance camera.”

            “A camera in the bathroom?  He never told me anything about that.”

            The bartender sidled up to Mark and Belter.  “Excuse me for eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help but hear you mention a camera in the bathroom.  I’ve been in this industry for over twenty years, and I know that that is highly illegal.  The owners here would never attempt to tape customers going to the bathroom.”

            “Thank you, that’s what I thought,” Mark said partly to himself.  After taking a moment to ponder this new information, he turned back to Belter.  “Can you tell me about what your father and the owners were yelling about last month?”

            “Yelling? Daddy has been in New York for a job for about a month.  Before that?  I don’t think there was any disagreement.”

            “Nothing?” Mark prodded.

            “Oh, I think I may know what you mean.  They were arguing over some sports teams.  They always do.  There’s nothing wrong.  I think he’s coming back next week if you want to talk to him.”

           “No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Mark said as he nearly ran to the open kitchen area.  He was on a mission.

            “You know about fire, don’t you?” he asked Rich, who was sweating from the heat of the flames and the weight of the pizzas. 

            “You again.  I can’t talk now.  I have a lot of orders.”

            “Would a smoke detector be useful if it were located under a counter?”  Mark hissed.  He wanted answers, now.

            “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.  Smoke detectors should be placed on the ceiling.” 

            “That’s what I thought,” Mark said triumphantly.  He knew exactly what had happened the night of the fire. All he needed was to discuss it with Dolby.

             

            Mark found Dolby in the kitchen, chatting with the bus boy.  “Mr. Dolby, can I speak with you for a minute?”

            “Sure, Alan Mark,” he said with a chuckle at the name.

            “Let’s go to the walk-in fridge.  We need privacy.”

            When they got to the chilled, meat and dairy filled room, Mark cornered Dolby.  “You started that fire, didn’t you?”

            “What are you talking about?  It could have been anyone,” Dolby laughed again, a little too heartily.

            “No. It was you.  You lied about the hidden surveillance camera.  It never existed.  And you’re the only one who would know that gardener’s foam is flammable.”  As he spoke, Mark was slowly easing an uncut lamb shoulder off a shelf behind his elbow. “So why’d you do it Dolby?”

            “I’m telling you, I didn’t do it,” he said in a voice caught somewhere between condescending and whiny.   He puffed out his chest and shoved his hands into his pants pockets.

            “What’s that in your pocket?” Mark gestured to a long and skinny object in Dolby’s pocket that had been pushed into view by his clenched fist.  He gave another surreptitious nudge to the lamb.

            “A pen. You’re not the only one taking notes around here.”

            “Ah, a pen.  May I borrow it for a moment?” Mark held out his hand and grinned.

            Slowly, with just a hint of a wince, Dolby’s hand returned from its pocket holding a barbeque lighter.

            “Nice pen you got there.  I thought you were supposed to be putting out fires, not starting them.  Is this what you meant you meant when you said that the arsonist would return soon?  Where are you headed to next?  The wine cellar or the stock room?”

            “Fine. You got me.” Dolby shrugged his shoulders dismissively and dropped the lighter on the rubber-matted floor.

            “I appreciate your honesty.  It’s just too bad you couldn’t stick to one side of the game.”

            “Look, Marky.  You don’t get places by playing by the rules.  I wanted to get to the top, and I realized that it wasn’t going to happen without some extra help.  So I started setting fires in my district.  Then, I would tell the chief how it started.  Soon, I got a promotion, and then another one.  Once the chief retired, nobody questioned whether I was the right person to get the job.  I have a great house and a Jaguar convertible.  Only a couple people have died in my fires, and people look up to me.  What more could I want?”

            “You’re sick,” Mark spat.  He continued to gently nudge the large ribs and neck into his arms.

            “Okay, okay.  I’ll make you a deal.  I’ll hire you as my chief investigator if you go outside and pretend like you don’t know about this.  Better yet, you could blame the valet or a bus boy.  We’d be partners and—”

            Whatever other plans Oakland Fire Department Chief Daniel Dolby had in mind would remain a mystery, because at the moment, Detective Alan Mark swung a whole lamb shoulder—ribs and neck still attached—at him, sufficiently knocking him out.  And with that, he exited the freezing room, straightened his bowler, and called the police.