swivel chair, his thighs splayed.
"I understand you filed a claim for a recent fire loss."
"That's right, and I hope you're not going to give me any static over that. Believe me, I'm not asking for any-thing I'm not entitled to."
I made a noncommittal murmur of some sort, hoping to conceal the fact that I'd gone on "fraud alert." Every insurance piker I'd ever met said just that, right down to the pious little toss of the head. I took out my tape re-corder, flicked it on, and set it on the desk. "The company requires that I tape the interview," I said.
"That's fine."
I directed my next few remarks to the recorder, estab-lishing my name, the fact that I worked for California Fidelity, the date and time of the interview, and the fact that I was speaking to Lance Wood in his capacity as president and CEO of Wood/Warren, the address of the com-pany, and the nature of the loss.
"Mr. Wood, you do understand that this is being taped," I said for the benefit of the record.
"Yes."
"And do I have your permission to make this record-ing of the conversation we're about to have?"
"Yes, yes," he said, making that little rolling hand ges-ture that means "Let's get on with it."
I glanced down at the file. "Can you tell me the cir-cumstances of the fire that occurred at the Wood/Warren warehouse at 606 Fairweather on December nineteenth of this year?"
He shifted impatiently. "Actually, I was out of town, but from what I'm told…" The telephone intercom buzzed and he snatched up the receiver, barking at it like a dog. "Yes?"
There was a pause. "Well, goddamn it, put her through." He gave me a quick look. "No, wait a minute, I'll take it out there." He put the phone down, excused him-self brusquely, and left the room. I clicked off the recorder, mentally assessing the brief impression I'd had of him as he passed. He was getting heavy in the waist and his gabar-dine pants rode up unbecomingly, his shirt sticking to the center of his back. He smelled harshly of sweat-not that clean animal scent that comes from a hard workout, but the pungent, faintly repellant odor of stress. His complex-ion was sallow and he looked vaguely unhealthy.
I waited for fifteen minutes and then tiptoed to the door. The reception area was deserted. No sign of Lance Wood. No sign of Heather. I moved over to the door lead-ing into the inner office. I caught a glimpse of someone passing into the rear of the building who looked very much like Ebony, but I couldn't be sure. A woman looked up at me. The name plate on her desk indicated that she was Ava Daugherty, the office manager. She was in her late forties, with a small, dusky face and a nose that looked as if it had been surgically tampered with. Her hair was short and black, with the glossy patina of hair spray. She was un-happy about something, possibly the fact that she'd just cracked one of her bright-red acrylic fingernails.
"I'm supposed to be meeting with Lance Wood, but he's disappeared. Do you know where he went?"
"He left the plant." She was licking the cracked nail experimentally, as if the chemistry of her saliva might serve as adhesive.
"He left?"
"That's what I said."
"Did he say how soon he'd be back?"
"Mr. Wood doesn't consult with me," she said snap-pishly. "If you'd like to leave your name, I'm sure he'll get back to you."
A voice cut in. "Something wrong?"
We both looked up to find a dark-haired man standing in the doorway behind me. Ava Daugherty's manner be-came somewhat less antagonistic. "This is the company vice-president," she said to me. And to him, "She's sup-posed to be in a meeting with Lance, but he left the plant."
"Terry Kohler," he said to me, holding out his hand. "I'm Lance Wood's brother-in-law."
"Kinsey Millhone, from California Fidelity," I said, shaking hands with him. "Nice to meet you." His grip was hard and hot. He was wiry, with a dark moustache and large, dark eyes that were full of intelligence. He must have been in his early forties. I wondered which
"I understand you filed a claim for a recent fire loss."
"That's right, and I hope you're not going to give me any static over that. Believe me, I'm not asking for any-thing I'm not entitled to."
I made a noncommittal murmur of some sort, hoping to conceal the fact that I'd gone on "fraud alert." Every insurance piker I'd ever met said just that, right down to the pious little toss of the head. I took out my tape re-corder, flicked it on, and set it on the desk. "The company requires that I tape the interview," I said.
"That's fine."
I directed my next few remarks to the recorder, estab-lishing my name, the fact that I worked for California Fidelity, the date and time of the interview, and the fact that I was speaking to Lance Wood in his capacity as president and CEO of Wood/Warren, the address of the com-pany, and the nature of the loss.
"Mr. Wood, you do understand that this is being taped," I said for the benefit of the record.
"Yes."
"And do I have your permission to make this record-ing of the conversation we're about to have?"
"Yes, yes," he said, making that little rolling hand ges-ture that means "Let's get on with it."
I glanced down at the file. "Can you tell me the cir-cumstances of the fire that occurred at the Wood/Warren warehouse at 606 Fairweather on December nineteenth of this year?"
He shifted impatiently. "Actually, I was out of town, but from what I'm told…" The telephone intercom buzzed and he snatched up the receiver, barking at it like a dog. "Yes?"
There was a pause. "Well, goddamn it, put her through." He gave me a quick look. "No, wait a minute, I'll take it out there." He put the phone down, excused him-self brusquely, and left the room. I clicked off the recorder, mentally assessing the brief impression I'd had of him as he passed. He was getting heavy in the waist and his gabar-dine pants rode up unbecomingly, his shirt sticking to the center of his back. He smelled harshly of sweat-not that clean animal scent that comes from a hard workout, but the pungent, faintly repellant odor of stress. His complex-ion was sallow and he looked vaguely unhealthy.
I waited for fifteen minutes and then tiptoed to the door. The reception area was deserted. No sign of Lance Wood. No sign of Heather. I moved over to the door lead-ing into the inner office. I caught a glimpse of someone passing into the rear of the building who looked very much like Ebony, but I couldn't be sure. A woman looked up at me. The name plate on her desk indicated that she was Ava Daugherty, the office manager. She was in her late forties, with a small, dusky face and a nose that looked as if it had been surgically tampered with. Her hair was short and black, with the glossy patina of hair spray. She was un-happy about something, possibly the fact that she'd just cracked one of her bright-red acrylic fingernails.
"I'm supposed to be meeting with Lance Wood, but he's disappeared. Do you know where he went?"
"He left the plant." She was licking the cracked nail experimentally, as if the chemistry of her saliva might serve as adhesive.
"He left?"
"That's what I said."
"Did he say how soon he'd be back?"
"Mr. Wood doesn't consult with me," she said snap-pishly. "If you'd like to leave your name, I'm sure he'll get back to you."
A voice cut in. "Something wrong?"
We both looked up to find a dark-haired man standing in the doorway behind me. Ava Daugherty's manner be-came somewhat less antagonistic. "This is the company vice-president," she said to me. And to him, "She's sup-posed to be in a meeting with Lance, but he left the plant."
"Terry Kohler," he said to me, holding out his hand. "I'm Lance Wood's brother-in-law."
"Kinsey Millhone, from California Fidelity," I said, shaking hands with him. "Nice to meet you." His grip was hard and hot. He was wiry, with a dark moustache and large, dark eyes that were full of intelligence. He must have been in his early forties. I wondered which
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