The Interview (27 page)

Huh.

I didn't know what I was going to do with that information now that I
had it. Most likely I would do nothing. It did, however, make the
prospect of dropping in on her tomorrow very interesting.

The music shut off abruptly at 12:45 AM. Thirty minutes later I
watched Gina, the bartender, exit the bar and vanish into the
darkness of the car wash next door. Twenty minutes after that, Ills
and a new set of muscles followed. I waited another half hour before
I started the Cougar up, and purred my way across Orangethorpe. I
parked a block away on Cherry. I had smoked ten cigarettes, drank
twenty-four ounces of coffee, downed a Monster, consumed one large
bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos, and topped it off with a bottle of
Gatorade. I had peed three times. All in all, it was good to get the
hell out of that car and get the show on the road.

I walked down Depot carrying two five-gallon cans filled with
gasoline. The three houses I passed were dark. The sound of gravel
crunching beneath my Converse seemed very loud in the quiet darkness.
Too late to back out now. I reached the back door. I set both cans on
the ground, rolled my shoulders, and took a deep breath.

I was about to commit arson. If caught, I would spend a lengthy
amount of time in jail. I would lose my job, and my anal virginity in
all likelihood. I would be a convicted felon. The life I had built
for myself would be torn apart. Annette would be devastated. My
softball teams would be shocked and disgusted. My parents would find
a way to blame themselves.

None of it meant anything to me.

I recited the lyrics to
Tool
’
s
“Prison Sex” as I picked up the first can and began
pouring gas on the building. I had dumped half the can when the
flashlight beam hit me on the side of my face. I froze, but the gas
kept pouring.

What to do?

“What's going on, Mr. Jenks?”

I turned and looked into the glare. The light clicked off and I said,
“Officer Bradford. How the hell are you?”

“Pretty good, Mr. Jenks. How 'bout you?”

“Fine and dandy.” When the colored spots retreated from
my vision I saw that Officer Bradford was actually Civilian Bradford
at this moment in time. Her hair was pulled back in a severe
ponytail, and she was dressed entirely in black. “Are you
undercover tonight?”

“Nah, just following around an idiot.”

“And that would be who?”

She let out a small laugh. “Serious?”

“Totally. There's a lot of gas around. If the guy's an idiot he
might light a cigarette or something. Blow us all up.”

She wasn't going to arrest me. I didn't think she was going to call
in one of her cop buddies to arrest me, either. I resumed pouring
gas.

She watched me empty the first can, then start down the side of the
building with the second before she said, “You need some help?”

“Nah, I'm good. Thank you though.”

“Not a problem.”

When there was what felt like a quarter of the can remaining, I
stopped and walked back to where she was standing.

“I'm going to do a trail across the parking lot, then light it
from over there. Gives me a little bit of time to get a safe
distance.”

“Sounds good.”

I nodded my head. “I thought so.”

“So you've thought this through?”

“No. Not really. But I have it on good authority that it should
work.”

“Really?” She sounded fascinated. “Who's the
authority?”

“This kid on my route. Told me he caught his backyard on fire
doing something similar.”

She walked beside me as I emptied the last of the gas. I set the can
on the ground. I turned to her and asked, “Ready?”

“Yes. This should be good.”

“Let's hope so. You would think ten gallons of this stuff
should do the trick.”

I took a lighter out of my pocket. I rolled the wheel beneath my
thumb and was rewarded with fire. I touched the flame to the trail of
flammable liquid.

Everything happened very fast after that.

THE FLAME RACED ALONG THE line of gasoline. I was reminded of a
little kid running across the beach towards the water. The fire
seemed very excited. Bradford and I stood next to each other,
hypnotized by the spectacle that was about to unfold. The flame
reached the wall of the building and immediately turned into a sheet
of blue and yellow that covered the entire back wall of the bar.
Fingers raced around the corner, and were soon followed by the
blanket of flames.

I turned to Bradford. “It's hot.”

“Very.”

The roof caught. It was beautiful.

“We should probably leave. You think?” I asked.

“Yes, I do. Probably should have left a long time ago.”

I glanced at her. She looked dazed. Whether from the blaze that
consumed the building, or the one about to consume her career, I
couldn't tell. One thing for sure, she hadn't woken up this morning
and said, “I'm going to be an accessory to arson tonight.”
But here she stood, watching my handiwork, and now as guilty as I.

I picked up the cans and took a few steps before I realized she had
not moved. “Bradford.” No movement. “Bradford, we
have to go.”

She turned finally and I didn't know what to make of the expression
on her face. Relief, fear, exhilaration, sadness, all rolled across
her beautiful face.

“Now,” I said sternly.

She nodded, took one last look at the inferno, then fell into step
beside me. We walked calmly and quickly down Depot Street. There was
a '67 Camaro parked directly behind my Cougar. I liked her choice of
transportation, but between us, we had two of the most identifiable
cars in Placentia. Mercedes, BMW, Lexus, and other luxury cars are a
dime a dozen in this town, Explorers are a penny. But two cherry
muscle cars, not so much. There were two other Cougars in this town
that I had seen. One was permanently garaged, and the other was a
beat-up rust bucket on wheels. The cops knew my car. If somebody
reported seeing my car in the area, it would take them about thirty
seconds to put two and two together. In hindsight, my truck would
have been a better choice. Bright red '67 Camaros were even rarer. I
hadn't seen one in this town in years. That did not mean they weren't
out there, but it did not mean they were either. There was not a
doubt in my mind that her cop brethren would be able to identify
Bradford's wheels in less than ten seconds. Our chances of going
unnoticed were slim to none, and they were getting worse the longer
we stayed in this area.

Bradford crossed the street and climbed into her car. I did the same.
I flipped a bitch, and hung a right on Van Buren. She was right
behind me. I passed Alta Vista and kept on going up the hill. I
didn't have a particular destination in mind. Just wanted to put as
much distance between myself and The Triple Six as I could. I heard
sirens but saw no flashing lights. I reached Yorba Linda Blvd. and
hung a right. The Camaro remained behind me.

I felt nothing in regards to what I had done. There was no
satisfaction. No relief. It was done. Ills would be out of business
for a while, but not forever. The kid would set up shop somewhere
else. There was never a shortage of men like the former regulars at
The Triple Six. And there were always women like Stacey and Gina. The
kid was the only semi-original thing in this entire picture. It would
take a lot more than a fire to stop him.

That, however, was a problem for another day.

I reached Imperial Highway. There was a Denny's down by the 91.
Public, but I had no other ideas at the moment. My original plan was
to head north immediately after setting the fire. My accomplice had
thrown a wrench into that plan, and now I had to deal with her before
I could leave town.

I parked in the Denny's lot and climbed out as Bradford pulled in
next to me. I ran my hand along the front fender. The car vibrated
pleasantly. The mellow rumble promised power, power, and more power.
I'm not a Chevy guy, but they got it right in '67 with this car.
Bradford shut the engine down, climbed out, and faced me over the
roof of the Camaro. There was a smile on her face.

“You read my mind. I'm starving!”

“Cool. Let's eat then.” I was hungry as well. But not
for food. Burning down buildings is apparently an aphrodisiac. Good
to know.

The restaurant was much too crowded for my liking. Who the hell eats
at two in the morning besides fleeing arsonists? Lots of people,
that's who. The waiter tried to seat us between a group of loud
college kids and two couples who were laughing a lot. I steered him
away from them and took a booth on the far side of the restaurant
that had nobody on either side. He glared at me. I glared back. My
glare was better, bigger, and more intimidating. He dropped the menus
on the table and we didn't see him again for almost a half hour.
Worked out nicely.

I observed my new partner in crime as she studied the menu intently.
Of all the characters that had come into my life this week, Officer
Bradford was by far the most intriguing to me. And scariest. Not
because she was incredibly hot. Nor was it her resemblance to Jessica
Mendoza. I'm not always completely shallow. Most of the time, but not
always. No, it was her motivations that intrigued me. Why would a
police officer willingly stand and watch as I torched a building?
The possibilities were endless and few at the same time.

“I'm craving meat,” she said without looking up. “No
stupid remarks, please.”

Damn. I had one right on the tip of my tongue. I swallowed it. She
closed the menu and said, “I'm going to have a prime rib
skillet. That sounds good.” She almost growled the last
sentence. “How 'bout you?”

“The same.”

“You didn't even look at the menu. You were too busy trying to
figure out my interest in all this.”

“You look a lot like Jessica-”

“Mendoza. Yes,” she waved her hand in dismissal of the
comparison. “I've heard. Boring. Tell me I play like her, then
we'll talk. Looks are nothing. It's how you hit the inside pitch that
counts.”

“True,” I agreed.

“You are an interesting man, Kelly.”

“Do tell, Bradford. I'd call you by your first name but you
still haven't told me what it is.”

“Doesn't matter. But you, you are something. Tell me, how does
a career mailman end up in bed with Tristan Colfax?”

“That's his last name?”

She smiled. “You didn't know his last name? You are in
business with a guy and you don't even know his full name.
Interesting.”

“Hey, I just committed a felony with you and I don't know your
first name.”

“Totally different. I'm the one at risk here, not the other way
round. And I know your full name.”

“Names aren't important to me. Unless, of course, yours is a
traditional boys name. That would be of some interest to me. And how
the hell am I not at risk?”

She ignored me. “So tell me, Kelly, how?”

“Long story. 'Sides, I'm not in business with anyone.”

“I've got time.”

“Yeah, but I don't. Plus, I'm not sure what Tristan has to do
with what I just did.”

“Please, why you playing? How do you think I found you
tonight?”

“Hadn't thought about it.” I hadn't either. My mistakes
and oversights were piling up rapidly. How had she found me?

“I picked you up when you left Tristan's house. I followed you
home. It was just a hunch, but I trust mine. I tailed you down to
your stakeout, and staked you out. Tristan, in my mind, has a lot to
do with what we just did.”

I noted the use of “we.” Interesting that she lumped
herself in with my actions. I couldn't decide if that was a good or
bad thing.

“His accountant handles my taxes.”

“Ashley Crest?”

“Sure. We'll go with that.” Bradford did this
combination laugh-eye roll-snicker-head shake thing that made me feel
incredibly uninformed. “She also handles my investments,”
I added lamely

“Now that's interesting, Kelly. Because as far as I can tell,
you didn't have any investments, other than your retirement account,
until this week. Further, TurboTax has handled your taxes for the
last five years. Before that, you employed a fellow letter carrier to
prepare your taxes.” She paused, looked around for the waiter,
then said, “Sure you want to stick with that story?”

“Did you want a medal or something?”

“An acknowledgment of my brilliance would be fine.”

My turn to do the eye roll-snicker-shake of the head thing.
“Bradford, that stuff's easy. Not impressed. I'm sure obtaining
a credit report isn't all that difficult for a cop.” I
shrugged my shoulders just to annoy her. “Sorry.”

She raised her hands in a gesture of “Oh well. I tried.”
She looked awfully cute. “Listen, Kelly. I'm not out to get
you.”

“I didn't think you were. Your golden opportunity passed you by
when you turned the flashlight off and didn't cuff me. I think maybe
you are out to get Tristan, however.”

Shake of the head. “No. I'm not. I was, but not anymore.”
She looked around again for the waiter. “Where is that guy?”

“I think he's taking care of the patrons who sat where they
were told.”

“I need to eat. He needs to get over it.”

“So why not anymore?”

She reluctantly gave up on seeing the waiter anytime soon and focused
on me once more. “He's not the bad guy.”

“Really? That's an interesting distinction based on what I
know about him.”

“I didn't say he wasn't on the wrong side of the law at times.
That doesn't make him a bad guy.”

“So why spend so much time watching him? It's Saturday night.
You're off the clock. Why were you still watching his place?”

She shrugged. “It's a hobby.”

“I can think of a couple other words.”

Bradford shook her head. “It's not like that. I'm . . .”
she trailed off. She thought hard about what she was about to say. I
could tell by the way her eyes squinted nearly closed. “I'm
keeping an eye on him, that's all. I like him where he's at, and I
don't want him going anywhere.”