chairs sat beneath a two-tier white chandelier. And strand-woven bamboo in a deep brown, almost chocolate, covered the floor.
If it weren’t for his stepmother the condo would still be void of furniture and accessories. After the divorce he had rented for a few years then finally bought the condo last year. The only piece of furniture he had invested in was a bed. His stepmother had taken charge and decorated, footing the bill for everything. He had been too busy working at the time to notice that her decorating style was not necessarily his but it grew on him, even the Greek columns.
The flashing red light on the phone caught his attention and he remembered he hadn’t called Malcolm back. Malcolm had called while he was at the restaurant. He’d been about to return the call when he’d seen the pickup racing towards Marklynn.
Leaving the water behind and picking up the cordless off the kitchen counter, he dialed Malcolm’s number on the way to his office. The office, which also doubled as a den, was huge and uncluttered. A large mahogany desk sat in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, an oversized leather chair in front of it. There were a couple of lounge chairs and a painting that hung on the wall over the fireplace.
The painting, the only picture in the room, looked like someone had taken a brush and flashed the paint off of it onto the canvas in a rainbow of colors. It was a gift from his stepmother on his last birthday. It was entitled, “
Confusion
,” and he had to agree with the artist there.
“Hello?”
It was a woman’s voice aroused from sleep that answered the phone. He apologized for waking her, hung up and dialed Malcolm’s again paying careful attention to the number. It was Malcolm who answered then.
“It’s Beck.”
“Did you call before and hang up?”
“Yes. I thought I had the wrong number. Tell your lady I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. Give me a minute,” Malcolm said. Beck heard a female voice in the background and what sounded like a door closing.
“It happened again,” Malcolm sighed into the phone. “The fire alarm malfunctioned or something. I don’t know the full details yet.”
“When?” Beck’s pulse raced.
“A little after nine. I tried calling you.”
Beck dropped into the leather chair beside the fireplace and ran his hand roughly over his face. “Which house?”
“The Franklin’s.”
Beck remembered them well. The husband was an investment banker and the wife was a plastic surgeon. They owned an estate in Jamaica Plains. The eight-bedroom house overlooked the Jamaica Pond, a circular pond surrounded by a beautiful path.
Beck was there for the installation of the security system two months ago. He tested the system the day it was installed. A month later another series of testing was completed and the security system was fine. The fire alarm worked.
“There’s nothing left of the house,” Malcolm said.
“Was anyone hurt?” Beck asked and was silently praying that there would be no fatalities. He couldn’t live with that.
“No, they were on vacation. This is not like the others, Beck. We were dealing with breaks-in before. Now this. Whoever is responsible is stepping up the game.”
Beck was thinking the same thing but he refrained from voicing it. This was a personal attack. What if the Franklin’s had been home? Whoever was sabotaging his company wasn’t going to stop until someone got killed.
“There’s speculation it could be faulty wiring as a result of the alarm system,” Malcolm said with hesitation in his voice.
“By whom? That’s not possible.”
“You and I know that, but we’ll have to wait until the investigation is completed. If they’re correct this may lead to charges.”
“If they’re correct?
Who are they?”
“The fire marshal’s office.”
This can’t be happening. Beck didn’t realize he was pacing the floor or had gotten up out of the chair until he was in front of the sliding
If it weren’t for his stepmother the condo would still be void of furniture and accessories. After the divorce he had rented for a few years then finally bought the condo last year. The only piece of furniture he had invested in was a bed. His stepmother had taken charge and decorated, footing the bill for everything. He had been too busy working at the time to notice that her decorating style was not necessarily his but it grew on him, even the Greek columns.
The flashing red light on the phone caught his attention and he remembered he hadn’t called Malcolm back. Malcolm had called while he was at the restaurant. He’d been about to return the call when he’d seen the pickup racing towards Marklynn.
Leaving the water behind and picking up the cordless off the kitchen counter, he dialed Malcolm’s number on the way to his office. The office, which also doubled as a den, was huge and uncluttered. A large mahogany desk sat in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, an oversized leather chair in front of it. There were a couple of lounge chairs and a painting that hung on the wall over the fireplace.
The painting, the only picture in the room, looked like someone had taken a brush and flashed the paint off of it onto the canvas in a rainbow of colors. It was a gift from his stepmother on his last birthday. It was entitled, “
Confusion
,” and he had to agree with the artist there.
“Hello?”
It was a woman’s voice aroused from sleep that answered the phone. He apologized for waking her, hung up and dialed Malcolm’s again paying careful attention to the number. It was Malcolm who answered then.
“It’s Beck.”
“Did you call before and hang up?”
“Yes. I thought I had the wrong number. Tell your lady I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. Give me a minute,” Malcolm said. Beck heard a female voice in the background and what sounded like a door closing.
“It happened again,” Malcolm sighed into the phone. “The fire alarm malfunctioned or something. I don’t know the full details yet.”
“When?” Beck’s pulse raced.
“A little after nine. I tried calling you.”
Beck dropped into the leather chair beside the fireplace and ran his hand roughly over his face. “Which house?”
“The Franklin’s.”
Beck remembered them well. The husband was an investment banker and the wife was a plastic surgeon. They owned an estate in Jamaica Plains. The eight-bedroom house overlooked the Jamaica Pond, a circular pond surrounded by a beautiful path.
Beck was there for the installation of the security system two months ago. He tested the system the day it was installed. A month later another series of testing was completed and the security system was fine. The fire alarm worked.
“There’s nothing left of the house,” Malcolm said.
“Was anyone hurt?” Beck asked and was silently praying that there would be no fatalities. He couldn’t live with that.
“No, they were on vacation. This is not like the others, Beck. We were dealing with breaks-in before. Now this. Whoever is responsible is stepping up the game.”
Beck was thinking the same thing but he refrained from voicing it. This was a personal attack. What if the Franklin’s had been home? Whoever was sabotaging his company wasn’t going to stop until someone got killed.
“There’s speculation it could be faulty wiring as a result of the alarm system,” Malcolm said with hesitation in his voice.
“By whom? That’s not possible.”
“You and I know that, but we’ll have to wait until the investigation is completed. If they’re correct this may lead to charges.”
“If they’re correct?
Who are they?”
“The fire marshal’s office.”
This can’t be happening. Beck didn’t realize he was pacing the floor or had gotten up out of the chair until he was in front of the sliding
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