House on Fire

23

We were standing in a small white-painted steel room with a steel floor and rows of gray steel filing cabinets lining two of the walls, narrowing the space where you could stand. Overhead lighting had come on as soon as we entered. I could tell this safe room had been assembled from prefab steel panels, built to a standard size. This one was probably eight by ten. On the back wall were a few shelves. I saw jewelry boxes with pearl necklaces and diamond brooches and other costly items like that, laid out on black velvet. On display like a jewelry store. Natalya’s stash, no doubt.

“Jesus,” she breathed.

But Maggie wasn’t looking at the jewelry. She was focused on the file cabinets.

I pulled the bookshelf-door behind us closed. It clicked shut. Somewhere a ventilation fan began to whirr faintly. I’m not claustrophobic, but this was a small space. It was built to house files and jewelry, not really as a panic room, where the family could hide out in case of an intrusion. It was too cramped to hold more than a couple of people, and there were no visible supplies.

“Leave the door open,” Maggie said.

“Why?”

“I want to hear noises.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and pushed the door open. The vent fan went off.

I said in a low voice, “We’re probably looking for different things. But we can help each other. So what are you looking for?”

This time she didn’t hold back. “His new will. The kids are afraid they’re getting written out and Natalya’s getting written in. They think she’s manipulating Conrad, that she’s all about the Benjamins. What about you?”

“There was a drug trial done on Oxydone years ago. Found that the drug was dangerously addictive in humans and warned against marketing it. That trial was buried, but the files on it are probably somewhere in here.”

“Always thought that was just a rumor.”

“What?”

“That they had proof how addictive it was but somehow the FDA got paid off or something.”

“All I know is there’s a file, and it’s here somewhere.”

She tugged at a steel cabinet labeled legal, but the drawers were locked. I pulled at the one right in front of me, marked family, and that too was locked.

Then I found a cabinet labeled OXYDONE: EARLY DEVELOPMENT.

“You got a pick set?” she said.

“Of course.”

I took out my leather shaving kit and removed a flat pick with a hook on it. I did the gentlemanly thing and turned to the Legal cabinet first, the one Maggie was interested in. It was a four-pin file cabinet lock. It couldn’t have been easier. I pushed in, then pushed down, and the lock popped out. She pulled at the top drawer, and it opened.

“You’re good,” she said. “I forgot how good.”

“Learned from the best.” I had no doubt she knew how to pick locks too — she’d probably taken the government course “Defense Against Methods of Entry,” a series of classes on how to break into places. I’d taken such a course, though by then I already knew how to pick locks, courtesy of a repo man I once met at Norman Lang Motors in Malden, Mass. That’s where I used to hang out a lot with my friend whose dad owned it.

Then I turned back around and found the Oxydone file cabinet and picked its lock. I’d gotten it down to five seconds, which wasn’t bad.

“Estate plans,” she muttered. “We’re in the right area code. Thank you.”

“How much time do we have on the clock?” I asked her.

“Hour and a half. Being conservative.” She took out an iPhone.

For the next few minutes there was just silence, broken only by the rustling of paper files, the occasional camera-lens-click from her phone. It was starting to get hot in there.

A lot of what I do is routine. Scut work. It’s not dramatic, it’s not cinematic, but it’s a major part of my job. I pored over as many files as I could.

I was able to pick each cabinet open in less than five seconds. In the Family cabinet I found a section labeled psychiatric inventories/confidential. There, I found psychiatric evaluations of each of his five children. One folder was marked “Susan Kimball.” I pulled it out, feeling a little guilty. Skimmed it. Read phrases like “Subject is a bright, intense individual who is somewhat naive for her age.” And “used to being bullied by her powerful father.” And “likely to be a follower rather than a leader... Fear of being taken advantage of... Particularly vulnerable to humiliation.”

Then I skimmed the one marked “Cameron Kimball.” Various phrases jumped out at me — “motor vehicle homicide” and “sealed juvenile record.” These files represented nearly fifty years, beginning with when Conrad Kimball started his medical practice and soon thereafter acquired the small pharmaceutical company, Cedar Laboratories, that later became Kimball Pharma.

“Bingo,” Maggie said abruptly, startling me. She pulled a thick file from the top drawer. “His kids will not be happy. But Natalya’s gonna be one rich widow.” She closed the file drawer. “Revised ten days ago. And that’s... as long as I’m staying in this claustrophobic box.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m out of here. And, Heller, you should get out of here soon too. We can’t risk staying longer.”

“Soon as I find my file. Wanna help me?”

“Just for a minute or two, but then we should leave. I’ll start with the bottom drawer. Wait.” She put up a hand and cocked her head. I listened too. I heard nothing.

She shook her head. “Okay, sorry.”

She pulled out the bottom drawer of the Oxydone cabinet and knelt on the floor as she flicked through the files.

I was not having any luck. I found a section on Development, but it was just a lot of chemical formulas and back-and-forth between scientists. A section on Investors. One drawer did contain just drug trial results. But here there appeared to be a gap, missing files about an inch thick.

As I searched the files on either side of the gap, Maggie got to her feet. A few seconds later, she whispered, “Heller?”

I turned, looked.

“You see this?”

She was pointing at a safe bolted onto the floor at the back of the little steel room.

“Check this out.”

There it was. There had to be a safe somewhere in his office. Probably others, elsewhere in the house, too. I’d come prepared for this, at least.

I stopped what I was doing, sidled over to the safe, squatted down. It was made of dull gray steel. A round digital keypad in the center of the front face, attached to a handle. This was the sort of inexpensive safe you might pick up at Home Depot. A lot of rich people are cheap when it comes to home security. This one had an electronic lock, pry-resistant hinges, one-inch-thick bolts to keep the door in place, and you could drop it from fifteen feet, no problem. But the manufacturers had put a cheap nickel solenoid in the locking mechanism.

Its Achilles’ heel.

“I’ll do the honors,” she said. She punched in four digits — “the month and date Conrad met Natalya,” she said — and it beeped without unlocking.

“As I remember, this brand uses five digits, not four.”

She punched in several other numbers. I let her try, while I pulled something out of my shaving kit. It looked like a white tube sock with something round and heavy in it.

“Keep your phone away,” I said. “This thing will wipe it clean.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a rare-earth magnet.”

These things were extremely powerful. They wiped out phones and credit cards and computer hard drives instantly.

“What do you—” she began. But then she fell silent, watching me position the magnet, in the white sock, against the top of the safe, just above the keypad. The magnet clamped right on, through the sock. I twisted the leg of the sock, fashioning a sort of handle. The magnet did as expected; then I jerked the handle and the safe came right open.

“Heller!” she whispered in astonishment.

I pulled at the sock and managed to slide the magnet off the front of the safe. That’s what the sock is for; otherwise, it’s fiendishly difficult to pull the magnet off.

I don’t know what I expected to find: More jewelry? Computer disks? Inside was just a thick Kraft-paper envelope, the old-fashioned kind that closes with a button and string.

She slipped her hand in and pulled out the envelope. Now I saw what she’d just seen. On the front of the envelope were two strips of white label tape with black lettering, all caps. They read:

“Huh,” I said.

“I got dibs, Heller,” she said.