Chapter 5 - The Building That Wasn't Supposed to BurnThe following morning, Adrian met retired fire investigator Ruben Ortega at a diner in Dorchester.
Ortega was sixty-four, broad-shouldered, with tired eyes and hands scarred by decades of work.
He had spent twenty-eight years with the Boston Fire Department before retiring.
Ten years earlier, he had been one of the first investigators inside the ruins of Morrow House.
Adrian placed a photograph on the table.
"Do you recognize this building?"
Ortega didn't touch it.
"Morrow House."
"You investigated the fire."
"I assisted with the early scene examination."
"Was it electrical?"
Ortega looked toward the window.
"That's what the final report said."
"That isn't what I asked."
The older man slowly turned back.
"No," he answered. "It isn't."
Adrian waited.
"The building had electrical problems. Old wiring, overloaded circuits, temporary repairs. That was documented."
"But?"
"The early burn patterns raised questions. There were indications of more than one area of intense burning."
"Arson?"
"Possible arson. Not proof. We needed laboratory results and a complete examination."
"What happened?"
Ortega stirred his coffee, although he hadn't added anything to it.
"The scene was dangerous. The building partially collapsed. Our investigation was transferred among several people. Some findings never made it into the final summary."
"Why?"
"Officially? Insufficient evidence."
"And unofficially?"
Ortega looked at Adrian for a long moment.
"Your father had friends in places where ordinary people don't."
Adrian felt anger rise.
"Are you accusing him?"
"I'm telling you why I retired."
Ortega opened a worn leather folder.
Inside were photographs, copied field notes, and an old diagram of the building.
"The fire started near the administrative office," he said. "At least, that's where we found some of the strongest early indicators."
"Celia Quinn worked there."
"Yes."
"What about the stairs?"
Ortega hesitated.
"Which stairs?"
"The third stair."
The investigator's expression changed.
"Where did you hear that?"
"From Celia's daughter."
Ortega set down his cup.
"She's alive?"
"Yes."
He sat motionless.
For several seconds, Adrian thought he might cry.
"I interviewed her mother two days before the fire," Ortega finally said.
Adrian leaned forward.
"Why?"
"Because Celia reported suspicious maintenance orders."
"What kind?"
"One authorized a temporary disconnection of an alarm-control circuit during electrical repairs. Another concerned the rear stairwell."
"Was the building occupied?"
"Yes. Temporary alarm impairment procedures require precautions. The paperwork claimed a fire watch was provided."
"Was it?"
"I never found evidence of one."
Ortega opened another page.
"There was also a work order for the third step on the rear staircase."
Adrian studied the diagram.
A narrow rear stairwell connected the first-floor office corridor to an exterior exit.
"The third tread had been replaced," Ortega explained.
"Why?"
"The maintenance contractor said it was rotting."
"And Celia?"
"She claimed the replacement was unnecessary. She believed somebody had opened it to inspect a concealed cavity beneath the staircase."
Adrian remembered Mara's words.
The third stair lies.
"Could something have been hidden there?"
"Possibly. Older buildings often have irregular spaces beneath their stairs."
"Did investigators search it?"
Ortega shook his head.
"By the time we got access, the stairwell was gone."
Adrian looked at the photographs.
Morrow House had burned so completely that almost nothing recognizable remained.
"Who ordered the repair?"
Ortega turned a page.
PINNACLE FACILITIES MANAGEMENT.
Adrian recognized the name.
Pinnacle had once provided maintenance and security services to Vale Development.
Its director of security had been a former police officer named Marcus Pike.
Ortega noticed Adrian's reaction.
"You know him?"
"He worked for my father."
Ortega nodded grimly.
"Then you might want to know something else."
He removed another photograph.
It showed the rear of Morrow House before the fire, taken during a routine inspection.
A man stood beside a service entrance.
He was wearing a long dark coat.
On his hand was a conspicuous gold ring.
The photograph was too distant to reveal its design.
But Adrian knew the man's face.
Marcus Pike.
And beside him, half hidden by the doorway, stood Adrian's father.
Victor Vale.
"Your father told investigators he hadn't visited the property that month," Ortega said.
Adrian stared at the photograph.
"Where did you get this?"
"An old inspection folder. I kept a copy because the date bothered me."
Adrian turned it over.
The photograph was dated October 14, 2016.
Three days before the fire.
Ortega leaned closer.
"Mr. Vale, I don't know who started that fire. I never did."
Adrian said nothing.
"But I know somebody worked very hard to make sure we stopped asking questions."
Outside, a black SUV slowed beside the diner.
The driver remained hidden behind tinted glass.
Ortega saw it.
His face tightened.
"You need to leave."
Adrian looked toward the vehicle.
"Why?"
May you like
Ortega closed his folder.
"Because that's the same car that followed me home last night."
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