Mother is beautiful.
A small, perfect gem.
Sable hair pulled back tight against the whitest skin Jack's ever seen. She has Nicky's blue eyes, only darker. The color of deeper water.
Head up, spine sergeant major straight.
No, not sergeant major, Jack corrects himself, ballet instructor.
She's wearing August-appropriate white. A midlength summer dress edged in gold. She doesn't shop in Laguna, Jack thinks – too funky and too many gays – but in Newport Beach. Come Labor Day, no matter how hot, she'll lose the whites and go to beige and khaki. The first of November she'll switch to black.
Jack starts, "Mrs. Vale-"
"Valeshin."
"Mrs. Valeshin" Jack says. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"I understand that she was smoking in bed," Mother says. She has more of an accent and there's this slight edge, like Pamela deserved to choke to death in the dark, Jack thinks. Like she had it coming.
"That's the preliminary finding," Jack says.
" And drinking?" Mother adds.
"There's some indication that she might have been drinking," Jack says.
"Won't you come in?" she asks.
Now that I've paid admission, Jack thinks.
The inside of the house is a museum.
No DO NOT TOUCH signs, Jack thinks, but they're not needed. You just know, like, DO NOT TOUCH. The place is immaculate. The floors and furniture shine. No dust would dare settle.
Dark, too, like a museum.
Dark-stained hardwood floors with Persian carpets. Oak doors, moldings, and window frames.
Big old dark fireplace.
In contrast, the living room furniture is white.
White sofa, white wingback chairs.
White like a challenge white. White like nobody spills here, or dribbles, or drops. White, like a statement that life can be clean if everyone just maintains discipline and pays attention and tries.
Furniture, Jack thinks, as ethic.
Nicky motions for Jack to sit down on the sofa.
Jack tries to sit without leaving an indentation.
"You have a beautiful home," Jack says.
"My son bought it for me," she says.
"You've been to the house?" Nicky says.
"Just for a preliminary look."
"Is it a total loss?" Nicky asks.
"Most of the structure is still there," Jack says, "although there's a lot of smoke and water damage. I'm afraid the west wing is going to have to be torn down."
"Since the coroner called," Nicky says, "I've been trying to steel my nerves to go over there and see… And of course the children are terribly upset."
"Sure."
Nicky waits for what he feels is a decent interval, then asks, "How do we proceed with the claim?"
Like, we've done our sensitive moment, let's get down to business.
Jack runs it down for him.
The life insurance claim is simple. Jack requests a death certificate from the county and once he gets it, bang, he writes a draft for $250,000. The fire claim is a little more complicated because you're looking at three different "coverages" under the policy.
Coverage A is for the structure itself. Jack needs to examine the house in detail and come up with an estimate of what it's going to cost to rebuild. Coverage B is for personal property – furniture, appliances, clothing – and Nicky will need to fill out a Personal Property Inventory Form, to tell the company what he lost in the fire.
"I see you also have a bunch of special endorsements added to your Coverage B," Jack says.
Which is a humongo understatement, Jack thinks. Special endorsements to the tune of three-quarters of a million bucks.
And nice fat premiums for California Fire and Life.
The perpetual circle jerk, Jack thinks.
"My furniture," Nicky says. "I collect eighteenth-century English. Mostly George II and III. I collect, I sell, I buy. I'm afraid the bulk of my collection was in the west wing. Is there…?"
Jack shakes his head.
Nicky winces.
Jack says, "I'll need to have you complete a PPIF- Personal Property Inventory Form – so we can sort out what's destroyed and what isn't. There's no hurry on that, of course."
"I have a videotape," Nicky says.
"You do?"
"Just a couple of months before the fire," Nicky says, "Pamela and I decided we should finally follow our agent's advice and videotape the house and our belongings. Would that be helpful?"
Yeah, that would be helpful, Jack thinks.
"Sure," Jack says. "Where is the tape?"
"Here at Mother's," Nicky answers.
Then Nicky says, "You mentioned a third coverage."
"Coverage D," Jack says. "Additional Living Expenses. That's for any expenses you incur while you're out of your home. Rent, restaurant bills, that sort of thing, until you get settled. I can also write drafts from that coverage to give you an advance on your personal property so you can buy clothes… toys for the kids…"
"How thoughtful," Nicky says.
"You have plenty of insurance," Jack says.
Mother says, "Nicky and the children will be staying here until the house is rebuilt."
"That's great," Jack says.
"I'm charging them $2,000 a month in room and board."
Those deep blues look at him like it's a challenge, like she's daring him to say something. Something along the order, Jack thinks, of what kind of mother charges rent to her widowed son and her homeless grandchildren?
Jack says, "Actually, $2,000 is a little low. For instance, if Nicky were to rent an equivalent home, we would pay for that."
"Daziatnik is staying here," she says.
"Of course he can stay where he wants," Jack says. "I'm just saying that wherever he decides to stay, we'll pay the rent."
She says, "After all, why should I subsidize the insurance company?"
"No reason," Jack says. "In fact, I can issue an advance of $25,000 on your Coverage D," Jack says.
"When?" Nicky asks.
"Now."
(Another Billyism: Get an advance in their hands. Pronto. People been burned out of their home, get some clothes on their backs. Kids lose their home, at least they can get some goddamn toys to play with. They feel better.)
And if they lose their mom, Billy?
Well, I can bring them their dog.
Silence. Mother has just figured out that she's lost face by winning a battle she didn't need to fight, and she doesn't like it.
So while she's pissed off anyway, Jack says, "I'm going to need to get a recorded statement. It doesn't have to be today."
"A recorded statement?" Nicky asks. "Why?"
"Routine with any fire," Jack says.
One of Goddamn Billy's rules in this cynical world: Take a statement as soon as you can. Get their story on the record so they can't walk away from it. If they're not involved with the fire, it doesn't matter; if they are… well, Billy's right again. Get a statement. Get it in detail. Get it early.
(Another Billyism: If you're planning on getting in a fight with someone, it's a good idea to first get their feet stuck in concrete.)
Nicky's looking at him with his charming smile.
"Did you bring a tape recorder?" he asks.
You bet.