3
Amber Rose Police Captain, Frank Edwin Lerner and his wife, Danielle, were asleep at home in their king-size bed. In his recurring dream, Frank re-lived his former police lifetime, where he was back on a beat in the slums of Los Angeles. He moved down a narrow oil-soaked dirt alley, the one that he often used as a cut through between Shannon Street and Bender Street, he trained his eyes on a naked bright spotlight fastened just above a metal rear door. The door entrance led from the garbage containers in the alley into what was reportedly an antique store. But, Frank knew better than to think that the store sold only antiques. The store was locally reputed to be a front for a printing operation that crafted counterfeit passports, green cards, driver's licenses, and social security cards. This was the birthplace of new identities for scores of illegal aliens that walked the city streets in the dark hours.
It began to rain lightly, and Frank heard the deep rumbling sounds of distant thunder which foretold the storm that was building in the west. The drizzle on the alley made the surface slimy from the mingling of oil and garbage. Frank walked slowly and deliberately toward the stark shaft of light and took particular interest in the red metal rear door that was slightly ajar. He listened at the thin crack between the door and the door jamb, and hoped to hear the slightest sound of activity. Inside, and at some distance, he heard the rhythmic sound of the metal blades of a machine. A telephone rang somewhere inside, but no one responded to its call for attention.
Frank contemplated the few options he had available. He slowly dislodged the handgun from his holster and checked the bullets in each chamber. It was fully loaded. He was ready for the mission. He again heard the sound of distant thunder and used the rumble as a backdrop to ease the door just wide enough to step inside the building. The open door directed him into a dark, narrow hallway that smelled of urine. It was so dark that he couldn't see anything. He could only hear the muffled sound of the machine and the incessant ringing of that telephone. His nerves were tense and twisted as he inched slowly down the black passage. Suddenly, three men emerged from two doorways on either side of him. One man ripped the gun out of his hand while the other two pushed him down and mashed his face into the sticky vinyl tiles of the stinking floor. Frank heard the metal roof of the building being hammered by the torrents of rain. The ring of the distant telephone at the other end of the building seemed to get progressively louder. Suddenly, the third man mounted him from the back and put the barrel of Frank's gun directly at the base of Frank's scull and said, "Bastard Cop, this is your judgment day!" and pulled the trigger.
Frank's eyes shot open in terror. Actually, it was the sharp ring of his bedside telephone that brought him out of his nightmare. The ring of the telephone took him away from the dark hallway of the antique store and put him back in his warm, king-size bed, with its plump, feather pillow.
Frank fumbled clumsily in the darkness for the phone. He located the cord followed it to the phone, and picked up the receiver. He wasn't used to wake up calls in this small town. Amber Rose offered very little drama, and that was just fine with him.
"Yeah," he said, still partially asleep.
"Captain?"
"Yes." Frank was still not thinking clearly. "Who is this?"
"It's Detective Shepherd, sir."
"Uh, what is it, Detective?"
"Captain, we have a hell of a major situation, sir."
"What major situation, Detective?" he asked again. As Frank continued to speak, he was gradually gaining a firmer grasp on the reality of the conversation.
"Uh, well, sir," the detective muttered.
"Okay, I'm awake, so now brief me, Detective. What situation?"
"Sir, we've had about a dozen 9–1–1 calls regarding an explosion that's just happened at Garden Avenue. The place is on fire. All squad cars have been dispatched, as well as our two watch detectives, a technician from the mobile crime unit, and fire and rescue officers. I'm at the scene now and it's really severe, sir."
Frank was awake enough to assimilate the information. He held the rank of Amber Rose Captain of Detectives for over sixteen years. Chief of Police, Morgan A. Buchanan, had been with the department for almost thirty-five years. During that time, they had developed a strong level of trust in each other. While the chief continued to provide leadership, he afforded Lerner the opportunity to direct his department without having to deal with a superior's micromanagement. With the chief out of town, that meant that Captain of Detectives, Frank Lerner, was in charge of this issue.
"What classification is the emergency, Detective?" Frank asked.
"It's a situation Charlie, sir. Of course, that means there's to be notification of the Office of Emergency Management for site operation control and then to notify the mayor."
Frank spoke as he collected his thoughts, "The manual states that OEM will notify the mayor as a first call. She'll have questions, though. You are on the scene and you can answer them. Give OEM five minutes to notify her and then you go ahead and call her. She'll want to get some information. Tell her that I'm on my way."
Frank reviewed more OEM procedures, "Chief Buchanan isn't in the chain of OEM emergency notification because he's more than 750 miles away. He's sailing off the coast for two weeks. I'll try to get hold of him through the Coast Guard after I notify OEM and have time to assess things. When he hears about this, he'll turn around. I'm on my way. I'll be there in less than ten minutes."
"Okay, Captain. I'll call the mayor."
Frank hung up the phone and immediately dialed that special phone number, the one that is never to be used unless it's an OEM emergency. He knew that his voice would be taped, so he would be calm and keep the message short.
When Office of Emergency Management Coordinator, Francine May, picked up the phone, Frank didn't give out the normal greeting, "How ya doin' Francine?" Instead, he spit out the information, just as required in the OEM operations manual, "Francine, this Captain Lerner. There is a class Charlie emergency at Garden Avenue. There appears to have been a widespread explosion and my detective reports that several houses are on fire. The cause of the fire is not determined. The cause of the explosion is not determined. Detective Shepherd is on the scene and I am going there now."
Francine grabbed the OEM operations manual, took out the Charlie protocol checklist, and responded, "Okay, Captain. I'll take care of it. I'll make the calls and keep you in the loop. A Charlie incident requires extended coordination, so I'll get the Command Post set up near the site immediately. Is there anything else?"
As required, Frank gave a definitive, "No."
Francine said, "I'll keep in touch, sir," and hung up the phone.
Frank gave a prolonged sigh and whispered softly to Dannie, "I gotta go, honey. There's some trouble in Aunt Melanie's neighborhood. I'll stop in and see how she's doing. I'm gonna be gone a while, so don't worry."
He kissed her lightly on her head. Danielle didn't even lift her head.
"Maybe I should call her," she muttered into her pillow. "If she hears sirens blaring, she'll wonder what's goin' on."
"Okay," Frank replied. "Tell her to put the front porch lights on or a flashlight in the window if she wants me and I'll swing by when this thing settles down."
Frank put on his shirt and pulled on his pants in a single motion. Frank was not a tall man. He stood 5'11" but his girth was getting the better of him. He had developed a marked stomach over the last three years that he should trim down. He had a handsome enough face, blue-green eyes, and graying temples. And, as Danielle told him on many occasions, he was also a good lover. He was proud of that. He gently kissed Danielle on the cheek. Dannie forgot about calling Aunt Melanie as she drifted back into sleep.
Danielle Lerner, affectionately referred to as Dannie, was forty-five years old and had curly brown hair that was treated every six weeks to an application of Warm Toast rinse that she purchased from the local drug store. She didn't go to the salon. Her hair hung gently toward her narrow shoulders and was always loosely styled. She held a bachelors degree in English Education from Wheaton College, but hadn't used her educational skills since she married Frank twenty years ago. Danielle kept an immaculate house and prided herself in creating and maintaining a magnificent English style rose garden in the back yard. She was quiet, stoic in demeanor, and she and Frank seldom argued. Not only was this part of her fundamental nature, but she also found that a gentle approach quite suited their marriage.
Frank slipped quietly out of the bedroom, easing past Cocoa, their chocolate Labrador. Lying on her back at the threshold to the bedroom door, with all four paws skyward, Cocoa didn't so much as move her head when Frank stepped near her. She continued to sleep soundly, snoring softly with small, brief puffs.
The December night was a bit chillier than Frank had expected. He drew out his Kelly green windbreaker from the back seat and pulled it over his head. Frank pressed the button on the garage door opener, started up the Chrysler, threw it into reverse, and backed out of the driveway.
Oh, my God! he thought, as he saw the colossal fireball reflected in his rear view mirror.
"Major situation?" he said aloud, "Shit! That was a major understatement!"
He wondered, how could I have slept through this explosion! Where the hell is it coming from? Maybe it's a gasoline station that's blown up, or maybe it's the propane fueling station on Route 101.
As he evaluated the precise location of the flames and smoke, Frank modified his opinion. The flames were coming from the direction of the AmSac underground natural gas main right next to his aunt's house. He had frequently noticed some yellow goose neck gas pipes sticking out of the ground behind her home, but never connected those small, innocent-looking plastic pipes with the raging storm of billowing flames that he saw reflected in the mirror. He turned on the police car headlights and waited until he got out of the neighborhood before switching on the emergency roof lights. To make the best time, he needed to get to Route 101. This highway was a pass through road, a conduit, used by thousands of outsiders who traveled to and from work each day. That route paralleled the houses that faced Garden Avenue. He would make this ten minute trip in half that time.
Frank knew the area of Garden Avenue particularly well because his mother's sister, Aunt Melanie Hutcheons, lived on that street. Homes on Garden Avenue were notable, four and five bedroom, two-story houses on moderately-sized. properties. While most of the houses were constructed from six basic housing styles, the identifying features were modified to create a sense of diversity. Some garage entrances were constructed on the right side of the unit, while others were placed on the left side. Many of the homes had large, floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, but there were those that had several sets of double hung windows instead. Roof lines, roof colors, and facades had been modified to give the appearance that no two units were the same.
Melanie had been Frank's surrogate mother since his mom died 20 years ago. His mind flashed to memories of his aunt. He and Danielle often sat under his aunt's large eucalyptus tree, drinking margaritas with her as they discussed national politics. Almost every Sunday afternoon Dannie and Aunt Melanie would battle over the Scrabble board. Frank declined to join them, saying that he preferred to watch baseball on television. Aunt Melanie would bring the portable television onto the back yard patio and plug it into the outside outlet so that Frank could be with them. In the bargain, Frank was obligated to provide referee service when they got into an argument over the spelling of a word for the Scrabble game.
I can't think of Melanie now. I've gotta' get there, he thought.
. . . .
The mayor of Amber Rose, Jordanna Gray, was sleeping soundly when the telephone alert came in. Jordanna, known as 'Jordanna' to everyone in town, had just turned thirty-five years old. She was five feet six inches tall, and one hundred and twenty pounds. She was a handsome woman who exhibited a subtle, natural beauty. She had brown doe eyes and chestnut brown hair that curled slightly outward as it met her small shoulders. The copper highlights she added to her hair several weeks ago had begun to grow out. Jordanna had good muscle tone, but that didn't come naturally. She worked hard to maintain her slender body. She actually enjoyed good hard exercise for her upper body and ran each day to bring her heart rate above a hundred and ten beats per minute. Jordanna's energy and engaging smile were traits that captured most everyone. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and the slight dimples on her cheeks gave a wholesome, country-girl appeal. She had a bachelor's degree, with honors in history, from Rutgers University and had worked toward a master's degree in business administration from Cornell University. Just after her divorce three years ago, she moved to California to find a job in one of the more beautiful communities in the state.
Jordanna picked up substitute teaching jobs for a year before being encouraged to run for Mayor two years ago. Since she was unopposed in the election, she won without having to deal with the confrontations that often plague bi-partisan politics. She converted the post to almost a full time position. Her salary as the mayor was modest, but she supplemented her income by authoring children's books and editing high school English textbooks. Her total income had barely been enough to keep the wolf away from her door, but she was making it. No complaints.
She was proud of her two years as mayor of Amber Rose. Located between Ukiah and Eureka, the coastal town of Amber Rose had inched just above thirty thousand people as of the last census. By most California standards, it was a medium sized village that warranted only small text notation on the California road map. Nevertheless, the government still had its job to do. The local tax rate remained stable in spite of the town's construction of the new animal shelter, minor renovation of the town court room, and purchase of new police radio system. Jordanna was able to actually cut budget costs by two percent. Until some other career opportunity came along, she was very satisfied in the job.
Somewhere in her subconscious, Jordanna heard the methodical ring of a distant telephone. Her brain computed the incoming sound of the bell as an intruder. This ring robbed her of sleep and demanded things she wasn't ready for. She didn't like the phone. The sound had to come from the kitchen, because her bedroom telephone hadn't worked for three weeks. While her public life was on track, she often neglected the duties of private life. She simply hadn't taken the time to get her bedroom phone repaired, so the broken unit sat silent on her night table. Jordanna crawled out of bed and padded toward the kitchen, keeping her eyes half closed in the hope that she would conclude the conversation, head straight back to bed, and get back to sleep.
She picked up the kitchen telephone receiver.
"Hello?"
"Mayor Gray?" the voice inquired.
"Yes, this is Jordanna Gray."
"Mayor, this is Detective Shepherd."
Jordanna knew Detective Douglas Shepherd since she had recently voted to promote him to the level of Detective. He was delighted when he got the word of his new title. The promotion ceremony included his wife, who pinned bars on his uniform, and his little son, who continually grabbed at his father's ears.
"Yes, Detective," she said wearily.
"Mayor, there has been a tremendous explosion at Garden Avenue. The OEM will be calling you on this as well."
Jordanna's eyes shot open.
She asked, "What happened?"
"Mayor, Captain Lerner wanted me to tell you that he's on his way over there now. There are several people who have died and homes are on fire. The details haven't been confirmed yet, but he would like you to come to the site."
Hoping that Shepherd had exaggerated the extent of the tragedy, Jordanna simply said, "Thank you. Tell him I'm on my way."
Jordanna hung up the phone without waiting for the customary good byes. She wouldn't take time to think about apparel. She quickly put on the same clothes she wore the previous afternoon. She slipped into a pair of ready-to-wear khaki pants, yesterday's white shirt with a few yellow mustard drops splattered over it, and tennis shoes. She threw a dark brown jacket over her arm and made a direct route to her car that was parked in the driveway. The wind had picked up. She didn't know it then, but the events that followed would change her life forever.