Sunday night he does laundry.

Washes the five shirts and two pairs of trousers and hangs them out to unwrinkle. Preknots the three ties and he's ready for the workweek, which means that he's in the water a little before dawn, surfs until 6:30, showers at the beach, changes into his work clothes, loops the tie around his neck, gets into his car, pops in an old Challengers tape, and races to the offices of California Fire and Life.

He's been doing this for coming up to twelve years.

Not this morning, though.

This morning, propelled by Billy's call, he races to the loss site – 37 Bluffside Drive, just down the road above Dana Strand Beach.

It takes him maybe ten minutes. He's pulling around on the circular driveway – his wheels on the gravel sound like the undertow in the trench at high tide – and hasn't even fully stopped before Brian Bentley walks over and taps on the passenger-side window.

Brian "Accidentally" Bentley is the Sheriff's Department fire investigator. Which is another reason Jack knows there's been a fatal fire, because the Sheriff's Department is there. Otherwise it would be an inspector from the Fire Department, and Jack wouldn't be looking at Bentley's fat face.

Or his wavy red hair turning freaking orange with age.

Jack leans over and winds down the window.

Bentley sticks his red face in and says, "You got here quick, Jack. What, you carrying the fire and the life?"

"Yup."

"Good," Bentley says. "The double whammy."

Jack and Bentley hate each other.

That old thing about if, say, Jack was on fire, Bentley wouldn't piss on him to put it out? If Jack was on fire, Bentley would drink gasoline so he could piss on Jack.