Burning the Bubble

If you're caught between a real estate bubble and a social media flash mob, would you survive?

“So that’s where the mess started,” muttered Andy.

The house he stood in front of was typical for Silicon Valley. Five bedrooms squished into three stories to fit onto a narrow lot. Homeowner association approved beige paint. Two car garage door filling the front of the house. A For Sale sign with the line “2.5M OBO.” The only non-standard feature was the covering of soot, now streaked after yesterday's rain had washed some away.

He looked around at the rest of the development. Former development. All the identical houses for blocks around were charred rubble. Bulldozers were knocking down ruined frames. The trees were reduced to blackened trunks. The cars that hadn’t escaped were also burnt wrecks. The air smelled of smoke, not wood but the harsh tang of plastics, rubber, and other things that weren’t meant to burn.

Andy flinched at a sight a few blocks away. A bulldozer crew stood with hard hats in their hands as the coroner’s team placed remains into a body bag. The green hills of Portola were a lovely backdrop in the grim scene.

And only a week ago he’d been happy living here.

Andy let his daughter Betty take a sip from the water glass, then told her this time she must go to sleep. The long-haired five year old turned her face to her pillow and sighed. He stood a moment watching to see if she’d try something else. The Winnie the Pooh sheet set was getting old, but replacing it would mean changing all the decals on the walls too.

After a few steady breaths he slipped out and closed the bedroom door. His wife Debra flashed him a smile as he returned to the living room. The forest green sundress she’d changed into after work complemented her fair skin. She was rearranging the pictures on the mantle to put the official pre-school picture front and center. Others flanked it in ascending age with the grandparents’ wedding portrait on the edge of the marble slab.

Light from a passing car flickered over her face through the second floor windows. Andy wrapped his arms around Debra. She leaned back into him, head tucked under his chin.

“Thanks for settling her down, honey,” she said.

“No problem.” He led her to the wide leather couch occupying the center of the room. It was big enough for six but they sat side by side in the center. A tablet and laptop lay on the cushions where they’d been abandoned when Betty fussed. Debra picked up her tablet, Andy the laptop.

Nothing interested him in the news. “Anything interesting on the faces?” he asked.

She looked up from her tablet. “Marty sold his house, so he’s quitting the El Paradiso neighborhood group.”

“Good for him. Tell him to have fun in Austin.”

“I did.” Debra turned the tablet to show him her comment.

“Whoa, what’s with all the nasty comments?”

“Oh, he sold at a discount so now all the real estate maniacs are bitching about him destroying the market value of the neighborhood.” Debra put a teasing lilt into her tone. Andy spent too much time worrying about their home equity as far as she was concerned.

“How big a discount?”

“The buyer—that Korean guy he’s renting it to—could only go to a mil and a half.”

Andy whistled. “A million off his asking price? That's a big cut. But then Marty bought it with his stock options so he doesn’t think of it as real money.”

Debra looked up. “Do you know how everybody bought their house?”

“Only the ones who come to the block parties.”

The conversation dropped off as they went back to their gadgets. It was too early to start a movie, Betty might hear it and demand to watch too.

He decided to check 4mortgage, one of his guilty pleasures. People obsessed with tiny variations in home prices as signs of the financial apocalypse made him feel more sane. At least he was saner than those guys.

The newest thread bore a common subject line: “Bubble bursting in Silicon Valley!” Andy almost laughed as he read the first post. Marty's 40% discount to his renter was being treated as a portent of devaluations of all houses in the region, followed by individual bankruptcies of underwater homeowners and collapses of banks foreclosing on now worthless houses. The rest of the thread was equally overwrought.

A comment by Anon9456 caught his eye. Andy was sure that one lived in their neighborhood from comments he'd made before. Tonight he was despondent. “I just refinanced to debt consolidate. If the market collapses now I’ll be underwater and won’t have a chance to make it up.”

Another anonymous user made the usual joke: “Time to burn it down and collect the insurance money.”

Andy didn't find the next post funny at all. Anon9456: “You’re right. :(” The time tag was twenty minutes ago, and Anon9456 hadn't posted again.

Debra's tablet was still emitting a continuous stream of chirps, her Facebook notification sound.

“Lots of people telling Marty goodbye?” he asked.

“No, they’re flaming each other over real estate prices. Poor guy’s not even getting a polite send-off. It’s a shame. He did good ribs.”

---

Billy lit his gas grill. It was late and he was hungry after too damn many hours at work. Normally he’d just order Chinese or something but those artisanal bratwurst were about to expire. He was tired of throwing away food he hadn’t had a chance to cook.

Grilling in the dark was a pain. That’s why he’d set up the halogen light for his backyard. If you could call it a yard. There wasn’t enough room for a dog to stretch its legs out here. The lone oak tree hung its branches over the fences on all three sides. Acorns crunched under his feet as Billy set out tongs and plates to receive the cooked sausages.

He’d planned for two days of grilled meals with leftovers but overtime for the deadline crunch killed that plan. Now he dumped all four packages on the grill, moving links about with the tongs to make room for them all. Setting the burners at medium he lowered the lid and let the meat cook.

The sliding glass door let him into the mini-kitchen. Billy sat on the cushioned stool and started a cartoon. Japanese robots flung missiles at each other then cleaved enemies with massive swords.

A hiss distracted him from the show. Billy paused it. Without the sound effects he could hear pops and hisses from the grill. Flames licked from under the lid.

Oh oh. He realized putting too many bratwurst on the grill had produced enough grease to fuel a fire. He ran out, leaving the door open.

Flinging open the lid to investigate scorched his hand and unleashed three feet of flame into the air. Crap. He used the tongs to turn the burners off but grease spattered on the floor of the grill kept burning. And the brats were leaking more fuel into the fire. Double crap.

He’d last used the garden hose to water the bushes flanking his driveway. Billy ran through the kitchen and foyer to his garage. The coiled hose sat by the garage door. He grabbed it and ran back.

The faucet was close enough to the grill the heat made his back itch. His sweaty hands fumbled twisting the swivel on the faucet. Finally he had it on. Twisting the valve open sprayed him with water from the improper connection, but some was going through the hose.

Billy turned to face his grill. The fire was rising more than six feet in the air. More than ten feet? No. That wasn’t the grill burning. That was a branch of the oak tree on fire. And flames were licking at the eaves of his house.

It was time to call 911.

---

At first they thought the flickering light was another car. When it kept teasing at his peripheral vision Andy turned to look. Then he jumped to his feet and strode to the window to be sure. “My God. He did it. The son of a bitch did it.”

“Did what?” asked Debra.

Andy didn’t answer. He grabbed the handset for their landline off the mahogany end table, knocking over a pile of National Geographics in his haste. He pounded the buttons and put it to his ear.

“Nine one one, what is your emergency?” The voice was professionally calm, a level alto.

“There’s a house on fire. Across the street from me.”

“What’s the address please?”

“I’m not sure. We’re on Cabrillo Street. It must be twenty eight sixty or twenty eight seventy. It’s on the even side of the street.”

“Thank you, sir. One moment please.” Andy could hear clicking keys and background conversations. “Sir, you’ve confirmed another report we have. A unit is already on the way. Thank you very much.”

“Thanks. Sorry.” He hung up.

Debra was at the window now, snapping a picture of the burning house with her phone. “What did you mean by ‘he did it’?” she asked.

“I think that’s insurance fraud. Somebody’s afraid the property values will drop and he’s burning his house to collect the insurance money while it’s still enough to pay off his mortgage.”

“That’s . . . people really do that?” She tapped a caption for the photo and uploaded it to the El Paradiso Facebook group.

Andy shrugged. “Some. Enough to keep fraud investigators busy.”

Debra’s phone kept chirping with notifications. “You might be right,” she said. “There’s some other people who think this might be deliberate too.”

---

Preston typed “You're right :(” and clicked the ‘Post’ button.

He pushed the swivel chair back from his desk and spun to look over the living room.

The couch he’d gotten after the divorce was still there, wide enough for the twins to watch TV with him on the alternate weekends. The TV wasn’t as good as the one his ex had taken with her. The carefully chosen paintings covering the walls were all sold now. Also the bronze he’d picked up on the trip to Benin. The carefully posed picture of his children Leo and Jennifer with his arms around them had a wall to itself.

Still, this house was where the kids grew up. He couldn’t get rid of it. Their faces drooped whenever he hinted at maybe moving someplace else. They’d miss it. And burn it? Even if it was the financially sound decision he couldn’t do it.

Going underwater on the mortgage would hurt. The refinance had paid off the harassment lawsuit from his secretary but he didn’t have much cash left from it. Damn, hiring an ugly secretary would have saved a lot of money as well as his marriage. He needed a decent line of credit if he was going to keep his promise to take the twins to New Zealand on their summer visitation. The divorce was hard on them, they deserved some excitement to make up for it.

Preston turned back to his computer. He tabbed over to the spreadsheet. The finances graph was already up. It projected his available cash based on average, worst case, and best case billable hours. If he found enough clients to hit the best case line he wouldn’t need to borrow for the trip. But the past year had been closer to the worst case line.

The sensible thing to do would be sell the house and move into an apartment. With the alimony and child support payments he just couldn’t afford to live in a five bedroom house by himself. But it wasn’t just the kids wanting to keep it. His pride considered moving out to be defeat. Plus . . . there was that tiny hope that Elizabeth would change her mind and come back.

Of course, if an accident burned the house down it wouldn’t be his fault that he had to move to a smaller place. And the insurance money would pay to take the twins to New Zealand. He could talk with the kids about how terrible it was it happened.

No, no. He shouldn’t even think about it. Arson was a felony.

A line of credit would cover the vacation, no problem. His credit would be good for it. As long as the value of the house held. If that damn nerd had started a market crash with that sweetheart deal for his buttbuddy then Preston's net worth would be negative by a million, maybe two.

And then his summer vacation would be two weeks of feeding Leo and Jennifer mac and cheese while watching Disney videos. Assuming they didn’t get fed up and have Elizabeth take them back early.

Preston turned off the monitor. Staring at that graph would push his blood pressure up to where he’d blow a vessel.

Which would solve some of his problems.

He turned to look out the window instead. The house was on a rise, giving it a view over the neighborhood. Part of what made it more expensive than most.

Five blocks away flames licked at the eaves of a house.

“Holy shit,” he said. Somebody’d actually done it. Some guy looked at the falling market value and decided to take the insurance money. Unbelievable. No sirens yet.

Then a harder shock hit him. If there was arson in the neighborhood property values would drop even farther. Insurance companies would stop covering houses here. His net worth was going negative for sure now. Goodbye, line of credit. Goodbye, quality time with the kids. Goodbye, Elizabeth giving him a second chance.

Crap.

Or . . . call it a thought experiment . . . he could get in on this arson action. The market hadn’t updated. His insurance company couldn’t change the policy terms before their office opened in the morning. He muttered, “Special one-time offer, tonight only.”

Continuing the thought experiment . . . how? That was easy. He’d made an earthquake kit years ago to get them out of town if the Big One happened. There were a couple five gallon cans of gas. He’d read the Arson FAQ on 4mortgage. Water heaters could short out and start a fire, that made it hard to prove intent. So start it there.

Preston watched the burning house and . . . well, ‘weighing pros and cons’ would imply active thought. He just froze there not knowing what he should do. Then the burning tree next to the house lost a branch, sending up a flurry of sparks. It jolted him into action. He was tired of just sitting and letting things happen. It was time to do something.

“One time special offer.” The PC backed itself up every night. He put the memory stick in his pocket. There wasn’t anything he’d done today he needed to save. He went upstairs to his bedroom. No packing. That would indicate intent. Just go out to dinner. The wedding ring he hadn’t worn for three years went into his pocket. He looked around the sparse bedroom. One side had a dresser and nightstand. The other side was bare. He walked out and went downstairs.

The right side of the garage was full of boxes. He picked one full of archived case files and knocked it over. Then the gas cans from the earthquake kit went next to the water heater. He uncapped one and soaked the papers. Put it down. Started to rescrew the cap out of habit before remembering he wanted it to spill into the fire.

Preston had to go back to the kitchen to find something to light it with. The long candle matches were perfect for the job. He opened the garage door and started his Escalade running before he lit the fire. He wasn’t going to want to hang around to watch.

Ten seconds after lighting the papers he was in the driveway watching the garage door close. The flames weren’t visible past the piles of boxes. Good. Wouldn’t want anyone calling 911 too early.

He started down the lane toward Main Street. He needed dinner anyway, no one would doubt he’d decided to go out somewhere. And afterwards he could go to a movie. Leo had posted about wanting to see that sci-fi flick. Watching that would give them something to talk about on their Sunday phone call.

There. Dinner and a movie. That would give him plenty of time to rehearse his shocked and horrified face for when he came back and found the house a ruin.

---

Andy and Debra kept watching as the fire truck arrived. The front of the house wasn’t on fire. The firefighters broke down a fence to bring their hoses around to the back.

Steam and smoke went up as water sprayed onto the fire. The tree had dropped flaming branches onto the neighbors’ yards. Fire axes chopped into those fences to give the hoses access.

“Oh, there’s a whole other post about property values,” said Debra. “Three hundred comments. I don’t even want to look at that.”

“Neither do I,” said Andy. “I can get depressed over market changes all by myself.”

Another orange glow began behind the row of houses on the other side of the street.

“Oh, shit. Do you see that?”

Debra nodded. “Can you tell how far away it is?”

“No. At least two blocks, we’re seeing reflections.” He picked up the landline again.

This conversation with 911 didn’t go as smoothly. “No, it’s a different fire. I can’t tell exactly where. Maybe on Jacaranda Lane.”

After he hung up Debra said, “Could this one be for insurance too?”

“Probably. I mean, one fire could be an accident, but two in the same night?”

They watched the fire crew keep working.

“It makes sense,” said Andy. “If people are committing arson in the neighborhood that’s going to be another ten percent off everyone’s property values. At least. So tonight is the last chance to get full value for your house. It’s like selling a stock when the price dips. It ruins the stock, but you need to sell as soon as you can to salvage some of your investment.”

Debra took a step away from him. “You’re not thinking of, of—”

“No, God no, never. This isn’t an investment, this is our home. Betty’s here. We love it here. But . . . I see the logic of it.” Plus he couldn’t think of an easy way to start a fire with what they had in the house. But he had the sense to not say that.

She shivered. “I hate it when you’re a Vulcan.”

“Sorry. It’s what I do.” And that ruthless analytical streak had paid their way into this very expensive house.

“I know. I’m sorry. I should be used to it.”

The second fire now burned high enough for flames to peek out behind the rooflines.

Debra scrolled through her chirping phone. “God, people are panicking. Wondering if their own houses will be set on fire. Why the hell would an insurance fraud arsonist set someone else’s house on fire?”

“Deniability. Set a fire upwind and have it spread to their house. Or just have more fires so it’s impossible to tell which were fraud. I’m sorry. I’ll stop with the Vulcan act.”

Andy pulled her into a hug. After a moment she relaxed into it. They leaned together. Her three month bump was hardly visible, but he could feel it when they hugged like this.

He let her go and they turned back to watching the fire fighters.

“What's he doing?” asked Debra, pointing at a house across the street.

“Dunno. Wait . . . oh, crap.” Andy grabbed the landline again.

This time the answer was, “Nine one one, all operators are busy, please hold. An operator will respond as soon as possible. Please stay . . .”

Andy dropped the phone on the end table and ran downstairs. The ‘front’ door was on the side of the house, but using it was still faster than waiting for the garage door to open. He didn’t bother closing it behind him. The only time he slowed down was to look both ways before crossing the street. No traffic, not with the fire engine still blocking off the other end of the block.

The Khan house had lights on with an automatic timer. Debra was watering their plants twice a week while they were on vacation. It was the same cookie-cutter structure as the rest of the block, five bedrooms stacked tall on a narrow lot. They’d painted it a pastel salmon, the most exciting shade the HOA allowed.

A man stood in the narrow alley between it and the next house. He was tall enough to touch both if he tried. Instead he swung a metal can to splash fluid on the wall of the house, the bushes beside it, and the wooden fence blocking off the small back yard. A 49ers cap was pulled low over his eyes and a white bandanna covered the rest of his face.

Andy yelled, “Hey! Get away from there!” He could smell the gasoline from the sidewalk.

“Buzz off,” replied the arsonist.

“You can’t do that!”

“Hell I can’t. It’s all burning, why not this one?”

“Get out of there or . . . or I’ll kick your ass.” Andy stepped forward, hands raised into unfamiliar fists.

“Try it.” The arsonist came out of the alley into the glow of the streetlight. The white bandanna was actually a linen table napkin. The firelight down the block highlighted the embroidery around its edges.

Andy paused, trying to place the man’s voice. This was somebody he’d met. He remembered everyone from the block parties.

“Fuck off, pretty boy. Or I’ll burn you too.” The arsonist hefted the fuel can. It would be a clumsy club but looked heavy enough to hurt if it connected. A splash of fuel landed on the patch of grass between them.

Indecision held Andy in place. He might be able to deck this guy, if he didn’t have more martial arts training than the semester of karate Andy once took. But he might lose . . . and even if he won he might be too hurt to take care of Debra and Betty.

Andy dropped his hands and walked back across the street, not bothering to look this time.

The arsonist laughed and went back to his work.

He came up the stairs into the living room. New flames glowed through the windows.

Debra said, “Nine one one still isn’t answering. Why would he do that?”

“It’s a stock market crash. Everybody trying to get out of the market at once, salvage a bit. He wants the deniability. Can’t prove he did it for the insurance money if all the houses burn.”

She mouthed a cuss word, the silent habit she’d trained herself to since Betty was born.

“We have to get out,” Andy said.

“How? Who’s going to buy a house here now?”

“No, get out of the house, get out of town, run away.”

“Oh. Yes. I’ll go pack.”

“No. No packing. We need to just run. You grab the laptops, I’ll get Betty.”

He remembered smirking at the ‘preppers’ on 4mortgage who’d go on about the contents of their ‘bug out bags.’ One of those would be nice right now. But it wasn’t an earthquake or a hurricane. Once they were out of El Paradiso he could use his credit cards to get whatever they needed.

The little girl didn’t stir as he pulled the blanket back. Her Tigger pajamas would do to escape in. He picked her sneakers off the floor and slid them onto her feet, fastening the Velcro straps firmly so they wouldn’t fall off. Scooping her up onto his shoulder produced only a tiny murmur at the disturbance. Her chin nestled into his neck.

Downstairs in the kitchen Debra was loading water bottles and snacks into a backpack. She looked up at a sound. “Was that a gunshot?”

“I don’t know.” Andy took the biggest kitchen knife from the rack and added it to the backpack.

The lights went out. The sliding glass door to the backyard let in the glow of more fires a couple blocks away. They both mouthed bad words. Betty kept sleeping.

Debra found the flashlight app on her phone. She led the way to the garage. “Damn. No signal. Guess the cell tower’s on the same power grid.”

Andy followed, daughter on his left shoulder and backpack on the right. The minivan’s doors slid open. Betty stayed asleep as he strapped her into her seat and leaned it back. Debra dropped the laptops and tablets on the seat beside her then opened the driver’s door.

“Honey, let me drive,” said Andy. His tension had to be worked off in action . . . and this might require more aggressive driving than Debra would be willing to do.

“Okay.” They switched sides.

Andy pressed the garage open button and snarled at himself as nothing happened. Turning on the headlights lit up the garage better than the little bulb in the opener would have.

Naturally they’d parked the minivan directly under the emergency release cord for the garage door. Standing in the driver’s door he couldn’t reach it. Debra pressed the button for the side door. Andy stepped into the gap as it slid open, caught the end of the cord, and pulled. Pop.

Then he hopped down and grabbed the handle at the base of the garage door. He flung it open so hard it bounced with a thundering CLANG and started to come back down again. He stopped it with one hand then climbed back into the driver’s seat. He could hear multiple sirens approaching the neighborhood.

The open garage framed the Khans’ house, alight on one side. The burning fence had ignited the eaves of the neighboring house. Andy pressed the accelerator and turned left, away from the fire engine.

He saw Marty’s old house, second from the corner on the right, and snarled. That’s what started all this. The renter, now new owner, was standing in the front yard spraying the sides with a garden hose. He wore a white t-shirt and gym shorts, already dirty from soot.

Debra rolled down her window. “Jiho! We’re leaving. You need a ride?”

Andy could smell burnt things through the window. Not a pleasant wood smoke. Ugly scents.

Jiho turned and flashed a smile. Andy tensed. The Korean had a long black rifle slung across his chest, muzzle down. “No, thanks. I’m staying. But you’re probably smart to go. God be with you.”

The Texan accent always sounded incongruous to Andy coming from that round bronze face.

“Good luck!” called Debra as they pulled away.

Andy looked to the other side of the street. Something lying on the sidewalk caught his eye. It was the body of the arsonist he’d confronted. The linen napkin over his face was soaked with blood. He pressed the accelerator and turned right at the corner.

“Did you see Jiho had a chainsaw?” asked Debra.

“No.”

“I wonder what it was for.”

“Cutting down the trees and fences to make a firebreak, I’d bet.”

This was not the best way out of the subdivision but the firefighters were blocking the way to the main drag. When faced with an intersection Andy picked the street with the least fire. As long as they got out he didn’t care which side they came out on.

When he came around a bend Andy hit the brakes. A Ford sedan was stopped in the middle of the road as people carried luggage from a house. Parked cars on each side left no room to go around.

Andy shifted to first gear and steered for the curb. There was enough room between the SUV on the street and the Mercedes in the driveway to get onto the patch of grass. Just enough. The lurch as the minivan forced itself over the curb woke Betty.

“Huh? What?” mumbled the girl.

“We’re just going for a drive, sweetie," soothed Debra. "It's a bumpy road."

Once the rear wheels were over the curb the grass was smooth, but the next front yard had rows of sage bushes flanking the driveway. Only about three feet tall. Andy floored it and smashed the plants flat. Debra squeaked as he scraped past an Audi to get past the driveway. Dented fenders didn’t matter now.

The next block was miraculously free of fire. Andy stopped at an intersection to check the street signs. Left on Magnolia would take him out toward El Camino Real. Right would head toward the fires. And straight ahead was a cul de sac.

Left it was.

He could see the glow of the fire reflected off houses before he went around the bend. A touch on the brake slowed the minivan. He hoped it would be something he could just drive past.

No. A burning car in the middle of the street, between two parked cars. Completely blocked.

Andy slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “Who the hell torches a car?”

“It’s a Maserati,” said Debra. “Probably has a lot of insurance.”

The driveways on the right had cars in them but the left side ones were empty. Didn’t even need to go over a curb to get off the road.

Two driveways were undecorated. The third was lined with lilies in tubs.

Andy put the minivan in first gear and floored it. The bumper smashed into the tubs, rolled them over, and slid over the wreckage. Concrete scraped against the underside with an agonizing screech. Then they stopped. Betty let out a “Whee!” she’d last used on a roller coaster.

Flooring the accelerator produced a roar from the engine and a whine from the wheels, but no motion of the van. He hopped out of the car and stepped over the smashed tubs to look at the front of the car. It was propped up by an intact ceramic tub. The wheels were more than a foot off the pavement, still spinning.

A few ideas for moving the minivan flashed through his head, all useless. They were stuck until a tow truck came. He could see a fire burning on the next street over. Sirens sounded from all around. “Fuck!”

“Daddy said a bad word!” cried Betty.

“Yes, sweetheart,” said Andy. “This is exactly the time for a bad word. We want to save them for times like now.”

“So we’re walking?” asked Debra.

“Yep. Pass me the pack.” He loosened up the straps so it would fit him while Debra released Betty from her seat.

“I’m not supposed to go outside in my jammies,” said Betty. The little girl loved her rules.

“That’s for normal nights,” said Debra. “Tonight is special.”

“Okay.”

Debra handed Betty down to the pavement then reached for her laptop.

“Fuck them,” said Andy. “It might be a long walk. We don’t want the weight.”

Betty didn’t say anything. The word had already lost its shock value.

They set off down the sidewalk, each of them holding one of Betty’s hands. The little girl still thought it was an adventure. In her mind fires meant summer camp and toasting marshmallows at Christmas. Not something scary.

There were two houses on fire on the next block. Not close enough to each other to be a barrier, but they had to cross the street between them. Andy handed the backpack to Debra and picked up Betty.

Feeling the heat on both sides encouraged them to walk briskly. The smell wasn’t normal smoke. It was strange, bitter, and left a taste in his mouth like diesel fumes.

Ahead there were flashing lights. Cop cars, parked to block the street. Three cops stood on this side of them. Two were young, lean, white men. They were alert, one with a rifle, the other with a shotgun, looking in all directions as if expecting an attack.

The third was a fortyish black man, sergeant stripes on the sleeve of his uniform. His pistol was still holstered on his belt. He looked calm but just as alert.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” called the sergeant. “You don’t want to stay here.” He waved them past.

Andy led his family past the roadblock along the sidewalk. A half hour later Betty was whining whenever she had to walk. Andy carried her half the time, but his back couldn’t handle much more of it.

They reached El Camino Real. There wasn’t much traffic. A police van zoomed by, lights flashing but not bothering with a siren.

An Escalade was coming toward them, coasting as the driver gaped at the fire. Andy ran toward it, waving the arm not holding Betty. The car pulled to the curb and stopped. The passenger window slid down.

“What the—” The driver saw Betty and swallowed the rest of what he was going to say. “What happened?”

“Arson,” said Andy. The driver flinched. “Hey, could you give us a lift to a hotel?”

“Yeah, sure.” The doors thumped as they unlocked.

Debra took Betty and laid her down on the wide back seat. Andy sat up front.

The driver sat staring at the burning houses visible over the stores along the street. “I live on Jacaranda Lane. I should go see if my house is okay.”

Andy laughed. “Jacaranda? No. That was one of the first to burn. Besides, they wouldn’t let you past the police roadblock.”

“Oh.” After a moment he put the car in drive. “Guess I need to find a hotel too. You have one in mind?”

“No. Whatever we find is fine. I’m Andy, by the way.”

“Preston.” They shook hands.

Andy considered introducing his family, but Betty was already asleep and Debra looked to be following her.

“Damn. I went to a movie and come back and wow. How could that happen?”

“I blame the 4mortgage guys,” said Andy sourly.

The Escalade veered a couple of feet into the right lane before getting back into the left. “Who’s that?” asked Preston.

“People who worry about the housing bubble. I think they saw it popping and decided to take the insurance money.”

“I can’t—I mean, nobody would do that. People must’ve died.”

“Somebody did it.” Andy realized he was making Preston nervous and decided to tone it down. The man was doing them a favor, after all.

“I’m, I’m sure they’ll catch whoever it was,” said the driver.

“Yeah.”

They lapsed into silence. Snores came from the back seat. They were far enough from El Paradiso to deal with normal traffic again. Preston cursed as someone cut in front of him.

Andy contemplated the man giving him a lift. Something didn’t feel right. Preston hadn’t seemed really surprised by the fire, more just saying what was expected. And he’d nearly freaked when Andy mentioned 4mortgage. Was Preston on the site? Was there a reason he’d left for the movies just about when the fires started?

Someone should check.

“How’s this?” asked Preston as he pulled into the parking lot of a nice hotel.

“It’s good. Thank you.”

“I’ll drop you off and then go park.” The Escalade pulled up to the covered front entrance.

“Thanks.” Andy woke up his family and grabbed the backpack. Debra stumbled with fatigue as she led Betty inside.

Before closing the passenger door Andy leaned back in. “Hey, I appreciate you doing this for us. Can I buy you a drink?”

Preston looked undecided.

“We can both use one, and I hate to drink alone.”

“Well . . . all right.”

The Escalade went into the parking lot, not out to the street. Andy went inside.

“Here’s your key,” said Debra. “We’re on the fifth floor.”

He kissed her. “Thanks. Get some rest. I’m going to talk to that guy some more.”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“That’s what I want to find out.”

The hotel bar was near empty. Two men watched a soccer game. A couple of others looked to be sedating their jet lag. Andy gave the bartender a couple of twenties to hold his attention and found a small table in the quietest corner. He slid the array of shakers and stand-up menus to the side.

Preston came in holding a small duffle bag. He dropped it on the floor and sat in the only other chair at the table. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Neither can I,” said Andy.

The bartender arrived to take their orders. “Whiskey sour,” said Preston. Andy had the same.

“At least you had some fun tonight,” said Andy. “Which movie did you see?”

“Ah, this sci-fi thing. Not what I’d go for but my son likes them. I wanted to talk about it with him.” With a little prompting Preston went on about the loneliness of divorced life—no one at home to talk to, the once a week calls with distracted kids, his ex only wanting to talk about money or schedules.

“Damn. She’s really putting you through hell,” Andy said sympathetically.

“Eh. Well. Not like I didn’t give her reasons. Thank you.” That was to the bartender, who’d refilled Preston’s drink.

“Sounds like something I should be careful about.”

“As long as you don’t think with your dick you’ll be fine. See, I had this secretary, amazing rack and she knew how to dress to show it off.” Preston went on, telling it as a tragedy tinged with boasting of his masculine prowess. “Then she filed a harassment suit. I offered a half-mil to keep it quiet but she wanted more. When I wouldn’t pay she told Elizabeth. So then I’m in one courtroom testifying against her and in another one listening to Elizabeth’s lawyer quote my own testimony against me.”

When the bartender returned Preston tossed down the dregs and accepted a new glass.

“Goddamn. They had you coming and going,” said Andy.

“Don’t I know it.”

“Must’ve been expensive.”

Preston let out a bitter laugh. “Bitch took me for over a million. And Elizabeth’s lawyer secured fixed payments based on the previous year’s income. Which I can’t meet because I lost clients spending all my time in courtrooms.”

“Ouch.”

“Had to refinance to cover it. Sucked out every drop of equity I had in the house. The bank gave me a decent rate, though.”

In a tone of idle curiosity, Andy asked, “Find them on 4mortgage?”

“Yeah. Decent reputation, they’re just vicious about missed payments.” He took another sip.

“So you refinanced at the top of the market. If it dipped at all you’d be underwater.”

“Real estate’s like that. What’s it to you? Hey, how’d you know I’m on 4mortgage?” Preston slammed his glass on the table, sloshing out a few drops on the polished surface.

“You picked a really good time to go to a movie. Just before your house went up in flames.”

The man turned pale, then glared. He leaned toward Andy, one hand making a fist. “What the hell are you implying?”

“4mortgage is full of people saying burn down the house to collect the insurance money if the bubble pops. They were talking about the bubble popping tonight. Were you one of them?”

“Fuck you. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Andy smiled. “You said you found your refinance bank on there.”

“Well, I didn’t. I’ve never heard of it. And don’t tell anyone different, it’s just your word against mine.”

Andy slid the saltshakers aside to reveal his phone propped up against the drink menu. “It’s your word against everyone who saw my live video feed.”

Preston snatched the phone, gasped in horror, and threw it back. He turned and ran from the bar.

A quick search found the phone on the floor next to the duffle bag. He saw what terrified Preston. Two hundred and thirty-seven shares? And I thought we were being boring.

---

The door of the lone remaining house opened just enough for Jiho to stick his head out. “I said I’m not giving interviews! Go away or I’ll—oh, hi, Andy.”

“Hi.” Andy flushed at being caught playing spectator. “How are you doing?”

Jiho stepped out on to the dirty welcome mat. “Eh. Well enough. What brings you by?”

Andy shrugged. “They let me in because the insurance company wanted pictures of the site. I was impressed how well you preserved yours.”

“Thanks.” Jiho shrugged in return. “Doesn’t matter now. The Todos Santos Consortium is going to tear it down for their big development.”

“They made me an offer too. I’d think you could hold them up for extra.”

“Can’t. I need the money for legal fees.” Jiho’s face looked grim.

“Legal? They’re arresting you for shooting an arsonist?”

That produced a chuckle. “Shooting an arsonist is fine. Shooting him with the wrong kind of gun, not so much.”

“Oh.”

“I heard you caught the guy who started it,” said Jiho.

“Eh. Once the cops started checking him out they found his 4mortgage account with the post saying it was time to burn it down. And the 911 call record said his was the first house on his block to burn. That might have busted him anyway.”

“I hope he goes away for a long time.”

“The detective told me if he doesn’t take a plea they’ll charge him for everyone who died in the fire.”

Jiho looked over the burnt wreckage. “I won’t complain about that. How’s your wife and kid handling it?”

“Betty’s okay, just keeps saying she wants to go home. Debra’s joined this group to pass a new law on insurance payoffs so this can’t happen again.”

 “That’s good. It’ll keep us safe.”

---

More stories by Karl K. Gallagher are on Amazon and Audible.

Is there a real estate bubble in your neighborhood? Do you trust your neighbors to stay calm when the bubble pops?