Mystery Dance: Three Novels by Scott Nicholson

which sedate and colorful fish drifted without fear of predators. The maple top of the desk was like the surface of a still, dark lake. The office could have served as a museum set for the subspecies known as “insurance adjuster.”
    “I don’t understand.” Jacob wiped at the stubble on his chin. He could smell the stink of his own sweat.
    “I’m afraid we can’t pay out any more money until the case is settled. You know how it is. These things go back to the underwriters, they smell something funny, and they clamp down on the money flow.”
    “That damned fire chief–”
    “I’m sure you’re aware anytime there’s even the smallest doubt, we have to be a little more careful.” Jones leaned forward. “Please don’t take it personally, Jacob. Nobody’s saying the fire was deliberately set. But the paperwork has to go through clean.”
    Jacob’s breath was rapid, the air in the room suddenly too thin. Blood rushed to his face. His side ached. He spoke through clenched teeth. “My daughter died in that fire.”
    Jones glanced at a framed family portrait that showed his own three daughters wearing curls, ribbons, and smiles. “I appreciate the depth of your tragedy, Jacob. My Anne was on Mattie’s soccer team, remember? I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.”
    Jones’s steady tone was infuriating. Jacob slipped a trembling hand into his pocket, touched the cool metal flask. If only he could take a drink, he’d be able to handle this. “I’ve talked with the fire chief. She said there were some loose ends but nothing that would lead her to call in the State Bureau of Investigation.”
    “She still hasn’t filed a final report and it’s been nearly three months. I’m afraid I can’t make any more disbursements until the official determination is made. Your wife received the short-term settlement to cover temporary living expenses, but that’s all we can do right now. Believe me, as soon as I get the nod from corporate, I’ll deliver the check to you personally.”
    Jacob didn’t tell Jones he’d only seen Renee once since his release from the hospital. That encounter had been an accident. He was at the bank withdrawing a hundred dollars from their joint savings account when the teller signaled the manager. Renee was in an upstairs office that overlooked the bank’s lobby, talking to someone whose suit looked as crisp as new bills. She saw Jacob through the glass walls and mouthed his name, then ran for the office door and downstairs.
    He ducked outside before she could catch him. The hedges and shrubs had become his ally, his natural environment, and he’d moved among them until he was several businesses away from the bank. She finally gave up the search. He waited until she finished her dealings and watched her drive away. Jacob had put that day’s expenses, for liquor and a motel room, on his credit card instead of paying cash. Prior success had given him one clear benefit in his new life: he had a $50,000 limit on his platinum VISA.
    “The house was valued at three quarters of a million,” Jacob said. “A lot of custom woodwork. And contents were insured for another quarter million.”
    “Please, Jacob. We go way back. Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”
    “It’s not difficult at all. You bury your kids and that’s that. No more crying over spilled milk. Fold the tent and move on.”
    “Jacob.”
    Jacob pressed the bottoms of his fists against the top of Jones’s polished desk. “You shook my hand at those Chamber dinners, pushed through the paperwork so my developments were covered, cashed my premiums like clockwork. Now when I need you, you’ve turned into a goddamned machine.”
    “Check your policy. No one’s accusing you of negligence, but the fire could have had any number of causes, some that might not be covered. And, if you don’t mind a little advice from a friend, clean up the drinking. That’s not helping. If corporate