Code enforcement, Julian whispered to himself. Predictable. He picked up his phone and dialed the number. Hey, Grandma, Julian said, his voice instantly softening into warmth. Yeah, I’m coming over for dinner. Listen, I need you to pack an overnight bag. No, nothing is wrong. We’re just going to have a slumber party at Aunt Mae’s tonight. Trust me. I’m going to catch a rat.
Thursday night in the West End was usually quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic from I-20. But at 2:00 a.m., a dark sedan with no headlights rolled slowly down the street where Lucille Banks lived. Inside the car sat Inspector Graves. He was a man who had long ago traded his conscience for a gambling habit. Richard Sterling paid well, and Graves needed the money. He parked two blocks away and walked to the Victorian house carrying a heavy tool bag.
The house looked dark, abandoned. Graves smirked. Easy money, he thought. He hopped the low fence and crept around to the side of the house where the gas meter was located. His instructions were specific. Find a leak. If you can’t find one, make one. Graves knelt in the mud. He pulled out a heavy wrench. He wasn’t going to cause an explosion.
Just enough damage to release the smell of mercaptan, enough to get a reading on his meter that would justify an immediate emergency condemnation order. Once that red sticker was on the door, the fire department would evacuate the premises, and under city Ordinance 114-102, no one could inhabit the structure until repairs were made. Repairs that Apex Horizon would ensure never happened.
He clamped the wrench onto the valve. He applied pressure. The metal groaned. Snap. A small hiss of gas escaped. The smell of rotten eggs filled the air immediately. Graves pulled out his gas detector. It beeped wildly. He snapped a photo of the reading with his phone. Then he pulled out the bright orange sticker. Danger. Do not enter. Condemned. He slapped it onto the front door. Job done, Graves whispered. He turned to leave, walking back toward the fence.
