As nearly as I could tell, the probable point of origin of the fire was somewhere in the north wall, which seemed consistent with the theory of an electrical malfunction. I'd have to check the wiring diagram from the original blue-prints, but I suspected the fire chief had done just that in coming up with his analysis. The surface of charred wood bore the typical pattern of crevices known as "alligatoring," the deepest charring and the smallest check in the pattern localized in this rear portion of the building. Since hot gases rise and fire normally sweeps upward, it's usually possible to track the course of the flames, which will tend to rise until an obstacle is encountered, then project hori-zontally, seeking other vertical outlets.

Much of the interior had been reduced to ashes. The load-bearing walls remained, as black and brittle as cinder. Gingerly, I picked my way through the char-broiled junk, making a detailed map of the ruins, noting the degree of burning, general appearance, and carbonization of burned objects. Every surface I encountered had been painted with the black and ashen pallor of extreme heat. The stench was familiar: scorched wood, soot, the sodden odor of drenched insulation, the lingering chemical aroma of ordinary materials reduced to their elements. There was some other odor as well, which I noted, but couldn't iden-tify. It was probably connected to materials stored there. When I'd called Lance Wood the day before, I'd requested a copy of the inventory sheets. I'd review those to see if I could pinpoint the source of the smell. I wasn't crazy about having to inspect the fire scene before I'd had a chance to interview him, but I didn't seem to have much choice, now that he'd disappeared. Maybe he'd be back for the office Christmas party and I could pin him down then about an appointment first thing Monday morning.

At 2:00 P.M., I packed my sketch pad away and brushed off my jeans. My tennis shoes were nearly white with ash, and I suspected that my face was smudged. Still, I was reasonably content with the job I'd done. Wood/Warren was going to have to get several contractors' estimates, and those would be submitted to CF along with my recom-mendation regarding payment of the claim. Using the standard rule, I was guessing five hundred thousand dol-lars replacement cost, with additional payment for the inventory loss.

The Christmas party was indeed in progress. The fes-tivities were centered in the inner offices where a punch bowl had been set up on a drafting table. Desks had been cleared and were covered with platters of cold cuts, cheeses, and crackers, along with slices of fruitcake and homemade cookies. The company employees numbered about sixty, so the noise level was substantial, the general atmosphere getting looser and livelier as the champagne punch went down. Some sort of Reggae version of Christ-mas carols was being blasted through the intercom system.

There was still no sign of Lance Wood, but I spotted Heather on the far side of the room, her cheeks rosy with wassail. Terry Kohler caught my eye and shouldered his way in my direction. When he reached me, he leaned down close to my ear.

"We better get your handbag before this gets out of control," he said. I nodded vigorously and inched my way behind him through the reception area to Lance's office. The door was standing open and his desk was being used as a bar. Liquor bottles, ice, and plastic glasses were arranged across the surface, with several people helping themselves to both the booze and the comfort of the boss's furniture. My handbag had been tucked into a narrow slot between a file cabinet and a bookcase jammed with technical manu-als. I put away my camera and sketch pad, hefting the bag onto my right shoulder. Terry offered to fetch me some punch, and after a moment of hesitation, I agreed. Hey, why not?

My first impulse was to leave as soon as I could grace-fully extricate myself. I don't generally do well in group situations, and in this instance I didn't know a soul. What kept me was the sure knowledge that I had nowhere else to go. This might be the extent of my holiday celebration, and I thought I might as well enjoy it. I accepted some punch, helped myself to cheese and crackers, ate some cookies with pink and green sugar on top, smiled pleas-antly, and generally made myself amenable to anyone within range. By 3:00, when the party was really getting under way, I excused myself and headed out the door. I had just reached the curb when I heard someone call my name. I turned. Heather was moving down the walk be-hind me, holding out an envelope embossed with the Wood/Warren logo.

"I'm glad I caught you," she said. "I think Mr. Wood wanted you to have this before you left. He was called away unexpectedly. This was in my out box."

"Thanks." I opened the flap and peered at the con-tents: inventory sheets. "Oh great," I said, amazed that he'd remembered in the midst of his vanishing act. "I'll call on Monday and set up a time to talk to him."