Jamie Brodie 01 - Cited to Death

need a ride home eventually. I tried his brother’s cell but he doesn’t answer.” Another pause.
    “Will do. Thank you.” Carol hung up. “He said he’ll be right here. Where’s he coming from?”
    “Santa Monica.”
    “Okay, then it shouldn’t take too long. How are you feeling now?”
    “Better.”
    “Great. I’m going to go get a couple of things, and I’ll be right back. You just relax.”
    Easier said than done, but I was feeling better. Liz came in for a few minutes to drop off my jacket and computer bag. She was still there when Dr. Suzuki came in again and listened to my lungs, then ordered another dose of the nebulizer. He turned to Liz for a minute. “Do you happen to know what brand of cologne caused Jamie’s attack?”
    Liz made a face. “It was Drakkar Noir. My uncle used to wear it. I always hated it.”
    Suzuki nodded and made a note in my chart. The nurse arrived with the nebulizer, and Liz said goodbye.
    I was resting, nebulizer mask on my face, when Pete arrived, looking frantic. “What happened?”
    I made a face. "Sales rep. Nasty cologne.”
    "Oh, for God's sake. Did he not see the sign on your door?"
    I shrugged. "He’s an. Idiot." I relaxed a little, and scrunched up my face at Pete. "Sorry."
    He shrugged. "Not your fault. You'd have been fine if not for the salesman, right?" I nodded.
    "They won't keep you overnight, will they?"
    "Doubt it."
    "I've got a 6:45 class. I'll call and get Jane to put a note on the door. Tell them to log into the course website instead. I'll post something on there for them to do." He looked me over. "Your color is not too bad."
    I nodded. "Feeling better."
    "Thank God." Pete sighed in relief. "Where’s Kev?”
    "Didn’t answer. Busy.”
    “That shit happens.” He looked at me gravely. “I’m glad you called me.”
    I shrugged. “You’re on. Short list.”
    He laughed. “Good.”
    I had to stay in the ER for nearly five more hours. My own doctor, Dr. Weikal, stopped in at some point to see me. He read over my chart, listened to my lungs, and left instructions to make an appointment to see him within 48 hours.
    My phone rang a couple of times. Once it was Kevin; Pete talked to him. The second time was a number I didn’t recognize, so we didn’t answer it, and it went to voice mail. Dr. Suzuki wouldn’t discharge me until my peak flow was back up to 80%, and it took a while. Finally, by 9:00, we were making the short drive to my apartment in Pete’s Jeep with a couple of new prescriptions and an appointment with my primary care doctor for Wednesday.
    When we pulled into the parking lot, we saw the fire trucks.
    “Oh, shit.” I just knew it was our apartment.
    Pete tried to be logical. “It’s not necessarily your place.”
    But it was.
    A firefighter stopped us as we walked toward the building. I showed him my driver’s license to prove that I lived there, and he allowed us through. I walked into the door of the apartment and stopped so fast that Pete ran into me. The place was completely trashed. Every cabinet door in the kitchen was open, and everything had been pulled out, opened and dumped or broken. Flour, cereal, and fragments of plates and glasses coated the counters and floor. The refrigerator was open, and everything in it had been emptied. Every piece of furniture had been overturned, and those with any padding had been slit open. The TV and stereo were smashed. Kevin stood in the middle of the room, his face white with fury. His partner, Tim Garcia, was talking to him and a firefighter, and a couple of crime scene techs were dusting for fingerprints and sifting through the mess.
    But that was nothing compared to the scene in my bedroom.
    All of my books, clothes and shoes, and the towels from the bathroom, had been piled on top of my bed and set on fire. The fire was out, but the smell was atrocious, a mix of burning rubber and something else equally noxious. Everything was destroyed, down to the box spring under my mattress. I was in such deep shock that I didn't even notice that my breathing was starting to be affected until Pete leaned in behind me and said, "Hey, we’ve got to get you out of here. You can't be breathing in this crap."
    I turned and looked at him. The look on my face must have frightened him. He took my arm and guided me back into the living room. The firefighter spotted us and walked over. “Lt. Evers. I’m an arson investigator. You’re Detective Brodie’s brother?”
    “Yes, sir. This is