by Earl Emerson
The gold embossing on the office door proclaimed that the premises belonged to COLE ENTERPRISES, LTD.
Finney entered the waiting area through the glass doors, where he hoodwinked a receptionist and then, in the next room, an assistant with hennaed hair and a short black skirt. It was amazing to Finney how far a suit and tie and a manila envelope with PATTERSON COLE—PERSONAL SIGNATURE REQUIRED typed across the front could get him. So far it had been a badge of entry at each checkpoint.
He stepped into Cole’s gargantuan office just as the old man changed into a pair of ankle-high slippers.
“Pardon me?” It was Cole’s assistant, a dark-haired man in a bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses, and a manner about him that quickly proclaimed his superiority.
“I need to talk with Mr. Cole,” Finney said.
“And you are?”
“John Finney. I’m with the Seattle Fire Department.”
“I’m not aware of any appointments this morning.”
“It’s about the fire on Leary Way last June.”
The old man’s gravelly voice entertained a slight quaver. “What about the fire?”
“I have a few questions.”
“If you don’t have an appointment, you need to be leaving,” said the aide.
“Let him alone, Norris. I’ve always got a minute for the fire department.”
Norris remained close to Finney, and Finney had the feeling Norris was not only an aide but a de facto bodyguard, that he’d had martial arts training, perhaps at one of the corporate antiterrorist schools. He was a head shorter than Finney and soft enough to use for a pillow, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
Patterson Cole walked behind his glass desk and sat heavily in a high-backed leather chair. A brace of windows on the side wall looked out over a sunny Elliott Bay. In one corner stood a glass sculpture of a naked woman crouched to throw a discus. The room had several other sculptures on stands, all glass, all nudes.
“What can I do for the fire department, young man?”
“Did you receive any threats against that building in the past few years? Any disputes with the tenants?”
“You know of anything, Norris?”
“Nothing.”
“Any problem employees?”
“Only person holds a grudge against me is Bibi, my wife.” The skin under Cole’s chin hung like a paper bag with an apple core in it. He had penetrating, pale blue eyes that had probably made him handsome in his youth and a shock of white hair that needed trimming around the collar.
“I’m trying to figure out who might have had a motive to burn it down.”
“Your own man showed me the electrical socket. Scorched all to hell. Cut it right out of the wall and showed it to me.”
“I know there was an electrical socket. But supposing that wasn’t the cause of the fire? Supposing it wasn’t an accident?”
Cole glanced at his assistant. “We’ve already collected from the insurance. You want to go back over all this? What’s the point?”
“How much was it insured for?”
“Who are you?” Norris asked, stepping forward.
Cole tipped his chair back and held the arms of the chair with a steely grip. “That’s a good question. Who the hell are you?”
“John Finney. I’m a Seattle—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Norris. “You said all that. You got any ID?”
Before Finney could fish for his wallet, the receptionist burst through the door. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Cole, but this man slipped past me. I thought he was delivering something for the divorce, but I called your wife’s attorneys and they haven’t sent anything over.”
“That’s okay, Doris,” Cole said. “You can close the door on your way out. And call security.”
“I’ve already sent for them.”
“Good girl.”
Norris placed himself squarely between his boss and Finney and said, “You’d better leave now.”
“A man named Bill Cordifis died in that fire. He was my partner.”
“I’m sure he was,” Norris said.
Cole scratched the back of one hand, his fingernails as long as a woman’s, his hands mottled with age spots. “What’d you say his name was?”
“Cordifis,” repeated his assistant.
“I remember. We sent a wreath. I remember the night of the fire, too. That was the night Bibi told me she was seeing that bartender.”
“Apparently the dead man was this man’s partner,” Norris said. “I suppose he’s here for some sort of settlement.”
“In this state, a firefighter dies in an arson fire and whoever set it is guilty of murder,” said Finney.
“The fire was an accident, boy,” Patterson Cole said.
“Maybe the building wasn’t generating enough revenue? Or one of your other businesses needed an infusion of cash?”
“Out,” said the assistant.
“I believe it was arson, and if it wasn’t somebody with a grudge, it was you.”
The old man’s face darkened. “You’re accusing me of arson?”
“If the shoe fits . . .”
Placing the knuckles of either hand on his desk, the old man rose ponderously. “Your own people called it an accident.”
“You know anything about a fire in Tacoma ten years ago? Or another one in Coeur d’Alene twelve years ago?”
“Norris?”
“I assume he’s talking about the Grapested Apartments in Idaho and the mill in Tacoma. Herb Jensen ran the mill for you. Remember?”
“But that place burned down in . . . I don’t know. Must have been eight years ago.”
“Ten,” Finney said.
“You think because my properties had fires that I had something to do with this? I own a lot of property. All kinds of things happen. I fought fire in the Wenatchee National Forest when I was a youngster. Hardest work I ever did. The city’s probably a little different, but I expect from time to time you see somebody die. You lost your friend, I’m sorry. But there’s not much anybody can do now. You got a college scholarship fund for his kids or something, you tell Doris on your way out and we’ll put our nickels in the jar. Happy to do it. Otherwise you just scoot on outta here. I don’t know what you’re saying to people, but you hear this and you hear it good. You slander me and I’ll slap you with a lawsuit so severe you won’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of.”
Before Finney could reply, the tall oak double doors opened and three men in gray blazers rushed in, each with a portable radio in his hand. Keeping their hands on his shoulders, they walked Finney to the elevator.
In the hallway two more blazers joined the group, then on forty all six of them transferred to another down car. En masse, they walked Finney down the escalators to the Fourth Avenue entrance and told him not to come back. Ever.
32. DEMOLITION DERBY
Finney’s eyes had barely become accustomed to the sunshine when he spotted Jerry Monahan trudging up the steep Seattle sidewalk.
Monahan walked past without looking up, crossed Fourth Avenue, and entered the Columbia Tower through the southwest entrance. Finney might have followed, but two of the security personnel who’d walked him out of the building were still watching from the doorway.
The Columbia Tower was the tallest building in Seattle, standing nearly two hundred feet taller than the Space Needle. Monahan might have been there to see any one of hundreds of people. There were scores of offices, a private club and a restaurant at the top, public shops and an eating area on the lowest levels, and a multilevel parking garage below the structure.
It was almost one-thirty before Monahan exited the building and walked across Fourth, passing within twenty feet of Finney, who, by this time, had his face concealed behind a newspaper. He was about to follow Monahan when Chief Reese exited the building through the same exit, crossing Cherry and proceeding south along Fourth, probably headed to Station 10 on foot.
What were the odds Monaha
n and Reese hadn’t been together for the last two hours? It seemed obvious to Finney they’d had a meeting of some sort in the very building where Patterson Cole kept an office. It was too much of a coincidence.
Keeping a good half block behind, Finney tailed Monahan down the hill and then under the shadowy Alaskan Way Viaduct and back into the sunshine on the waterfront. Monahan had parked at Fire Station 5 on the water. Finney hailed a passing cab and had the driver wait on Alaskan Way. Moments later Monahan’s vintage station wagon pulled out of the cramped parking area alongside Station 5, and Finney followed in the cab as Monahan threaded his way to a set of buildings in the flat industrial area just south of downtown. When he parked, Oscar Stillman was standing on the sidewalk nearby.
This turn of events surprised Finney more than it probably should have; Stillman and Monahan had been friends for years. The two men spoke, then jog-trotted across Airport Way in front of some truck traffic and disappeared into the parking lot of an unmarked occupancy. From the street Finney could see three large warehouse-type buildings, most of the property hidden from view by a smaller, windowless structure in front.
Finney instructed the cabbie to wait a block away while the meter ticked and then, after thirty minutes, decided to return to his parked Pathfinder. When he drove back to Airport Way, Monahan’s vehicle had not moved.
From where Finney parked one could drive miles in two directions and see nothing but industrial and commercial occupancies. Fifty feet above and behind him was an elevated portion of I-5, which had punched through the city’s core back in 1960 at the time of the World’s Fair.
A hundred years ago this lowland had all been tide flats, but millions, if not billions, of yards of fill had been carted in to stabilize it. Even now, when heavy trucks drove past, the ground seemed to rumble disproportionately.
From past experience Finney knew the woods sloping up from underneath the freeway harbored encampments of homeless men. Years ago, when G. A. Montgomery was working on Engine 10, G. A. had ordered his crew to wash out an encampment with hose lines after the occupants squabbled with him about dousing their campfire. Young, inexperienced, intimidated by G. A., his crew hosed down everything in sight—sleeping bags, tents, books, clothing. It had been the middle of winter. Finney knew he was only thinking up more excuses to hate G. A., but he didn’t have to work hard. Plenty of people hated him.
As the afternoon wore on, workers left the complex in waves. Stillman left at five, and minutes later Monahan rushed out, patted down his pockets for his keys, and drove off in a haze of exhaust. Except for a couple of outside lights in the parking area, the buildings were dark.
When he thought enough time had elapsed, Finney walked across the street.
Behind the first tall, white, windowless building he found a large parking area where three vans marked MAKADO BROTHERS and a couple of dust-covered private vehicles sat.
He went back to his Pathfinder, fired up the engine, got the heater working, warmed himself, and drove around the block. It was a huge industrial block, almost half a mile in circumference, and by the time he got back to the front of the property, he was discouraged. Somebody was trying to put him in prison, and so far the only thing he knew was that Monahan had lied about the dangerous buildings list and about November 7. Yet he could be lying for all sorts of reasons. To cover up his own incompetence—maybe even to keep secret a surprise party for his wife.
Finney was back on Airport Way heading north when he saw a flash of winking red in his rearview mirror. He pulled to the side of the road and found an engine company closing in on him.
As he pulled to the curb, Finney looked in his mirror and realized the engine was in danger of sideswiping his truck.
He pulled his wheels onto the sidewalk, thinking if he didn’t move, he’d get hit. It happened too quickly to think of much else.
The Pathfinder rocked wildly as the sound of metal on metal screeched in his ears. It was incredibly loud and seemed to play out in slow motion. His window dematerialized, and then it was in pieces in his lap. There was a second metallic scraping and then a loud crash. The engine had grazed the side of his vehicle. Was the driver drunk? Having a heart attack?
When his vehicle stopped rocking, Finney found his driver’s-side door jammed. Shaking the glass off his lap, he climbed over the stick shift and out the passenger door. His face felt wet, but he was relieved to find sweat and not blood when he touched it. What the hell was going on?
Up the street he could hear the blatting of the Jake brake; fire vehicles were the only diesel trucks allowed to use compression brakes within the city limits. They worked off the engine and made a loud coughing sound when the driver eased off the accelerator.
It had all happened so quickly.
As he thought it through, he realized the driver might have felt Finney wasn’t moving over properly and decided to teach him a lesson by coming close, then had misjudged. He knew how frustrating it could be to drive an emergency vehicle through city traffic. Few people actually obeyed the law and moved over. They ignored you. Or stepped on the gas trying to race you. They braked in the middle of the street. They stopped in the fast lane next to traffic that had already stopped in the slow lane, blocking the entire street. All sorts of stupid things.
As Finney inspected the damage to his vehicle, the engine turned around in the middle of the block.
The officer was probably on the radio right now calling for the safety officer, Battalion 1, and the police, informing the dispatcher that somebody else would have to handle the alarm they’d been on. Now the engine was facing him.
Finney began moving an instant after the driver floored the accelerator. The exhilarator, Captain Cordifis had jokingly called it.
Finney dove through the open passenger door, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled the Pathfinder forward so fast his tires smoked and the passenger door slammed shut with the movement.
Gusts of black diesel smoke thundered out the tailpipe as the engine accelerated toward him. His stomach was doing flip-flops. This guy was trying to kill him.
Finney steered for the concealment of a pillar, but the left wheels of his Pathfinder refused to negotiate the curb.
The engine had no such trouble; it bumped up over the curb and ran for fifty yards with two wheels on the sidewalk. For a moment they were on a collision course, and then Finney wrenched the wheel and the engine only nipped the left rear quarter panel of the Pathfinder. The jolt turned the Pathfinder counterclockwise so that it spun off the sidewalk and ended up in the street facing the direction the engine had come from.
The air horn on the engine had blown at the moment of impact; Finney’s ears were ringing.
He watched the fire engine swing around in a lazy circle down the street. Try as he might, he could see no crew, no officer—nothing more than a silhouette in the driver’s seat. This was crazy. In all his years in the department he’d never heard of an engine driver going berserk like this.
When he put the Pathfinder into reverse, the vehicle stalled. His front bumper was crumpled against one or both tires. He pushed down on the accelerator, and the Pathfinder made more noise and rocked and then settled back where it had been. Cold air blew in through the broken window onto his sweaty face. He couldn’t back up. He couldn’t drive forward.
And the maniac in the engine was coming back. Finney began to panic.
Like a man trying to rock his truck out of a snowy ditch, he shifted the transmission into first, gave it gas, slipped it into reverse, gave it gas. The fire engine began picking up speed, the wigwag headlights bearing down on him.
Once again, he shifted into first. Then reverse, where he felt something disengage. Suddenly he was racing backward across the street in a semicircle.
The engine swerved to react to his maneuver but caught only a part of the front fender. The crash shook Finney like a rag doll. The noise was horrendous, as if he were inside a garbage can being rolled downhill.
Five minutes lat
er the first police cruiser arrived.
The officer’s hair was chopped short and dyed beet red, and she approached Finney with a curious look in her dark brown eyes. “You got a story?” she asked, taking in Finney’s Pathfinder. The engine had long since disappeared. Finney tried to make sense of it as he explained what had happened, but there was no sense to it.
“A fire engine?” she asked. “You sure?”
“I know what they look like.”
The officer, who didn’t like his sarcasm, took his license, radioed her superior, and ran Finney’s plate. A few minutes later the sergeant on watch showed up and gave him a sobriety test.
After evaluating the scene for a few minutes, the sergeant spoke to the first arriving officer, whose name tag identified her as D. M. MANSON. “You call the fire department?”
“Yeah. No reported accidents.”
“It was a Seattle Fire Department engine,” Finney said. “It had the decals on the doors.”
“You know which one?” Officer Manson asked.
“I didn’t catch the unit number.”
The two police officers made Finney feel as if he were standing in high-water pants with mismatched socks and flecks of a chicken TV dinner in his teeth. Clearly, they thought his story was fishy. They gave him a case number and told him to call later in the week.
“You’re not going to check fire stations?”
The sergeant looked at Finney. “No point in making work. If the department had an accident tonight, we’ll hear about it.”
33. AIR 26
When Finney arrived at work the next morning and learned Hank Jovi was taking the shift off on dependent care disability, he quickly volunteered for Jovi’s slot on the air rig. There were certain advantages to driving the air rig, advantages he could put to good use on this particular day. For one, he was exempt from Engine 26’s alarms and had freedom of movement between stations. However, he would be responsible for routine delivery of air bottles to stations around the city and would be called to any fire where replacement air bottles were needed.
