Vertical Burn

by Earl Emerson

  But the corridor to the left had had a steel gate across it. Finney knew that, because he’d run up against the gate himself on his way out. Others had spoken of it during the cleanup. Finney had seen the gate in a stack of debris in the parking lot, but he’d never examined it.

  It was dark now, cooler, visibility down to a quarter mile. A boat horn sounded off in the Lake Washington Ship Canal. The cold fog penetrated his clothing.

  It took twenty-five minutes to free the wrought-iron gate and drag it clear. On the left side were heavy hinges; on the right a latch and a locking throw bolt that had been cut through, probably with a circular saw. Had it been sawn through before or during the fire, the newly sliced end would have been discolored by heat and smoke. But it hadn’t been cut during the fire—it was shiny.

  During the fire it had been locked.

  Which meant the only avenue Reese and Kub could possibly have explored was the corridor Finney had come down.

  They must have gone past the chirping PASS device and the exit hole he’d chopped. How long could they have lasted that deep in the building? It was possible they’d passed the device, each thinking the chirping was coming from his partner’s PASS. One of the troubles with the PASS was that it gave off so many false alarms, people didn’t pay attention. In any large group of working firefighters at least one of their devices was sure to be sounding off, which was the primary reason so many people broke the rules and didn’t switch them on at all.

  It was thoroughly dark when Finney hid his tools. He was opening the pickup’s door when he spotted a young woman in blue jeans and a yellow raincoat stealthily threading a bouquet of asters through the Cyclone fence. “Oh,” she said, startled.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m with the fire department.”

  “These flowers—it’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you . . . ?”

  “Just doing some work.”

  “I was here that night visiting my friend up the hill. The guy who died? I heard he got all burned?”

  Finney nodded.

  “Was he a pretty nice guy?”

  “About the most decent human being I’ve ever known.”

  “Wow.”

  44. THE CREAKING OF CEDAR LOGS

  When he sat down to examine the papers Emily Cordifis had given him, Finney heard the subtle creaking of the cedar logs under the floorboards, evidence that a large craft had plied the east side of the lake while he was in the shower.

  Visiting Leary Way was invariably an ugly booster shot to the melancholy and sorrow he’d been nursing since June, and it was worse coming on top of his visit to Emily. He wouldn’t eat anything tonight and would be lucky to sleep. Hell, he didn’t need food or sleep. What he needed was absolution.

  Purring, Dimitri jumped up on the recliner as Finney spilled the contents of Emily’s envelope into his lap. Finney saw his own phone number on the back of a receipt for a pair of hunting boots. Bill wasn’t in the habit of memorizing phone numbers. He knew Bill jotted messages to himself on just about anything that came to hand. Finney knew of one occasion when there was so much scribbling on the back of his paycheck that the bank refused to accept it. For a couple of weeks in May, Bill had been coming over to help on the remodeling of the houseboat, but he couldn’t recall the last time they’d spoken on the phone.

  He found an outline of a battalion-wide drill Bill had been organizing, a simulated mass-casualty bus accident in the Metro bus tunnel deep under Seattle’s downtown streets. Teenagers from the SFD’s cadet program had been slated to wear moulages and pretend to be injured. It was heartbreaking to see Bill’s diligently prepared notes for a drill that never took place, the names and phone numbers of all the people he’d never called back.

  On a piece of junk mail Finney found a large four-digit number scrawled across the top, along with a series of what appeared to be phone numbers down the right side. Six names, a phone number alongside each of the first three:

  Montgomery

  Balitnikoff

  Monahan

  Stillman

  Kub?

  Finney?

  Staring at the tall digits at the top of the page he knew he was looking at the street number of the Leary Way complex—4400. There was no street name, just the number, the digits highlighted and underlined, adorned with curlicues and squiggles as if Bill had stared at and played with them for a good long while.

  Flipping the page over, Finney saw that it was a solicitation from a refinancing lender in Reno, Nevada, the envelope postmarked June 3. Leary Way had occurred on the morning of June 9. They’d been at work all day on the eighth, so he’d probably opened the mail and used it for scratch paper on the seventh.

  Montgomery, Balitnikoff, Monahan, Kub, Finney. Cordifis had hunted and fished every year with Montgomery and Balitnikoff. He’d known Jerry Monahan before they got into the department during a phase when he and Emily had entertained the notion of joining the Church of Latter-Day Saints; and they had been firefighters together twenty-five years earlier on a now-defunct Engine 19. There was no telling how well Bill had known Kub.

  There were three Finneys in the department. Finney’s father worked with Cordifis when they were both lieutenants together at Station 18 in the heart of Ballard—Bill on Ladder 8, Gil Finney on Engine 18. Bill had been one of Tony’s instructors when Tony came through drill school. And, of course, John had worked with him eighteen years on Ladder 1.

  Had Bill Cordifis known there was going to be a fire on Leary Way? Why else would he have written down the address? Or had the number on the paper been a coincidence? If so, it was a hell of a coincidence. And what connection did the six names have to the Leary Way address?

  Finney was asleep in the chair when a light tapping at the front door woke him. At first he thought he was having a heart attack, but then he realized Dimitri had stretched out on his chest, eighteen pounds of purring weight. “Come on,” he said, lifting the cat off his torso. “Up you go.”

  Finney opened the door and slowly accustomed his eyes to the blinding sunlight off the lake.

  “There someone here? I thought I heard you talking to someone.” It was a woman’s voice, a husky sound from an individual who’d never smoked but who’d been hit in the throat with a baseball when she was thirteen.

  “The cat. I was talking to the cat.”

  “Did I wake you?” Diana asked. “I called last night and then again this morning. When you didn’t answer I thought . . .”

  “Maybe I was in the slammer?”

  “I thought I should check.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten.”

  “Come in. God, I must look like hell.”

  “You look . . .”

  “Like something that’s been sitting at the bottom of Santa’s sack all summer?”

  Diana laughed. He liked that she laughed at his jokes. “I admire men with rumpled hair and only one sock,” she said affectionately. Finney looked down at his feet. He had two socks on. She was kidding him. Diana walked into the interior of the houseboat and stood with her back to him. She wore blue jeans and a light blue fleece vest over a T-shirt, a baseball cap over a ponytail. The chill air off the lake blew into the houseboat and mingled with the fragrance of her perfume. He opened the drapes, and the sunlight made him wince.

  “Sorry to bust in on you like this,” she said.

  “I’m glad you came.”

  “I wanted to explain about Gary.”

  “Don’t even think about it. He was drunk.” Still, he was curious about her and Gary. Had they had a relationship? It seemed hard to believe, since by his own admission Gary specialized in women he referred to as trailer-park trash, but you never knew.

  “He’s got this thing about me. We went to some movies together. The Seattle Film Festival this last spring. I usually have tickets for the festival, but this year I didn’t and he did. He told me he’d been planning to see most of those movies with his
sister, but she finked out on him and went back to Minnesota to be with her ex-boyfriend. He asked me if I’d go with him.”

  “You don’t have to explain any of this.”

  “I want things to be out on the table with us from the start.”

  Despite Friday night he hadn’t thought of the two of them in terms of us. Until now. That prospect sent a whisper of hope into his life. Her proximity also sent a low shot of voltage down his spine. He was going to have to get used to that voltage because it seemed to return every time she did.

  “He had a horrible crush on me. Not that I gave him any encouragement. As far as I knew, we were just friends who both happened to like films. One night after this Brazilian comedy he started coming on to me. I told him no, and then we had a wrestling match that ended with him on his back on the floor. I ever tell you I had four years of judo?”

  “No, but thanks for the warning.”

  “That’s when he started driving through my neighborhood on Capitol Hill at all hours. I thought I was rid of him until the other night.”

  “Gary’s a jerk.”

  “Now he claims he’s trying to bring me to Jesus.” The phone began ringing. When Finney didn’t budge, she said, “You should answer it.”

  He didn’t. He didn’t want anything to spoil these minutes with her. It was his brother, Tony, speaking on the answering machine. “John? Pick up if you’re there. I’ve been callin’ all night. I left a message. Damn it, John, where are you? I hope you’re out gettin’ some tail, ’cause it might be your last. There are all sorts of rumors. You need to stop asking people about Leary Way. You were lookin’ nuts before, but now with this rumor that you’ll be arrested . . . Damn it, you’re my brother. I know you didn’t do this. There’s even talk that you’ve been committing arson for years and the old man was covering for you. John, take my advice and stop askin’ questions. Give me a call when you get this message. I love you, guy.”

  Finney collapsed into the recliner he’d spent the night in. The sudden movement frightened Dimitri, who scampered out of the room.

  “What’s going on?” Diana said. “What’s changed since Friday?”

  “You don’t want any part of this.”

  “Yes, I do. I want to help.” She knelt on the floor in front of him and took one of his hands between hers. “I mean that.”

  Reluctantly, Finney told her about his excavations at Leary Way, about the gasoline odors he’d detected, his belief that it was an arson, not an accidental fire, about his inability to explain Reese and Kub’s failure to find Bill Cordifis. Before he knew it, he was showing her Cordifis’s note.

  “I guess I don’t get it,” she said.

  “Look at the number at the top of the page.” She looked again at the note and her brow furrowed. “Forty-four hundred. Isn’t that the street number that came in for Leary Way? This was written before . . . well, obviously it was written before the fire. Are you sure this is Bill’s handwriting?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Bill knew something about Leary Way before it happened?”

  “He must have.”

  “But surely he didn’t think it was going to burn down? He would have told somebody.”

  “Not if he didn’t really believe it. Think about it. You have some friends who you trust implicitly, and somehow you come up with the idea they’re going to set a fire. Would you believe it?”

  “You mean those names are the friends?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “Your name’s on the list.”

  “I know it.”

  “I wouldn’t believe it. You’re right. He probably didn’t believe it until it happened. So . . . was it a coincidence he died there? Do you think? You don’t think somebody pushed that wall over on you guys, do you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Did they know he knew?”

  “He got in a screaming match with Oscar Stillman right before we went back in the second time.”

  “Stillman’s name is on the list.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s tell somebody.”

  “Who’s going to believe us? No. Don’t answer that. I know who. Nobody. Besides, the minute I mention any of this out loud, G. A. will arrest me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He’s on the list.”

  She came around the chair and began massaging Finney’s shoulders at the base of his neck, working her thumbs and fingers deep into his trapezius. “Buddy, you are tight as a banjo string. Why don’t we go do something? Take our minds off this for a little while. Take me out in a kayak? I’ve been dying to try it.”

  “Are you kidding? They’re probably on their way to arrest me right now.”

  She leaned over and looked upside down into his face, her gray eyes inches from his. “Come on. I bet you can launch a kayak right from the dock outside.”

  “Closer than that.”

  45. MAXIMIZATION AND MINIMIZATION

  Diana sat in the rear cutout of the double kayak, paddling in perfect synchronization with Finney, who was in front working the rudder pedals. Other than explaining how to put on the splash apron and how to get in without capsizing the vessel, she hadn’t needed much instruction. “It’s so low in the water,” she said, like a child with a new toy. “Everything looks different from down here.”

  He heard the familiar slap of the lake water on the thin hull, felt his muscles filling with blood and warmth as he wielded the double-bladed paddle in a steady rhythm on either side of the kayak, muscles made powerful from kayaking thousands of miles over the last ten years.

  He’d selected one of his three kayaks, a double, and dragged it through the missing outer wall of his spare bedroom. As he plunked it into the water, he said, “Sort of like Ma and Pa Kettle’s houseboat, huh?”

  “I like it.”

  “You don’t really?”

  “I do. But maybe you should get it buttoned up before winter.”

  “I was thinking about that.”

  “I bet kayaks are great for impressing women. I know I’m impressed. Who do you generally take out in this?”

  “My mother.”

  She laughed. “No, who? Really?”

  “The usual. Michelle Pfeiffer. Courteney Cox. Jewel.”

  “Okay, so you’re not going to tell me. Fair enough. I’m not going to tell you about the time Matthew Perry tried to pick me up.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, he really did.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Finney said. The craft skittered across the mirrored lake water like a four-legged bug. When the light was at the right angle, they could see deep into the gray-green water. From time to time a sloppy stroke from behind would splash the back of Finney’s arm. He found the thrill of being out on the water with Diana a studied contrast to the rest of his life. He’d almost forgotten how much speed two people who were willing to work could generate; the feel of the wind, the sunshine on their backs was exhilarating. It was clear that Diana was one of the strongest kayakers he’d ever doubled with, male or female, and he wished this little excursion could last forever.

  Hugging the shoreline, they traveled north past berthed ships, small marinas, and various businesses.

  When he turned around to see how she was doing, she was looking at Gas Works Park, where a man was trying to fly a kite in the windless sky, a woman tagging along behind with a pair of toddlers and a dog on a leash, a plastic bag tied around the dog’s collar for his business.

  She caught his eye and said, “Remember I told you I thought I’d read something recently about the Columbia Tower?”

  “No.”

  “I told you Friday night.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure.” But he didn’t remember. These days his short-term memory was a sieve. It was more than bothersome. It scared him. Could early Alzheimer’s be brought on by smoke inhalation? Or was it just all the tension in his life?

  “I hate to mention this when you’re just starting to
relax, but when I got home I looked it up on the Web. Get this. Apparently during a pretrial hearing for Patterson Cole’s divorce, his wife claimed he was mismanaging the Columbia Tower, said it was underinsured.”

  “Underinsured by how much?”

  “There’s some dispute over the worth of the building, but it seems to be short by somewhere between fifty and a hundred million.”

  “So he’d lose his shirt if it burned down.”

  “Right.”

  “Then something else is going to burn down.”

  “John, I’ve been thinking about your predicament. G. A. thinks you set the fire at Riverside Drive. You didn’t, but somebody did. They say there are seven reasons people set fires and almost any arson falls into one of those seven categories. Maybe it would help if we thought about it that way.”

  “I can’t even remember all seven.”

  “Well, let’s see. The first is revenge. And then two would be the sex-thrill thing. Along with vandalism.”

  “Three I guess would be to cover up another crime.”

  “Four would be the insurance fraud we were talking about.”

  “Political terrorism and social protests.”

  “Along with riots and all that—five. Six is the hero gig. Somebody lights a fire so they can save people and look important.”

  “That’s what people are going to think I did. To make up for my failure at Leary Way. They’ll say I placed Annie Sortland in the building so I could save her.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “It won’t sound that way after G. A. puts his spin on it.”

  “What’s left? We were at six, the hero gig.”

  “Morons and madmen. Irrational pyromania.”

  “That’s seven. Riverside Drive doesn’t fit any of them,” she said. “Does it?”

  “Maybe it was done to frame me. No other reason.”

  “People don’t usually murder someone in order to frame someone else.”