Earl W. Emerson

by The smoke room: a novel of suspense

  “What money are you talking about?” Johnson asked. “Like his paycheck was screwed up or something?”

  “He said you guys had come into a lot of money. He said he thought you were going to give some to him.”

  My stomach sank through the floor. Had Sears been jobbing us all along? Was it possible he’d had no intention of turning us in, that he’d been toying with us so he could get a share of Ghanet’s loot? Was that why he’d taken us to the fire instead of calling the police from the firehouse? If so, it was ironic he hadn’t revealed his plans sooner, because if he’d asked for a quarter of the bonds, I don’t think it would have occurred to Tronstad to drown him.

  “He thought we came into some money?” Tronstad asked. “Us?”

  “You got new cars. Two of you did.”

  “I’m going to get changed.” I pulled my jeans off the hook in my locker and looked at Heather, who stared back guilelessly, her long face and blue eyes framed in a wash of dirty-blond curls. I unbuckled my trousers, but she made no move to leave.

  “Maybe we should have a look at those notes,” Tronstad said. “I bet we could figure out what he meant by them.”

  “I don’t know what it could have been,” said Johnson. “Do you, Gum?”

  “Sure I do.” My words froze the room. “He helped Kirsten Abbott handle her affairs. He’d just totaled up the insurance and the state and federal awards for an on-the-job fatality. She came into a good chunk of change. Maybe he had a premonition the same thing was going to happen to him, that he was going to die and you were going to come into some money.”

  “Jesus, Gum,” Tronstad said. “For a minute there I didn’t know where you were headed. I bet you’re right. The lieutenant had a premonition. Weird.”

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  My hypothesis gave Heather pause. She didn’t believe it, but she couldn’t discount it without going back over the words Sears had penned in his journal. On a crew of liars, I’d turned into the ace prevaricator.

  “Think I hear somebody at the front door,” Johnson said, although I didn’t hear a thing.“Probably some of the neighbors. I’ll go get it.”

  Heather must have been holding back the whole time, because as soon as Johnson left, the floodgates opened and she wept like a three-year-old—

  her hands at her sides, tears flowing until her cheeks and chin were slippery, distorted stars of grief splashing her chest. Tronstad snaked an arm around her shoulder, motioning for me to do the same from the other side. There was nothing I wanted less than to console Heather alongside her husband’s killer, but I did it anyway.

  We stood in that awkward posture for several minutes. I kept trying to think of something comforting to say. Surely a man in the bowels of hell couldn’t be suffering more than I was at that minute. 24. MR. AND MRS. BROWN

  W OVER THE WATC H office intercom we heard Johnson’s voice.“Ow. Damn it, let go.”

  “Who are you talking to?” asked another male voice. Then, with a loud snap, the intercom shut off.

  I stepped away from our ménage à trois of heartbreak and guilt and caught Tronstad’s eye through a tangle of Heather’s curls. With a flick of his head he motioned for me to go see what was going on.

  “I was trying to be so strong,” Heather said, weeping onto Tronstad’s shoulder, her arms around his neck now, his around her waist, palms poised over her ass as if about to clasp it. I didn’t like leaving her alone with him, but I didn’t like what I was hearing on the other side of the station, either.

  “Just let it out,” Tronstad said, parroting some bad movie he’d seen.

  “Let it out.”

  I walked across the empty apparatus bay, my footsteps echoing off the walls. The apparatus bay, watch office, and chief ’s office were overflowing with flowers and cards from concerned neighbors and other fire stations. When I opened the door to the watch office, a man in his late sixties or early seventies was nose to nose with Robert Johnson, whose spine was pressed against the high watch desk attached to the wall. When he saw me, the old man moved back alongside an older woman I assumed was his wife. Johnson straightened himself and stepped beside me. The woman, her hair in a tidy bun, feet encased in hose and heels, was wearing what appeared to be a real fox coat. She looked as if she’d been raised with money, or had spent her life pretending she had. The old man was ramrod straight, with a Marine’s haircut and a glint of steel in his gray eyes, dressed in a sharp, if outdated, suit and dress shoes buffed so that a blind man could have seen them.

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  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I’ve never been in a firehouse before,” said the woman, her words clipped and birdlike. “Where do you cook?”

  “Just a minute, Mother,” said the old man. “We’ll take a tour when I’ve finished my business.” He stepped forward. “Who are you?”

  Although he had the overgrown eyebrows of an old man, he was tall and lean and moved with the fire and confidence of someone much younger.

  “Gum, this is Agent Brown,” Johnson said, his voice shaky.

  “Agent?”

  “FBI,” said Brown. “I’m here to ask about the man you knew as Charles Scott Ghanet.” He looked past me at Johnson. “Your friend here was giving me the runaround.”

  “Yes, sir. Maybe a little, sir. It won’t happen again,” Johnson said. I thought he might be mocking the old guy, but he wasn’t. He was scared. Brown turned to me with a look of disgust on his face. “You part of the crew found Ghanet’s body?”

  “Yes.”

  “What can you tell me about it? Was anybody else there when he died?”

  “The house was locked when we got there.”

  “You see anybody hanging around?”

  “Just the neighbor who called us.”

  “I understand you’d been to his place before.”

  “Everybody in the station has been there.”

  “What’s your name?”

  I tried to turn my head to see how Robert was taking this, but before I could do so the old guy grabbed my jaw, digging his fingers into my cheeks so hard, I could feel his nails, could feel the adhesive on the bandage pulling at my skin. I made an effort to shrug out of his grip, but his fingers were like a vise.

  “Don’t be looking at your friend for answers,” Brown said. “I see somebody turning to their friends for answers, I get the feeling they’re lying.” He looked at my name tag. “Gum. You a junior firefighter cadet or something, Gum?”

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  “I—I’d like to see your ID.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Johnson added, timidly. “I didn’t see no ID, either.”

  The old man dug his fingers deeper into my face, holding me the way you’d grasp a half-flat volleyball. “You going to answer me, Sweet Pea?”

  “Not like this, I’m not.”

  Brown squeezed my face until I thought his nails would make me bleed, until, without thinking about it, I raised my arms and knocked his hand away. “You’re not with the FBI.”

  “Sonny, you’re beginning to try my patience. I was FBI. I’m retired now. But I’m still looking for eight million dollars stolen from the U.S. of A.”

  “You better see my attorney, J.P. Gibbs,” said Johnson. Before either of us knew it, Johnson was on his knees on the floor. I didn’t understand how it happened until Brown grasped my thumb with his other hand, and levered me to the floor in a similar fashion, the two of us on our knees, side by side, controlled by the old man, who had my thumb in one fist, Johnson’s in the other. “Jesus,” said Johnson. “Ease up. You’re going to break it.”

  “All you have to do is answer the questions.”

  “Where’s the fire truck?” asked the woman. “Isn’t there supposed to be a fire truck?”

  “It’s still at the funeral,” I said.

  “What funeral?”

  “Ma, you just stay out of it.” H
e looked at me. “Name, rank, and serial number.”

  “Jason Gum. I work here on Engine Twenty-nine.”

  “You’re just a punk. Sure you’re not a cadet or a Boy Scout or something?”

  “No.”

  “What do you know about that money?”

  “What I read in the papers.”

  The pressure on my thumb increased until I yelped. Johnson started to say something, then yelped, too. “Jesse,” said the woman. “Ask them where the pole is. I thought fire stations were supposed to have a fire pole.”

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  It had been a long time since I’d felt this much pain. “The station’s all on one level,” I managed. “We don’t have a pole.”

  “Where do you sleep?”

  “On the other side.”

  “Tell me about the man you knew as Ghanet,” Brown said. “He used to have a fondness for women. You ever see any women at his place?”

  “No.”

  “The night he died? What happened?”

  “The night who died?” Tronstad asked, coming into the room. “How come you guys are on the floor?”

  Now that there were three of us, Brown let Johnson and me get up. Tronstad was a loose cannon, a fact that was instantly apparent to anyone who looked into the wild blackness of his eyes, or saw his manic gestures, or the bobbing and bouncing around even when he was standing still, his movements like those of a methamphetamine freak. In fact, the thought occurred to me that maybe he was a methamphetamine addict. It would explain a lot.

  “I’m here as a representative of the United States government,”

  Brown said. “Who are you?”

  “Bond. James Bond,” Tronstad said, in a perfect imitation of Sean Connery.

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Bond,” Brown said, extending his hand. Tronstad reached out to shake and was quickly brought to his knees with the same judo or jujitsu that had taken us down.

  “Goddamn it!” Tronstad shouted. “Let go, motherfucker.”

  “Watch the mouth. There’s a lady present.”

  “You fucker!”

  “Keep mouthing off, I’ll break it.”

  “Okay, okay. Just give the digits a rest, huh?”

  Brown eased the pressure enough so Tronstad, who’d had the back of his head almost on the floor, was able to get back on both knees. Johnson and I looked at each other, and I knew we were thinking the same thing. There were three of us, and he was an old man.

  Neither of us budged.

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  “What’d you find at Ghanet’s place the night he died?” Brown asked.

  “A dead body and a shitload of flies.”

  “I told you to watch your mouth.”

  “And junk. You ever seen that place? You drop a five-year-old in there, you wouldn’t find him for a week.”

  “Was it locked when you got there?”

  “Fuck you,” said Tronstad. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”

  As Brown applied more pressure, Tronstad grew silent, sucking air through his clenched teeth.

  “It was locked,” I said. “He had security locks on everything. Even the bedrooms.”

  “But you broke them open, didn’t you?” Brown asked.

  “We were looking for the body,” Johnson said.

  “Shut up, assholes!” Tronstad shouted. “Can’t you see this guy’s a treasure hunter?”

  “I’ve done some research on you three,” Brown said, exposing his long front teeth and their yellow stains. “Seems you’ve come up with some extra spending money lately. What’s that all about?”

  At that moment the door from the apparatus bay opened and Heather Wynn walked in, eyes awash in tears. “What’s going on here?”

  “Who are you?” Brown asked.

  Sizing up the situation, she said, “I’m the person who’s going to call the police. I mean it. My brother’s a Seattle detective.”

  Realizing the interview was over, Brown let go of Tronstad and moved to the outside door. Tronstad crawled across the floor and struggled to his feet.

  “I’m Linda Brown,” said the old woman. “This is my husband, Jesse. I was wondering if you might give us a tour of the fire station . . . as long as we’re here and all.”

  “You better leave,” I said. Maybe it was the sheer weight of numbers, or the fact that Heather’s brother was a Seattle cop, but Brown opened the door and stepped outside.

  “You coming, Mother?”

  “We’re not going to get a tour, are we?”

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  “Not today, Mother.”

  In a free-for-all, Brown could have handled all three of us and Heather thrown in for good measure. You could only guess what he’d been like in his prime.

  “I shoulda bitch-slapped him,” said Tronstad, after they were gone.

  “Nobody was stopping you,” Johnson said.

  “Who was he?” Heather asked.

  “Some crazy old gummer claiming to be with the FBI.”

  “He’s going to get his ass kicked,” Tronstad said. “Come in here bustin’ our chops.”

  “We should call the police,” Heather said, moving to the phone on the watch desk.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Tronstad put his hand over hers. Johnson said, “I didn’t know you had a brother in the police department.”

  “I made that up. I thought it might scare him.”

  After Heather left, Tronstad and Johnson caught me in the bunk room in my underwear as I was changing. “Things are starting to get hot,” Tronstad said. “This place is going to be crawling with treasure hunters. We need to pick up the money tonight.”

  “And do what?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell you one thing. You’re not giving it back. You give it back, you’ll go to the big house for what happened to Sears.”

  “You show the tape, I’ll tell the cops about the bonds.”

  “You tell the cops about the bonds, I’ll fuck up your mother.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I know she’s dying, and I feel for you, Jason. I feel for you both. But if you mess with me, I swear . . .”

  “There’s no need to get rough here,” Johnson said. “Give us the bonds and everything will work out. You’ll see.”

  I tugged my jeans on and stood in my socks, trying to think. “I’ll need some time.”

  “Tomorrow night,” Tronstad said, handing us each a folded real estate flier. “Beach Drive down by the Fauntleroy Ferry Terminal. Place has been vacant for weeks. The old woman got killed in her kayak by a speed boat

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  out in the Sound, and the old guy moved to Thailand or someplace. Tomorrow night, eight o’clock. You’re not there, I’m going to your mother’s.”

  “You do, and I’ll kill you.”

  “Hey, guys,” Johnson said. “Calm down.”

  “Just get the shit.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  25. I BEEN PRAYIN’

  W TEN MINUTES LATER Robert Johnson and I left the building together. I walked to my sweet little WRX and wondered idly what would become of it when I was in prison. My mother couldn’t drive a stick . . . What was I thinking? She wouldn’t even be around to store it. Johnson followed me to my car, smiling bashfully. “Don’t worry about it, Gum. I have a feeling everything is going to work out.”

  “You fucker.”

  “Hey. Don’t—”

  “Tronstad killed Sears, and you helped. And Abbott. He killed him, too.”

  “Don’t be like this, Gum. Sure, we’re in a little bit of a mess here, but I’m with the Lord now, and I’m not going to make any more mistakes.”

  “He moved those signs, didn’t he?”

  “By the time I figured out what he was doing, it was too late.”

  “It’s not too late to go to the police.”

  �
�How can I? He goes to prison, I go, too. And you? He’ll show that video and you’ll go to prison. He’ll go for Abbott, and you’ll go for Sears.”

  “Not if you tell the truth.”

  “And the bonds will go back to the government. I didn’t want to be a party to murder, Gum, but it wasn’t my fault. If I knew how to swim it might have been different.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. I’ve been using the same kind of half-assed logic all through this. If I hadn’t been screwing Iola in the basement the night of Arch Place, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have missed the rig, and Tronstad and I would have gone inside together, and we would have brought those people out, and they would have lived. I wouldn’t have owed Tronstad, and I would have ratted him out on those bonds.”

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  “You were porking a woman in the station? Where? Out back in your car?”

  “The basement.”

  “Where in the basement?”

  “All I’m saying is, if it hadn’t been for my screwup and the fact that you guys covered for me, I wouldn’t have had to keep my mouth shut when Tronstad took those bonds. And if I’d turned him in, he wouldn’t have been around to lock Abbott in the smoke room. He wouldn’t have drowned our lieutenant.”

  “Gum, you don’t really think you would have saved those people at Arch Place?”

  “He and I would have gone in together. That’s the way it’s supposed to work. The buddy system. He was forbidden to go in without a partner. That’s why he was hanging out in the front hallway. He didn’t want me to get in trouble, so he didn’t tell Sears I was missing. Those people died because he was trying to save my ass.”

  “You don’t know Tronstad very well. He was trying to save his own ass. He could have told Sears you weren’t there and gone in with Sears. But Tronstad didn’t want to go in with Sears because he plain didn’t want to go in. Sears would have seen he couldn’t face fire. Sears would have written him up. Tronstad wasn’t going in under any circumstances, and you not being there was perfect for him. I watched his feet under the smoke in the doorway. He never moved. You don’t get it, do you? Tronstad doesn’t go into fires. He always has some kind of excuse. If you’d been there, you still would have been rescuing those people on your own.”