Vertical Burn - Earl Emerson [59]
There was film footage of the couple in less litigious times, Cole, an unremarkable octogenarian, stooped, withered, his hair stringy and unkempt, invariably in a dark suit and red tie; his cartoon wife a head taller, massively blond, massively busty, in high heels and tight skirts. In most pictures she clutched a cliché toy poodle, the dog’s collar matching her outfit. Cartoons, both of them.
She claimed Cole had tried to kill her by pushing her off the sixtieth floor of the Columbia Tower, that he’d had her Mercedes torched, twice tried to poison her dog, sicced private investigators on her, bugged her phone, slapped her, and even tried to bribe her mother to marry him so he would be her ex-husband and stepfather at the same time, anything to upset her and ruin her life.
If even a fraction of what his wife was accusing him of was true, he was a reprobate, and Finney knew reprobates were capable of a lot of things, not the least of which was arson. As the show concluded, Finney got up to remove the tape.
“Your buddy is next.”
“My buddy?”
Looking as sure of himself as a matador who’d just stabbed the bull, the chief of the fire department, Charlie Reese, was giving a short statement about Riverside Drive: “I’ve been working closely with my fire investigation team, and we’ve identified the culprit in the Riverside Drive arson. As soon as we’re finished tying up some loose ends, we’ll make an arrest.” Reese fended off all questions, then added, “I can only say we were as surprised as you will be.”
His father shut off the tape and began changing channels. “What does he mean by that?”
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“You must have heard something on the grapevine.”
Finney shrugged.
“Reese—what a little shit!” his father said. “In the old days we would have made short work of him. You been to the Downtowner. Went in there on a bed fire once. Wrapped the mattress up in a tarp, me and a guy named Coghill, an old gummer. Had a heart attack about two years ago. Halfway down the hallway the tarp came unwound, and the mattress popped out like a spring and bounced off the wall. Fire and smoke everywhere. Coghill hauled that mattress by one corner and pitched it out a window. I think we were on the fourth floor. It caught some oxygen and flamed up like a meteor on the way down, landed on Chief Ballantine’s car. Coghill and I just about died laughing. Chief Ballantine. Remember him? Used to write charges on people if their boots weren’t polished? He’s living in Mexico now with some little señorita.” His father looked at Finney and held the look for a few seconds.
Ballantine had died of brain cancer a few months after retiring. Finney wondered if his father was purposely rewriting history or he’d actually forgotten. Maybe the cancer was eating away at his brain.
On his way out, Finney’s father kissed him on the cheek, a throwback to a routine he’d abandoned when Finney was three but which had become standard operating procedure since the illness. Fists like talons, his father gripped his arms and said, “John, you took a big hit. You sat on the sidelines until your head cleared, and by golly you got back in the game. I’ve known a lot of good men who couldn’t have done as much. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You’re a good man, John. You’re going to make a fine officer.”
“Thanks.”
After his father had climbed the wooden steps to the parking lot, Finney followed a gust of cool lake air back into the living room and stared out the window at the water. His father was so small and frail these days, and so lonely. Come to think of it, so was he, lonely.
30. MONAHAN’S MISSUS
Finney spent the next four days in Spokane and Coeur d’Alene looking for information on Patterson Cole, searching for irregularities concerning his properties. He