Vertical Burn - Earl Emerson [63]
“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 Monahan 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