"You might be right."

"Nice houseboat," Diana said, stepping inside.

"I'm remodeling."

"So I see."

Her Jeep, she explained as she drove, had taken her through college, several summer jobs, and twice to Alaska. It was now one year older than she had been when she bought it, a virtual relic on Seattle's streets filled with shiny new SUVs and lightweight trucks.

Although the day had been clear and sunny, an evening chill had brought a dense fog that was beginning to trap airborne pollutants; the fog left a vaguely metallic tang in the back of Finney's throat.

Seattle was experiencing an autumn inversion, one of several in succession in the past month, where warm air stagnated in the basin between the Olympic Mountains to the west and the Cascades to the east, trapping cooler air over the city. In the daytime the air warmed up enough to lift the ground fog, but at night it all came crashing back down like an intermission curtain. Ordinarily the pollution would be blown out of the region by southern winds and autumn rainstorms, but this year the wind and rain were absent.

They were headed for a Holidays for the Children charity ball, a benefit that was sponsored in part by the fire department. As a volunteer coordinator, Diana was invaluable not only as a hard worker but because of her family's social connections throughout the Puget Sound area. In its seventh year, the event was becoming an inst.i.tution in Seattle.

The party took up the entire seventy-fourth floor of the Columbia Tower. The event didn't officially start until eight, but already several dozen people stood around admiring the decorations or gazing out the windows at the fog. Another half-dozen people scampered around on last-minute errands. On the floor were artfully arranged tableaus of brilliantly colored autumn leaves, cornstalks, sheaves of wheat, and candle-lit carved pumpkins of all sizes.

"Okay," Diana said. "I need to make sure everything's set. Back in ten minutes. Food's over there."

"Do I look that hungry?"

"Ravenous."

"I get you anything? Green eggs and ham, perhaps?"

She laughed and disappeared.

Outside, only a few pink and purple vestiges remained from the sunset. The jagged ridges of the Olympic Mountains defined the horizon. Lights blinking, a helicopter cruised across the city.

Finney bought a hundred dollars' worth of raffle tickets for a Dale Chihuly gla.s.s sculpture, knowing his cat, Dimitri, wouldn't suffer a Dale Chihuly in the house for twenty minutes before knocking it over.

At the far end of the room the band was tuning up, each member made up like a famous musician from the fifties or sixties. Perfect for this crowd, Finney thought, mostly middle-aged, affluent, and nostalgic. First up was a Frankie Valli tune.

When Diana found him, she said, "I should have taken yesterday off. I'm beat. There were supposed to be two of us making all the last-minute preparations, but Angie's suffering a personal crisis. Last Wednesday her fiance announced he's gay. I guess I shouldn't have told you that."

"I don't even know Angie."

"No, but she gets embarra.s.sed for anybody to know. She thinks it's a personal failure on her part."

"Is that why you didn't have a date until late?"

"Because I was afraid you would turn gay on me?"

He laughed. "No. Because you were jammed up doing the work of two people?"

"Yeah, I guess that's why. Last year I didn't have a date. It was a mistake, because once this thing starts, it more or less runs itself, and I found myself standing here gabbing with a succession of elderly married couples. Almost no singles come." They were quiet for a few moments, unable to do anything but eavesdrop on a shrill conversation nearby. "You forgot about the party, didn't you?"

"I'm afraid I did." He smiled, discomfited by her candor. "You always just say what you think?"

"Usually. I do what I want, too." She stepped forward, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him on the lips. It startled him enough that he didn't fully partic.i.p.ate until it was nearly over, a mistake of timing he regretted immediately.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"The good-night kiss."

He smiled. "I don't get one later?"

"Who knows?" She laughed and glanced around the room. "I think we're going to have a pretty good crowd. We had a lot of volunteers from the department this year."

"What about Oscar Stillman?" Finney asked. "Or Jerry Monahan? Either of them take any interest in this? Reese?"

"Are you kidding? Reese's contribution will be to show up just long enough to circle the room and allow everyone to shake his hand and congratulate him on becoming chief. I don't think Jerry Monahan's ever spoken to me, and Stillman's favorite charity is the tip jar at the Deja Vu." The latter was a strip club just off Aurora in downtown. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason."

39. TRAMPLING THE ELDERLY, THE INFIRM, THE HANDICAPPED.

Slowly the room filled with body heat, music, and chitchat. Waitstaff in Mickey and Minnie Mouse costumes waded through the a.s.semblage, balancing trays and dispensing hors d'oeuvres. People had come dressed as Marilyn Monroe, Abraham Lincoln, Batman, the Mario Brothers, Madonna, Jesus, the Pope, Ty Cobb; there was even a man in a Bill Clinton mask sporting a SLICK WILLIE SLICK WILLIE tattoo. There was a couple dressed as Laurel and Hardy and another costumed as firefighters. Finney was glad he'd come. It was just the sort of well-meaning diversion his life lacked. tattoo. There was a couple dressed as Laurel and Hardy and another costumed as firefighters. Finney was glad he'd come. It was just the sort of well-meaning diversion his life lacked.

Diana was only a few inches shy of Finney's six feet, and when they danced he couldn't help noticing they fit together like a hand and glove. He'd had a lot of surprises recently, few as pleasant as the kiss she'd given him earlier. There was something vaguely adolescent in the way he couldn't stop thinking about it.

"So, you're house-sitting, did you say?"

"My parents took their motor home to the Southwest so they could use up the last of the country's petroleum supplies. Mom's always wanted to see the high desert in the autumn. I'm sitting with eight parakeets, two hundred houseplants, and an answering machine that fills up twice a day. I swear my mother is the most gregarious woman on the face of the earth."

"You are indeed a dutiful daughter."

"It's the least I could do to make up for all the grief I've given them." She laughed. "No, really, two of my brothers live out of town, and the other one works fourteen-hour days and barely ever sees his wife and kids. It was me or a professional house-sitter, and I couldn't let that happen."

"So you grew up on the Eastside?" he asked.

"Want to hear my sad tale, do you?"

"I do."

"I wish it was sordid. At least that would be interesting, but I was a typical spoiled Eastside brat, raised on Pickle Point just off Meydenbauer Bay in a house almost as large as Ten's. We lived about sixty feet from Lake Washington in a neighborhood of disgustingly conspicuous wealth. I had a stay-at-home mother with a master's degree in English, who thinks all little girls should grow up to be just like her, and a father who is one of the founders of a law firm with offices in Seattle, Spokane, and Portland. I had three brothers who treated me like a boy until I was sixteen, which was how I wanted it." She laughed. "Now for the sordid part. I had it all: private schools, tutors, my own pony at age three. We grew up with a full-time housekeeper and a summertime grounds-maintenance team." She rubbed her nose against his cheek. "I broke this playing football when I was twelve. I broke it again when I was fourteen. My parents were apoplectic when I refused cosmetic surgery."

"Ever regretted it?"

"Not for a minute."

"It's cold."

"That's why I'm warming it up on you. Did you know cats live their lives through their noses?"

"I did know that. And congratulations."

"On what?"

"On breaking it twice. I haven't even been able to get my nose to bleed."

"We were soooo spoiled. I was chauffeured everywhere by my mother in a Mercedes. Ballet, piano, ski, gymnastics lessons. In high school my parents gave me an Alfa Romeo. Were they ever teed off when I traded it in for that Jeep. Except for that and being a tomboy, I was an exemplary child until I dropped out of Pepperdine five credits shy of a degree."

"Why'd you do that?"

"I don't know. I guess it was a pinch of postadolescent rebellion."

"Then what'd you do?"

"Social work with kids, counselor at a summer camp, clerk in a Starbucks shop, and training for triathlons. When I eventually joined the fire department, my mother told me firefighters were tobacco-chewing rednecks or lesbians with crewcuts. I said, 'No, Mother. The lesbians chew the tobacco and the rednecks have the crewcuts.' Mother still talks about my completing a degree in communications and perhaps turning out a novel. Mother has two half-finished novellas tucked away in a dresser drawer."

Finney didn't mention his ex-wife's ambitions in that direction.

"That's enough about me. What about you?"

He told her about his childhood trekking around the West Seattle Golf Course with the steel mill kids, polishing used golf b.a.l.l.s to resell to their former owners, about getting thrashed by the older boys at Cooper Elementary. He'd been small for his age and until high school had suffered for it. He'd had a paper route and a love-hate relationship with his father who'd been a harsh disciplinarian and a worse critic. "Tony and I never quite measured up-me even less than him. I always resented my mother for not sticking up for us, but now I realize she was barely holding her own. I didn't realize the dynamics of our family until just a couple of years ago. In those days the department didn't pay like it does now, and my father used to work a second job down at the steel mill in West Seattle. He had little patience to start with and less when he was tired. And he was always tired.

"In school I never did more than okay unless I really liked the cla.s.s. I was a second-stringer on the basketball team. I wrestled and ran track. After high school I tried college, but my heart wasn't in it. I worked at Boeing, then got a job with a paint company. I thought I liked it until one morning I woke up and realized I needed to get into the department. It shocked the h.e.l.l out of my father. I wish we hadn't wasted so many years yelling at each other."

"In our house we never raised our voices," Diana said. "You know what I like best about this job? I like when we're downtown and some businessman in a three-piece suit sees me on the rig and realizes he's looking at a woman. The double take. I love it."

"I love the way little kids go crazy when we drive by."

"You want kids?"

"If I ever get married again. You?"

"I think so. In a few years."

They were quiet until she said, "So. You ever going to tell me why you carved your initials in the wheel well of Engine Ten?"

"You saw that?"

"Don't worry. n.o.body else caught it. Tell me what's going on, John. Tell me why G. A. thinks you set the fire on Riverside Drive." He was quiet for a few moments as they danced. "I want to help you," she whispered into his ear.

Until now, he hadn't trusted anybody with the full catalog of his suspicions, wasn't sure he wanted to. "I'm being framed," Finney said. "You really want to hear this?"

"Yes."

The story took two slow dances and the better part of a fast number which they stood out, gazing out over the fog. From time to time they could see the blinking red lights atop a neighboring skysc.r.a.per, but mostly what they watched were the reflections of dancers and candlelit pumpkins in the dark windows. He told her about the dangerous buildings list, about following Monahan, about the counterfeit fire engine, the attempt on his life. When he paused, she said, "I saw Paul and Michael taking pictures of Engine Ten one day."

"I'd like it better if you saw Jerry Monahan taking pictures of it. Paul and Michael probably carry snapshots of the rig in their wallets to show people next to them on airplanes."

"Actually, I believe they do."

He recounted the rest of it, and she listened sympathetically.

"There's been speculation an arsonist was working last June," Diana said. "Earlier this week Reese even set up a committee to look into it."

"I'd hoped that was coming."

"The committee was disbanded almost as soon as it was put together. Reese said their preliminary findings indicated it was a waste of time."

"And the committee agreed?"

"I don't know. I could ask Oscar Stillman. He was the chairman."

"Don't bother." He hadn't told her about seeing Stillman with Monahan on Airport Way.

When the band announced a short intermission and the dance floor began to clear, a man dressed as Abraham Lincoln accidentally clotheslined his stovepipe hat off on a mobile of witches and goblins, only to have it caught in midair by a man in a Superman outfit, much to the entertainment of the bystanders. People mingled, ran into old friends; the conversations grew almost as loud as the band had been.

"Somebody's trying to frame you . . . ?" Diana said, thinking aloud. "Somebody was responsible for Leary Way, and they think you'll expose them? That's what's happening?"

"Patterson Cole owned Leary Way. He also owns the building where I found the engine. That's too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence."

"Patterson Cole owns property all over town. He owns vacant lots in Medina that the city's been trying to get hold of for twenty years. He owns this place."

"The Columbia Tower?"

"Bought it over a year ago. He has an entire floor on forty-two."

"I knew about the office, but I didn't realize he owned the building. I guess it stands to reason."

Diana said, "An engine has to cost close to three hundred grand. Why would anybody invest that kind of money?"

"I can't even guess what they're planning to do with the engine. But they want to tie up the fire department bad. They want to get us running around until we're so busy they can set fire to whatever they want and n.o.body will be there to stop it. They want a conflagration. You know as well as I do, once you get a block or two going, you get a firestorm-and n.o.body and nothing can stop one of those. They're going to burn down something, and it's going to be big. The phony engine was carrying a prefire for this place."

"There are four or five thousand people here in the daytime," Diana said. "Knock out the elevators, which the alarm system does automatically, and there are only two exits, both down narrow stairwells. One of those stairwells would be reserved for firefighting. Can you picture five thousand panicky people trying to get down the other one, walking forty or fifty stories probably in the dark?"

"This place will be full of smoke as soon as somebody opens a door onto the fire floor, which you know will happen."

"We did a prefire here a few months ago," Diana said. "The system has backups out the ying-yang. Television cameras. Sprinklers. Fire walls. Fire pumps to a.s.sist the department in raising water to the upper levels. It even has a water tank upstairs that holds thousands of gallons for fire suppression. This wouldn't be like Leary Way, where they didn't even have a night watchman. They'd be tangling with the best in technology here."

"The First-Interstate Bank building in L.A. had the best in technology, too," Finney said. "And that fire took rotating crews and four hundred firefighters to tap. Even so, it almost got away from them. Seattle's only got two hundred firefighters on duty at a time."

"So we'd start out with half as many people as needed, and the rest of the city wouldn't have any coverage at all."

"No. The Columbia Tower wouldn't have any coverage at all."

They both thought about that for a moment. She said, "I read something recently about this place, but I don't remember what. It didn't have anything to do with what we're talking about though."

He took her white-gloved hand as the band began playing again, and they danced. He couldn't stop thinking about the possibility of a fire in this building. Once in the stairs, anybody who was handicapped or elderly or infirm would be in serious trouble. Seattle's aerial ladders might reach to the sixth or seventh floor, but no higher. They didn't have air bags for people to jump onto, and even if they did, a seventy-story jump onto an air bag would be lethal.

40. THE MAKE-OUT ARTIST.