Shattered Shell (15 page)

I went in through a side door and walked to the rear, past the silent and well-shined fire apparatus. The truck bay area smelled of smoke, soap, and rubber, and the floor was gray-painted concrete and shiny. At the rear, high up on the wall, were framed photos of old fire chiefs, beginning with one O.W. Oates in 1910. There was a short hallway and a couple of steps up, and I was into Mike Ahern's office, which was near the hose tower, where fire hose was hung to dry after being used. He stood up and shook my hand and hauled out an office chair for me to sit in. The chair had green vinyl upholstery and the seat had been repaired in a couple of places with duct tape.

"I see you got out of the police station in one piece," he said,

He sat back in his own chair, holding a handful of files in one large hand. He had on a white dress shirt with a gold fire inspector's badge and black necktie, and his closely cropped black hair looked like it had been in the hands of a barber a day or two ago. I tried not to stare at the shiny patch of burn tissue on his head, just above his left ear, wondering about what fire in what town had caused him that pain.

"Oh, I usually get out of the police station just fine."

He grinned, but he didn't look particularly friendly. "Then you must have a pretty good relationship with our lady police detective, eh?"

The room had one dusty window overlooking the parking lot.  Standing up and holding hands, Mike and I could have stretched out and touched both walls of the office, but I doubted we would do that anytime soon. I decided I didn't like the tone of his voice.

"It's fine," I said. "What's next? Want to know our sleeping arrangements?"

He smirked. "From what I hear, that's nothing you need to worry about," he said, and I was tired and felt like walking out on him, but I just put on my impatient look and he moved around the files some and said, "Last week, you were hot to talk to me. What's the matter? No longer interested in the story?"

There was a whiteboard on the wall nearest me, and listed on the board in black marker were the names and dates of the four motels, beginning with the SeaView last December and ending just this week with the Rocks Road Motel. On the other walls were certificates of achievement and some photos, mostly color shots of fires here in Tyler, and I paused for a moment, looking above his head at a couple of framed items, and I forced myself to answer him, not wanting him to see any change in my expression.

"Oh, I'm still interested," I said, feeling warm and unzipping my coat. "But I'm sorry about forgetting it was today."

He shrugged. "No problem. So, do you have something for me or what?"

I waited, still intrigued by the items above his head. Mike had been fire inspector for only a few months and this was the first time I had been in his office.

"Look, when I told you that I had some information on these fires, it was more like negative information," I finally said. "I did some research, mostly by tapping into data banks, looking at records at the town hall and the county courthouse in Exonia, contacting the Secretary of State's office, and whatever I have, I'll send you. But what I have is probably something you already know. Right?"

He swiveled a bit in his chair. "Which is what, Mr. Cole?"

"Not one of the hotels that burned were owned by people with money problems," I said. "None of the owners had a history of suspicious fires, they were the sole owners of their buildings, and they had no business dealings with each other. None were over insured. That's what I have. Which tells me we have someone who enjoys what he's doing."

"Firebug, right?"

"Right."

He nodded. ''I’d be interested in seeing that paperwork, but I'm surprised you're passing it along. Any newspaper reporter, especially that young girl from the
Chronicle
, they'd tell me to go piss up a rope if I asked for any stuff."

"I'm a different kind of writer. I don't have deadlines that newspaper reporters have. And besides, I live in Tyler, too. I don't like the idea of some nut going around burning down buildings for fun. I think I want him caught just as much as you do."

His face seemed to darken. "Well, you're wrong there, my friend. I want this guy so bad I think I can smell him sometimes, out there walking around and torching buildings. Arson is the easiest crime to commit and the hardest to prove. You think every building out there is doubly locked and alarmed? Please. Especially in winter, when most beach buildings are empty for three months.  Just get in and do your dirty business, and five minutes later the building’s burning merrily along. And if you think it's easy proving arson, then I got the word for you. It ain't."

"I can believe that," I said. "Most of your evidence goes up in smoke, and what you have left can be blasted by water and then left open to the air. Hard to get good evidence from a crime scene like that."

A firm nod. "Absolutely goddamn true. Let's say the slug business owner, let's say he's up to his ears in debt. Bill collectors are camped out on his front lawn and his phone's ringing off the hook from banks and vendors, and he's over insured his ratty motel for a  half million dollars, and then it burns down. Then let's say I'm in there rooting around, working with the fire marshal's office and whatever nitwit detective manages to string along, and then we have signs of an accelerant. Fine. Arson. Then what? You think an arrest is right around the corner?"

The room seemed to be getting warm. "Based on what I know, probably no."

Mike cocked his head. "You seem to know a lot."

"I like to read."

"Unh-hunh. Well, you're right. Unless I have six witnesses, swearing that Joe Schmoe, business owner, was seen entering the basement of his hotel with a gasoline can and box of matches, there's not much we can do. And if you think there's six spare witnesses out there looking at what's going on with their neighbors, go for a walk on the beach right now and tell me how many people you run into."

There was the sound of a garage door opening, some slapping footsteps on concrete, and then the sudden and sharp rumbling of diesel engines firing up. A voice came over a speaker in the building, loud and distorted.

"Tyler engine four. Tyler ambulance one. Respond to intersection of Marshwood Avenue and Atlantic Avenue. Motor vehicle accident, personal injury."

The engines roared louder and there was the raucous wail of the sirens, very loud and then dimming as the fire truck and ambulance went out on Ashburn Avenue, heading for one of the side streets that would get them heading north. I looked over at Mike and his hands were clasped together, knuckles quite white. He noticed me looking at him.

"Sometimes I'm like an old fire horse," he quietly said. "Those sounds just get me going and I feel like jumping up on the truck. Hard to remember I'm in this desk job."

"How did you get here then?"

Something odd happened to his face, and it was like I was looking at two or three Mike Aherns as expressions changed and melted into another, and then into a blank look and flat voice that said, "Things change, that's all. You have to use your talents where you can."

I said, "And your talents tell you that the nut is still out there?"

"Oh, yes, he is," he said, looking down at his desk. "For some reason he's chosen Tyler for his work, and I'm going to track him down, whoever he is. And then his fun will be over and mine will begin." He looked up. "You may think your stuff may be redundant, but do send it along. It might answer some questions I have."

“All right," I said, wondering why I was going to make this next promise, but also knowing it was the right thing to do. "I'll pass along the stuff I've learned, but here's a suggestion. You get to the point you think you know who the arsonist is, that you've got a good case built, but something happens and you can't make an arrest, give me a call."

A quiet pause, quiet enough so I could make out the sirens of the fire truck and ambulance, heading north for whoever was up there, scared and bleeding and hurt.

Mike stared at me. "Are you suggesting something illegal?"

I shook my head. "No. I'm suggesting something creative."

A thin smile. "Some magazine writer. I've heard some things about you, Cole. That you showed up here a few years back, thin and scary-looking, and you managed to move into the prettiest little beach house on this coast, once owned by the government. And I also heard that you used to work at the Pentagon, but you didn't just shuffle papers. Some people have told me that you were a spook, and since you've moved here, you've been involved in a couple of spooky things. Maybe even a death or two. That right?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "Sometimes I'm scared of the dark. What kind of spook does that make me?"

He slowly swiveled in his chair, pointed up to three framed objects on the wall near his head. "You ever get a chance to play in the sandbox?"

The room seemed warmer still. "No, I was stuck back at the puzzle palace, probably making your lives miserable with out-of-date reports and intelligence estimates. Were you regular or reserve?"

His eyes were still on the wall. Framed there were two black-and-white photos. One was an aerial photo and showed a few oil wells, burning hard, their black clouds of smoke nearly filling the photo. The other framed photo showed a group of four men standing in front of a Humvee, arms around each other, grinning. Their faces were filthy, and goggles were pulled up over their helmets. All four wore the "chocolate chip" camouflage gear for the desert. I recognized Mike as the third soldier from the left.

In the middle of the two framed photos was another, larger frame that didn't contain a photo. It contained what appeared to be a folded-over Iraqi flag.

Mike swiveled back in his chair, blinked his eyes. "Reserves. Combat engineers. I was in the regular Army after getting out of  high school, and once I learned enough to get around on my own, I got out and joined the fire service. But I stayed in the reserves, for that extra income and because I liked the guys I drilled with. Not a bad deal, until that shitty summer when Saddam invaded Kuwait and Poppy called us up."

He looked back up at the photos again. "Oh, some of us bitched about getting taken away from our families and our jobs, but I went overseas, all right. I knew when I signed up there was always the chance I'd get called up and sent into harm's way. That was the deal. And it pissed me and other guys off how so many of our fellow sunshine patriots got deferment conversions when the call-up order went out, or suddenly found out after months of service that they were really pacifists after all. I remember reading about one little nitwit, in the Marines, I think, who was shocked to find out that yes, indeed, he might be asked to report for duty and get sent overseas to kill people, and he sued the government to get discharged. I mean, how dumb can you get? Jesus. And what did you do back then?"

"Pretty boring stuff, though the hours were long. Read a lot and wrote a bunch of reports and did some analysis work."

“Did you learn a lot?”

"More than I wanted to," I said. "Like what?"

"Like I signed an agreement when I left never to talk about it," I said.

Nor anything else, I thought.

"And you," I added. "What did you learn?"

Then his mood went somber, and he looked up again at the photos. "Learned things about myself, about handling pressure. Learned that the government does some things good, but freeze drying food isn't one of them." He started to rub at the bum tissue at the side of his head. "I also learned that some people don't belong in difficult places, no matter how many laws you pass, no matter how many congresswomen think otherwise."

"Oh?"

He nodded, and his face reddened as he said, "Women, Mr. Cole. Sorry if I'm not correct enough, but they shouldn't be cops, they shouldn't be firefighters, and they don't belong on a battlefield. They can't handle the pressure, they can't handle the stress, and too many things can go wrong."

"Like what?"

His eyes were aiming straight at me, and his fingers were practically stroking the burn tissue at the side of his head. "Like killing their own soldiers. Understand?"

I didn't understand, but I wasn't in the mood for an explanation. So I nodded in a few more places, and when the conversation dribbled away, I got out of there and back in the cool air, closed up my coat, and headed for home.

As I drove, I thought about the cheery fire inspector, and wondered just how deep his dislike for women in general and one woman in particular really went.

Chapter Ten

On Saturday morning I was in Newburyport, and the man I was meeting had a bright red face, whether from embarrassment or the cold, I wasn't sure. He had on a thick green cardigan over a plaid shirt, black pants, and slippers, and his hands were gnarled. What little hair he had was white and parted over one side, and his face had the wrinkles and splotches that told of years out in the sun. Jason Henry, landlord to Kara Miles, opened his door and invited me in.

"Jeez, so you're Mr. Cole, listen, I'm still sorry about the other night," he said, his voice low and moving quick. "It's just that I know nobody's 'spose to be up there, and when I heard all the footsteps and talking, I felt like I had to call the cops."