Chapter 23
MAX
The station kitchen at six in the morning is the same kitchen it has been for seventeen years.
I stand at the coffee pot.
I pour a cup.
I drink it black at the counter.
I am not eating.
I have not eaten since the half sandwich on the bumper of the truck on Wednesday at noon, and Wednesday was three days ago, and the half sandwich was the last thing I ate that I tasted.
I have put bread in my mouth at the sink at the cabin twice and I have put coffee in my mouth here three times, and the bread was paste and the coffee is paste and my body is a paste of a body, and I am at the counter at six in the morning on Saturday in my uniform shirt with the buttons done one off at the collar, and Doyle has not pointed it out.
I look at the buttons.
I do not fix the buttons.
The four rookies do not look at me. The four rookies have not looked at me since Thursday.
Val is at her desk every morning at five-thirty since Thursday.
Val's truck is in the chief's space. Val's office light is on at five-thirty.
Val's blinds are open. Val's coffee mug with the white glaze and the chip on the handle is on her desk.
Val has not called me into the office since Thursday.
Val has not said my name since Thursday night when she told me to go home.
Val has not been sympathetic.
Val has not been not-sympathetic either.
Val has been the chief, and the chief has been at her desk, and the chief has not put a hand on my shoulder in the bay kitchen, and the chief has not come down to the line at oh-six-thirty to watch the standpipe drill, and the chief has not asked me how I am sleeping, and the chief has not asked me if I have heard from her, and the chief knows I have not heard from her because the chief is the one who sent her away.
Val has not given me an address.
Val has not given me a city.
Val has not given me a phone number.
I asked her once and Val said, No, Hale, and Val walked out of the bay kitchen.
No, Hale.
It is a sentence. It is a chief's sentence. It is a sentence that means not from me, and not now, and not until I say, and not unless I say.
I drink the coffee.
The coffee is paste.
I put the cup on the counter.
I look at the radio on the wall.
The radio on the wall clicks once.
---
The radio says Station Nine, Engine, Truck, Battalion, structure fire, 1411 East Industry Road, large warehouse, smoke from the roof.
Doyle is up. The four rookies are up. The boots go on the line. I grab my turnout gear. The bay door opens. The engine comes alive at the second turn of the key.
I am in the truck before I have decided to be in the truck.
I am in the right-hand seat with my coat on and my helmet on the bench beside me and my SCBA on my back, and the truck is rolling out of the bay at six-oh-four with the lights on, and the cold air is in the cab, and the highway is grey, and Doyle is at the wheel, and the four rookies are in the back, and the radio is going, and I am the lieutenant on this truck, and I am at this address in eight minutes.
Eight minutes.
I count the mile markers between the station and the on-ramp.
I count the lights at the on-ramp.
I count the breath at the back of my throat in fours.
I do not count anything else.
The address is 1411 East Industry Road. I know the address. The address is on the east industrial spur off the county road.
"Doyle."
"Lieutenant."
"What is the building?”
"Industrial. Records storage. One of Clark's."
I look at her.
She keeps her eyes on the road.
"You did not hear me say that," she says.
"I did not hear you say that."
"Chief is on her way."
I look at the highway.
I look at the grey morning over the foothills.
I look at the column of black smoke at the east edge of the city that is coming up over the on-ramp.
I do not say anything.
---
The building is a single-story warehouse with a flat roof and a loading bay at the south end and a parking lot of cracked concrete and a chain-link fence at the back, and the smoke is coming through the roof at the north end in three columns, and the heat is coming off the south wall in a wave I can feel through my coat at twenty meters.
We pull in at six-twelve.
I am out of the truck at six-thirteen.
Doyle takes the engine to the hydrant at the corner of the lot. The four rookies pull the supply line. The big rookie with the cowlick is on the deck gun. The small rookie with the undercut is on the inlet. I run the size-up at the curb with the radio at my mouth.
"Battalion, Truck Nine on scene. One-story commercial, approximately ten thousand square feet, smoke showing all sides, heavy from the roof at the north end. No signs of life on the exterior. We are establishing a defensive perimeter and tying in to the hydrant at Industry and Sixteenth."
"Truck Nine, Battalion. Copy. Chief Mercer en route, two minutes."
I clip the radio.
I walk the perimeter. I walk the perimeter with my helmet on and my coat on and my boots on the cracked concrete, and I count the windows on the south wall and I count the doors on the east wall and I do not see civilians and I do not see vehicles in the lot and the lot is empty and the building is empty and the building is going to burn, and the building is going to burn down to the slab, and the building is one of his.
The building is one of Daniel Clark's.
Daniel Clark is dead.
Daniel Clark has been dead for eleven days, and Daniel Clark's records storage on the east industrial spur is on fire on Saturday morning at six in the morning, and the smoke is black at the roof and the heat is on the south wall, and a man who is dead does not own buildings that catch fire.
A man who is dead has a wife.
A wife who has gone.
The chief's truck pulls into the lot at six-fifteen.
---
Val is out of the truck in her uniform shirt and her chief's coat and she walks across the cracked concrete to me, and she does not look at the building, and she looks at me.
"Hale."
"Chief."
"Sit-rep."
I give her the sit-rep.
"Cause."
"Unknown."
"Building?”
I look at her.
She looks at me.
“Doyle said it was Clark owned.” I shrug my shoulders.
I look at the smoke.
"Convenient," Val says and she looks like she doesn’t know anything more about this fire than I do. It can be no coincidence that it is owned by Clark. It can be no accident.
"Convenient."
"Lieutenant Hale."
"Chief."
"This is the second Clark building to burn in eleven days."
"Yes, Chief."
"This is the second Clark building to burn at four in the morning to six in the morning on a quiet road with no civilians on scene."
"Yes, Chief."
"This is the second one in eleven days, Hale, and this one is not yours."
I do not say anything.
She looks at me. Her eyes are the colour of slate.
"Detective Warren has a name for the first Clark fire,” she says. “She had it on Wednesday. She has been working the name for four days. The name is Frank Vaccaro. The witness named Frank Vaccaro as having threatened Daniel Clark in her hearing, in her own kitchen, two days before the fire."
I look at her.
"The witness," I say with hope.
"Yes."
"The witness?”
"Yes, Hale."
I do not say anything.
Val looks at the building. The smoke at the north end is heavier now. The deck gun is on the roof.
"Frank Vaccaro," Val says, "is in a hotel in Reno.
He has been there since Wednesday. He has been there for a different matter that puts him in a courtroom on Monday.
Detective Warren spoke to Frank Vaccaro yesterday at sixteen-hundred on a call.
Frank Vaccaro denied the threat. Frank Vaccaro denied being in the kitchen on the twelfth.
Frank Vaccaro denied being in the state of Idaho on the twelfth.
Frank Vaccaro provided a hotel receipt and a credit card statement and the name of a woman who was with him in the hotel on the twelfth. "
"All right."
"Detective Warren has a witness statement that says one thing. Detective Warren has a hotel receipt that says another. Detective Warren has, this morning at six-oh-three, a second Clark building on fire."
"Yes, Chief."
"Detective Warren is going to have a theory about a competitor of Daniel Clark's by ten in the morning. Detective Warren is going to have a theory about Frank Vaccaro by noon. Warren is not going to come back to you, Hale."
I look at her.
"Chief."
"Hale."
"Did you set this."
She looks at me.
"No, Hale."
"All right."
"I did not set this."
"All right."
"And I am not going to ask you whether you set this."
"All right."
"Because I know you did not set this."
"All right."
"And I am also not going to ask you whether the witness set this."
I do not say anything.
Val looks at the building.
"Run your line, Lieutenant."
"Yes, Chief."
I walk back to the truck.
---
I am at the deck gun at six-twenty-two with the big rookie when I see her.
I see her at the south end of the lot, past the chain-link, past the parked patrol car, past the line of yellow tape Doyle has pulled across the entrance of the access road.
The smoke is rolling at the south wall and the wind is from the north, and the smoke is moving across her at her hip, and she is walking out of the smoke, and she is walking out of the smoke at a measured pace in a long camel coat and a black turtleneck and dark wide-leg trousers and the kind of boots that are not made for a fire scene, and her hair is down at her shoulders the colour of pale wheat, and her face is so so very beautiful, and she is looking at the building.
My breath stops.
Evangeline.
The big rookie says, "Lieutenant."
I do not answer.
"Lieutenant. Civilian, south fence."
"I see her."
"Should I."
"I see her. Hold the line."
I clip the line over to her. I walk off the deck gun. I walk across the lot. I walk past the engine. I walk past the patrol car. I walk past the yellow tape, and I walk past Doyle, and I walk to the south fence, and a police officer is there before I am.
The officer Diane Ryan is in plain clothes and a jacket with a badge on the belt, and Diane has her hand up, and Diane is between Evangeline and the fence.
"Ma'am, I am going to need you to step back from the perimeter."
"I am sorry. I did not know."
"Ma'am."
"I am Mrs. Daniel Clark," Evangeline says.
Her voice is the voice I heard say I love you in the lamp-warm bedroom on Wednesday night.
Her voice is now a different voice. Her voice is now the voice of a woman in a long camel coat who has driven a Porsche to a fire scene.
"This is my husband's building. I was on my way out to look at the property with my husband's attorney.
I saw the smoke from the highway. I am sorry to have walked up. I did not see the tape."
Diane does not move.
"Ma'am, I am going to need to see identification."
"Of course."
Evangeline puts her hand in the pocket of the camel coat. She takes out a small black wallet. She opens it. She hands a driver's license to Diane.
Diane looks at it.
Diane looks at her.
Diane does not look at me.
"Officer," I say.
Diane looks at me.
"Officer, this is the surviving spouse of the homicide on the house fire. She is a witness on Detective Warren's file. I am familiar with her from the night of the fourteenth. I will take her statement and walk her back to her vehicle."
Diane holds my eyes a beat too long. Then she looks at Evangeline.
Diane hands the license back.
"Mrs. Clark."
"Yes."
“Lieutenant Hale will take your statement."
"Thank you."
Diane looks at me.
Diane looks at me a count too long.
Diane walks off across the lot to the patrol car.
I do not look at Evangeline.
I turn. I walk along the south fence toward the access road.
I do not look back. I walk twenty yards.
I walk thirty. I walk forty. I walk to the corner of the fence where the smoke breaks and the parked patrol car blocks the line of sight from the engine and the deck gun and the chief's truck, and I stop, and I turn, and Evangeline is two paces behind me, and Evangeline is in the camel coat.
She does not put a hand on me.
"Max."
I look at her.
"Max."
"You should not be here."
"I know."
"Evangeline, what did you do?”
She looks at me. She does not answer.
The smoke rolls at the south wall. The wind from the north is steady. The deck gun is going at the building. The big rookie has the line. Doyle is on the radio with Val. The morning is grey at the foothills. The sun is not up yet.
"I love you," she says.
"Evangeline.” My world opens wide and my heart leaps.
“Max, I love you, and I am not going to say it the way I said it on Wednesday because the way I said it on Wednesday was the first time and we had had so much sex, I am saying it this time because I really really mean it and I am going to say it every time I see you for the rest of my life, and I am going to be with you, and I am with you, and I am yours. "
"Evangeline.”
"Yes."
"Did you set this?”
She looks at me.
She does not look away.
"Yes."
My chest goes tight.
"You set the records storage."
"I paid someone. A man that Daniel used to use.”
"Evangeline!” I am frustrated with her. The risks she has taken. Is taking. "Why?”
She looks at me.
"Because I think it will clear you and it will clear me.”
"Evangeline.”
I look at her and a half smile threatens my lips. She is so beautiful.
"You came back."
"Yes. I want to be with you and I don’t want to hide. I love you.”
She is two paces away.
She has not put a hand on me.
I have not put a hand on her.
"You did this for me?” I feel a rush of emotion that she has done this for me.
"I did this for us."
I smile.
"Evangeline.”
“Go now. You should go, I will meet you as soon as I can. Wait for me.”
I tell her where.
"Yes."
She nods once.
She turns. She walks back along the south fence toward the access road.
The camel coat moves at her calves. Her hair at her shoulders does not move.
The smoke at the south wall lifts at the corner and shows me the back of her head and the line of her shoulders and the wide-leg trousers and the boots that are not made for gravel, and she walks to the gravel shoulder, and she gets into the Porsche, and the Porsche is silver, and the Porsche turns over, and the Porsche pulls off the gravel shoulder, and the Porsche goes up the access road to the highway, and the Porsche is gone.
I stand at the corner of the fence.
I count to four.
I count to four again.
I walk back to the deck gun.
The big rookie does not look at me.
I take the line.
I run it.
The chief is at the engine.
The chief does not look at me.
The chief knows.
The chief knows, and the chief is at the engine, and the building is going to burn down to the slab, and the records storage is going to be a slab, and the records on the slab are going to be ash.
The line is running.
I run the line.