“Did he shoot at you?”
He shakes his head.“I don’t think so.It all happened so fast.”
“Was it anyone you know?Have seen before?”
“Nah.Had his hoodie covering his head and a scarf or something covering his mouth and stuff.”
“But you saw he was wearing a hoodie?”
“Black one,” he says, nodding.
It’s possible he’s making this masked, gun-toting guy up to divert the focus away from him, but I don’t get the sense he’s lying.The guy really isn’t in any mental shape to be fabricating stories.
“Anything printed on the hoodie?A logo or an image.Did you see anything else?Pants?Shoes?”
“No, but before he spotted me, he was heading for the SUV parked in the alley.”
I almost roll my eyes; this is like pulling teeth.
“What SUV?”
“Looked brand new.BMW XM.”Then he turns to his brother.“Remember Dad’s Porsche 911 Targa?It was that same color; that petrol blue metallic.”
Even as he describes the vehicle, I put the information in my phone, intending to send it straight to Rick Althof.
“Are you sure it wasn’t a customer’s vehicle?”I ask, playing devil’s advocate before I get too excited.
I know Althof has looked at the traffic cameras at both the traffic lights at Main and Elm and the one just south of the garage for that morning, but hadn’t found any activity out of the ordinary at either location.That time of the day there wouldn’t have been much traffic yet anyway, and so far, Rick was able to eliminate the few vehicles that did show up on the feed.
Having a description for the vehicle is huge, provided the BMW was involved.
“Fuck no,” Clem answers.“The only person I know in town with a Beemer is Gail Merrick, our mayor’s wife, she drives that white mother-of-pearl sedan and the only time I’ve had that piece of crap in my shop was when she lost part of her muffler in the church parking lot.She takes it into the dealership in Spokane to get it serviced.”
By the time I leave the hospital twenty minutes later, I’m pretty sure I have squeezed all the information I can from Chance Tanek.
I believe his claim of innocence.Even sober, the man can barely keep a straight thought, so I don’t buy that he’d be able to plan and execute a perfect arson drunk out of his brain.The other thing is, he couldn’t give a detailed description of the guy with the gun but was able to tell us the make and model of the vehicle because the color reminded him of his father’s car.That’s the kind of thing that seems genuine to me.Of course, finally, there’s the not so small issue I don’t believe in coincidence; my gut tells me these fires are connected, but I’ll be damned if I know how.
The clock on my dashboard shows it’s already six.It’ll be after seven by the time we eat if I have to cook, so tonight is take-out night.
I quickly check in with Carson to see what he feels like for dinner.
“Pizza.”
The instant response is not a surprise.
“Call them, I’ll swing by there to pick it up.And Son, order me a medium of that spinach, roasted pepper, and chicken one they have.”
“You don’t want the loaded pie?”
That’s our standing order; they load that pizza with every meat, four or five different cheeses, and a pile of jalapeño peppers.We usually share an extra-large between us.
It’s not that I don’twantthe pie, but this afternoon, while sitting on the small sofa with Bess straddling my lap, her hands roaming all over my bare torso, I noticed I have officially entered the dad-bod stage.Clothes hide a lot of sins but my shirt was on the floor.The basic structure is still there—somewhere underneath—but the years of neglect and convenience have definitely left some padding.
“Trying to change it up,” I tell my kid.“But you order whatever you like.”
As soon as I hang up with him, I dial Althof.
“Did you get my texts?”
