Fire Born (Firehouse 343)

by Christina Moore

  “Nobody will if I have anything to say about it,” Martie assured her. “But I can’t protect her or her mother unless you cooperate.”

  Immediately she turned to the computer on her left and rapidly tapped her fingertips into the keys. Martie noted absently that her typing speed was better than her own. After a few clicks of the mouse and some more typing, she reached for a Post-it and a pen and scribbled something down.

  “This is it,” she said, handing the piece of paper to Martie. “That’s in the Liberty Park apartments.”

  Glancing at the address, she nodded. “Thank you,” she said, then quickly headed for the nearest elevator.

  Not being entirely familiar with Gracechurch, it took Martie longer than anticipated to find the Liberty Park Apartments complex—to her embarrassment, she’d had to stop at a gas station and ask for directions. Arriving at last, she drove to the back of the complex where the station attendant had told her the address would be (his sister lived in an adjacent building). Parking in an unmarked visitor’s spot, she glanced up and took a look all around her. The apartments were fairly new—couldn’t be more than five or six years since construction was completed. That meant, or so one could safely assume, that each building had been thoroughly inspected and had met all of the state’s current fire codes.

  Ronnie and Jessica should be pretty safe here, at least from another fire.

  Martie headed for the stairs that would take her up to the second story, and a moment later she was knocking on the door of apartment H. A couple minutes later she heard the snick of a lock turning, then the door opened.

  “Hello—Martie, right?” Ronnie asked. “How… how did you know where I was?”

  Nodding, Martie replied, “Yeah. Martie Liotta,” she said. “One of the nurses on the third floor told me Jessica had been released and gave me the address. Do you think I could come in for a few minutes?”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course,” Ronnie said, stepping back and holding the door open wider. “Forgive my rudeness, I was hoping you were the pizza. Jessy asked for pizza for dinner, and I just couldn’t say no.”

  Martie grinned. “Certainly not. I heard she was talking again.”

  Ronnie shut the door and then stepped around her into the dining nook off to the right. “She is, thank goodness. I still can’t figure out how Kara did it. I’m her mama, and nothing I said or did could get a word out of her. The doctors and nurses couldn’t get her to speak either.”

  At the crestfallen expression that crossed the other woman’s face, Martie placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Hey, I doubt it was anything you did or didn’t do. Maybe Jessica just wasn’t ready to talk until today.”

  “That’s what Kara said—that maybe she was finally ready to end her silence,” Ronnie said. “I’m beginning to wonder if it wasn’t because she—Kara, that is—said the word ‘fireman’. First words Jessy said in nearly two weeks was that there was a fireman in the fire. Then she and Kara talked about Kara’s dad—all while she was hiding in the wardrobe.”

  “I’ll bet that was some conversation to overhear,” Martie said, then cleared her throat. “Listen, speaking of fathers, I need to ask you some questions about Jessica’s.”

  At that moment, Jessica came running in from the back of the apartment. She was clad in an over-sized Bugs Bunny t-shirt and a pair of long shorts that had clearly come from someone much taller than she. “Mommy, is the pizza here? I want pizza.”

  “I know you do, baby,” Ronnie said, the frown she’d formed at Martie’s last words changing instantly to a smile when she looked at her daughter. “But it’s not here yet. I’ll let you know when it is, okay?”

  Jessica huffed dramatically. “Fine. Tell me the minute it gets here—I’m hungry.”

  Martie watched the little girl turn and trudge back the way she’d come, disappearing into what she assumed was a bedroom, with a smile on her face. “Wow. From zero to bossy in a matter of hours—but I’m sure you don’t care much right now, so long as she keeps talking.”

  “No, I don’t,” Ronnie agreed. “Why do you need to ask me about her father?”

  Looking over, Martie said, “I think we should sit down.”

  Ronnie’s frown returned, deepening as she indicated the round, glass-topped table beside her. She and Martie both took seats and once again, Martie brought out her recorder. After she pressed the record button and spoke her usual preamble, she said to Ronnie, “I need you to tell me about Jessica’s father. You said his name was Kenny?”

  Ronnie nodded. “Yeah. Why do you want to know about him?”

  “Was Kenny his legal name, or was his full name Kenneth? What was his last name?” Martie asked.

  “He told me Kenny was short for Kennedy, his middle name. He wouldn’t tell me his first name no matter how many times I asked, and his last name was Still… something. To be perfectly honest I can’t remember if it’s Stillson or Stillwater or something else beginning with ‘Still’, as I’ve tried to forget it ever since I left him.”

  Shock coursed through her, along with a small dose of shame. Martie had half been expecting Ronnie to say Graham’s last name even though she had no reason whatsoever to suspect he had ever met her—he was the one who’d suggested Martie ask about Jessica’s father, for goodness’ sake! Never before had her boss given her a reason to mistrust him, and one stupid mistake was no reason to suspect a man she’d known for more than ten years of arson and attempted murder.

  This, of course, led to her feeling even more like the total bitch she’d been to pull the same stunt on Chris.

  But stronger than her shame—at least for the moment—was the utter disbelief that someone as affable and outgoing as Victor Stillman could possibly have a single evil bone in his body. He was a friend, someone she chatted up in the cafeteria, or shared a beer with after work. He always seemed so dedicated to his work, to justice and the pursuit of the truth—and he always seemed to work especially hard on her cases. He’d been as frustrated as she had been at not being able to pin the warehouse or convenience store fires on their owner.

  “Martie? Are you alright?”

  Blinking, she looked up at Ronnie. “I… I’m sorry. That name is just very familiar to me,” she said haltingly. “I work with a man named Victor Stillman.”

  “That’s it!” Ronnie exclaimed. “Kenny Stillman was his name. But surely it’s a coincidence. I don’t think you have anything to worry about—Stillman’s got to be a fairly common name.”

  Martie chuckled even though she did not truly feel the humor she forced into the sound. “Of course. I’m sorry—surely you’re right. It’s just I’ve had a weird morning and that kinda threw me another curve ball.”

  “No problem. So tell me why you wanted to know about Jessica’s father?” Ronnie said.

  Taking a breath to settle her nerves, Martie asked her, “First, would you classify Kenny as violent or vengeful?”

  Ronnie frowned. “He was always very pleasant, at least in the beginning. It wasn’t until I refused to have an abortion that he ever showed he could be mean.” She paused and looked toward the window across the room. “When I told him I was keeping the baby, he yelled. A lot. Screamed about how he wasn’t going to let me ruin him with a brat he didn’t want, because he already had all the kids he cared to have. I said it was okay, because I wanted the baby. I didn’t need him. Of course he believed I did, because he had helped me get the apartment, and because he gave me money and gifts… But even though I struggled from time to time before I met him, I was supporting myself. And I’d say I’ve done a damn fine job of caring for Jessica on my own since leaving.”

  She sighed then. “Kenny never laid a hand to me in violence, but yeah, I’d say he could be vengeful. Remember, he got me fired from the hotel by saying I’d been sleeping with guests in empty rooms. He took what money and jewelry and other things he’d given me as punishment for defying him. But even that’s nothing, really. So I guess I’d classify him as petty rather than venge
ful. Why are you asking about him?”

  “I apologize if it seems I’m beating around the bush,” Martie said. “It’s just that I’m trying to get a sense of his character. Based on the evidence I gathered, it… Well, it appears that you or Jessica were the intended victim in the fire.”

  Ronnie visibly paled. She raised a hand to her mouth, covering it as she glanced toward the back of the apartment. “Me or Jessica?” she asked as she lowered it. “What makes you say that? I thought the fire started in another apartment?”

  Martie waited until Ronnie looked back at her. “The fire actually started in several apartments—a trail of acetone, a highly flammable chemical, was poured and lit in every apartment that wasn’t occupied at that time of day. That suggests the person who did this had watched the building for some time to figure out who wouldn’t be home.”

  “But that doesn’t mean me or Jessy were… How do you know it was supposed to be one of us?”

  “Ronnie, nobody else who lived in that building was visited by an electrician recently. And the ceiling beam in Jessica’s room—the one that fell and killed Calvin Maynard—it wasn’t just weakened by the fire. I have evidence proving the so-called electrician took a saw to that beam, all but guaranteeing it would be weak enough to break,” Martie explained. “Whoever that man was, he wanted that beam to fall.”

  “I didn’t hear any sawing, but then it could be because Jess had the TV on in the living room kind of loud,” Ronnie told her. “You think Kenny might have done this?”

  Shrugging, Martie said, “I am not accusing him of anything at this point, but right now he’s our most likely suspect—unless you can thank of anyone else who might want to cause you or your daughter harm?”

  “No, nobody,” her hostess replied, shaking her head. “I swear, the only person I ever really pissed off in my life was Kenny. But God, I didn’t think he’d come after me or Jessica, not after all this time. I haven’t seen or heard from the man since I left!”

  Ronnie pushed to her feet then and paced away. “If that man that came to the apartment the other day wasn’t a real electrician, that means Kenny—or someone else—hired him. He was there to spy on me and Jessica…”

  She whirled back. “Oh my God, he knows where we are!”

  Martie rose and walked to her. “Ronnie, please calm down. Kenny can’t possibly know where you are right now—he may know you’re in Gracechurch, but not where this apartment is. I nearly had a fight with the nurses about getting the address, and I’m a cop.”

  Ronnie blinked. “They didn’t want to give it to you?” she asked.

  “No, they didn’t. Hospital policy is strict about divulging patient information,” Martie explained. “They’re not allowed to release your address to anyone but the police or your next of kin.”

  Both women were startled then by the sound of someone knocking on the door. “I’ll get it for you. Why don’t you take a moment to calm yourself, hmm?”

  Ronnie nodded again and turned away from the door as Martie turned toward it. She looked through the peephole to see a man holding one of those insulated bags pizza delivery men used to keep the pies warm. “It’s just your pizza,” she said over her shoulder and reached for the handle.

  Upon her opening the door, the man on the other side muttered “Shit” and dropped the bag in his hand, raising a pistol and striking Martie across the forehead before she had time to react. Pain exploded from the point of impact and she stumbled backward, eliciting a gasp from Ronnie.

  “Larry, what the hell are you doing?!” was the last thing Martie heard before she was hit again, causing her to black out.

  Twelve

  “Captain, can we talk?”

  Chris looked up from the papers before him, another personnel file from a firefighter hoping for a position at the new firehouse. This one he was strongly leaning toward offering one of the openings to—even though Jack Galiotti would be coming all the way from New York. His experience as a technical rescue firefighter could prove invaluable to the city.

  He’d been about to pick up the phone and see if he could reach the man when Logan popped around the door. “Sure, Airborne, what’s up?” he asked.

  Logan stepped fully into the office, followed by Football, Terry, Rick, and Tim Roberts, the volunteer who’d become their regular fill-in. Chris had a feeling he’d be offered a permanent place on B Shift once he and the others transferred to Firehouse 343.

  “Consider this an intervention,” Football said.

  Instantly, Chris felt annoyed that the first good mood he’d had in days was suddenly shot to hell. Frowning, he barked, “What the fuck makes you think I need one?”

  “Because you’ve been an ass ever since Cal’s funeral,” Terry said bluntly.

  “Big time,” Logan seconded, and Chris felt his frown drop into a scowl.

  “I’m not in the mood for games, fellas,” he said, his tone sharp. “Either get to the point of this pathetic exercise or get out. I have work to do.”

  “Dude, whatever happened between you and Martie, you gotta fix it,” Logan declared.

  Anger shot through him and he fought to keep from lashing out. “Why should I fix it?” he retorted. “I didn’t break it.”

  “What did she do that pissed you off so bad, Boss?” asked Tim.

  Chris paused, and the others looked at one another. “Boss” was what they’d all called Calvin. Tim was the first to address him with that moniker.

  Clearing his throat, he replied, “To put it plainly, something she shouldn’t have. Something that was completely unnecessary.”

  Football shook his head. “If I’ve learned anything from being married, it’s that you gotta learn to forgive and forget, man.”

  “Martie and I aren’t married, Football.”

  “Doesn’t matter—where a woman is concerned, the advice is the same,” his friend replied. “Look, even I could see you really liked that girl. First time in a long time I seen you fall that fast—which surprised me, I’m not afraid to say, given the reason why you met in the first place. But love is love, Chris, and being apart is killing you. You gotta work this out.”

  “I’m not—” I’m not in love with her, he’d been about to say. But even he knew that wasn’t true. He was in love with Martie, and probably had been from day one.

  Which was why it had hurt so damn much when he found out she’d gone and run that background check on him—why it felt like a Halligan’s pick had been jammed through his heart listening to her accuse him of attempting to commit murder when he’d started the fire that had sent him to a juvenile detention center for two years. He had fallen for completely the wrong person…again. Someone who couldn’t be bothered to just ask him about it.

  Then again, Martie would never have known about the lowest point of his life if she hadn’t somehow convinced a judge to unseal his juvenile records. Not unless he’d volunteered the information, which he knew he’d have done at some point. It wasn’t like he’d been trying to hide it from her.

  Before he could reformulate his response, the overhead speakers blared out a call.

  “Dispatch to City Fire—Engine 14. Vehicle fire at 1095 Liberty Park Drive. Respond Code 2.”

  “Fuck!” Chris shouted as he jumped out of his chair. “That’s where Kara used to live!”

  He was through the door and in the locker room almost before the others could catch him. As Rick and Tim were hurrying into their bunker pants at their own lockers, Football reached over and put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you should sit this one out, Chris.”

  Chris threw his hand off and jerked up his trousers. “No fuckin’ way. Kara’s family, and if she’s at the apartment with Ronnie and Jessica, I’m going.”

  He’d told them all when he came on shift about Karalyn’s offer to let Ronnie and Jessica Thompson live in her apartment, now that she was back living in her childhood home. Each of the men had expressed pride in her generosity.

  “That’s precisely why yo
u should stay here at the station,” Football told him. “Because Kara’s family.”

  Chris reached for his jacket and helmet. “Only way you’re gonna stop me is to knock me out—and right now, taking a swing at me isn’t a very bright idea.”

  Jamming his new white helmet on his head, he pushed past Football as he shrugged into his turnout coat and hurried out to the engine, Rick and Tim following close behind. Rick beat him to the driver’s side, knowing that as the officer, his place was in the passenger seat coordinating with dispatch on the radio. The mike was in Chris’s hand as soon as his ass was on the leather, checking to make sure the police had evacuated the immediate area as Rick was pulling out of the station.

  Witnesses, the dispatcher relayed, had reported that from what they could see, nobody was in the car. It was also not parked right next to the building, news that served to set him at ease a small fraction. However, someone had seen a suspect pour a liquid onto the car and throw a match, then jump into a white panel van that took off at high speed. Chris interpreted that to mean that there was more than one person involved, else how had the van sped away so quickly?

  He urged Rick to hurry. The Liberty Park apartment complex was in New Town. He knew that Kara had moved most of her belongings to the house over the last week, leaving her furniture and some dishes behind, which had come in handy when she decided to offer the apartment to Ronnie. 1095 was the building Kara had lived in, and Ronnie and Jessica were there now. More than likely (or so he hoped) the car fire had nothing whatsoever to do with them. His gut, however, told him it could hardly be a coincidence that a car had been lit up on the very day the Thompsons moved in. He already knew, based on what Martie had told him about the evidence they’d gathered, that there was a strong possibility that Ronnie or Jessica—or both—were the intended targets in the Breckon Apartments fire. So was this a warning that the arsonist wasn’t finished with them yet?

  A gathering crowd inside the complex slowed their progress as Rick was turning into the drive. Chris reached over and blared the siren, watching the gawkers scatter like rats deserting a sinking ship with satisfaction. When they made it to the back of the complex at last, they got their first glimpse of the car, what looked to be a mid-size SUV. It was fully engulfed already, likely due to whatever accelerant had been poured on it, but the absence of twisted metal was proof that neither the engine nor the gas tank had been compromised—yet. They were lucky that they’d been alerted in time, but if they didn’t hurry, Chris mused, his relief would be short-lived.