“No,” said Singh. “The marks were covered in soot. That means the damage to the tracking was done before the fire. The marshals and I concur on this.”
Georgia took a moment to process what Singh was saying. “So you’re telling us that Dana and Rosen were both drugged and perhaps intentionally burned, and the torch is someone with a good working knowledge of fire science, who also happens to possess a halligan…”
“—We used a halligan,” said Georgia.
“Not on the tracking, we didn’t,” Carter corrected. “But the firefighters who put out the fire could’ve.”
“No,” said Singh. “The marks were covered in soot. That means the damage to the tracking was done before the fire. The marshals and I concur on this.”
Georgia took a moment to process what Singh was saying. “So you’re telling us that Dana and Rosen were both drugged and perhaps intentionally burned, and the torch is someone with a good working knowledge of fire science, who also happens to possess a halligan…”
“—In other words, a firefighter,” said Carter, completing her thought.
“That would be my conclusion, yes,” said Singh. “I understand that Dana and Rosen worked for the fire department and were unpopular with the men. It appears that the police will be concentrating their search in your backyard.”
“Backyard? Heck,” muttered Carter. “More like up our backsides.”
“Yes, Marshal,” said Singh, biting back a small grin of satisfaction at finally getting the upper hand. “And you do not even need a computer model to figure that one out.”
15
It was almost six P.M. by the time Georgia finished her cause-and-origin report and headed home on her Harley Davidson. The air was muggy, but the breeze flying past her as she shifted from third gear to fourth lifted her spirits. Sometimes the only place she could think was on her bike, with a fistful of engine between her legs and a stretch of asphalt beneath her.
She’d bought the bike eight months ago, shortly after her thirtieth birthday, though, at the time, she’d never been on a motorcycle in her life—much less a monster that weighed over six hundred pounds. Her mother called the purchase “dangerous and irresponsible”—as opposed to Georgia’s job, she guessed, which was dangerous and responsible. Friends joked that she was starting her midlife crisis ten years too early. Mac wouldn’t let her drive him around the block on it, though Georgia suspected that had more to do with the macho discomfort of having a girl for a chauffeur than with any real concern that she might kill him.
Only Connie was supportive. “You were a single mom before you turned twenty-one,” she reminded Georgia at the time. “Maybe you need to cut loose a little now and then.” Connie even sprang for a custom-painted rose on the gas tank—“a bike-warming gift,” she’d called it. Georgia loved that rose.
Now, as she maneuvered her bike between rows of cars crawling along the Long Island Expressway, Georgia thought about the report she’d just completed. Under the section labeled “determination,” Georgia had scribbled, cuppi—short for cause undetermined pending police investigation. She couldn’t call Rosen’s death an “accident”—no matter how embarrassing the eventual findings might be to the FDNY. Ajay Singh was onto something, she was sure of it. Though now that the case was out of her hands, she’d never know more.
And yet there was more. She could feel it this afternoon at One Police Plaza, the NYPD’s high-rise headquarters, when she dropped off a copy of the report. There was a nervous energy in A and E’s ninth-floor squad room. Lieutenant Sandowsky was in a glassed-in office, along with Arzuti and Willard, meeting with serious-looking civilians in suits. Georgia knew they were civilians—there were no telltale bulges of guns beneath their jackets. Other detectives, normally quick with a friendly dig at the rival FDNY, averted their eyes as she passed. When the elevator arrived to take her back to the lobby, a couple of cops in Bomb Squad jackets got off on the A and E floor.
Georgia had planned to head straight home, but on impulse, she took a detour through a semi-industrial area on the borders of Woodside and Sunnyside, a mile or so from her house. Instinct drove her to the spot. It was the only place she could think of where she might be able to put her fears to rest.
Half a block from the highway, the apartment houses and bodegas disappeared, replaced by gray, low-slung warehouses, shoe repair shops and mechanics’ garages now closed for the evening. Beyond, the Amtrak rail yards rumbled with silver cars full of Long Island commuters.
Georgia turned down a one-way street with a self-storage building on the corner. Just beyond the concrete-block building, a dark blue sedan with an Albany, New York, dealership sticker idled in the center of the street, blocking her path. Beyond the sedan, men in suits and yellow hard hats walked the cracked sidewalks, mumbling into radios and waving what looked like metal detectors across the pavement.
Georgia planted her feet on the asphalt and shifted her bike into neutral to coast a little closer. A tall, bony man with a radio in his hand got out of the sedan. He looked to be in his early sixties, with sawdust-colored hair and the kind of thin lips and humorless pale eyes of a college basketball coach. Voices crackled over his radio—flat, twangy voices—not from New York. Certainly not cops, firefighters or Con Ed electricians. Who were these guys?
“This street is closed,” the man grunted in a bland astronaut’s voice. Definitely not a New Yorker, Georgia decided.
“How come?” she pressed.
The man frowned at her. An impatient frown, like he was used to being obeyed, not questioned. Even with six hundred pounds of bike beneath her and a helmet obscuring most of her features, she still didn’t look very threatening.
“It’s being surveyed,” said the man.
Georgia searched the cluster of yellow hard hats for a surveyor’s tripod. There was none. Instead, she saw a man in a blue blazer leading a German shepherd along a patch of sidewalk. The shepherd sniffed the concrete with the intensity of an addict doing a line of cocaine.
Surveying, my ass, thought Georgia. “Can you tell me how to get to Skillman Avenue?” She knew the way. But since she had no authority to question anyone here, it was the best she could do to buy time.
The man gave her a blank look just as another figure emerged from the dark blue sedan.
“Two right turns and a left on Forty-first,” said the second man with the nasal assuredness of a Queens native. He was short and stocky, with a chunky, square-shaped face topped by a shock of snow-white hair. Although his bushy white eyebrows were frozen into something approaching a kindly expression, his dark brown eyes gave off an entirely different feel. Like the blackness of an elevator shaft. She had seen that face before, though she couldn’t remember where. The more she studied him, the more his eyes seemed to penetrate hers like two carbon-tipped drill bits.
“Well?” asked the white-haired man. “What are you waiting for? A police escort?”
“No…thanks,” said Georgia, backing off. She turned her bike around and headed home, an odd sensation of dread creeping over her. There was only one thing that would bring a bomb-sniffing dog, a bunch of suits from upstate and a man that intense-looking to this patch of drab real estate on the borders of Woodside, Queens. They weren’t there for what was on that street. They were there for what was beneath it.
By the time Georgia pulled into her driveway, the sun was beginning to set. But the sky was still bright and the air had cooled. Above the hum of air conditioners, Georgia heard splashing water.
She unstrapped her metallic red helmet and followed the noise to the backyard. Richie was paddling furiously across the pool in the waning light. Her mother was seated underneath the awning, polishing her nails. A third figure was chest deep in the water with his back to her. Two strong, sculpted arms, tanned the color of olive oil, were locked over the rim of the pool. A head of blue-black hair dripped down to the concrete beneath. Marenko. That was all she needed right now.
“Mom, watch this,” said Richie, b
y way of greeting. He hoisted his rail-thin body onto the top step of the aluminum pool ladder, then turned to Marenko. “Okay, shoot me, Mac.”
Marenko formed his hand into the shape of a pistol and pretended to fire. Richie clutched his heart and belly-flopped with great melodrama into the water. Marenko laughed, a deep, rich sound.
“That’s funny, Richie,” said Georgia. Then she turned to her mother, pointedly ignoring Marenko. “I’m going to take a shower, Ma. Then I’ll help with dinner.”
“I’ll give you a shower,” growled Mac playfully, cupping his hands with pool water. But something in Georgia’s face made him stop. Instead, he hoisted himself out of the pool, wrapped a towel around his waist and followed Georgia to the back door.
“So, uh…did you get the Rosen report into A and E?” he asked, stumbling over his words in that clueless sort of way he had when he sensed he’d done something wrong but wasn’t sure what. “I was running around the city all day…and I, uh, didn’t get a chance to call you.”
A small crease appeared on Georgia’s brow. His brother had said Mac was on Long Island.
“I got the report in,” Georgia said coolly as she breezed past him into the kitchen. “They could use it for toilet paper, for what it’s worth.”
Marenko followed, closing the door. He removed the towel from his waist and began to dry his hair.
“What do you mean?” he mumbled from beneath the towel.
“A and E lied. They don’t think the Rosen and Dana burnings are accidental.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
He stopped toweling and looked up. “What? You’re not gonna tell me?’
“Like you tell me everything,” Georgia shot back.
“Scout, I don’t know zip about the case. It’s not even the FDNY’s case any…”
“—You were in Long Island today,” she cut him off.
He paused as it sank in. “Okay,” he said softly. “So I was. So?”
“Seeing your kids?”
“And if I was?” His blue eyes stared back defiantly.
“Why does everything have to be a big secret with you? Why am I a secret?”
“You’re not a secret.”
She laughed. “Yeah? Maybe you should talk to your brother Nick about that.”
He gave her a confused expression. She sank into a chrome chair by the Formica kitchen table.
“See that look? That’s the look Nick gave me today when I introduced myself to him at the task force drill in Grand Central.”
“Nicky was there?”
“You never told him about us.”
“I don’t remember what I’ve told him.” He shrugged and paced the floor. “It’s not like we have some big heart-to-heart every week, you know.” He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Aw, c’mon, Scout. This case has got you all worked up. You’re making a big deal out of nothing. You’ve always wanted to be taken seriously on this job. Seems to me, you’d be happy that I respect our privacy.”
“I am. It’s just that…” Georgia felt her whole body slump. “…You play pool with my mother. You shoot hoops with my son. A wedding, a funeral comes along, so do you.” She looked up at him. “My God, Richie worships you…But your life—it’s out there somewhere under lock and key.”
He took a step toward her. “I don’t live with my kids,” he said softly. “I don’t live with my parents. My life’s different, that’s all.”
“How convenient.”
Marenko pulled out another chrome chair from the table and straddled it backwards, his sinewy forearms, tanned and black haired, propped on the seat back, his chin resting on his knuckles. He studied her for a long moment. It was always hard to resist the wattage of that gaze.
“Scout,” he pleaded in a soft, husky voice, “what is it you want from me?”
She took a deep breath. “I want to meet your family—your brothers, your parents, your son and daughter.”
The angles of his jaw tightened.
“What’ll that prove?”
“I’ll know you’re for real.”
He pulled back from the chair and thumped his chest. “I am for real. Jesus, you’re the only woman I think about, the only woman I look at. You think I’d still be here otherwise? ’Cause man oh man—you are a handful.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Marenko ran a hand through his wet hair, then exhaled slowly and stared at the ceiling, trying to collect his thoughts. “I’m not the kind of guy you can push. I’m not ready, okay?” He stood up. “I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want right now. But I’m here. I didn’t run away.”
He kicked the chair out of the way and pulled her toward him. She didn’t resist. The damp, bare touch of his skin felt warm and reassuring. He brought his lips down gently on hers and she felt, as she always did in these moments, ready to forgive anything about Mac Marenko.
“We’re both spent,” he whispered, stroking her hair. He squinted at the clock above the kitchen sink. Seven P.M. “How ’bout I take a rain check on dinner?”
Georgia nodded. “This stuff can wait. We’ve got enough on our minds right now.” Over Marenko’s bicep, she noticed her son toweling off to come in. She sighed.
“I’ll go tell Richie.”
16
Richie moped around all evening after Marenko left.
He picked at his dinner, complaining that Georgia’s mashed potatoes tasted like wallpaper paste and her meatloaf was “squishy.” By the time he went to bed, Georgia was so exhausted, she fell asleep beside him. She awoke at midnight. The phone was ringing in her bedroom.
She stumbled down the hall and answered gruffly, groggy from sleep.
“Skeehan.” The voice belonged to Randy Carter, and it was shaky. “I’m sorry to be calling y’all so late.”
“Randy? What’s wrong?” Georgia sat on the edge of her bed and wiped her eyes. Then she flicked on the lamp beside her bed.
“It’s Connie.” His voice cracked. “Something bad’s happened. I got a friend in the PD’s crime-scene unit, and he just called me ’cause he’s heard me talk about her.”
“Crime scene? Is Connie hurt?” Georgia’s heart pounded in her chest. She felt like she’d just mainlined a hypodermic full of epinephrine.
“A neighbor of Connie’s heard gunshots coming from her apartment and called the police. Cops broke down the door—blood everywhere—but they can’t find Connie.”
“Oh, my God.” Georgia stood up. She began to shiver and sweat at the same time. “Who would want to hurt Connie? Do they have any leads? Any suspects?”
“That’s the other reason I’m calling you, girl.” There was a tightness in Carter’s voice Georgia had never heard before, and it scared her almost as much as the thought of Connie lying hurt or dead somewhere.
“They…they have the suspect in custody,” Carter continued. “Found him in her apartment, covered with her blood.”
“Who is he?”
“Skeehan…The man they found in Connie’s apartment is Mac Marenko.”
17
They were holding Mac Marenko at the 109th Precinct station house in Flushing, Queens, three blocks from Connie’s apartment. The police hadn’t charged him—yet. Georgia knew they wouldn’t until the firefighters’ union could scrounge up a lawyer and a representative—which wasn’t going to happen until sometime on Wednesday morning. Until then, he’d kill time in a holding cell—professional courtesy. Marenko was a fellow law-enforcement officer, and his brother Nick was NYPD. No cop was eager to bust him.
Georgia got to the station house around 1:30 in the morning. Already, there were fire marshals in the precinct lobby, sipping coffee by a vending machine. They gave each other disapproving looks when she walked by. Oh, God. The rumors are already starting to circulate, she thought. Someone called out her name. She turned to see a snub-nosed Irishman with pale brown hair as fine and thin as fishing line.
“I’m Detective Leahy,” th
e man muttered. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know but…”
“—When I want your explanations, I’ll ask for them,” he said. “Walk this way.”
Leahy led her down a hallway, then snapped his fingers in an open doorway at a heavyset female police detective with red-tinted hair. Georgia vaguely recognized the woman from a bust they’d handled jointly in Chinatown in June. Debbie was her name, Georgia thought. Debbie smiled. Leahy did not. Instead, he spent the next two hours grilling Georgia on her relationships with Connie and Marenko and her whereabouts that evening. He told her nothing about why Mac was found in Connie’s apartment or whether they’d found Connie.
It was nearly four in the morning when Leahy finally seemed satisfied that Georgia had nothing to do with the case. He told Debbie to escort her out of the building. Georgia waited until Leahy left the room to speak.
“I really came to see Marenko,” Georgia said softly. She couldn’t look Debbie in the eye. Bad enough that she’d had to pour out her love life to two strangers. Now, she had to beg a favor.
“You know I can’t let you see him,” said Debbie. “The place is crawling with fire marshals. I can’t just march you in there. Leahy would have my head—not to mention what your people would do to you.”
Georgia knew the layout of police stations. They were all the same. There was more than one way into the holding pen area. “Take me through the lineup room, then,” she pleaded. “No one will see us.”
Georgia could feel Debbie’s hesitation. The red-haired cop fingered her wedding ring. Georgia knew the woman was thinking about her own man.
“Five minutes,” Debbie said sternly. “That’s all.”
Marenko was slumped in a metal folding chair at the far end of a bare, windowless interrogation room just beyond the holding pen. He was wearing baggy brown pants that looked like they came from Goodwill, and an old white T-shirt that had faded to gray. His hair, normally a glistening black, was dull and matted from grime and what appeared to be dried blood. He was smoking, focusing his eyes on the cigarette between his fingers and the tin ashtray before him on the gouged, graffiti-covered table. A fan, mounted on the wall, sputtered noisily in a vain attempt to circulate the air.
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