“The door was locked,” Carter mumbled. His voice was hoarse and quavering. “The fingerprints are all Marenko’s or Connie’s. Crime Scene said so. And the blood—it’s Connie’s too, matched against her personnel records.”
“Oh, God,” said Georgia. “No, no.” She felt lightheaded and nauseated. Her hands shook. “It can’t be, Randy. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”
“Skeehan.” Carter turned to face her. “He did.”
21
Randy Carter walked Georgia to her car, an eight-year-old Ford Escort, once red, now rust. She took a quick look up at those space-age apartment windows, and her heart sank. She missed Connie already—missed her crazy, expensive, lizard-look shoes and her Day-Glo nail polish. She missed the tender way Connie called her “baby girl,” as if that endearment could never apply to anyone else. Georgia fingered the Apache’s tear around her neck and tried to take comfort in this small bit of her best friend’s presence. Right now, however, it just felt cold and black and dead in her hands.
“Y’all need to go home and get some rest,” Carter told her gently. “I’ll check in with you later.”
She drove the familiar back roads from Flushing to Woodside. Every restaurant reminded her of a place where she and Connie once ate. Every second store seemed to sell shoes Connie either owned or had once tried on. Eight years she had known Connie, and those had been the best years she’d ever shared with a female friend. They met right before Georgia came on the job, at a gathering of women police officers and firefighters. Most of what the women had to say scared Georgia—the stories of harassment, the bitterness, the frustration. Georgia felt more uncertain of the job than ever at that meeting.
Until she met Connie.
Connie was a kid then—a rookie cop still in uniform, the only one who ever managed to look feminine in all that gear. She had a mouth on her that would make most veterans crawl under a table. But she had a terrific sense of humor, and it allowed her to sail through any situation. Connie was respected right from the start, and a lot of it had to do with the fact that she never took what the men said to heart. Pretty soon, they stopped taking it to heart as well.
Connie, I need your advice so much right now, thought Georgia. She replayed the chilling, synthesized voice of Robin Hood again in her head:…You found Rosen…And Dr. Dana, too. Those bastards deserved a little payback…
Here was a killer who knew something about fire science and tools, and had used them to orchestrate the horrific, fatal burning of two fire department doctors. And now, he was talking about detonating a bomb that could do the same to hundreds of innocent New Yorkers. Connie was the only person Georgia could have spoken to about all this. Not only did she understand Georgia better than anyone. She was also familiar with the case—perhaps even more so than Georgia.
Connie had written down the word, Bridgewater. Georgia couldn’t get that word out of her mind as she drove past the redbrick quarters of Engine Two-seventy-eight on her way home. The red enamel apparatus door was open, and the engine was inside. She parked at a meter up the street. She didn’t want to set foot in that firehouse again so soon, but lately, there were a lot of places she didn’t want to go that she had to.
Seamus Hanlon was on duty. A firefighter at house watch paged him, and he sauntered out of the kitchen. His watery blue eyes turned wary when he caught sight of her. He forced a smile beneath his mustache, but he didn’t invite her up to his office this time. Instead, he beckoned Georgia around to the front of the Seagrave pumper, facing the street, away from the men. At first, she thought it had to do with Marenko’s arrest. But she could see in his face that he didn’t yet know about that. By tonight he would, though. Everyone in the FDNY would.
“I was wondering if you’d been able to find out any more about that Division of Safety report,” said Georgia.
Hanlon lifted a black work boot on the chrome bumper and bent down to tie his shoelace. “There is no report, lass.”
“You mean they lost it?”
He straightened up. “I mean there is no report…No report you’re gonna get, that is.”
He leaned on the fire engine now and stared out across the small boulevard of grocery stores, bars and discount clothing shops. The sun blinded him, and he put a hand up to shield his eyes. He didn’t look at her.
“Georgia.” He rolled her name out like an exhale. “If I tell you something, for the love of Jimmy Gallagher, will ya listen?”
“I’ll listen.”
“I tried to get you that report. There’s some heat on it. Major heat. It was strongly recommended that you and I both drop it.”
“Who? Who strongly recommended this?”
“I can’t say. But I’ll tell you this—these are good people, Georgia. You don’t want to hurt ’em for some ancient history that won’t amount to a heap of sod.”
“Two doctors were horrifically burned—murdered—Captain,” Georgia said angrily. “The NYPD thinks a firefighter’s behind it. If you know something, you’d be impeding a criminal investigation not to tell me.”
He gave her a disappointed look. The bags under his blue eyes sagged as if pulled down by two lead weights. “You think I don’t want to help you? Georgia, I am helping you. You chase that report, they’ll destroy you. And it won’t solve your case, believe me. The men from those North Brooklyn companies are all dead now—all except for Vinnie Battaglia—and I guarantee you, Battaglia didn’t kill those two doctors.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Hanlon pushed himself off the engine and walked over to the corkboard of snapshots by the house-watch desk. His eyes scanned the collage of photos of firefighters and their families—in the firehouse, on fishing trips, at ball games and barbecues. He squinted at a half-hidden shot on the upper-right-hand corner of the board and pulled it out. It was a photo taken in the firehouse kitchen at the annual company Christmas party. The counters were covered with homemade lasagnas and turkeys. A scrawny, misshapen Christmas tree stood in the corner and one of the firefighters, dressed as Santa, sat near it with a little girl on his knee and a bunch of other children nearby.
Hanlon pointed to a figure behind the firefighter Santa, a man with a shaved head in a wheelchair. His eyes looked glazed, and his shoulders were slumped.
“That,” said Hanlon, “is Vinnie Battaglia. Taken last December. He worked in Engine Two-seventy-eight for a couple of years after he left Ladder One-twenty-one in Brooklyn and before he started getting sick. We still invite him to our Christmas party every year.”
Georgia squinted at the man in the photo. His head had an odd tilt to it; his eyes looked unfocused. His skin was sallow, and his shirt hung on his scrawny frame. If Hanlon had said he was seventy-five, Georgia wouldn’t have argued.
“He has Parkinson’s and brain cancer. He can’t get out of the wheelchair,” Hanlon explained. “And by the way, lass—in case you’re wondering—Vinnie is my age: fifty-four.” Hanlon tacked the photo back on the corkboard.
“Did all the men at Bridgewater die of illnesses?”
“Only the ones who went into the warehouse got sick,” said Hanlon. A shadow passed in front of his face. “And not all of them died of disease.”
“What did the others die of?” asked Georgia.
Hanlon didn’t answer. A two-tone electronic chime interrupted their conversation. Engine Two-seventy-eight had a run. Within seconds, the men were sliding down the brass pole and shrugging into their gear. Hanlon seemed relieved to be able to exchange his thoughts for actions and reflex. “It doesn’t matter anymore, lass,” he said as he stepped into his boots and bunker pants and slipped on his turnout coat. “Nobody wants to go back to this one—nobody. And you shouldn’t either.”
22
The pier was a weathered gray, as unreliable and full of gaps as an old man’s teeth. Fishermen and crabbers still used it, but they were long gone by noon when the tide rolled out and the ocean bared her secrets like an aging whore. In sand the color of a Manhattan side
walk, Robin Hood could see a graveyard of paper cups, fast-food wrappers and plastic bags that ballooned like jellyfish in the sun. And Hood could see something else, too. Another secret, visible only when the ocean inhaled like a fat man sucking in his gut to see his toes.
Hood hoisted a tackle box under one arm and a folding canvas chair over the opposite shoulder and began to slog through the squishy sand underneath the pier. It wasn’t the pier that brought people here. Or even the beach. It was memory—of days etched in the smell of hot dogs and Coppertone, of nights bathed in neon and the clickety-clack of a roller coaster. It didn’t matter that the place was only a seedy skeleton of its former self. People lived in their memories. Hood certainly did.
The spot Hood was looking for was only a hundred feet from shore, underneath the pier. Black stains ran halfway up the soggy pilings, and seaweed and old fishing lures snagged the beams like hair around a drain. But with the tide out, the water was no more than ankle deep. Perfect for the kind of fishing Hood had to do.
There was no one to notice. It would be night before the teenagers and tourists flocked again to this patch of waterfront in the shadow of the redbrick projects. For now, there were only a few ancient-looking black men on the boardwalk, playing cards and drinking malt liquor out of paper bags. Here, beneath the pier, Hood was nearly invisible to them. Light fell in slats through the rotting boards and dropped bait festered and broiled in the August heat.
Hood quickly spotted the small orange flag, swimming with a coating of slimy green seaweed. It was located under the pier so that no boat could mistakenly hit it. Not that any boat would know it was here. No civilian maps marked the location. Even some of the topographical maps of the area missed it.
Hood settled the chair into the marshy sand, placed the tackle box on the seat and undid the latch. Seagulls hovered and complained in the salty air above the pier, and waves farther out made a cupping sound as they hit the shore. The tide would be coming in soon. Everything was ready. Hood stroked the block of soft, white putty, the size and shape of a spaghetti box, then fingered the metal ring attached to the block by a cord. The whole thing had taken just five minutes to assemble—and it was guaranteed to work, even in water.
Hood pressed the block into position, pulled the ring and offered a parting glance at its long tail of cord, striped with light from the pier slats. It reminded Hood of a piece of bait—which it was, after all—a teaser to keep them dangling on the end of a hook. Like all good fishermen, Hood knew that to catch a big fish, you had to use the right bait.
23
Richie was in the living room, watching television, when Georgia arrived home. He was dressed only in ratty denim cutoffs. His dark hair was sticking out at odd angles and there were Oreo crumbs on the couch. It was just after noon, and he clearly hadn’t combed his hair or brushed his teeth all morning. His eyes had that dull, glassy look children have when they’ve been watching too many hours of cartoons.
“Why aren’t you at camp today?” she asked him.
“I didn’t feel like going.”
Georgia bent down to feel his forehead. No fever. She wished it were that simple. He knows, she realized as she watched him hug his knees to his chest. He looked as if he were trying to crawl inside himself. Georgia wanted to crawl right in there with him, pull a blanket over their heads and wake them both when he was twenty-one. Instead, she did the next best thing. She kicked off her shoes and curled up next to her boy, wrapping her arms protectively around him. They sat like that for several long minutes without speaking. She could hear the slight wheeze to his breathing and smell the little-boy sweat on his skin.
“Where’s Grandma?” she asked finally. Georgia’s mother was a bookkeeper for a local dentist. Dr. Arigoni was his name, but everyone in the neighborhood called him Dr. Agony. The man had all the finesse of a transmission repair specialist, but he was kind to her mother and the hours were good.
“She stayed home with me today. She’s in the kitchen.” Georgia could hear it now: humming. Her mother always hummed when she was upset. Usually some kind of elevator music. Today, it was “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.”
“Grandma told you?” Georgia asked softly.
“I heard her talking to you on the phone early this morning,” he mumbled, his eyes on the cartoon figures darting across the television. A Rugrats rerun.
“Richie…” Georgia stumbled about. Oh boy, she thought. There are no child-rearing manuals on this one. “Nothing’s certain yet. Please, honey, don’t do this to yourself.”
“Is Mac in jail?”
Georgia’s heart fell into her stomach. “No. He’s not in jail. Connie’s missing, but everyone is trying to find her. Mac, too,” Georgia added in a voice so bright, it sounded as if they were all searching for a lost glove instead of the bloody body of her best friend.
Richie pushed back and searched her face. “It’s a mistake. Right, Mom? Mac wouldn’t hurt Connie, would he?”
Georgia looked into her son’s honey-colored eyes, and she felt her throat close over. It was the same question she’d been asking herself all morning. And she didn’t have the kind of logical, carefully-thought-out adult answer she’d been hoping for. But she did have a gut feeling—one that even that bloody handprint in Connie’s apartment couldn’t entirely dislodge.
“I don’t think Mac would intentionally hurt Connie,” Georgia said slowly. “I don’t know what happened, but I’ll do the best I can to find out.”
Georgia looked up from the couch and saw her mother standing by the open kitchen door. Margaret Skeehan’s eyes were red rimmed, and she seemed to be trying to force a hopefulness to her face that made it appear unnaturally tight. Georgia kissed Richie on the head and rose. She followed her mother into the kitchen.
“Ma,” Georgia said hoarsely as the door closed behind them. It was all she could manage to choke out before the tears started to stream down her face. Margaret pulled her daughter toward her and held her tightly. It was the same fierce, protective hug Georgia had just given Richie. They were all closing ranks.
Georgia sank into a chrome chair at the kitchen table and poured out her grief and confusion. Margaret listened, her hands interlaced in front of her as if she didn’t trust them to do more.
“I’ve been saying rosaries for Connie all morning,” Margaret said finally. “I don’t even know what to think anymore. Even police cars passing by make me nervous.”
Police cars. Brennan had ordered protection on the house. “Ma?” Georgia said softly. “I want you to be extra careful around strangers right now. Don’t give out any information over the phone and don’t let Richie talk to anyone you don’t know.”
“What’s wrong?” Margaret put a manicured hand on top of Georgia’s. She always did have beautiful hands—painted nails, soft skin smelling of Pond’s cold cream. Georgia’s hands were always so ragged and scraped from her work, she didn’t even like to look at them.
Georgia took a deep breath. “It’s probably nothing, Ma,” she lied, forcing a smile. “But with Connie missing, I just think you and Richie need to be careful.”
“You too, dear. Especially when it comes to Mac.”
“But Mac couldn’t have…”
“—Darling,” said Margaret, “I like Mac—you know I do. But this?” She sighed. “This is not something you should be involved with. Connie was your best friend.”
Georgia started to argue, but caught herself. She sensed her mother had been rehearsing this speech all morning.
“Even if it’s true that Mac is innocent,” Margaret continued, “there will be a cloud over him for the rest of his life. Please, Georgia—you’re tired and confused. But please think about that—for your sake and Richie’s.”
Georgia was too weak to argue. She went upstairs to take a shower and lie down. She managed about an hour and a half before she was awakened by a knock on her door.
“Honey?” said Margaret Skeehan. “There’s a fire marshal downstairs. He says he’s bee
n ordered by Chief Brennan to fetch you.”
A fire marshal? Georgia palmed her eyes. If it were Carter, her mother would have said. Even Eddie Suarez was a familiar name to her. She slipped into a blouse and pants, combed her hair and walked downstairs.
Andy Kyle was sitting on her living-room couch doing coin tricks for her son. He was dressed in a linen sports jacket and tie that looked casually expensive, a pair of corn-colored khakis and a cotton button-down shirt with a subtle stripe of olive green. He flipped the quarter in his palm to Richie and rose from the couch. He smiled when he saw Georgia, then seemed to think better of it, and wiped it away.
“Marshal,” he said, taking a step forward. “I’m sorry to hear about…”
“—What are you doing here?” Georgia asked, cutting him off.
“Chief Brennan asked me to escort you to a meeting.”
“Escort me? Why would you need to escort me?” It was a snotty question, delivered in a snotty tone and Georgia had no idea why she felt the need to say it except that whatever it was Chief Brennan wanted, she didn’t appreciate hearing about it from this brand-new, wet-behind-the-ears fire marshal.
She expected Kyle to become surly. Mac certainly would have if she’d used a tone like that on him. But Andy Kyle just leveled a cool, confident gaze at her.
“If you’d prefer to run behind the car, that’s fine with me,” he offered with a slight grin. “But you might get pretty sweaty by the time we hit Brooklyn.”
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