Fireplay

by Suzanne Chazin

  The metal door buzzed and Georgia opened it. The small room they stepped into had a bare concrete floor, a tile ceiling and a large mirror running along one wall. Georgia sucked in her stomach before the mirror, only to catch Carter grinning behind her.

  “That’s a one-way mirror, you know. Don’t pick your nose or I’ll never live it down.”

  Georgia stepped back, feeling suddenly foolish. “How can you tell?”

  “Been in enough interrogation rooms to know. I suspect Freezer wants to see his guests before they see him.”

  “And hear ’em, too,” boomed a jovial voice on the other side of the door. It opened. The man standing before Georgia was tall—maybe six-feet-three—with a lumberjack’s swagger and a chest like a Kevlar vest. He had a broad, clean-shaven face that would’ve fit in well in the fire department. A band of freckles rode up the bridge of his slightly flattened nose when he smiled. His hair, the color of honey in weak tea, rolled like ocean waves across his head, as if he hadn’t had a chance to run a comb through it yet this morning. He was dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and his feet were bare, as if he’d just gotten up. He didn’t look like a killer. He looked like an off-duty firefighter.

  “My lucky day,” he said, extending a hand. “If it isn’t Randall Carter come back to the old neighborhood.” His brogue sounded impossibly thick—much thicker than the voice on Glickstein’s answering machine tape. “You see your old offices?" he asked Carter, nodding in the direction of the stable next door. “You know they put horses where you used to work?”

  “Guess y’all get used to the stink after a while,” said Carter. “Or maybe that’s nothing new for you, Freezer.” McLaughlin feigned a hurt look. “Freezer? I don’t know any Freezer. I’m just plain old Mike McLaughlin. I’m in the Irish import business these days. Crystal, linens, china…”

  “Refrigerators?” Carter prodded. McLaughlin didn’t take the bait. He turned and extended a hand to Georgia. He seemed too relaxed to have seen anything on the news about the fire.

  “What’s a nice lass like you doing with this old geezer? I’m surprised they even let him carry a gun at his age—or do they?” Before she could answer, McLaughlin turned to Carter. “Guess they don’t pay marshals enough to retire.”

  “Some of us like to stick around until we’ve settled our scores.”

  McLaughlin grinned as if Carter had just told a good joke. “Come in and tell me what your business is.”

  They followed the big man through a carved oak door, peaked in the center. It looked like it had come from a church. On the other side was a magnificent home that would rival any old-money haunt on Park Avenue. The ceiling had been rebuilt to resemble a timber-frame lodge with exposed log trusses. The floors were covered in wide cherry boards. Crystal gleamed from the mantel of an enormous, reconstructed fieldstone fireplace. On the walls were fine oil paintings and high-quality photographs of lush green valleys, moss-covered cottages and four-masted schooners at sea. Georgia stepped closer to a small, framed picture of fishermen hauling in a catch.

  “I took that one in Ireland,” said McLaughlin. “It’s a hobby of mine.”

  “So the photographs are yours?”

  “Not all of them.” He gestured to a black-and-white print of a waifish girl staring at her mottled reflection in a subway car. The lighting was so stark and eerie, Georgia could almost feel the buildup of grit along the mosaic tiles that spelled out Times Square in the background. The girl in the picture was perhaps seventeen, maybe a runaway. She was hauntingly beautiful, with round, dark sad eyes. “I bought this one off an artist I know. Pretty good, eh?”

  Georgia didn’t answer. She walked over to a large oil painting over the fireplace. It showed a gorgeous green valley beneath a cloud-speckled sky that looked so real, it made Georgia forget the December gray outside.

  “Did someone you know paint this one, too?”

  “Hardly,” said McLaughlin. “That’s a John Constable original. Painted in eighteen thirty-seven. Cost me half a mil three years ago, but I could get three times that today.”

  Georgia felt her breath catch in her chest. She didn’t know which scared her more—the idea that a former gang member and murder suspect could have such an eye for beauty, or that he could casually toss about millions on things most people could only glimpse in museums.

  “As you can see,” said McLaughlin, “I only buy the good stuff.” McLaughlin shot a glance at Carter. “None of this tribal mask jungle shit.”

  Georgia blinked her surprise—not at the racism, which she half-expected from a man like McLaughlin, but at the pointedness. The walls of Carter’s Brooklyn brownstone were filled with African art. Perhaps McLaughlin was just fishing. Or maybe—just maybe—there was more history between the men than Carter had let on.

  McLaughlin took a seat in a Queen Anne-style chair. Georgia and Carter sank into a buttery soft leather couch. McLaughlin pulled a remote out of a drawer and flicked on a large-screen high-definition television in a far corner of the room. Georgia avoided Carter’s eyes. She was afraid of exchanging any look with him that might tip McLaughlin off.

  “Mr. McLaughlin, can we leave the television off until later?” asked Georgia.

  “I like it on, Miss…what did you say your name was?”

  She hadn’t. “Marshal Skeehan.”

  “Skeehan?” He gave her a quizzical look. “You got relatives in the department?”

  “Why? Do you know any Skeehans?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you need to ask me, you can ask as well with the television on as off.” He got up from the chair and walked to the fireplace mantel. A pack of Lucky Strikes lay beside a crystal decanter. He pulled one out and lit it. His lips curled slightly as he watched Carter shift on the couch. Carter hated cigarette smoke. McLaughlin seemed to know that.

  “We need to ask you some questions, Mr. McLaughlin,” said Georgia.

  “About?”

  “Your whereabouts since midnight.” She and Carter had decided in advance that Georgia would take the lead interrogator position. She had no history with McLaughlin and so could remain more neutral.

  “I’ve been here. Sleeping. Just got up before you arrived.”

  “You get up at noon?” asked Georgia.

  “It’s eleven-thirty, lass—”

  “Marshal,” Georgia corrected.

  “Either way, the import business doesn’t run on civil service hours.”

  “You have anyone who can corroborate your whereabouts?” Georgia asked him.

  “Sometimes? Yes.” He winked at her. “But this time? No.”

  Georgia pretended she hadn’t seen the wink. He seemed to regard this whole interview as a joke.

  “So you were by yourself. You didn’t leave your apartment.”

  “That’s right. I’m a homebody these days.” He flopped back in the Queen Anne chair, his long legs spread out before him, and took another hit off his cigarette. He held it like a joint, and yet he was almost dainty about making sure all the ash fell in his porcelain ashtray. Come to think of it, the house looked impeccable. No dust. No cushions out of place. He was the neatest man she’d ever met.

  “Tell us about Barry Glickstein.” She cast the query in the broadest possible terms. You never knew what you could get a subject to admit to when the question was wide open.

  McLaughlin put his cigarette on the corner of his ashtray and let the smoke curl around the room. “Don’t know anyone by the name of Glickstein, I’m afraid.”

  “Think harder,” Carter urged.

  “Glickstein, Glickstein…Ah yes. Now I remember. He’s that little Jew who owns the Café Treize down in the meatpacking district. They’ve got a nice cherry-and-hazelnut stuffed capon. You should try it sometime.” McLaughlin smiled wickedly at Carter. He knew as well as they did that Georgia and Carter lacked the money and clout to get into the bar at Café Treize, never mind get a table.

  “Ah, the life of a civil servant,” said McLaughlin. “Guess it
’s mostly McDonald’s for you. Next time you visit, maybe I’ll take you to Café Treize—show you how the other half lives.”

  Georgia glared at him. She kept seeing Doug Hanlon’s sooty, blistered face in that alleyway. She kept thinking about the baby Tony Fuentes would never get to know, and the son’s football games that Joe Russo would miss.

  “How do you get into Café Treize, Mr. McLaughlin?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Gotta know the right people.”

  “I was referring to this morning.”

  “This morning?” He clasped his hands behind his head. “They don’t serve breakfast—unless you count brunch on Sundays.”

  The television blared behind them. There was a teletype sound, then the words, “Eyewitness News.” A female announcer spoke in somber tones of the early morning restaurant fire in lower Manhattan that killed two firefighters. McLaughlin barely shifted in his chair, but Georgia could see it had registered.

  “Why don’t you two quit bullshitting me and tell me what you want?”

  “How many Barry Glicksteins in this city are you shaking down, Mr. McLaughlin?” asked Georgia.

  “I’m not shaking anyone down. If Glickstein’s got problems, they’re his problems. I barely know the little twerp.” It looked as if Carter had been waiting for this moment. He pulled out a tape recorder from the pocket of his black overcoat and pushed Play. He’d already cued Glickstein’s answering machine tape to McLaughlin’s entry.

  Barry, my boy…You should really clear out that rear stockroom, ya know? All those paper towels and shit—they’re sooo combustible…I’d really hate to see a fire take down my favorite watering hole. So…how ’bout I come by for the money you owe me Friday night? Just put me in the reservation book—say eight-thirty? Freezer’s the name, but you knew that already, didn’t you?

  Carter stopped the tape. Now it was his turn to smile. “Care to explain that?”

  “You’ve been waiting for this for a long time, haven’t you?” The question hung in the air. McLaughlin sighed. “Doesn’t matter. That’s not me.”

  “It’s you,” said Carter. “But don’t take my word for it. There are scientists at our police lab in Queens who’d like nothing better than to run a voice analysis on it and testify about their findings.”

  “Perhaps if you gave us a statement.” said Georgia, “—voluntarily, of course, Mr. McLaughlin—you could explain your side of the story.”

  She tossed off the comment in a light and breezy manner—just as they had rehearsed in the car. The answering machine tape and Barry Glickstein’s sworn statement were enough to arrest McLaughlin right now. But then they’d have to take him to central booking. He’d call his lawyer, and that would be the end of any face-to-face talks. On the other hand, if McLaughlin came in voluntarily, he didn’t need a lawyer, and they had a shot at wangling a confession. A confession could turn a good case into an airtight one.

  “You want a statement?” McLaughlin shrugged. “I’ll be glad to give you one.” If he was worried, he wasn’t showing it. He put a hand over his heart. “I’m a good citizen, Marshals. I always cooperate with the law.” He rose from his chair. “Mind if I make a quick phone call upstairs first?”

  Georgia and Carter shared an unspoken look of concern. His lawyer. He’s calling his lawyer. Still, they really couldn’t stop him—not without arresting him. And the arrest would mean he’d call his lawyer anyway.

  “All right,” said Carter. “Five minutes.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Manhattan base. The one we use now. On Lafayette Street,” said Georgia.

  McLaughlin disappeared up a circular staircase. A Persian runner on the stairs made his footsteps nearly inaudible. Georgia raised an eyebrow at Carter once he had gone.

  “He seems so cool,” she whispered. “Does he understand he’s facing a double-homicide rap?”

  “I’m not gonna be the one to break the news.” Carter frowned in the direction of the stairs. “The sonofagun’s got something up his sleeve. I can feel it. It’s like Cullen Thomas all over again.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We watch our step. Freezer is a very successful criminal—you know why? ’Cause he’s patient. He waits for the other guy to make a mistake.”

  “But we’ve got the evidence,” said Georgia. “I mean, even if he doesn’t confess, he’s not going to walk away from this one.”

  “You think, huh?” Carter kept his eyes on the stairs. “That’s your first mistake.”

  7

  McLaughlin treated the trip to Manhattan base like a cab ride to a social gathering. He exchanged his sweats for a sleek gray designer shirt, wool pants and a black leather Armani jacket. He jovially agreed to let Carter frisk him for a weapon, reminding the marshals facetiously that as an ex-con, it would be illegal for him to carry a gun. Then, to top it off, McLaughlin offered to drive them to Manhattan base in the Porsche he kept garaged below his house.

  “You own a Porsche,” said Georgia, shooting Carter a look. Somehow, it figured.

  “Lemon yellow,” replied McLaughlin. “But I have a black Nissan Pathfinder, too, if you’d prefer it.”

  Georgia and Carter escorted McLaughlin to the back of their Caprice. They didn’t handcuff him. He wasn’t under arrest. But their manner was cool and professional. McLaughlin spied a copy of the Daily News on Georgia’s seat. He asked to read it. Georgia declined. Although there was nothing in the paper yet about the fire, Georgia had a sense that the wheels were always spinning in McLaughlin’s brain. Somehow, he’d find a way to make that paper useful.

  “Ah,” said McLaughlin, shrugging off the request. “Nothing in the paper I want to read anyway, you know? All those sad stories. You must see enough of ’em every day.”

  Georgia didn’t answer. They were inching back down the West Side in heavy traffic. It was going to be a long trip.

  “I’d think a nice lass like you—you’d rather be married, looking after little ones, not doing a job like this,” McLaughlin prodded.

  “I like my job,” said Georgia.

  “Really? I bet you’re a firefighter’s daughter.”

  Georgia said nothing, so he continued. “C’mon, lass. It’s handed down through the generations, like flat feet or an obsession with seniority.”

  “Shut up, McLaughlin,” barked Carter. He turned up the volume on the department radio. There was nothing much coming over the airwaves right now, just time checks and routine information.

  “Course, neither Carter nor you would have your jobs without affirmative action,” McLaughlin continued. “Carter’d be back in some hayseed town down south doing squirrel patrol. And you’d be working on your fifth baby.”

  He waited for the backlash. Georgia was a hairsbreadth away from giving him one. But Carter, as always, kept his cool.

  “You’re a doozy, McLaughlin. A real humdinger,” said Carter. “You want to export something? Export yourself back to Ireland.”

  “Ah, well, that’s the great thing about this fair country, Carter. I’m an American citizen, just like you. Been one since the age of seven. So this is my home. And I say, God bless America.”

  Carter nearly rear-ended the car in front of him. McLaughlin casually cracked his knuckles.

  “So your dad was a firefighter, am I right?” McLaughlin asked Georgia again. Georgia didn’t answer.

  “Tell me, does he like you risking your neck for chump change?”

  “Dang it, man—shut up,” Carter said again. His voice had taken on the timbre of an army drill sergeant—not surprising, since that’s what he was in his twenties.

  “It’s an innocent question,” McLaughlin fired back. “What’s wrong with an innocent question?”

  “It’s not an innocent question,” said Georgia. “My father died in the line of duty, just like…” Just like the two men you killed this morning, Georgia almost sputtered. Carter shot Georgia a warning glance and she caught herself just in time. There was still a cha
nce McLaughlin didn’t know the extent to which he was implicated in the deaths of Russo and Fuentes. Georgia could’ve ruined everything by telling him. She suddenly understood how easily a man like Michael McLaughlin could draw people into places they didn’t want to go. Perhaps it wasn’t an accident he talked about African art to Carter. Perhaps Carter, more than anyone, understood just how dangerous McLaughlin could be. Georgia hunkered down in her seat and said nothing after that.

  The Manhattan office of the Bureau of Fire Investigation was located above Ladder Company Twenty, a boxy, beige garage with none of the charm of the city’s older firehouses. Up and down the street were discount stores with names like Chung-Lee Dresses and Hadjik Imports. The Bowery, with its snoozing drunks and panhandlers, was just a short walk away.

  Georgia had called ahead to alert the marshals that they were bringing a suspect in for questioning. But as they neared the firehouse’s garage door, Georgia noticed several official-looking cars parked along the sidewalk. One was a black Crown Victoria with a fire marshal from Brooklyn at the wheel.

  “We’ve got company, today,” Georgia mumbled to Carter. He nodded like he knew what she meant: Arthur Brennan, Chief Fire Marshal of the FDNY, head of the Bureau of Fire Investigation—and every marshal’s ultimate boss. He must have come over from headquarters in Brooklyn when he heard the news. She understood why Brennan would want to be here. But still, she wished he had stayed away. The more routine and low-key she and Carter could make this chat session, the less likely McLaughlin would be to call his lawyer—that is, if he hadn’t called him already.

  Georgia noticed another vehicle parked in front of the Crown Victoria. It was a black Ford Explorer SUV with tinted windows. It looked like an official car, but it wasn’t a make or model she’d seen in the Bureau of Fire Investigation before. A short, slight man in a dark jacket exited the firehouse with a soda in his hand and slid behind the wheel of the car. Definitely not FDNY, she decided. Not even a cop. He was in his midtwenties, with wispy brown hair that looked as if it might recede in a year or two, and thick, round, gold-rimmed glasses. His chest seemed almost concave inside his jacket, like he’d borrowed his father’s clothes.