Fireplay

by Suzanne Chazin

“Man, that smells good,” said Marenko as Georgia opened the door and they inhaled the aroma of garlic. Margaret Skeehan emerged from the kitchen. At fifty-six, she was still a beauty—more feminine and graceful than Georgia could ever hope to be. Although age had made her more stocky, she still had curves in all the right places. Georgia’s body never seemed to develop past adolescence.

  Marenko kissed Georgia’s mother on the cheek and Margaret beamed. Yet the smile stopped short of her eyes. Georgia had a sense she knew why.

  “You saw the news, didn’t you?” she asked. Margaret slowly nodded. She had buried two firefighters in her own life—Georgia’s father nineteen years ago, and, less than a year ago, her lover, Jimmy Gallagher. Every firefighter’s death seemed to bring it all back.

  “Did you know those men?” Margaret whispered. Richie was still upstairs.

  “No,” said Georgia. “But there was a third firefighter with them—a probie, Ma. It was Seamus Hanlon’s son, Doug.” Jimmy and Seamus had been best friends.

  “Oh my Lord.” She brought a hand up to cover her mouth—one of those little gestures that defined her, along with her Nina Ricci cologne and her impeccably manicured nails. Georgia’s were always ragged and bitten. “Is he all right?”

  “Physically? Yes. Emotionally? He’s a wreck.”

  “Have you spoken to Seamus?”

  “Not yet. He’s got a lot on his mind right now. And we’ve got nothing concrete to offer him about the case.” Georgia and Marenko exchanged glances. They both knew that was the understatement of all time.

  Richie’s footsteps thudded down the stairs. At ten, he was all arms and legs and feet as big as snowshoes. He had his father’s face—the perfectly bowed lips, the tiny dimple in the center of his chin. He had Rick’s mannerisms, too—a kind of hyperkinetic energy that always seemed to make some part of him jiggle. If it wasn’t a bouncing leg, then it was a swaying foot or a set of fingers drumming. He was into the homeboy look these days, so his jeans and sweatshirt were about four sizes too big, and a Mets baseball cap sat backward atop his dark, shaggy hair. You could’ve probably fit his entire body into one leg of his trousers.

  “Hey, Sport,” said Marenko. He held up a fist for Richie to knock against. It was part of their secret handshake—a complicated set of moves Richie had seen between two rap performers on MTV. He’d taught the moves to Marenko last fall, and they’d done it so many times since then, both of them could do it in their sleep. But tonight the boy kept his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

  “What? No handshake?” asked Marenko.

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  “Oh.” Marenko gave the child a questioning glance then shrugged. “Hey, that’s cool.”

  “I hope you like my lasagne,” Margaret called out as she headed back into the kitchen. “It’s probably not as authentic as your mother’s.” Marenko was of Italian descent on his mother’s side, Polish on his father’s.

  “You kidding? My mom had to learn how to cook all over again when she married my dad. Growing up, I thought everybody ate knockwurst with spaghetti.”

  Marenko helped Georgia make a salad and set the kitchen table. Normally, Richie followed Mac around like a puppy when he was in the house. But tonight, he stayed upstairs, doing homework.

  “Richie seems sort of quiet tonight,” said Marenko as he sliced up the garlic bread. “Everything okay?”

  “I guess he’s a little disappointed.”

  “About what?”

  “Well…” Georgia dished the salad into bowls. “You did promise a month ago that you’d help him with his Scout project.”

  “Aw, jeez.” Marenko slapped his forehead. “He wanted me to build that model race car with him. I forgot all about it.”

  “I know.” Georgia took a minute to let that sink in. “When’s the derby again?”

  “The Friday night before Christmas vacation,” she said. “In two weeks. You promised you’d be a judge, too.”

  “Aw, man. I think I’m on duty that night.”

  “You can’t switch it?”

  “I’m busy all that week. Christ, I don’t even know when I’m gonna visit my own kids.”

  “I see,” said Georgia.

  “Don’t give me that ‘I see’ tone. I’m working, Scout. It’s not like I’m hanging out at a bar or something.”

  “If it was Michael…or Beth—”

  “What? I’d do it? Damn straight, I would. They’re my kids, Scout. You want me to be Richie’s father. And I can’t. I barely have time to be a dad to my own two. So don’t go putting that guilt on me.”

  “He’s very fond of you.”

  “And I’m fond of him, too. But another man let him down—not me. I can only fill up so much of that hole in his life.” Marenko wiped down a countertop and tossed the napkin angrily into the garbage. He muttered under his breath.

  “You made your point,” said Georgia. “What are you so angry about?”

  “I didn’t mean to let him down. I just forgot.”

  “All right, you forgot.”

  “Tell him I’ll make it up to him.”

  “You made the promise. You tell him,” said Georgia. “I didn’t ask you to build that race car with Richie. You offered.”

  Over dinner, Georgia told her mother and Richie about her new, temporary appointment to the FBI. She told them the appointment was for “training,” a lie Marenko whole-heartedly backed up. He did the same kind of spin doctoring with his family.

  Richie said little at dinner and picked at his food. Mac sheepishly tried to coax him into conversations about everything from the best basketball players in the NBA to his favorite television shows, but Richie offered only one-or two-word answers while tapping his fork and jiggling his legs. He tipped his chair on its back legs and spoke with his eyes focused on the ceiling—both annoying habits his father used to have when he was restless and wanted to disengage. Georgia wondered where he’d learned them. Rick hadn’t been around long enough to impart anything—not even a last name.

  As soon as the boy finished dinner, he got up from his seat and announced that he still had homework to do. He waved off Marenko’s offer of an arm wrestle. Normally, Richie spent half the meal pleading with Mac to wrestle him.

  “I let him down bad, didn’t I?” Marenko asked Georgia when they were clearing the dishes. “Why didn’t you say something before now?”

  “How could I? You’re always so tired and busy. It would’ve sounded like nagging.”

  “You’re handy enough,” said Marenko. “Why don’t you build it with him?”

  “I offered. But he doesn’t want my help. It’s a ‘guy’ thing, he says.” Georgia began rinsing the dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher. “Maybe it’s just as well this happened now. Richie was getting too dependent on you. It’s like you said—you have your own family. They come first.”

  “Now you’re making it sound like some kind of betrayal. It’s not.” Marenko sank into one of the kitchen chairs and rubbed his eyes. “Look, I shouldn’t have promised something I couldn’t deliver on. And I’m sorry. But you expect too much from me, Scout. You expect me to take the place of Richie’s father. And I can’t. It’s Rick you’re frustrated with. I just keep getting to pay for his mistakes.”

  “Fine,” said Georgia.

  Marenko laughed. “Why is it when a woman says ‘fine,’ it’s anything but?”

  Georgia allowed a small smile. “Why is it when a man says ‘sure thing,’ it never is?”

  Marenko grinned sheepishly. “Okay, point taken. What do you want me to do about it now?”

  “At least tell him you’re sorry.”

  Marenko looked at the kitchen door like he expected monsters on the other side. “I’m not good at that stuff.” Georgia said nothing. “All right—I’ll go upstairs and speak to him.”

  11

  Michael McLaughlin looked at the thick dossier of computer printouts and government records before him, then slowly dialed a number he knew b
y heart. Charles Krause picked up groggily.

  “How the hell did you get my home phone number?” the agent demanded. “It’s unlisted.”

  “You have ways of getting things,” said McLaughlin. “And so do I. I’m just reading through those files you obtained.”

  “It’s midnight, Mike. This isn’t the time. Or the place.”

  McLaughlin ignored him. “She is, as you predicted, squeaky clean. No departmental misconduct. No drinking or drug problems. Not even a traffic ticket. She pays her taxes on time and doesn’t beat her kid.”

  “I told you this going in. She’s the daughter of a decorated firefighter who died in the line of duty, for chrissakes. You can’t get much cleaner than that.”

  McLaughlin paused on the line. “About the kid—”

  “No. Absolutely not, Mike. Touch that boy, and I’ll go after you myself.”

  “Keep your shirt on. I’m not going to mess with the kid. I just want to know about her love life.”

  “Do I run a dating service?”

  “There’s no record of marriage or divorce here, but there’s a father’s name listed on the kid’s birth certificate.”

  “Marriage isn’t a prerequisite for having babies.”

  “Her tax returns don’t list any child support from this deadbeat. Is he in jail or something?”

  “No. No criminal record,” said Krause. “He’s an electrical contractor in Toms River, New Jersey. He’s carrying some heavy debt, but there’s no evidence he ever paid support. I don’t think they have any contact—financial or otherwise.”

  “Any other men in her life?”

  “I don’t know. Look, Mike, I’ve done all I’m going to do here. We’re looking at a dead end. The best I can do is keep her on the sidelines, so you won’t have to deal with each other.”

  “On the contrary, my friend,” McLaughlin chuckled. “I think I’m going to be needing a lot of help from Marshal Skeehan. A lot of help.”

  12

  Georgia arrived at FBI headquarters on Friday morning wearing her most conservative blue wool pants suit. Much as she hated to admit it, she was excited by her first day at Twenty-six Federal Plaza. There was a glamour to the FBI that the New York City Fire Department lacked. And besides that, she was still angry with Carter for trying to get her thrown off the investigation. She wanted to prove her worthiness to both the Feds and her own people.

  Georgia handed a security guard her I.D. and shield. “An agent will escort you upstairs,” the guard told her.

  A few minutes later, a short, slight man in his midtwenties with thick glasses emerged from an elevator and called her name.

  “Marshal Skeehan? I’m Agent Reese. Nathan Reese. You can call me Nathan, if you’d like. I saw you and your partner yesterday when I was driving my boss to the meeting.” He extended a hand and Georgia shook it. His fingers were childlike and soft. Georgia couldn’t hide her shock. He looked nothing like her image of an FBI agent.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Georgia belatedly. She squinted at his dark suit jacket that hung limply across his slightly stooped shoulders. Beneath it, she noticed the bulge of a shoulder holster. He had a gun, all right. But in all her dealings—with the NYPD, Federal marshals, agents from the ATF and DEA—she had never met a man who looked less like law enforcement.

  “Go ahead, say it,” said Reese.

  “Say what?”

  “My grandmother looks more like a cop.”

  She laughed. “Now that you mention it.” She wondered if she had offended him, so she tried to recover. “I just expected to see Agent Nelson, that’s all.”

  “Hopalong Cassidy?” asked Reese. “He’s polishing his spurs.”

  Georgia laughed again. Obviously, she wasn’t the only one who thought Nelson’s cowboy boots looked ridiculous.

  “You’re not at all my image of the FBI,” she admitted.

  “And you’re not at all my image of a New York City firefighter.” He paused a beat and grinned. “I thought they all had mustaches.”

  “Give me twenty years, I probably will.”

  “Come on,” said Reese. “I’ll show you around, get you settled.”

  Reese ushered Georgia into an elevator and pushed the button for the twentieth floor. He was about the same height as Georgia in stocking feet, but with her inch-and-a-half heels, she came off as taller. It was the only time in her work life she could ever remember looking down at a colleague.

  “Where are you from?” she asked him.

  “New Yawwk—can’t you tell?”

  “No, really.”

  “Really—New York. The Big Apple,” said Reese. “I was born in Queens, but my family left when I was small. I grew up in Bakersfield, California. But I can still put on a ‘be-you-tee-ful’ New York accent when I want to.”

  “Not bad,” said Georgia. “But a native like myself can tell.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Fuggedabowdit,” said Georgia.

  The elevator stopped at the twentieth floor. On the wall was a huge brass insignia: Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Beneath the scales and laurels were etched the words fidelity, bravery and integrity. Beyond the plaque was a set of security doors. Reese took an electronic key card from his suit then paused.

  “I know we were joking around before,” he said. “But really—I want to tell you how sorry I am about those two firefighters’ deaths and this whole situation. I mean that, Marshal.”

  “Georgia,” she said. “Please call me, Georgia.”

  “Okay, Georgia. I know the FDNY is between a rock and a hard place on this. There are plenty of agents who like to throw their weight around. But…” He looked down at himself. “As you can see, I don’t have a lot of weight to throw around.”

  He swiped the card through a security device and held the door open for her. At a large front desk, he asked the receptionist to buzz Scott Nelson.

  “Scott’s really in charge of this operation. I’m just your bodyguard,” he said dryly.

  “Seriously, what do you do?”

  “You didn’t buy the bodyguard line—huh?” He shrugged. “I’m a computer hacker. One of the best in the country, actually. The FBI pays me to do what I could go to jail for doing any other way.”

  “How did you get into that?” asked Georgia.

  “Almost went to jail.”

  Scott Nelson came out of a hallway and walked toward Georgia now. The heels of his cowboy boots clicked across the polished floor. She suppressed a grin thinking about Reese’s “Hopalong Cassidy” line.

  “Ma’am,” said Nelson. “Good to see you again.”

  “Call me, Georgia.” She extended a hand and he shook it too firmly—a little power play in the making.

  “I hope there are no hard feelings about the other day,” he said. “Special Agent Krause and I were just doing our jobs. Once he briefs you, I think you’ll see things differently.”

  “Thank you,” said Georgia. “The FDNY appreciates being included in your investigation.” It was bullshit talk—they both knew it. But Georgia also recognized the harsh realities of her situation. She was on FBI turf—their guest. It wouldn’t do to make enemies with the only people who could hand over McLaughlin.

  Nelson nodded to Reese’s security card. “We’ll get you one of those and some I.D. right after we deputize you.”

  “Deputize me?”

  “That’s right. You don’t have any federal law enforcement authority right now. We can’t make you an FBI agent, but we’ve submitted the paperwork to the U.S. Attorney’s office, so that we can deputize you as a U.S. Marshal.”

  “Really?” A U.S. Marshal. It sounded sort of exciting.

  Nelson grinned. “Welcome to the major leagues, Georgia.”

  He wasn’t kidding. The FBI’s offices were large and well equipped. Everyone had a Palm Pilot. Everyone had a notebook PC. None of the chairs were covered over in duct tape and none of the desks looked like hand-me-downs from other city agencies. No
one smoked or downed greasy doughnuts at their desks. And ten whole minutes had gone by without her hearing a four-letter word. She could get used to this.

  Nelson walked Georgia over to an empty cubicle with modular furniture, a phone, computer, filing cabinet and coat tree. There were no soot marks or sticky stains on the computer keyboard, no cigarette burns in the chair, no raunchy calendars pinned to the wall.

  “This will be your space while you’re with us,” said Nelson. “I’ll be down the hall. Agent Reese’s office is directly across from you.” Georgia peeked into Reese’s open door. He looked like he ran a computer repair shop, he had so much hardware jammed in there. “We’ve got a meeting with Krause in ten minutes. Would you like some coffee before then?”

  “Thanks. That would be great,” said Georgia.

  Nelson disappeared and Reese went to get coffee. Georgia took off her coat and hung it on the coat tree. There was nothing exciting to look at in her cubicle, so she wandered over to Reese’s office. He had two video monitors, two keyboards and a host of electronic equipment she couldn’t even identify. The most ominous-looking was a black box the size and shape of a carton of laundry detergent. It hummed softly atop one of the video monitors. She jumped when Reese came up behind her, bearing two steaming cups of coffee.

  “You’re looking at spy central,” he joked, handing her her coffee. “I told you I’m a hacker.”

  “I guess I can’t ask what you’re doing.”

  “I can’t tell you the details, but I can give you an overview.” He gestured to a shelf away from the computer equipment. “Put your coffee there. You spill anything on these babies and six months of work could be lost.”

  Georgia put her coffee down and nodded to the black box. “What does that do?”

  “It’s called a keystroke bug. It intercepts email. Anything the subject types, even if it’s encrypted, I can read it.”

  “Wow,” said Georgia. “I thought that was illegal.”

  “The legal limits are being explored by the U.S. Attorney’s office as we speak. In the meantime”—he shrugged—“it’s fun to read what people don’t want you to. I used to do it with my older sister’s diary when we were growing up.”