Fireplay

by Suzanne Chazin

  “He’s Richie’s father, Mac. No matter what else I feel, I can’t deny that. Richie really needs a father. You’re always telling me you can’t be a dad to him.”

  “And you think this joker can? A man who crawls into your life ’cause he’s on the lam?” He shook his head. “I thought you had more common sense. But this…I feel like I don’t know you anymore.”

  “I made a mistake. A big mistake.” She sighed. “And I’m sorry. Please believe me—it’s got nothing to do with how I feel about you.”

  Marenko looked at her cheek under a streetlight. “I was going to beat the shit out of DeAngelo for what he did. I guess I’d better reconsider.”

  “I guess you’d better. Thank you for sticking up for me with Brennan tonight.”

  “You took a hell of a risk, Scout. It seems to me maybe he should’ve thought of that before he asked to see Richie under the circumstances.”

  Georgia didn’t answer. She knew he was right. She’d spent most of her life taking stupid risks for men. She was hardwired at this point for such things.

  “Have Richie and your ma seen you yet? With your shiner?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe they shouldn’t until it’s gone down a little and you can come up with another reason why you got it,” said Marenko.

  “I’ll tell them you proposed, and I was so shocked I fell down the stairs,” said Georgia only half-jokingly.

  Marenko rolled his eyes. “I’d be the one falling in that case.”

  “No, you’d be jumping.”

  He handed her his cell phone. “Call your ma. Stay at my place tonight. And think up a better line in the morning.”

  “I’m not very pretty to look at,” said Georgia.

  “I’ll keep the lights low.”

  Georgia called her mother and assured her she was fine and just needed to stay in the city tonight—with Marenko. She asked if there had been any phone calls this evening for her. Her mother said no. She checked her cell phone. No phone calls on there, either. Marenko saw right away what she was doing.

  “No message from DeAngelo, huh?” he asked her.

  “You can call him ‘Rick,’ you know,” said Georgia.

  “I’d prefer to call him a lot of other things right now,” said Marenko. “So you’re figuring that if Buscanti doesn’t kill him, he’ll phone you and let you know what’s going on.”

  “I guess,” said Georgia. “He didn’t call.”

  “He didn’t call you for eight years. Why break old habits?”

  “You think he’s a bum, don’t you?”

  “I think any man who doesn’t see his kid for eight years isn’t exactly a great guy.”

  “I never criticize Patsy,” Georgia reminded him.

  “Patsy didn’t abandon our kids for eight years, then show up with a murder rap hanging over her head.”

  They got into Marenko’s car and headed up the West Side to his apartment. Georgia stared out the window. Marenko broke the silence. “Look, Scout, you do what you want with DeAngelo. If I said something I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry. I’m only thinking of Richie.”

  “So am I.”

  “Then just remember, whatever you say, DeAngelo’s number was on Sully’s phone pad.”

  “Because McLaughlin put it there,” said Georgia. “To get me into a compromising position on this case.”

  “It still doesn’t add up,” said Marenko. “I mean, why would Freezer kill Sully and not Paul Brophy? Two years ago, Broph took a bat to him and Freezer never took it beyond a little street payback with some brass knuckles. Now, all of a sudden, he takes out Sully in this dramatic fire. Why?”

  “Maybe Sully had proof McLaughlin was involved in my father’s death,” said Georgia. “That’s why he told Broph he was going to meet with the Feds.”

  “What proof? The case is nineteen years old,” said Marenko. “The only proof was a witness, Cullen Thomas. And he’s dead. Freezer killed him quick enough.”

  “How about the D.A.’s office?”

  “They don’t have any record of Cullen Thomas’s interview,” said Marenko. “I tried that route. It’s gone. Nobody knows where it went.”

  Georgia’s head felt like it was spinning. Her cheek throbbed. Jamie Sullivan knew something about my father’s case—something Cullen Thomas knew. Something Paul Brophy apparently didn’t. Marenko turned off the West Side Drive and into Hell’s Kitchen. He slowly cruised the streets for a parking spot while Georgia tried to sort out this discrepancy. She looked across the street. The answer was staring her in the face.

  “Stop, Mac.”

  “You see a parking space?”

  “No. Something better. I just figured out what Cullen Thomas and Jamie Sullivan had in common.”

  43

  Kelly’s bar was quiet on a Monday night just a couple of weeks before Christmas. The lights glowed meekly from the one small window with a neon Killian’s Red beer sign in it. The door looked like it had last been painted in 1963. Georgia wasn’t even sure what color it was anymore—brown, rust—it was hard to tell. Marenko looked up at the sign, with a shamrock instead of an apostrophe in the name.

  “I live two blocks from here and I’ve never been inside.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t order the corned beef,” Georgia warned.

  Marenko frowned. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Carter comes here?”

  “He’s friends with Roberta Kelly, the owner,” said Georgia. “He used to eat lunch here when the old Manhattan base was around the corner.”

  Marenko opened the door to the bar and Georgia followed him in. The men inside—and they were all men except for Roberta Kelly—looked as weather-beaten as the barstools. They did a double take when they saw them. Marenko might have been able to fit in with the evening crowd, but the bar was clearly a men-only kind of place. There was very little noise inside the bar once they entered—only the clink of beer mugs and the white noise of a sports announcer discussing a Knicks game on the television. Even the two men playing pool at the beat-up table stopped and regarded them as if they’d walked into a private living room.

  “Friendly crowd,” muttered Marenko. “And these guys like Carter?”

  “He probably never came here in the evenings,” said Georgia.

  “And he always carried his gun,” Marenko added.

  Bobby Kelly looked up from refilling a beer. As soon as she saw Georgia she slapped the beer down on the bar.

  “I got nothing to say to you, love,” she told Georgia.

  “Mrs. Kelly, we just need to talk to you,” said Marenko. “We can do that here. Or you can close down your bar, kick out all your patrons and have the same conversation in our squad room.”

  Bobby Kelly swung open the door to the kitchen and beckoned them inside. “What is it you want?”

  “You know that Freezer set the fire that killed my father,” said Georgia. “You told Sully that, didn’t you?”

  Bobby frowned at Georgia. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Never mind about my eye. Sully and your brother, Cullen, are dead because they knew something about my father’s fire—something Sully’s partner, Paul Brophy, doesn’t know. What was it, Bobby? Their only connection was you. So if they knew, then you know. What do you know?”

  Bobby turned her back to Georgia and bent over the sink. Her shoulders slumped. “I hate him,” she managed to choke out. “I paid him and paid him all these years. Nearly went broke doing it. While he and those bastards sat around drinking in my back room.”

  “You mean Freezer?” asked Marenko.

  Bobby palmed her eyes and turned to face them. “Yes, Freezer. And it’s my fault Sully and Cullen are dead. It’s all my fault.”

  “You couldn’t know Freezer would kill them,” said Georgia. “How could you know?”

  “I’m the one who told Cullen about your father’s fire in Astoria. My brother wasn’t there. Lord knows where he was, but he wasn’t there. I fed him all that stuff about Freezer. Th
e date. The place. The time.”

  Georgia felt her limbs grow shaky. “How did you know?”

  Bobby sneered in the direction of the bar’s back room. “Freezer and all his cronies used to sit in there—in my bar. After charging me hundreds of dollars of protection money just so he wouldn’t burn it down. He boasted about that fire—and other crimes, too. He wanted people to be afraid of him. I couldn’t do anything. I had no proof. And besides, he’d have killed me, he would. Probably have burned my bar and made it look like a robbery.”

  “So you turned Cullen into a witness,” said Marenko.

  “My brother was in a bad place, he was. He needed information to trade on. And I wanted to get Freezer back for all the terrible things he’d done to me and other good people I knew all them years. It made sense at the time.” She took a napkin and wiped her eyes. “I never told Carter it was me that fed Cullen the information. Never told the FBI man who came by after Cullen’s death, neither. I was too scared.”

  “FBI man?” asked Georgia. She cut a look to Marenko.

  “Yeah. He said he was FBI, anyway. He didn’t much look it. But he showed me some I.D. He asked a few questions and left. I told Sully about it a few days ago when he came in for a pint. That’s when I admitted to him that Cullen never saw Freezer set that fire. It was just talk I’d overheard.” She dabbed her dirty white apron at her eyes. “Nothing I said was that terrible. Nothing to get a man killed over.”

  Georgia and Marenko looked at each other. Roberta Kelly was right. Michael McLaughlin had no direct witness to her father’s fire. There was no reason for him to kill Jamie Sullivan over that. No reason for him to kill Cullen Thomas, either.

  “I’m sorry about your father, love. I am,” said Bobby Kelly now. “I’m sorry if I hurt you or brought harm to anyone. I never meant to. I can’t even help you now.”

  Georgia squeezed her arm. “I think you just did.”

  Outside, the cold air burned their faces. Marenko wrapped an arm around her shoulder as they walked the two blocks to his apartment.

  “Are you getting the same strange vibe I am?” asked Marenko.

  “Yeah. Freezer had no reason to kill Thomas or Sully,” said Georgia. “Yet the FBI was poking around in Thomas’s affairs two years ago and it took over Sully’s murder investigation now.”

  “What the hell are they protecting?” asked Marenko.

  “Maybe the question is, who the hell are they protecting?” said Georgia. “I figured they took over Sully’s case to protect Freezer. But why would they poke around on Cullen Thomas? His death was ruled a suicide.”

  “I think Sully figured out what was going on. That’s why he made that appointment with the Feds. At the very least, he knew they were protecting McLaughlin. But maybe he knew a lot more.”

  “He didn’t tell Paul Brophy,” Georgia pointed out.

  “Broph wasn’t his partner anymore. He had a rep as a dirty cop. And he’d already taken a baseball bat to Freezer. Maybe Sully figured it was better to handle this one on his own.”

  “I thought Freezer killed Thomas and Sully because they had proof he’d murdered my father,” said Georgia. “But they didn’t. So what does that mean? That Freezer didn’t murder my dad?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” said Marenko. “I’ll bet Chuck Krause knows the answer. But the way things are going, no way is he going to tell us.”

  They stopped off at Marenko’s car and he grabbed his clothes, tools and gear from the trunk where he had stashed them when he parked. Georgia carried his empty toolbelt over her shoulder. She liked the smell of the well-worn leather mixed with sawdust and sweat. The street was quiet and treeless. Lights glowed from hallways and flashing strands of Christmas decorations hung in windows.

  Marenko’s building was a brown-brick six-story walk-up with a fire escape running down the front. It was a hike to his apartment on the top floor. Inside, he didn’t have a single Christmas decoration up. Not a tree. Not a wreath. Not a light. Georgia had bought him a little poinsettia, but it had withered and died on the windowsill.

  “Scrooge had more Christmas cheer,” said Georgia when they got inside.

  “Scrooge wasn’t divorced with two kids living thirty miles away.” He threw his toolbox and work clothes in a heap by the door.

  “Why don’t you move back to Long Island, Mac,” said Georgia. “You’re always happier when you’re around your family.”

  He walked into his galley kitchen and opened the door of his refrigerator. He stuck his head inside, as much to avoid her scrutiny as to retrieve a couple of beers. “I don’t belong out there anymore,” he mumbled.

  “Sure you do,” said Georgia. “Your parents are there. You’re always hanging out with your brothers and their families.”

  “They’re married. I’m not. I’d feel like a fifth wheel.”

  “That’s easy to remedy.”

  He pulled out two cold green bottles of Heineken like he hadn’t heard what she’d said and handed one to her. He clinked his bottle against hers. “Cheers. You want some ice for your face?”

  “I don’t think it will help—my face or our conversation.”

  He snapped off the cap on his bottle and gave her a look. “Don’t start, Scout. Especially after tonight.”

  “I’m not pressuring, Mac. I’m just pointing out that you’re not really cut out for the single lifestyle.”

  He tossed off a small laugh. “Thank you, Dr. Westheimer.”

  “All right. Be that way,” said Georgia. “I’m trying to talk to you openly and honestly and you’re getting defensive.”

  “I’m not getting defensive,” said Marenko. “And I’m not getting married again. End of conversation.”

  Georgia put her beer down. “Maybe I should just go. You’re tired and irritable tonight.”

  He straightened and put his own beer down on the counter. He took a step closer to her. Sometimes, she forgot how much bigger he was until he was right on top of her like that. “I’m tired and irritable? I’m working two jobs, Scout. I’m trying to give my kids something resembling a normal home life. And I still kept my promise to help Richie build that race car. You think being married to someone’s a guarantee they’ll be there? Do you think it would have changed your relationship with Rick? He’d still have left. Or just been absent in all the ways that mattered.”

  “You have a dim view of marriage.”

  “I have experience. You don’t,” he countered. “You think not marrying you is the same as abandoning you. I’m here, Scout. Maybe not every time you want me to be. But I’ll be here when you need me.” He pulled her toward him and snaked a firm hand down her back. He kissed her and she smiled.

  “You’re still not smoking,” she whispered. “I like that.”

  “We’ll see how long I can keep it up.”

  They made love in the bedroom as a wind rattled at the panes of glass behind the pulled-down shade. They both fell into a deep sleep that lasted until morning. Marenko had forgotten to set an alarm clock. They were awakened instead by the sound of a phone. Her cell phone. She stumbled out of bed and stubbed her toe on a chest of drawers while she rummaged for her bag. From a corner of window beyond the shade, she could make out the tepid light of an early winter morning. The red LED numbers on Marenko’s alarm clock read 7:05 A.M. Had they slept any later, they would probably both have been late for work.

  Marenko awoke and turned on a lamp beside his bed. Georgia had borrowed one of his flannel shirts to sleep in. It came down almost to her knees. His face was as pale and anxious as hers. They had to get up anyway, but a cell phone call at seven on a Tuesday morning had an aura of urgency about it.

  “Yeah?” Georgia mumbled into the phone, expecting her mother calling to ask whether Richie had homework due or what he should have for lunch. Instead, the voice on the phone belonged to a man. It was tentative and hoarse.

  “Georgia? I’m sorry to bother you, lass.” Seamus Hanlon. A cold fist of bile gathered in Georgia’s gut. />
  “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “Doug. Kerry said he went out for a run two hours ago and he didn’t come home.”

  “Maybe he just took an extra-long run.”

  “No. It’s more than that, Georgia. Kerry’s dad, Ray? His gun is missing.”

  44

  Georgia knew right away where Doug Hanlon had gone: Michael McLaughlin’s house. The address wouldn’t have been that hard to scare up through friends in the police department. Georgia could have put in a call to dispatch and had half a dozen police cruisers at McLaughlin’s place within minutes. But that wasn’t why Seamus was calling her at seven A.M. and they both knew it.

  “Love, please—he’s my boy,” said Seamus. “Maybe he’s distraught. Maybe he needs psychiatric attention. But if you call the police, he’ll go to jail—or worse.”

  “I’m not a hostage negotiator,” said Georgia.

  “He might not even be there. Maybe you can head him off. Maybe you can talk him out of it before…” They both knew what Doug Hanlon intended to do. Georgia wanted to do it herself. “I don’t want to lose him now—not after all this,” said Seamus.

  “I’ll try to find him,” she said. “But I can’t promise. You have to understand that.”

  Georgia clicked off the phone and turned to Marenko. She told him about Doug and the gun. Marenko let out a string of curses as he jumped into his pants.

  “This is all on account of that friggin’ tape ending up in the wrong hands. See what happens when you shoot your mouth off? You could be blamed for this, you know.”

  “I told you I didn’t send Hanlon’s father-in-law that tape,” Georgia insisted.

  “Doesn’t matter. Brennan’s right,” said Marenko. “You’re to blame for just putting the thought in some moron’s head.” He reached for his cell phone. “I swear, this thing just keeps feeding on itself.”

  “What are you doing? You can’t call the cops,” Georgia argued. “It would devastate Seamus. It would devastate the FDNY. People see firefighters, they think ‘hero,’ not ‘lunatic-with-a-gun.’”