Fireplay

by Suzanne Chazin

  “Skeehan,” O’Dwyer pleaded, then cursed under his breath. “Broward will give you charges when he finds out about this. Hell, he’ll give me charges for not moving you. Come on. Don’t do this to me. I’m looking to retire next year.”

  He went to put his hand on the door. Georgia opened her mouth to argue, but she was stopped by a rumble of engine noise at the end of the driveway by the pier. She turned to see Nathan Reese in the driver’s seat of a small payloader. The construction workers, in their haste to evacuate, had left the keys in their equipment. Reese was trying to shift the payloader into gear. It was making a terrible grinding noise and jerking back and forth. Georgia had no idea what he was doing. And then it suddenly dawned on her: he was going to try to ram the payloader into the glass corridor and vent the vapors.

  “Nathan, you can’t,” Georgia screamed. “The payloader runs on diesel.”

  Reese gave her a knowing look. He seemed fully aware of what he was doing. He also seemed fully aware that it came down to a simple choice: him or the firefighters at the front doors. He pulled back on a hand lever and once again tried to get the rig in gear.

  “I told you,” he yelled back at her. “No more dead firefighters.”

  His words were drowned out by the sound of the drive train coming to life. The payloader began chugging straight for the corridor. There were a few stunned seconds before everyone else realized what the short, slight man in the spectacles was trying to do. Then the glass groaned and shifted like ice on a lake. It turned white and became shot through with crazed lines. But it didn’t break. Reese stepped hard on the gas and switched into a lower, more powerful gear. Georgia had a sense that he understood what would happen to the man who broke the glass. No more dead firefighters.

  She heard a buckle, then a crash as pellets of glass tumbled into the corridor. A hole the size of a car door opened in the hallway. Georgia smelled an overpowering fuel odor. For a second, nothing happened. But it was only a pause. A moment later, Georgia heard a whoosh of air push out of the building. As soon as it met up with the payloader, the colorless current of vapors exploded into a ball of orange flames. It flew across the payloader, instantly setting it alight along with Nathan Reese. Georgia watched the young FBI agent in horror as the flames engulfed him, driven by the force of the wind and the buildup of butadiene inside the building. Maybe it was an involuntary muscle contraction caused by the intense heat, but she swore she saw him turn to her and try to speak.

  “Holy shit,” said Jack O’Dwyer. “That dumb bastard.” He and the other firefighters began running toward Reese. Engine Twelve scrambled over with the hose line.

  It took less than a minute for the engine to douse the flames. As intense as it was, the fireball had flared out quickly once the leaked butadiene had burned off. But there was nothing pretty about the corpse left in its wake. Reese’s body was black and hairless, his clothes reduced to charred tatters. The frames of his wire glasses had oxidized to a brownish red and the lenses were opaque with oil. But he had saved the firefighters. That, Georgia was sure of. When they opened the front doors to the plant, there was no fireball to greet them anymore. There was no one to save, either. Lauren Krause had died—before or after Nathan Reese, no one could be sure. As intense as the smoke was inside the plant, the engine was able to douse the flames within a matter of minutes. There was very little destruction.

  Afterward, Jack O’Dwyer stumbled over to Georgia, clearly shaken. He took off his helmet and made the sign of the cross as technicians from the medical examiner’s office took Reese’s body away. “Bravest sonofabitch I’ve ever seen,” he muttered hoarsely. “I don’t even know his name, and he just saved my life and the lives of four other firefighters. He’s a civilian, for crying out loud. Why did he do that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Georgia. “I wish I’d known him well enough to answer that.”

  48

  Physically, the Dalcor plant suffered only minimal damage. There was the usual destruction caused by smoke and water and the breakage of glass. Some of the conveyor equipment and wiring would have to be junked. But these were cosmetic rather than structural repairs, easily fixable within a matter of weeks. The death toll, which could have numbered several dozen, had been reduced to just two: Nathan Reese and Lauren Krause.

  It was the psychological toll, Georgia suspected, that would be more difficult to repair. Although the butadiene leak had, thankfully, been small, Dalcor wouldn’t easily be able to gloss over the fact that things could’ve been worse. Much, much worse. It would take months for officials from the EPA and the city’s Department of Environmental Protection to come to any conclusions. Yet already, Georgia sensed civic leaders backing away from support of the plant. The Green Warriors had won the battle, thought Georgia. But perhaps they’d lost the war. Mainstream environmentalists were quick to distance themselves from the Green Warriors’ philosophy and tactics. Money was bound to dry up after this. What might have been called “revolutionary” in the sixties was now called simply “terrorism.” And nobody likes a terrorist.

  It was early afternoon before Georgia was finished giving statements to the police, the EPA and her own guys at Manhattan base. Fire Marshal Sal Giordano offered Georgia a ride back to Lafayette Street. She accepted. She followed him and his partner through the police barricade and past a crowd of spectators and reporters. That’s when she saw him. He was leaning on one of the barricades. He had the collar of his flannel-lined denim jacket up and his Yankees baseball cap pulled low across his face. He’d shaved. And changed clothes—not an easy feat for a man on the run. Then again, maybe he wasn’t on the run anymore.

  “On second thought,” said Georgia to Giordano, “I may be a while. I’ll meet you back at base.”

  She felt a small bubble of anticipation inside of her as she maneuvered through the crowd to meet him. She told herself she was just happy he was alive. But she knew it was more than that.

  “Hiya, Gee Gee.” His eyes traveled to the purple blotch on her cheek. “How’s the face?”

  “You hit me pretty hard.”

  “You asked me to, remember?”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Georgia. “You’re alive.”

  “I can’t tell from your voice,” said Rick. “Is that good or bad?”

  “You could’ve called.”

  “Worried about me?”

  Georgia let the question slide. “What happened with Buscanti?”

  “I told him I was set up. I have no interest in playing informant. I’d like to live a long life. It didn’t take long for him to realize I was telling the truth.”

  “Just like that? You told him and he believed you?”

  “Sicilian handshake. Word of honor, all that shit. We’re both Italian—believe me, that stuff counts. Besides, he knows I don’t know enough to be of much use to the Feds anyway. And we both agreed we should keep it that way.”

  “Then it’s over?”

  “For me, it is. But not for Michael McLaughlin. Buscanti’s very, very angry with McLaughlin for setting him up. I think you know what ‘very, very angry’ means in his circles.”

  “Does McLaughlin know this?”

  “Not yet. But he will. Very soon.” Rick squinted out across the Hudson. “I guess, being a cop and all, you’ll have to tell your people and the FBI about the threat to McLaughlin’s life.”

  “You want me to?”

  “Absolutely. First thing tomorrow morning.” Rick looked at his watch. “I mean, it’s already almost three P.M. You’re going home soon, right? It’s been a tough day. Tomorrow would be a very good time to tell your chief.”

  Georgia and Rick locked eyes. She knew what he was saying. “I have a duty to uphold the law,” she reminded him.

  “The law didn’t happen here, Gee Gee. You know that. The law, if it had worked at all, would’ve put McLaughlin in jail a long time ago for keeps. Cut everybody a break. Cut yourself one. Go home. Put the paperwork in tomorrow.”

  “That
doesn’t bother you?”

  “You’re asking the wrong guy.”

  “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to work.”

  “And if you handle this by the book, and two years from now, someone else dies, what good did you do?”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Georgia.

  “Sleep on it,” said Rick. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “So what happens now?”

  Rick shrugged. “I’m going back to my life in Toms River to try and get out of debt. If the Feds want to talk to me about the Green Warriors or Jamie Sullivan, they’re welcome to. I don’t know anything. I didn’t do anything—that is, unless you want to charge me with assault?”

  He was teasing, Georgia knew. But it irked her that he seemed so casual about all that had happened.

  “And just like that, you go back to your life? After making a mess of mine?”

  “You’re not in trouble with the fire department, are you? I mean, that’s why you asked me to hit you—so you wouldn’t get in trouble.”

  “I wasn’t talking professionally,” said Georgia.

  “You mean Richie? Gee Gee, I want to see Richie. The ball’s in your court. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether you’re serious about being a part of his life. You can’t float in and out of it at will, Rick.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” He gave her a hurt look, so she added, “Check back with me in a few days, okay? We’ll try to work something out.”

  “No sweat.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you.” He began to walk away.

  “You’ve said that before,” she yelled after him, but he didn’t seem to hear. He never turned back. Eight years had come and gone, and she still had that same pang watching him walk out of her life, not knowing if he’d ever walk back in.

  She stood frozen to that spot on the sidewalk for a long time, oblivious to the spectators around her, to the official cars and rigs moving into and out of position. Finally, she forced her legs to walk in the direction of the subway. It was already after three. A light snow had begun to fall. At Fourteenth Street, she could catch the A train down to Spring Street, then walk the short distance to Manhattan base. Then again, she could catch the Uptown E train and just go home—leave Michael McLaughlin to the fate he deserved.

  She walked east to Eighth Avenue. Crowds of shoppers lined the sidewalks, all of them, it seemed, carrying big bags filled with brightly wrapped packages. Sidewalk Santas in cheap red felt suits rang bells for the Salvation Army. In a clothing store’s display window, miniature trains chugged through fake snow, and stuffed bears mechanically waved and smiled. Georgia stared into a window of a café with boughs of evergreens strung with white lights. Joe Russo and Tony Fuentes would never see this Christmas. Doug Hanlon might spend it in jail. Rachel Cross’s family had known more than a dozen Christmases without her. And all those images paled against a deeper wound—the nineteen Christmases without her father.

  “Dad, what do I do?” she whispered as the crowd of shoppers pressed in all around her. She tried to picture her father’s face, his voice. But she couldn’t. Sometimes that panicked her most of all. He’d become like a deer in the woods to her. When she least expected it, a fleeting image of him would flood her senses—the untamed, curly reddish-brown hair, the rugged good looks, the mischievous grin, the way he whistled—so loud and clear, you felt as if you’d be able to hear him in Jersey. Always, he’d be in motion—throwing a ball, welding a pipe, grabbing his helmet and turnout gear. She had to stay very still to feel him, for if she moved, he would vanish. And she couldn’t chase him or summon him back, no matter how hard she tried.

  She reached in her bag for the brass key chain he’d given her shortly before he died—with his badge number replicated on a Maltese cross. She rubbed it like a talisman, hoping to conjure him now. She wanted to hear his voice. But nothing came. Only the honk of gridlocked cars and the endless tinkle of Salvation Army bells. He wasn’t here. This was one decision she’d have to make on her own.

  At Fourteenth Street and Eighth Avenue, she took the stairs down to the subway. She ran her Metrocard through the turnstile. It was a big station. She could take the E to Queens and be roughly in the vicinity of home. She could take the A to Manhattan base. Her stomach churned. The minutes ticked by slowly. It was now three-thirty P.M. The FBI wasn’t like the FDNY. They didn’t work twenty-four-hour shifts. In another few hours, Scott Nelson and the others would be checking out for the day. Anything that happened after that would require a lot more effort.

  She forced herself to remember the photographs of a disfigured Rachel Cross. She relived Joe Russo’s wake and Tony Fuentes’s funeral. She added Nathan Reese’s brave and selfless act to the list of deaths. I’m not killing Michael McLaughlin if I wait until the morning, she told herself. I’m just not helping him live. But the argument rang hollow. She knew what she was doing. When the E train came, she didn’t get on. Instead, she walked down one flight to the A and took it downtown.

  Randy Carter was at his desk in the squad room when she got to base. He seemed startled to see her. He rose.

  “You okay?” he asked. “Giordano said you’d gone home. I was going to call you later.”

  “Any word from Mac about Doug?”

  Carter nodded. “He’s been transferred to a private hospital.”

  “The charges were dropped?”

  “The D.A. has already declined to prosecute so long as the fire department gets him psychiatric help. If Doug gets his act together, the judge hinted that the department could reinstate him as early as next June.”

  “How’s Seamus?” Georgia asked.

  “A mess,” said Carter. “But he’s glad his son is alive and that he didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Doug helped save a lot of lives today.”

  “Marenko told him that,” said Carter. “It hasn’t registered yet, but I think it will in time.”

  Georgia propped herself on the edge of her partner’s desk. Unlike everyone else’s at base, Carter’s desk was meticulously neat. Papers were always bound in folders, the desk surface was visible and it was never sticky. “I need to talk to you about something,” she said. “Privately.”

  Carter paled. He looked down at his hands. “I think I know what this is about.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “Let’s take a walk.”

  The snow had thickened by the time they got to the street, darkening the sky a little early—even for December. Carter walked briskly. Georgia sensed he had something he wanted to say. He didn’t speak, however, until they had traveled north and west about ten minutes into Washington Square Park. The fountain was off, and the square was quiet this time of year. His voice sounded ragged when he finally broke the silence.

  “My whole career—thirty-one years—I never once took the law into my own hands,” he began. “I did everything by the book, girl. Everything. But—this is one time I couldn’t.” He turned to her. “I’m really sorry, Skeehan. I didn’t know it would turn out this way.”

  Georgia stopped in her tracks and looked at him. “Randy, what are you talking about?”

  “Marenko told you, didn’t he?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him since this morning.”

  “I’m the one who sent that tape to Hanlon’s father-in-law,” said Carter. “I’ve already made a full confession to Chief Brennan and offered my resignation.”

  “What?” Georgia felt as if she’d just dived off the high board and someone had informed her there was no water in the pool.

  “Michael McLaughlin’s a cancer, girl. You can’t just cover a cancer or take a few aspirin and hope it will go away. You’ve got to cut it out. I couldn’t see any alternative.”

  “Then take charges, Randy. But don’t resign. Why the hell would you resign?”

&nb
sp; “Because it’s the right thing to do. I breached my duties as a law enforcement officer. I put a lot of people’s lives in danger today.”

  “You didn’t know Hanlon would go off the deep end.”

  “I should have anticipated this,” Carter admitted. “But I didn’t. I figured Ray Connelly was a smart guy. He’d never let Doug hear that tape. He’d give it to his cronies in the PD. Once enough people in law enforcement heard it, the Feds would be forced to act.”

  Carter dusted off the snow on a park bench and sat down. He leaned his arms on his thighs and stared at his gloved hands. “Maybe the FDNY couldn’t get Freezer. But for sure, the PD could take a shot at him. I couldn’t let him get away. Not again. Not after what he did to all those innocent people.” He shook his head. “Not after what he did to your father.”

  Georgia paced the walk in front of him. “So you’re going to quit now—is that it? Run away?” She spoke the words like each had to be chiseled from a brand-new piece of stone. There was no template for anything like this in their relationship.

  “I’m not running away,” he bristled. “I’m taking my punishment like a man. I wanted to say something last night. But I couldn’t in front of the Feds,” he explained. “I would’ve embarrassed the department and basically admitted that you’d given me the tape, which would’ve hurt you more than helped you. That’s why I didn’t come forward then. But I accepted full responsibility for it to Brennan today.”

  “No, you haven’t,” said Georgia.

  Carter gave her a confused look.

  “You want to accept full responsibility? Then take charges, Randy. Apologize to Seamus and Doug and Ray Connelly. Let Brennan curse you out. But don’t hand me this horseshit about quitting.”

  “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Fine.” She threw up her hands. “You want to quit? Then quit. I came back to base this afternoon because I have a problem, and I needed help from the person I trust most on this job. I learned everything I know about being a marshal from him. Even when he makes a mistake, he makes it for the right reasons. But I can see that that man isn’t here anymore. So I’m leaving.”