Water bombing Dackermann only dowsed the flames surrounding him. The fumes caught fire faster than the water could put them out. They flashed into the basement and ignited the pile of books. A scream blasted out of the depths.
There was no time to think. Instinct took over. Grant turned the cold tap on and dumped a towel from the rail in the sink, then he put his thumb over the spout and sprayed himself from the waist up. Without turning off the faucet, he grabbed the towel and dashed to the hatch. Nedeller was already pulling Dackermann to one side. Bridges retrieved their guns.
Grant could feel the heat coming up from the basement.
He jerked a thumb at Dackermann. “Get him out.” Nedeller nodded. “And get the fire department.”
Grant took one last look around the kitchen, draped the towel over his head and shoulders, then went down into the inferno.
The pile of books was big and heavy and reluctant to burn. Closed pages and leather bindings didn’t catch fire as easily as torn paper. The books began to singe and curl but didn’t burst into flame. Everything else in the basement was a lot easier. Cardboard boxes. Stored drapes. Plastic sheeting and a workbench stacked with tins of paint and industrial thinners. All of it was reaching flashover, the temperature when instantaneous combustion took over and fire would flash across everything.
The cry for help was strangled by the child’s own tears.
Grant couldn’t make out where the boy was.
“Shout again. Where are you?”
Some coughing and spluttering, then the voice strengthened. “Over here.”
Grant turned left at the bottom of the stairs. The book mound was beginning to catch fire. Several volumes burst into flame. A paint tin on the workbench popped its lid and spurted liquid fire up the wall. A can of thinners exploded. The boy screamed again. Grant ignored the heat and walked past the books. The temptation to run was strong but running in these surroundings would have been a mistake. Uneven ground. Too many obstacles. Too little time. If he tripped and fell, it would be the end of him and the boy. First rule of emergency response: Get there safely or you can’t help the person you’re trying to help.
The boy was cowering against the far wall beside a dusty old grandfather clock. The varnished wood was steaming in the heat. The glass in the clock face cracked. The noise made the boy jump.
Grant cleared a path to the boy, kicking scorched books and fallen drapes aside and knocking a flaming box over with his elbow. The towel around his head was almost dry. The steam coming off his wet clothes had stopped. Next thing he would go up like a roman candle. There was no time for niceties. He didn’t try and calm the boy. He simply grabbed him by the shoulders, tucked him under one arm, and headed back to the stairs.
Two more paint tins exploded. The mountain of books crumbled and spilled burning volumes across the floor. Grant kicked them aside and forged ahead.
Flashover.
Flames raced across the ceiling and everything caught fire. The wooden storage cupboard and the workbench ruptured. The grandfather clock spewed its innards and burst into flame. Grant reached the bottom of the stairs and felt the heat turn his clothes tinder-dry. Smoke began to come off him like a mist. The boy’s hair curled and singed.
Grant didn’t race up the stairs. Same principle. More haste, less speed. He took the steps one at a time and built up a steady rhythm. A safe rhythm. He hit the top step and threw himself across the kitchen floor. Water hit him in the face and spray doused his clothes.
Not the fire department. Officer Nedeller using his initiative. The washing up bowl and spray from the faucet. Sirens and air horns told Grant the cavalry wouldn’t be long. He lay on his back and let out a sigh of relief.
Grant used a fresh towel to dry himself, but his clothes had already dried. He knew he’d been lucky this time. Reversing the old saying about jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. Grant had jumped out of the fire and into the kitchen. Almost the same thing but not quite. Lucky. Undeniably.
Heat from the kitchen had dried his clothes. The towel over his head had protected his hair. Apart from looking a bit scruffy and careworn, he didn’t appear much different than usual. Casual clothes. A leather jacket instead of the trademark orange windcheater that hadn’t survived his trip to Texas. The leather was dry and cracked, the way leather should look. His eyebrows showed signs of singeing, but not as bad as the boy’s hair.
The boy was being treated in the back of an ambulance.
The boy’s father was handcuffed in the back of a second ambulance.
Grant turned his back on the fire department’s dousing operation and joined Bridges and Nedeller. Both looked relieved that Grant had got out of there alive. They were even happier that the boy was safe. Reasonable grounds had been proved right. Their actions were justified. A good day at the office. Ken Dackermann was less happy. Grant opened the rear door but restrained his anger.
“What you think this is? Kristallnacht?”
A paramedic stepped outside to give Grant some privacy. Dackermann had lost all his hair but was surprisingly free of major burns. The bowl of water had caught him just in time. He didn’t look happy about that but hadn’t lost his need to correct those around him. Not his wife for stealing his son, but the cop for misreading history.
“That was the breaking of windows, not burning books.”
Grant leaned towards the gurney.
“Got news for you. Your windows are fucked as well.”
Dackermann shrugged. Resigned to his fate.
Grant couldn’t keep the hard edge from his voice. “They have a special night for burning children?”
Dackermann met Grant’s stare. He didn’t blink. “No, but they gassed a few along with the other Jews.”
Grant balled his fist. Nedeller stepped between them and guided Grant to one side. The paramedic got back in and Bridges closed the door. Nedeller once again displayed maturity beyond his years.
“We can’t save everybody. You saved one tonight.”
Grant felt the anger drain away. He let out a sigh and smiled at the uniformed cop who had a glowing future ahead of him.
“You know the best way to save a mouse?” Nedeller smiled but kept quiet. This was one of Grant’s favorites. “Eat a pussy.”
The thought of that made Grant feel better. Sometimes you’ve got to deflect the shit life throws at you any way you can. The house at 23 Bischoff Street hissed steam but was largely intact from the ground floor up. It would need a paint job and a shit load of new windows, but it was another save on a night that could have gone a whole lot worse.
Static and radio traffic sounded from the lead fire tender. Loud, so it could be heard over the noise of the pumps and the engines. The radio in Nedeller’s marked unit was quieter but no less insistent.
“Any units to assist District A1? Beacon Hill. Shots fired.”
Grant’s ears pricked up.
“Where are we? D4? Isn’t A1 just across the 90?”
He was asking but he already knew the answer. He patted Nedeller on the shoulder and set off for his unmarked unit.
“Leave it with you, kid.”
The traditional Yorkshire police brush off. He jumped in the car and started the engine. A quick three-point turn and a burst of gas and he was heading towards Beacon Hill. The night that could have gone a whole lot worse was about to do just that. The second domino began to fall.
CHAPTER THREE
It was obvious when Grant arrived that the danger had passed. Mount Vernon Street was quiet and empty and completely devoid of gunfire or shooters. He was first at the scene. He turned in coming the wrong way up Joy Street because he didn’t know how far along the house was. He found it halfway along, just across the brow of the hill. This was a step up from Bischoff. The tree-lined thoroughfare was straight and narrow and obviously home to the privileged few. The houses were big and solid and reached for the stars. Three or four storeys were standard. Bay windows an
d gated front steps were optional.
The smell of cordite hung in the air as Grant got out of the car. It put his senses on high alert. Keeping the unmarked Crown Vic between him and the house, he scanned the street. There were parked cars along both sides as far as the eye could see. The only gaps were for access to side entrances or off-street parking. Streetlamps between the trees threw pools of light and shadow that made it difficult to see. Grant waited until he was certain there was no movement in the shadows, then acknowledged his arrival over the radio.
The radio squawked an update.
“All units attending Mount Vernon, be advised. Plain-clothes officer on scene.”
That was so nobody would shoot Grant when they came blue lighting over the hill. He could hear sirens in the distance. Being so close had given him a head start. Assisting other officers now became lead detective. First thing to do was make sure the scene was safe. Second thing would be to find out if anyone was injured. In that order. If you go charging in before you do the first, you could end up being one of the second.
Satisfied that the area was safe, Grant left his grill lights flashing and crossed the street. He kept half an eye on where he was walking so he wouldn’t trample any evidence but was mainly concerned with the house opposite. The front door was set back from the street behind ornate iron gates. Beneath a stone arch recess. The gates were open. The door ajar. Two or three inches. Grant kept his eyes on the door as he reached the sidewalk. There was no sign of movement inside. There was no body on the steps and no blood splatter in the doorway. That appeared to be more luck than judgement because there was a scattering of bullet holes along the wall next to the house number.
Grant stopped.
He counted five holes blasted into the red brick and one in the stone arch. He made a quick calculation of trajectory from the spread of the bullet holes and the tree blocking part of the entrance. He glanced over his shoulder at the most likely point of origin and marked the spot in his mind. Then he turned back to the house.
The door was still ajar.
There was still no movement.
That could be read two ways. Strange that nobody was moving if somebody had just shot at your house, or perfectly understandable that you’d be hiding if somebody had just shot at your house. What surprised Grant when he reached the front door was the response from the homeowner.
“Ah, there you are, officer. Come in and make yourself comfortable.”
The man who opened the door exuded wealth and power.
“I’ve already cancelled your colleagues.”
Grant didn’t go in. He stood in the doorway and jerked a thumb back towards the street.
“Somebody just shot at your house.”
The man waved the suggestion away as a minor irritation.
“Yes, I know. Let me explain.”
Grant didn’t like the explanation and he didn’t like Daniel Hunt’s attitude. It felt like a wealthy plantation owner was talking down to him. Not quite as if he were a slave in the cotton fields but close. Grant told Hunt to go inside and lock the door; he’d be right back. The wealthy plantation owner didn’t like that. Grant didn’t care. He walked back to his car and popped the trunk. One thing he knew for sure: when shots are fired, no police department cancels units on the strength of a phone call. Uniform patrol would still be coming over the hill. Just not so fast since there was an officer on scene.
Grant didn’t want them skidding across the evidence.
The evidence was the shell casings he’d seen when he crossed the street.
Preserve the scene. That was the third thing.
Grant took out a roll of crime scene tape and tied one end to the lamppost behind his Crown Vic. He stretched the tape across Mount Vernon, blocking the street, and tied it off at the wrought iron fence outside the house next door. The sirens grew louder. Blue and red flashing lights sped along Mount Vernon and skidded to a halt at the impromptu barrier. Same as in Yorkshire, Grant knew that uniform patrol loved driving fast and blue lighting across town. Even though the urgency had been downgraded after Grant radioed that the shooter had left the scene.
The driver and his partner slammed their doors open and levelled their guns down the street across the top. The second jockey fingered his handset and gave their call sign. Confirmed arrival.
The radio squawked. The operator was imperturbable.
“Alpha Two, ten-four.”
The guns swung towards movement in the shadows, next to the wrought iron fence of the house next door. Grant put his hands up, trailing crime scene tape, and stepped into the light.
“Take it easy, Dirty Harry. I surrender.”
The driver kept his gun on the stranger. His partner holstered his weapon.
“Who the fuck’s Dirty Harry?”
Grant lowered his hands.
“Rogue cop? Early seventies? Clint Eastwood?”
The driver holstered his gun but let his partner do the talking. “The old guy, makes them cranky old man movies?”
Grant shrugged. “Didn’t always. Used to be the toughest cop in movies. Westerns too.”
The partner nodded to his colleague. “We’re more Raylan Givens.”
Grant smiled. “Without the Stetson and the cowboy boots. Wrong side of America for that, aren’t you?”
The driver found his voice. “Wrong side of the Atlantic for this, aren’t you?”
Grant held his hands up again. “You got me. Twice.”
Pissing contest over. Mutual support assured. Grant held out the crime scene tape and indicated further down the street.
“Could one of you cordon the scene? Hundred yards past that house over there. Stay on this side. Shell casings on the sidewalk.”
The partner took the roll of tape and set off down Mount Vernon. The driver stayed with his unit in case it needed moving. Grant nodded his thanks and took a second roll of tape from the Crown Vic’s trunk. He formed a tighter cordon outside the address. It included the sidewalk, a couple of trees, and the road. Inner cordon. Where the shooting took place. He left the casings where they were. They’d need photographing in situ before forensics examined them. SOCO back in England. CSI over here. Grant doubted they’d get the shooter identified as quickly as Gary Sinise.
Satisfied that he wasn’t trampling tyre marks, he went back up the steps to the front door and knocked. His Yorkshire policeman knock. The don’t mess with me knock. Considering he’d only just left the owner, it took Daniel Hunt a long time to open the door.
“You came back, officer. I thought I explained.”
Grant jerked a thumb at the uniform cops and the flashing lights.
“And I thought you’d cancelled my colleagues.” Hunt pursed his lips as if sucking a lemon. Grant put a smile in his voice. “Now explain it to me again.”
The explanation was brief and to the point. Hunt had parked his car and opened the gates across the steps. He was opening the front door when he heard gunshots and went inside. He didn’t see anybody. He didn’t hear anything. He wasn’t injured. The damage was minor. He didn’t want to make a complaint.
The same explanation as before. The same response from Grant. He still didn’t like it and he still didn’t like Hunt. Hunt didn’t look as if he cared. Being liked wasn’t high on his list of priorities. Having people do as they were told was.
“So I want you to leave immediately.”
Grant rarely did as he was told.
“No. Let’s go through that again.”
They were standing in the hallway. Hunt hadn’t invited Grant any further than that or offered him a seat. The hallway was like walking into the Tardis. Dr. Who would have been proud of how deceptive the outside of the house was. Oh sure, it was four storeys high, but not particularly wide. The red bricks were so clean the house looked like a new build, but the carved stone archway and the decorative features around several of the bay windows on all floors suggested it had been there for decades. N
ot centuries like in England. America hadn’t been here for centuries. People like Daniel Hunt put on a good show of being rulers since time began though. He strengthened his I’m in charge voice.
“I told you there is no complaint.”
“Somebody’s running around shooting walls. That’s my complaint.”
“It’s only a wall.”
Grant lowered his voice. “Let me explain something about gunfire. Bullets don’t always go where they’re meant to. They ricochet and bounce around and sometimes they even go through what they hit. Miss the wall and go through the window, it could kill somebody three doors away. Big enough gun and it could punch through the wall, the door, and your thick skull before splattering your brains all over the kitchen table.”
“I don’t have a kitchen table.”
“You eat standing up?”
“I eat in the dining room.”
“Same difference. Brains on the dining table then. Point is, guns are dangerous things. And someone out there’s got one.”
Hunt glanced at his watch and then at the door. He smiled at Grant. “This is America. Everybody out there’s got one.”
Grant wasn’t getting anywhere but he soldiered on. “When you got out of the car, did you see anyone on the street?”
“No.”
“Did you hear any cars driving by?”
“No.”
“Let me guess. You were focussed on the keyhole.”
“It’s where the key goes.”
More red and blue lights pulled up at the crest of Mount Vernon. Grant could see them through the open door. Another marked unit. Backup for Alpha Two. Standard procedure where a shooting was involved. The Boston PD seemed to be taking this a lot more seriously than the victim. Doors slammed. Another car stopped behind the marked units. No police lights this time. Hunt glanced over Grant’s shoulder, then back to the Yorkshire detective. A faint smile played across Hunt’s lips. Grant tried one more time.
“Aren’t you concerned that somebody just took a shot at you?”
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