So far, so good. She tried the same technique with the Spring Street fire.
HTA FIRE NUMBER FOUR
Alarm box number: 2310
Building: Fully rented, six-story commercial loft in SoHo, Manhattan, occupied on the sixth floor.
Date of Burning: Last Monday night, April 5th
Ownership: Private Insurance: Adequate
Fatalities: Fifty-three civilians; one firefighter
Point of origin: Unknown.
Everything about this fire was different from the first three. It was an occupied building in a high-rent district. Public access to most of the building would have been limited. No plastic bucket bottoms were found in the wreckage.
Questions flooded Georgia’s brain. If the fires were unrelated, who took the building records, and why? If Glassman set this blaze, how did he get the materials into the building? If Fred Fischer did it, how did he remain sober long enough to engineer a relatively sophisticated accelerant? And why didn’t he get out?
Where did the fire in Howard Beach fit into all of this? She tried to sort out what she knew about that fire now.
HTA FIRE NUMBER FIVE
Alarm box number: 1912
Building: Fully occupied six-family row frame in Howard Beach, Queens
Date of burning: Thursday night, April 8th
Ownership: Private
Insurance: Adequate
Fatalities: Six dead; fourteen wounded
Point of origin: Unknown, but at least one bucket bottom found in basement.
The hiss of air brakes startled Georgia. She folded the list of fires into her pocketbook and stood, plastering an extra-cheerful smile across her face for her son as he stepped off the bus.
Richie’s school uniform tie and jacket were off, his white shirt already untucked from his pants. He looked hot and tired as he trudged up the front steps. She longed to hug him and offer him a Coke while they sat on the stoop and talked about his day. But something in his face—a wariness around those hazel eyes—made her pause.
She reached out a hand to tousle his hair, but the gesture froze in midair. Somehow, over these past few months, they’d lost the ready intimacy that had been so much a part of their lives together. And, like an estranged lover, she had no idea how to get it back.
“I saw the basketball award, sweetheart,” Georgia said in a voice so bright it made her throat hurt. “That was terrific. I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there to watch you get it.”
“Yeah.” He opened the front door and threw his school jacket and knapsack across a chair—a challenge of sorts. She was always nagging him to hang things up.
“Did you celebrate afterward?” She pretended not to notice the jacket and knapsack.
“The team went to Mario’s for ice cream.” He kicked his sneakers into the closet. They thudded like two bullets against the back wall, where a dozen other shoeprints had long ago made their marks.
In the kitchen, he grabbed a chocolate doughnut from an open box and bit off a huge chunk. The sight of those perfectly bowed lips rimmed with dark brown icing made her heart ache for the days when he loved her without reservation.
“Look, Richie, I know you’re mad at me for missing your game last night. But I had no choice. It was a big fire, lots of people died, and I’m now in charge. I can’t walk away from something like that for a basketball game. If you think about it, except for my job, I’m always here. Day in, day out…”
Richie put down his doughnut and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “You want a medal or something?”
The words stung. He’d meant them to. She grabbed the first thoughts that popped into her head. “You’re sitting in judgment of me? You write letters to a man you don’t even know, a man who walked away—”
She stopped cold as a look of shock and betrayal flashed across her son’s face. She could’ve slapped him and done less damage. “I’m sorry…” Georgia sputtered. “I didn’t know what I was reading until I read it…Richie, why didn’t you talk to me first?”
“Because you don’t want me to know him…” He wiped at his eyes, still child enough to cry, but just man enough now to feel embarrassed by it. A year ago, she’d have taken him in her arms. Now, she sensed he’d prefer her not to notice.
“I’d love for you to know him,” she protested. “But it’s not my decision.”
She’d always known this conversation would come. Yet she was still unprepared for it. Richie had been fascinated by fathers since he could talk. When he was three, he saw a friend’s father at the supermarket and asked Georgia if she could buy him a daddy there. At four, he told the kids in his preschool that his father was a firefighter killed in the line of duty. Georgia never had the heart to tell the teacher otherwise. She promised herself that she’d sit him down one day and explain it. She just never figured that that day would coincide with the biggest arson investigation in department history.
“Richie, I’m beat. I’m under tremendous pressure here—”
“His name’s Rick, isn’t it? I’m named after him, right?”
The conversation from hell. Talking to him about sex would be a cakewalk after this. She sighed. “Honey, this isn’t exactly a great time to discuss—”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Contacting him’s not a good idea…”
“Why? Is he in jail?” The boy brightened. An outlaw dad would not only be cool, it would give Richie a clear reason for his father’s absence.
“No. He lives in Jersey.” She could see her son doing the math. New Jersey wasn’t far. Two hours’ drive—tops. A death-row dad would be preferable to a disinterested one. Hell, she’d be happy to execute him herself.
“Richie, honey, he didn’t leave because he didn’t love you. He left because we were changing into different people, I suppose. He never really got to know you.”
“Can I send him my letter?”
“It won’t…he won’t…” Georgia wanted to list a dozen reasons why Richie shouldn’t mail the letter. But they were her reasons. Because, as much as she hated to admit it, the letter embarrassed her, confirmed her darkest fears—that she’d failed as a mother.
“Please, Mom,” the boy pressed.
“What if he doesn’t write back? Can you handle that?”
“Yeah,” he said woodenly. It was a foolish question, Georgia knew. The unfairness of life is a learned adult response. In Richie’s mind, his father simply couldn’t—wouldn’t—do that to him. She just hoped she wasn’t erasing some part of his innocence on a whim.
“All right,” she said finally. “I’ll get his address and mail the letter. Deal?” She held up a hand, and he high-fived her with a brave smile.
“Deal.”
The phone rang. She debated whether or not to answer it, then decided she didn’t really have a choice.
“Turn on channel five.” It was Marenko. He sounded angry.
“What’s wrong?”
“Turn it on, you’ll see.”
Georgia grabbed the remote and pushed the channel button until she hit five. A grainy home movie played across the screen. It showed a windowless hall filled with men, some in FDNY uniforms.
“What is this? A shriner’s convention?” The men were gathered in a circle, raising what looked like paper tumblers of beer. Just beyond the circle, several more men, some in uniform, were wearing afro wigs and black pancake makeup. Parts of the tape were blacked out because the men seemed to be dancing with naked women.
“Where…?” was all Georgia could stammer.
“The party at the VFW hall last night,” fumed Marenko. “While that building was burning and people were dying—kids, a brother, for Chrissake—those jerkoffs were getting plastered in blackface.”
“Who was stupid enough to film this, let alone give it to the press?”
Marenko paused. “Not stupid, Scout. Just the opposite. I checked with some of the guys in attendance—no one was videotaping. This was done by a hidden camera. A
copy of this same tape arrived through the mail at the task force an hour ago, along with a letter and a quote from Revelation…uh…” He stumbled. “…addressed to you.”
“To me?” Georgia could feel a prickly breeze travel down her spine. “Are you saying,” she whispered, “this tape’s from the Fourth Angel?”
“And that isn’t even the worst of it,” he said grimly. “His letter seems to be implying that he’s gonna set an even bigger fire on Monday. If that’s true, it means we’ve got, what? Three days to stop him?” He let out a string of expletives. “I coulda sworn this scumbag was a harmless wacko. I never believed this would happen. No one did—”
“Because the department would’ve had to admit they screwed up. Three times in a row. And they would’ve had to produce the building records for those two vacants.”
Marenko didn’t answer. Georgia suddenly got a hunch. “Where are the records, Mac?”
“I told you, I don’t—”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” she yelled at him. “We’ve got a serial arsonist promising a major fire on Monday, and you’re still playing games? Brennan knows where those records are—and so do you.”
“I’m not…it’s just that…” Marenko sighed. “Why do you want to look at them, anyway?”
“Because the fires don’t fit together. Something’s missing and I’m hoping those records will provide a clue.
“They won’t.”
“Well, maybe I’ll just bring the matter to the commissioner and let him decide.”
There was a pause on the line. Marenko sucked in his breath. “Don’t do that,” he said wearily. Georgia heard the crumple of a cellophane wrapper, then the click of a butane lighter.
“Are you smoking? I thought you’d quit.”
He took a long drag, then exhaled. “I thought I did, too. You just gave me a reason to start again. Take down this address. Three-seventeen West Fifty-second Street. Meet me in an hour. You’ll have your records.”
“Is that a firehouse or something?”
“No,” he said stiffly. “That’s my apartment.”
27
Mac Marenko lived in a six-story brown-brick tenement in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, a drab, semi-industrial neighborhood on the far west side of midtown Manhattan. The hallway was overheated and dim. The air smelled of spaghetti sauce and roach defogger. She could hear the soundtrack to a movie filtering through a door as she passed.
Marenko was waiting for her at the top of the last set of stairs. He was leaning in his doorway, clad in a gray sweatshirt and jeans, a toothpick wedged in his mouth.
“I got a penthouse apartment,” he joked. “The climb makes up for the Marlboros.”
“I’m not here for the views, Mac.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He put his hands over his head to feign warding off a blow. “You’re gonna bawl me out.” He opened the front door wider and gestured for her to enter.
The apartment was pure bachelor. There were no framed pictures on the walls, no plants along the windowsills. The shelves were crammed with books and papers in disarray. In the living room, to make up for a dearth of furniture, Marenko had set up his weight bench and exercise bike. A pile of Sports Illustrateds took up most of the plastic coffee table. The well-thumbed swimsuit issue was open beside a plaid couch with fraying armrests and a sagging middle.
Marenko caught her assessment of the place. “I only got home ten minutes ago,” he apologized, tossing his toothpick into the garbage. “I didn’t know this morning I was gonna have company.”
“I’m not company.”
He went into the galley kitchen, grabbed two bottles of Heineken from the refrigerator, and popped their caps. Then he pressed the cold green bottle into her hand. “In that case, I can’t offer you this.”
“Mac, this isn’t a date.”
“I didn’t ask you for one. I want a beer and I hate to drink alone, okay? You some weird-ass teetotaler or something?”
“Oh, all right,” she said, taking a sip. “Did you happen to bring home a copy of that letter from the Fourth Angel?”
“Yeah. I thought you might want to see it. I sent the original on to Frankel to get it tested for prints.” He rummaged through an accordion folder on his kitchen table, where a dozen empty beer bottles competed for space.
“You’ve got enough five-cent refunds there to fund your retirement,” she teased. “Don’t you want to keep the place nice for when your kids sleep over?”
“My kids don’t sleep over. Patsy doesn’t want ’em to.” He avoided her gaze, burying his eyes in the folder.
“Here it is.” He handed her a copy of the letter. It had been written on cheaply printed stationery from a hotel called the La Guardia Arms:
TO FIRE MARSHAL GEORGIA SKEEHAN:
His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns, and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself.
Ready thyself for the final Armageddon, for it will come, eleven a.m. Monday. You cannot stop me.
—THE FOURTH ANGEL
Georgia’s knees gave out, and she sank into a chair. “He addressed it to me,” she said softly. “Why? It hasn’t even been officially announced that I’m heading the task force.”
Marenko straddled another chair, facing her, and rested his forearms on the back. “Maybe it’s ’cause you’re the only woman on the team. Look, we can get NYPD protection on your house, you know, twenty-four hours a day.”
“Yeah. I should. For my family,” Georgia mumbled. Just thinking about the letter was paralyzing. She tried to shake off the fear. “Have you checked out the La Guardia Arms Hotel yet?” she asked. “The address looks near here.”
“I thought maybe we’d go together.”
She shook her head. “Not tonight. I have a headache…You gave it to me.” She stared at the letter again. “‘The final Armageddon’? He’s planning something bigger than Spring Street for Monday.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“Like hell I don’t. The guy goes to elaborate lengths to secretly film an embarrassing fire department party? The only reason he’d do that is because he knew that while the brothers were making asses of themselves, an occupied row frame was going up in smoke…Mac, listen to me—he’s not just a letter writer. At the very least, he’s the Howard Beach torch. And if he’s planning a fire for Monday, I have to believe that at this point, it’s no hoax.”
Marenko put his forehead in his hands. “Then we’re screwed.”
“That’s why I want those records.”
He got up from his chair and opened the refrigerator like he hadn’t heard her. “Want something to eat? I’m starved.”
“I already grabbed a quick dinner at Burger King with my son.”
“I could order dessert. There’s a place around the corner that delivers—”
“Look, Mac,” she cut him off. “I just want the records. Then I’ll be going.”
He closed the refrigerator and leaned against it, then took another gulp of beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What will you do with them?”
“I’m going to see if they offer any clues that might link these blazes together. Then I’m going to return them to the Buildings Department and explain everything to the commissioner—”
“Who’ll have Brennan’s head, and Brennan’ll have yours and mine both.” He drained his beer and put the empty bottle down on the table next to all the others. “And what are you going to do to me?” he asked softly. “That is, after Brennan’s eighty-sixed my career and just before he eighty-sixes yours.”
“Mac, this isn’t about looking bad anymore. I can’t help feeling there’s something about these first three fires that keys into what happened at Spring Street and Howard Beach. The missing building records, the missing letters, they’re all part of a chain that could help us find this guy before he strikes on Monday.”
Marenko fished around in a drawer for a pack of cigarettes and tipped one out.
/>
“Why are you smoking?” she asked.
“Why are you nagging?” He jabbed the cigarette into his mouth and lit it. “Geez, Scout,” he said, taking a drag. “I wish I’d never told you anything. I broke my own rules.” He shook his head sadly. “I’ve got two kids to support. I need this job.”
“I know,” Georgia said softly. “I do too.” It wasn’t like she could go out and earn $50,000-plus a year anywhere else. Her educational credentials consisted of a half-finished bachelor’s degree. Her entire work experience prior to the FDNY amounted to a summer as a burger flipper, a short-lived bartending gig, and a secretarial job at a plumbing supply firm.
“Then why are you doing this?” he pressed. “For glory? Shit, there’s no glory on an unemployment line.”
“I…” Georgia thought about Randy now, about the little girl in cornrows sitting on his lap in a dog-eared photo that he could never again look at without breaking down. His grief spoke to her on so many levels. She could see the love of her own father in Randy. She could see the guilt he was wrestling with in her own dealings with her son. “I can’t say, Mac. Please, you just have to understand. It’s important. If you knew why, you’d do the same.”
He stubbed out his cigarette. “The records are in my bedroom closet. I’ll get them for you.”
A few moments later, there was a loud crash, followed by a string of colorful Marenko expletives.
“Are you all right?” she called out.
“Yeah, sure. I like hitting myself in the head with a couple of two-by-fours. It’ll make gettin’ it up the other end from Brennan and the commish seem like a picnic.”
She found Mac standing in front of his open bedroom closet, surrounded by fallen junk, his arms outstretched to prop up a shelf.
“What happened?”
The Fourth Angel Page 15
