Flashover

by Suzanne Chazin

  “Hey, Skeehan.” He smiled darkly. “Nice day for a barbecue.”

  “Don’t start, Herb,” said Georgia.

  Moskowitz snapped a flash photo of the hole in the roof. “Hey, if it’s any consolation, the guy was probably a goner no matter what you did.” Moskowitz stepped back for a moment and surveyed the chaos of uniforms and suits trampling across the front lawn, every last one of them with cell phones or radios in their hands.

  “I know this guy’s a doctor and all, but what gives?” he asked. “I mean, you’d think he was the president the way A and E’s going at this thing.”

  Georgia shrugged, hoping to sidestep the question. “Do our Bronx guys have any idea what started it?” she asked.

  Moskowitz snapped some photos of a blackened, pitted metal box on the ceiling. The motor for the garage-door opener. “They’re speculating that the tracking for the pulleys got bent somehow and the door jammed. Then the motor overheated and a stray spark found its way onto some scrap pieces of lumber stored above the door, then over to the foam mattress in the corner. Once that happened—with the air coming in from under the garage door, the fuel load of furniture and paint supplies—the conditions were just about perfect for a flashover.”

  Moskowitz removed the sheet covering Charles Dana. His clothes had mostly burned off, and the heat had turned his skin powdery black. Here and there, the skin had split, showing a pulpy red as bright as a child’s cherry popsicle beneath. He was on his stomach, his hands covering his face, his legs and arms bent as if ready to box. The “pugilistic pose,” they call it, the result, not of an attack, but of muscle contractions caused by intense heat.

  “Too bad whatever made the poor bastard collapse in here in the first place didn’t just kill him,” said Moskowitz. He snapped a picture of what was left of Dana’s face. The eyes resembled overcooked egg yolks.

  “’Cause the way he died,” added Moskowitz, “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

  Georgia felt her stomach slosh about with queasy uncertainty. The heat, the humidity, and the bitter smell of burning plastic all contributed to her nausea. But none could account for it more than her terrible sense of guilt.

  “I’ve got to get some air,” she said, backing out of the garage. At the entrance, she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Randy Carter.

  “Brennan’s here,” he said tightly. He didn’t have to say more. She followed Carter through a tangle of cops and firefighters to the front lawn. A beefy figure in a white helmet barreled toward them.

  “In my car,” barked Chief Fire Marshal Arthur Brennan, pointing to a black Crown Victoria parked on the front grass with the motor running. Behind it, the crowds and camera crews were two feet deep. The chief caught Marenko’s eye across the driveway, where marshals and detectives were scouring the wreckage. “You too, Mac,” he called out.

  Georgia and Carter trudged as sheepishly as two kids going to the principal’s office. At least the car would be air-conditioned. Not that it mattered. They’d be sweating bullets anyway. Marenko fell in behind them. When Georgia looked coldly at him, he gave her the barest wink. She scowled.

  “You’re not on my list of favorite people right now,” she told him.

  “I’m trying to save your ass, in case you haven’t noticed,” he muttered.

  Brennan removed his white helmet and got in the front passenger seat. He had a crew cut of thinning silver hair that reminded her of newly seeded grass, and a pro-wrestler’s snarl. He ordered Marenko, Georgia and Carter in back. The car was ice-cold, the leather upholstery as chilled as a mountain stream. Georgia wished she could have enjoyed the sensation more.

  The chief loosened his tie around his fire hydrant of a neck. The rosacea on his pale, pudgy face was florid in the heat and he looked barely able to contain his rage.

  “You two”—he pointed at Georgia and Carter—“are in some serious shit.” At least Georgia knew where Marenko got his nifty management style from: the Arthur Brennan School of Charm. “This whole excursion should’ve been cleared through channels. Now, a prominent doctor is dead, A and E is breathing down my neck and I’ve got to do the mea culpa shuffle with the commissioner and the PD. You’re lucky the door to Dana’s kitchen just happened to be open, Skeehan. As it is, I’m considering departmental charges.”

  “Chief?” Marenko interrupted. Anyone else would be shot for doing that, but Brennan was a mentor of sorts to Marenko—in department lingo, his “rabbi.”

  “I told Carter and Skeehan to interview Rosen at the hospital,” Marenko explained. “Carter knew Rosen’s history with the department. It wasn’t that big a leap for them to track down Dana…Hell, I’d have probably given them the go-ahead anyway.”

  Brennan was silent for a moment. He seemed to be trying to read his protégé. Marenko silently held his ground. The chief rubbed the chapped palms of his hands against each other. The sound of skin on skin was the only noise inside the car.

  “I’ll take that into consideration,” Brennan muttered. “In the meantime, you two”—he pointed at Georgia and Carter—“are going to wrap up the Rosen investigation ASAP. I’ve seen the medical examiner’s report. Rosen wasn’t beaten, raped or strangled and we’ve got no evidence of forced entry. So I want a nice, simple report about a woman who died from smoking in bed.”

  “But, Chief,” said Georgia, dumbfounded, “surely you can’t…I mean…there are some inconsistencies in Rosen’s death that we still need to investigate…”

  “—Skeehan,” Marenko cautioned under his breath, “you heard the chief.”

  Brennan’s face turned a hypertensive shade of red. He looked like a balloon that had been overfilled and was ready to burst. “Are you actually telling me how to do my job, Skeehan?”

  “No, sir. It’s just that we don’t yet know what started the fire. And with Dana now dead and…and…” And the possible bomb threat connection, Georgia wanted to say, but couldn’t. “…I just think Carter and I could use some more time to put together our investigation, that’s all.”

  “Well here’s a news flash for you, Skeehan,” said Brennan icily. “Rosen isn’t your investigation anymore. As of this time tomorrow, it belongs to the NYPD. Dana’s, too…So unless you’ve got some really strong evidence I don’t know about, you will write up your cause and origin determination the way I tell you to.”

  10

  “I’ll drive you home,” Marenko offered. “Carter can take the Caprice back to Manhattan.”

  “My motorcycle’s still at base,” Georgia said coolly. “And I can drive myself home, thank you.”

  “C’mon, Scout.” Marenko frowned, then looked around to make sure no one was listening. “Don’t get all sore on me here. If this is gonna work between us, you gotta learn to separate what happens on the job from what happens off it. Hey, I saved your butts back there with Brennan. You should be thanking me, not pissing on me.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t count Carter in your fan club, either.” She went to turn away.

  “Georgia,” he said. He rarely called her that, and the sound of it always brought shivers to her spine. She looked at him now. The bluster was gone. His jacket and tie had been ditched in the car, his white shirtsleeves were rolled up, and there was soot on the cuffs. He looked pretty spent himself.

  “C’mon, don’t be this way,” he pleaded. “You’re in no condition to ride tonight. Let me drive you home. You can get your bike tomorrow. You have to come into Manhattan anyway to write up the C and O on Rosen and attend that task force review.”

  The task force review. Georgia had almost forgotten. Back at the beginning of his administration Mayor Ortaglia had charged the NYPD with the job of tightening security and procedures at city landmarks. The monthly briefings were held all over the city and attended by a rotating cross-section of area law enforcement personnel. Tomorrow’s little shindig was at Grand Central Station, and was run, as always, by A and E. Oh, joy.

  Still, Marenko was right about the advantages of ge
tting a ride home in his car—she’d be able to split those case files of Louise Rosen’s with Randy. The case was theirs for one more night, at least. The two boxes were still in the trunk of their Caprice. She couldn’t have gotten a big box like that on her motorcycle.

  “I guess I can leave my bike at base tonight,” she said.

  It was 5 P.M. when Marenko and Georgia left Riverdale. Traffic on the Major Deegan Expressway was bumper to bumper. Georgia stared out the window of Marenko’s seven-year-old silver Honda Accord. The late-day sun colored the crumbling facades of the tenements and warehouses a warm shade of ocher. Emaciated models decked out in Benetton and J. Crew floated on huge billboards overhead, oblivious to the gritty streets below.

  Marenko cursed the congestion under his breath and fiddled with the radio. The Yankees were playing a doubleheader. Georgia sensed he wasn’t really listening, though. From the corner of her eye, she saw him sneaking glances at her, inhaling as if to say something, then tapping his hands nervously on the steering wheel. When he finally did speak, it was with such force that she nearly jumped out of her seat.

  “You aren’t responsible, Scout,” he blurted out. “I know you’re feeling pretty down on yourself about Dana right now. But believe me, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s not what you said back there.” Georgia gave a hard laugh and kept her gaze on the window. They were passing Yankee Stadium now. She could see the white, horseshoe-shaped stands glowing peach in the sunlight, and the flags flapping softly over the blue stadium lettering.

  “Listen to me—that was heat-of-the-moment stuff. Truth is, he’d have probably died no matter what you did.”

  “Forget it, Mac. You wouldn’t be so charitable if you knew the truth.”

  “You think I don’t?” At a merge in the traffic, he reached across Georgia’s waist, and slipped the Leatherman from a pouch on her duty holster. Then he rolled down his window and tossed it onto the pavement beside the expressway. It landed in a heap of broken bottles and crumpled newspapers. “It’s gone now,” he said. “Don’t do that again.”

  “Randy told you?”

  “He didn’t have to.” Marenko shrugged. “I figured Carter would have tried the doors to Dana’s house. So either a shrimp like you was strong enough to open what Carter couldn’t, or”—he winked at her—“you had a little help.”

  “I’m not a shrimp.”

  “A cute shrimp.” He grinned, the first smile he’d given her all day. She’d almost forgotten how different he looked when he smiled. “Anyway, it’s over. And whether you forced the back door—or used the garage-door opener or vented the windows—the results would’ve been the same. Somebody would’ve gone in there at some point and started the ball rolling. Or Dana might’ve pushed the interior button and done it himself. Like Carter said, it’s exigent circumstance. So stop beating yourself up.”

  They snaked past a fender bender in the right lane that had been snarling traffic and picked up speed.

  “Mac? Do you really believe that two doctors who once worked for the One-B Board could burn to death accidentally in less than twenty-four hours?”

  “I want to believe it,” said Marenko. “Or I want to have a damn good reason not to believe it. It’s like Brennan said: Either come up with some hard evidence to the contrary, or write up Rosen as accidental.”

  “But it can’t be accidental,” Georgia blurted, then caught herself. “I mean…” she stumbled about for the words. “…what if there’s more to it?”

  Marenko rested his eyes on her now. “More what, Scout? Such as?”

  Georgia unbuckled her duty holster, trying to avoid his questioning gaze. “I just wish we’d had more time, that’s all.”

  “If something’s gonna come out that’s embarrassing to the FDNY, I’d rather know about it before the cops do.” He paused a beat to make sure his words sank in. “But I don’t want to hand them suspicions—okay? That makes us look bad, and it doesn’t catch perps.”

  Georgia threw her duty holster in back. She didn’t want him to read her eyes just yet, so she shifted them to a piece of paper on the rear seat. An invitation of some sort. Printed on a home computer. Pink ice-cream cones and yellow flowers. She picked it up and studied it.

  “A party on Labor Day, huh? At your brother Pete’s house in Jersey.” Georgia did a quick mental calculation. Labor Day was less than three weeks away. “I think I’m off that Monday.”

  Marenko cleared his throat. “Great. You know what? Right afterward, I’ll come see you.”

  “Afterward?”

  “Sure,” said Marenko. His voice sounded stiff. “I’ll take you and Richie out to eat.”

  “Oh.” Georgia stared out the window. The silence in the car was palpable. Georgia waited for Marenko to say something more, but he didn’t.

  “Why won’t you take me to your brother’s house?” she asked finally.

  “C’mon, Scout.” He made a face. “It’s just family stuff—you know, kids, relatives, that sort of thing.”

  “I wouldn’t know about kids, I guess. Or relatives, for that matter. Certainly not yours, anyway.”

  He missed the dig—or pretended to. They were on the Triborough Bridge, heading into Queens. Georgia saw the low-lying buildings of the Fire Department Training Academy below, next to the smokestacks of the Wards Island Sewage Treatment Plant. A faint smell of rotten eggs permeated the air.

  “What’s the matter?” Georgia asked finally. “Ashamed of me?”

  “Huh?” He frowned at her. “You’re talking nonsense.”

  “You son of a bitch,” she said. Tears began to well in her eyes. She tried to blink them back, but that just made them stream down her face.

  Marenko looked around, panicked, as if she’d just been shot and was hemorrhaging all over the upholstery. He was definitely one of those men who didn’t know what to do when a woman cried. They were a hundred feet in the air, over the East River, heading into Astoria, Queens. Hardly the ideal spot to pull over. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Forget it.” Georgia palmed her tears and hid her face by looking out the window. “Just forget we ever knew each other.”

  “Hey!”

  On the other side of the bridge, Marenko made a sharp turn off the exit ramp and onto a patch of gravel near Astoria Park. He pulled the car to a screeching halt. The thirty-foot concrete towers of the sewage plant rose eerily across the water. On the boulevard, a few hookers caught the evening commuter traffic, negotiating business through the windows of double-parked cars with dealership stickers from Long Island.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Marenko demanded. “A delayed reaction to what happened back there with Dana?”

  Georgia sucked in her breath, like someone about to plunge down a roller coaster.

  “This isn’t about Dana,” she managed to choke out.

  “What then?”

  “Did you ever take me to meet your kids?”

  “Huh?” Marenko’s black eyebrows knitted together. “They’re with Patsy on Long Island most of the time. I only see them myself a couple of weekends a month. And your schedule doesn’t always coincide…”

  “—Did you ever offer to take me along?”

  “You got Richie to take care of.” He shrugged. “Seems to me you don’t need to hang around more…”

  “—Bullshit, Mac. That’s not the reason. And you know it. I don’t meet your kids. I don’t meet your brothers. I don’t meet your parents because I’m just recreation to you. Someone you take to the movies and to bed. You don’t expect to have any kind of future with me.”

  “Oh, Jesus—here it comes.” Marenko hit the steering wheel. “We’ve been together what? Four months? And already you’re looking to put a noose around my neck.” He sank back in his seat and looked at the interior ceiling as if there were a god in the stereo system who could give him the answers. “What the hell is it with women? Isn’t being physically faithful commitment enough? I ain’t
whoring around, you know.”

  “And I’m not some teenager you can waltz with a few times, then hand off to another partner. I’m going on thirty-one years of age, Mac. I’m not asking you to march me down the aisle…”

  “—Well, don’t.” He gave her a hard look, his blue eyes as cold as the North Atlantic in February. “’Cause I’ve been there, sweetheart. The death-do-us-part crap, the his-and-hers towels, the Lamaze classes, the mortgage, and then the boot and you’re looking at an empty fridge and school photos of your kids, and you can’t even pitch a ball to ’em anymore without making an appointment.”

  Marenko ran his hands roughly down his face. He closed his eyes and grunted in disgust—with himself, with her—she couldn’t tell. When he opened them again, his voice turned soft, but his words were steely. “I’m not doing it again. Not ever.” He shook his head. “If you thought it was gonna be different with me, forget about it. I’m not your guy.”

  “I think I’m pregnant.” The words came out like an exhale. At first, she wasn’t sure he’d heard. His frozen silence, however, told her he had.

  “You sure?” he whispered finally.

  “No. Not yet.”

  Another long pause. “What’re you gonna do?”

  “My problem, right?” Georgia gave a bitter laugh. “What am I gonna do?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” He sighed, then reached across her. She thought he was going to pull her toward him and tell her things would be okay. Instead, he opened the glove compartment and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. He’d assured her three weeks ago that he’d quit smoking. Again.

  “Oh great,” said Georgia. “Kill yourself with cancer. That’ll solve all our problems.”

  He rolled down the windows. The sulfur stench of the sewage-treatment plant across the river seeped in. Georgia didn’t think they showed this particular view of the city in any “I Love New York” ads. Marenko lit the cigarette and took a drag.