“I hope everyone hangs back upstairs,” Georgia muttered.
“They won’t.” Carter had been a marshal for sixteen years. He knew how these things worked.
They hustled McLaughlin through the door and up an elevator to the fourth floor. The elevator let them off in a narrow passageway with a small kitchen on one side and the bathroom and bunk room on the other. Beyond the passageway was a large, open squad room with desks scattered across the beige linoleum floors and file cabinets lined up against the whitewashed cinder-block walls.
A tight knot of fire marshals in sport coats and ties was clustered around two well-dressed, serious-looking men. One of the men was in his midfifties, with a shaved head and the kind of rugged, lean build that suggested hours on a treadmill each day, followed by vigorous, ultra-competitive sessions of squash. His silk tie sported a gold tie clip with an American flag on it. When he moved his arm, Georgia could see the fluttering outline of a pistol in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
The other man, in his midthirties, had the blow-dried hair and stiff posture of a Jehovah’s Witness making house calls. Georgia happened to glance at his feet. He was wearing cowboy boots. Fire Marshal Sal Giordano waddled over and handed the two men coffee.
“What gives?” Georgia asked Carter, nodding to the two lean, unfamiliar faces in a sea of jowly, familiar ones.
“Don’t know,” said Carter, but his eyes betrayed a certain wariness. He seemed to be running through the possibilities, and none of them pleased him.
The door to the men’s room opened and Mac Marenko stepped out. There was a moment of awkward hesitation for both him and Georgia—a recalibration of their postures, a stiffness borne not of coldness but of embarrassment. Although she never talked about it, all the marshals at Manhattan base knew they were dating. Marenko hated having his private life on display. And Georgia, aware of his discomfort, tried her best not to do anything to make it worse.
“Take Mr. McLaughlin into the conference room,” Marenko said brusquely. “Get him coffee or a soda if he wants it, and then see me over by our guests.” He said the word “guests” like he’d just swallowed paint thinner.
“Thank you, Mr. Fire Marshal,” said McLaughlin with a mock salute. “That’s right kind of you.”
“You.” Marenko pointed a finger at McLaughlin. “You don’t talk to me—got that?” Marenko turned on his heel and stomped off across the squad room.
“He seemed a might peeved, wouldn’t you say?” asked McLaughlin.
Georgia and Carter shot each other worried looks as they led McLaughlin into the conference room. Its outer walls were solid cinder block. The wall facing the squad room was glass and covered with smudge marks. There was a cheap, veneered conference table in the center of the room surrounded by half a dozen metal folding chairs. A portable blackboard sat in the corner with fresh erasure makes on it. Georgia could see the words beneath: Giants…Jets…Patriots…Steelers. The guys had been keeping tabs on their football betting pool.
They left McLaughlin with a soda and an ashtray, then went to see Marenko. He was perched on the edge of Georgia’s desk, gesturing with exasperation at the Jehovah’s Witness in cowboy boots. Boot man sipped his coffee, unfazed and unmoved by whatever points Marenko was trying to make. Sal Giordano and the other marshals crowded around, gazing starry-eyed at the stranger. Georgia wondered why this discussion was taking place by her desk. Marenko, as a supervising fire marshal, had his own office—just off the squad room. The door to that office was closed right now. Georgia also noticed that the stranger with the shaved head was missing.
“Go on, clear out,” Marenko told the other marshals as Georgia and Carter approached. The men skulked away, muttering. Boot man put his coffee down and extended a hand.
“Agent Scott Nelson, FBI.”
Georgia blankly shook Nelson’s hand.
“McLaughlin," murmured Carter in disbelief. It took a moment for the connection to sink in. When it did, Georgia gave Nelson a panicked look.
“Oh, no,” she said, stepping backward. “Tell me he didn’t call you.”
“Ma’am.” Nelson pretended to tip a hat that wasn’t there. He had a western twang to his voice. She could almost sense him clicking the heels of his cowboy boots. “By order of Charles Krause, special agent in charge of the New York office, I’m going to have to ask you to cease and desist all investigative activity pertaining to Mr. McLaughlin.”
“You’re not serious?” Georgia looked at Marenko. Marenko looked at the floor. It appeared he’d already had this discussion and it had gotten him nowhere. She could feel her blood pressure rising. “Where’s Chief Brennan?”
“In my office. With Krause,” said Marenko. So that was the suit with the shaved head, thought Georgia. The FBI’s number one boy in New York. They were sunk.
“My SAC knows your chief,” Nelson explained. SAC—special agent in charge. Already they were degenerating into FBI jargon. “He came along today as a personal courtesy.” Nelson poured out the words like he expected a hearty expression of gratitude.
“You can’t do this,” Georgia sputtered. “We’ve got solid evidence that McLaughlin was responsible for the deaths of two firefigh—”
“Ma’am?” Nelson cut her off. “The FBI doesn’t have to explain its position to you, your boss or his boss. You know the protocol. Federal jurisdiction supersedes all other police authorities. As far as the FBI is concerned, this discussion with Mr. McLaughlin never took place.”
“We have a tape of McLaughlin all but admitting he set the fire,” she argued. “We have an affidavit from the restaurant owner stating that McLaughlin was shaking him down.”
“Mr. McLaughlin’s name is never mentioned on that tape,” Nelson countered.
Georgia gave him a stunned look. The only way he could’ve known that was if McLaughlin had tipped him off. “But he calls himself Freezer—”
“So you claim. And your affidavit from Mr. Goldstein is worthless—”
“Glickstein,” Georgia corrected.
“Goldstein or Glickstein, the facts are the same,” said Nelson. “The man would say anything to save himself—not to mention the A-list celebrity status of his business.” Nelson stretched out his left arm, then crooked it at a ninety-degree angle and checked his watch. It was one of those wristwatches with more dials on it than a Nautilus sub. “Now if you’ll just fetch Mr. McLaughlin, when Agent Krause is ready, we’ll be going, ma’am.”
“It’s not ma’am, you prick, it’s marshal—”
“Skeehan,” Marenko cautioned, “don’t make this ugly.” Georgia ignored him. “Two of our brothers died today, and you waltz in here talking about federal jurisdiction? You’re lucky those boots are still on your feet, cowboy. ’Cause if you keep this up, you may have to get them surgically removed from certain orifices of your body—”
“Skeehan!” yelled Marenko.
Nelson turned to him. “You’re a supervisor, yes? Then supervise. The FBI doesn’t have to take this horseshit from the ATF, never mind some schmuck fire marshal just a few years out of hose patrol.”
Georgia could see the veins throbbing in Marenko’s neck. He wanted to belt the guy as badly as she did. But common sense told him that it wouldn’t do any of them any good.
“Get McLaughlin,” Nelson snarled at Georgia. “Now.”
“Just a moment,” growled a familiar voice from the doorway of Marenko’s office. They all turned to see a beefy man in his early sixties filling up the frame. He had pitted skin, thinning silver hair and tiny features that looked as if they’d been crushed together in a vise. Chief Arthur Brennan was a bully and a tyrant with a long memory and a short fuse. But if there was one thing he hated, it was seeing anyone mess with his marshals.
“What the hell is going on here?” Brennan demanded.
“This…this woman was threatening me,” said Nelson.
Marenko and Carter bit back grins and looked at the floor. At five-feet-four, Georgia was half a foot
to a foot shorter than everyone else in the room. “Threatening” was not a word that came to mind when people described her.
“All of you, in my office. Now,” barked Brennan. Actually, it was Mac’s office, but this was not the time for any of them to point that out.
Georgia and Nelson steered clear of each other as they filed into the office along with Carter and Marenko. The office had a swivel chair behind the desk and two stiff-backed visitor’s chairs. Brennan, as the ranking officer, took Marenko’s seat behind his desk. The man with the shaved head got up from the other chair and extended a hand.
“I’m Chuck Krause, special agent in charge of the FBI’s New York office,” he said genially. Georgia noticed he referred to himself as “Chuck,” whereas Nelson had called him “Charles.” He was either sincerely trying to make up for his underling’s pomposity, or he was pulling a typical cop interrogation tactic, downplaying his authority in order to lull his subjects into a false sense that they were all on the same side. For Georgia at least, the jury was out. She gave him a limp handshake, then retreated to the other side of the room.
Nelson gestured for Georgia to take one of the visitor’s chairs. She glared at him.
“I’ll stand.”
Marenko and Carter seemed to feel the same way, so Krause and Nelson took the chairs.
“First off,” said Krause. “I want to tell you all how deeply pained I am, personally and professionally, over the deaths of your men this morning.” He leaned forward as he spoke, his palms on the knees of his dark blue suit pants. He affected a sincere demeanor. But that only meant that he was a better, more experienced cop than Scott Nelson. Krause seemed to know what Nelson didn’t—that sympathy was a cheap bargaining tool.
“Chief Brennan and I have known each other many years,” Krause continued. “And Arthur knows I speak from the heart when I tell you how difficult this decision is for me.”
“Then cut us a break—please, sir,” said Georgia. “This is one of the strongest cases my partner and I have seen in a long while.”
“I understand your frustration, Marshal,” said Krause. “I would feel the same way. I can only assure you that there are larger issues at stake.”
At this, Carter spoke up. “Y’all been using Freezer as some kinda confidential informant, I reckon.” He was laying the southern accent on thick, Georgia noticed.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share Mr. McLaughlin’s status,” said Krause. Georgia noticed that Krause never expressed any confusion over the use of McLaughlin’s street moniker. Score one for Carter. He’d just proved, at least to the people in this room, that everyone—including the FBI—knew Michael McLaughlin as Freezer.
“That so?” asked Carter, pretending surprise. “The FBI been hanging out at Freezer’s house lately?”
“I believe you’re referring to Mr. McLaughlin,” said Krause a little belatedly. He broke eye contact with Carter and looked at Brennan. “Arthur, I’m not going to stand here and justify myself to your people.”
“Of course, Chuck. Absolutely. You shouldn’t have to justify yourself to my people. Allow me.” Brennan was Krause’s equal at feigning cooperation while being totally uncooperative. For once, it was to their benefit. “What’s your point, Carter?”
“McLaughlin’s got a mighty fine place there. Chief. High definition, wide-screen television, million-dollar oil paintings, a Porsche in his garage. Not to mention the building itself—three stories of mid-Manhattan real estate. He’s living pretty high on the hog for a criminal-turned-informant.” Carter shot a pointed look at Scott Nelson. “Maybe not better than an agent with the FBI, but certainly a lot better than us schmuck fire marshals.”
Brennan’s face betrayed just a hint of a smile. “You’ve had some dealings with McLaughlin in the past, haven’t you, Carter?” Georgia was sure the chief knew the answer to this question. They were simply doing a little dance for the benefit of Krause and Nelson.
“Yessir. Some of it way in the past. And he wasn’t living quite so fine back then. Seems to me, being under the protection of the FBI has been real good for business.”
“Mr. McLaughlin runs a legitimate import concern,” Nelson sputtered. Krause flinched. Unlike Nelson, he seemed to know what they were being set up for.
“Y’all wouldn’t mind then,” said Carter, oozing southern charm, “if we local yokels took a peek at his tax returns.”
Krause’s jawline hardened. He turned to Brennan. He was through with Carter. “McLaughlin is FBI property, Arthur. That makes his tax returns FBI jurisdiction. You know the procedures as well as I do. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you or your people can do about it.”
“You’d never sell that line of reasoning to the man in the street,” said Georgia. “If the public only knew…”
She caught herself, but it was too late. The room went silent. The only sounds Georgia could hear were the high-pitched beeps of the fire truck below backing into quarters and a ringing phone on one of the marshals’ desks. Everyone inside the room gaped at her in disbelief. She had just committed career suicide in front of not one, but two law enforcement agencies. It was desperation talking, but it was bad judgment nonetheless. Brennan was already turning a hypertensive shade of red. She wanted to rewind the last two minutes and start over. Better yet, she wanted to rewind the whole morning.
Scott Nelson was the first to break the silence. He wagged a finger at Georgia and bounced a look from Krause to Brennan. “Did she just say what I think she said? Did she threaten to take this to the press?”
Krause patted the air. “No threats were made here. Am I correct, Marshal?”
“Yessir. Sorry, sir.”
“I’m assuming,” said Krause, glancing around the room, “that Miss Skeehan simply got a little emotional. Because a leak like that could ruin somebody’s career.” Brennan leaned back in his chair and pressed his fleshy palms to his forehead without speaking. Had they just been among fire marshals, he would’ve torn her to pieces for a stupid comment like that. But he was protective around outsiders—even of her. Right now, that was her one saving grace. “Carter, Skeehan,” he grunted. “Go get some air.”
8
“Emotional, my ass,” Georgia muttered, pacing the concrete stairwell outside the squad room. “Where does he get off with a comment like that? Because I’m a woman, I’m ‘emotional’?”
“Because you shoot from the hip,” said Carter. “You did a stupid thing back there, Skeehan. A thing that could cost you your job. Do you realize that now, if there are any leaks in this case, they’re going to blame you? Even if you’re not the source?”
Georgia opened her mouth to argue, but closed it again. She should have thought about that. She hadn’t.
“And if there is a leak, do you know what the Feds will do to you? What Brennan will do to you? They won’t even let you go back to being a firefighter after that. You’ll be drummed out of the department.”
Georgia sank onto one of the gray-painted steps and put her head in her hands. “Two of our men are dead, Randy. And the bastard who did it is sitting right there in our conference room, calmly smoking a cigarette. How can we just let him walk away?”
Carter slumped against the pipe-iron banister. “We’ve got no choice.”
“Care to explain that one to Doug Hanlon? Or the families of Joe Russo and Tony Fuentes?”
“I can’t explain it. And neither can you. You’re a cop, Skeehan. Start acting like one.”
A two-tone electronic chime floated up the stairwell, quickly followed by men’s voices, the rumble of the garage door opening and the peal of the truck siren. Ladder Twenty had a run. The marshals worked right above firefighters just like Joe Russo and Tony Fuentes. It felt like the ultimate betrayal not to be able to do more.
“You know what Freezer has that you haven’t?” Carter asked her. “Patience. He waits things out. He doesn’t go shooting his mouth off in front of people who can only do him harm. You don’t even know how big the
ir Federal case is. Heck, maybe a lot more than two firefighters’ lives are at stake here.”
“I’m sorry,” said Georgia. “You’re right. I made a mistake back there. I’ll see to it that it doesn’t reflect on you.”
“You think I give a hoot and a holler about that?” asked Carter. “I’ve got thirty-one years in this department. I’ll retire before I take their sass. But you?” He sat down on the riser beside her. “You’re a good investigator, Skeehan. I’ve been through a lot of partners in sixteen years as a marshal. You’re the brightest, most passionate one I’ve ever had. You’ve got so much potential. But you’re going to throw it all away if you don’t pull back once in a while. I don’t want to see that happen.”
Georgia saw Marenko’s face through the wire-mesh window in the door. He looked pale and nervous as he opened it. He couldn’t meet Georgia’s gaze.
“The Chief wants to see you both in my office.”
Georgia and Carter followed Marenko through the squad room. She could feel the gazes of some of the other marshals on them as they passed.
Brennan was rocking back and forth nervously in Marenko’s chair when they entered. Nelson stood stiffly by a small, grimy window in the office that overlooked an alleyway. Krause was gone.
“All right,” said Brennan, clapping his fleshy palms together. “Here’s the way it’s going to be. The FBI has jurisdiction. They want McLaughlin. So we’re going to give him to them.”
Georgia kept her mouth shut and looked at the floor. Carter was right. She couldn’t change whatever happened here. And maybe she didn’t have any business trying.
“Agent Krause had to leave, but he assured me that if there is an arson arrest in this case, the FBI will let the Bureau of Fire Investigation make the collar.”
Fireplay Page 6
