“If?” asked Carter.
“That’s right,” said Brennan. “If.” The chief’s stare made it clear he would brook no argument.
“In the meantime,” Brennan continued. “The FDNY will cease and desist all investigative activity pertaining to Mr. McLaughlin.” Brennan gave a pointed glance at Georgia. “Any leak about Mr. McLaughlin—to the press, other firefighters or civilians—will have serious repercussions for this department, and will result in termination of the individual suspected of initiating such a leak. Are we clear on this?”
Everyone nodded.
“Now.” Brennan looked at Georgia and Carter. “Where’s Glickstein’s answering machine tape?”
Carter looked stricken. “But, Chief, that tape’s our only evidence.”
“Are there copies?”
“We can make ’em, if you give us a couple of hours.”
“No dice,” said Nelson. “That tape compromises the status of our investigation.”
“Not if I lock it up,” Marenko offered. “I can do that right now. I can even give the chief the only key. No one at Manhattan base will have access. Not even me.”
“Marenko.” Brennan frowned and shook his head. Clearly, he wasn’t happy about this arrangement either, but it looked as if he didn’t have a choice. “We’ve been through this. Now, I’m ordering Carter to hand it over—as a show of good faith. And that’s what he’s going to do.”
Carter sullenly pulled the recorder out of his suit jacket and ejected the tape. Nelson held out a hand to receive it. Carter ignored him and threw the tape on Marenko’s desk. It clattered across some papers and came to rest in front of Brennan.
“You’re going to give us a receipt for that tape I hope, Agent Nelson,” said Georgia.
Nelson casually pocketed the tape. “No receipt. You’ll get it back if the FBI determines that an arson charge will be filed.”
Georgia and Carter exchanged worried looks. They were turning over the only piece of solid evidence they had against McLaughlin—to an FBI underling who’d stuffed it in his pocket without offering so much as a slip of paper to prove he’d received it. Georgia wondered if that’s why Charles Krause had left early—so he could disavow any knowledge of the exchange.
“Now,” said Brennan. “In return for the Bureau of Fire Investigation’s good-faith cooperation—and a promise to keep everything confidential—Special Agent Krause has agreed to allow one fire marshal to be included in the Federal investigation. The role will be strictly as an observer, and the marshal cannot take any police action against Mr. McLaughlin or any other parties involved in the investigation.”
Georgia turned to Carter. He knew McLaughlin. He was an experienced marshal. He had kept his temper in check and hadn’t threatened to leak the investigation. He was the logical choice.
Agent Scott Nelson’s cowboy boots clicked across the linoleum floor and came to rest where Georgia and Carter were standing. He smirked at both of them, hesitated, then held out his hand.
“Congratulations, Marshal, on your temporary appointment to the FBI.”
Georgia was so busy watching Carter, it took her a moment to realize the outstretched hand was for her. She stared at Nelson’s hand without shaking it and frowned.
“You want me? Why me?"
Nelson laughed. “Well, it’s not for your charm, that’s for sure.”
9
Mike McLaughlin stretched out in the backseat of the FBI’s black Ford Explorer. He was glad to be out of that grimy shit hole of a firehouse on Lafayette Street. Glad to be rid of that sad sack, Randy Carter, even if his little partner did have a nice ass.
“You can let me off anywhere,” McLaughlin said cheerily to the agent driving the Explorer, a scrawny young man named Nathan Reese. Scott Nelson answered from the front passenger seat.
“Nothing doing, Mike. Agent Krause wants to speak to you—now.”
“Where?”
“Where we tell you.”
Reese headed the SUV south down Centre Street, in the direction of the FBI’s headquarters at Federal Plaza. A block from the building, he nosed the car into an underground public parking garage. McLaughlin grinned when the Explorer pulled up next to a dark blue Buick with tinted windows. The FBI loved cloak-and-dagger shit. He could play along if he had to. He got out of the Explorer and gave Nelson and Reese a mock salute. “Gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure.”
Reese kept his eyes on the wheel without answering. Nelson was more direct.
“Don’t pretend we’re in your fan club, Mike. We did what we had to back there for the Bureau, not for you.”
“And for your careers,” said McLaughlin with a wink. He put a hand over his heart. “Your country will thank you for it.”
He watched the Explorer speed away, then opened the front passenger door of the Buick. Charles Krause was at the wheel.
“Get in,” muttered Krause without looking at him.
McLaughlin narrowed his eyes. The FBI’s haughty attitude was beginning to tick him off. He decided to play it cool.
“I’m much obliged for your help back there,” said McLaughlin.
Krause turned to him now. The top of his bald head was sweaty. “You’ve dragged the Bureau into some serious shit here, Mike. Very serious. We didn’t take you on to have something like this blow up in our faces.”
“It’s not going to blow up. It’s going to blow over.”
Krause shook his head. “Do you know what the director of the FBI would do if he found out about this? You were supposed to keep your nose clean.”
“I was supposed to help the Bureau. And I did. You got your money’s worth. So don’t hand me any of this holier-than-thou shit now.” McLaughlin could see that Krause wasn’t buying it. The guy was pale and shaky. “Look, would you just keep your shirt on? So a couple of firefighters died—so what? You think this is the first time an accusation like this has been leveled against me? This is Mike McLaughlin you’re talking to. Not some street hoodlum. Trust me on this. In a week or two, no one will remember their fuckin’ names. They’re just a couple of nobodies, anyway.”
McLaughlin could feel himself losing his temper. Control was the essence of his being. It’s what had kept him out of jail when every other killer and con artist he’d ever known had gone down. Lose control and you make mistakes. He pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and unsealed the wrapper. It was the one vice he’d ever allowed himself—the one thing he hadn’t tried to control.
“May I?” he asked Krause, holding up the cigarettes.
Krause powered open a window in response. McLaughlin took his time lighting up. “Did you get that answering machine tape back?” he asked casually.
Krause nodded. “It’s FBI property now. But don’t think you’re off the hook, Mike. To get it, I had to put one of their marshals on our case.”
McLaughlin froze. “Not Carter?”
“No. I argued for the gal.”
McLaughlin’s pale green eyes took on a steely glint. “If you think you’re going to turn me over to the FDNY when you’re through with me, think again, my friend. If I go down, I’ll take the FBI with me.”
“Don’t threaten me,” said Krause.
“Then don’t give me reason to,” said McLaughlin. “Get her off the case.”
“I can’t. The FDNY would be all over my people.”
McLaughlin thought a moment. “Not if she takes herself off the case.”
“She’s not going to—”
McLaughlin cut him off. “I want you to find out every single thing you can about this girl fire marshal—what’s her name?” He asked the question, though he already knew the answer. It rubbed at him like a splinter he could feel but not see.
“Skeehan. Georgia Skeehan,” said Krause.
“Use your contacts and all those fancy databases Nathan Reese is always snooping in, you hear? I want to know everything about her. Everything.”
“She’s a fire marshal,” said Krause. “A cop. You screw with her
, that’s serious business. I’m not protecting you—do you understand?”
“Would you just relax? Who said anything about anybody getting hurt?”
“Famous last words. Tell me, Mike—were they the same ones you used before you went to Café Treize this morning?”
10
By late Thursday afternoon, the sky had turned the color of slate and a light snow had begun to fall. Georgia looked out the window of Marenko’s office. Her motorcycle was parked in the alley. The black vinyl cover sported a light gray frosting of snow. Not white. Snow was never truly white in New York City. If she’d been smart, she would have gotten her nine-year-old Ford Escort out of the mechanic’s shop instead of taking her bike to work. Then again, if she’d been smart, she would have put the money she’d spent on her Harley Davidson a year ago toward a new car.
“No one said anything about snow,” Georgia grumbled.
“They’re flurries, Nanook,” said Marenko. “Leave your bike at base. I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t want to drag you all the way out to Queens.”
He shrugged. “I’m working on Long Island tomorrow anyway. I was planning to crash at my parents’ house tonight.”
“You’re working again?” asked Georgia. For the past couple of months, Marenko had been snagging some extra cash moonlighting for his brother and uncle in their construction business. “I don’t see why you need a second job so badly,” she said. “You make more money than I do.”
“Uh-huh. And you live with your mother in a house she paid off decades ago. I’m paying Manhattan rent, child support and part of a mortgage.”
“Do you at least want to stay for dinner?”
“You cooking?”
“No. It’s my mom’s turn tonight. She’s making lasagne.”
He grinned. “Then I’m staying.”
The flurries turned to rain by the time they crawled over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge into Queens. Marenko’s wiper blades squeaked across the Honda Accord’s windshield. His car was also on its last legs, but it was mostly the interior that showed it. There were the telltale signs that his kids, Michael and Beth, had been there recently—a candy bar wrapper shoved between the seats, crushed Lifesavers under the floor mats. Marenko’s tool belt and yellow hard hat were tossed on the seat in back, along with a scuffed pair of steel-toed workboots.
“It seems like you’re always working lately,” said Georgia. “This schedule is going to kill you.”
Marenko stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes. “I’m managing.”
“Like hell you are.” Georgia had begun to notice shadows beneath those fierce blue eyes. His hands carried the cuts and bruises of long days nailing up plyboard. He was a strong man in good physical shape, but he was also nearly forty. Hauling lumber all day made his back ache. Some nights, he could barely keep his eyes open to watch the ten o’clock news, never mind make love.
“I’d just like to be able to buy my kids a new pair of skates or take ’em to the movies without always worrying about where the money’s coming from, that’s all,” said Marenko.
“Divorced father’s guilt.” Georgia regretted the words the moment they left her mouth.
“It’s not divorced father’s guilt,” he bristled. “I take my responsibilities seriously. Not like…” He caught himself and shook his head. They both knew what he was going to say: not like Richie’s dad, who didn’t even bother to marry Georgia, never mind divorce her. It had been eight years since Rick DeAngelo had seen his son. In all that time, the child hadn’t gotten so much as a card or visit, forget child support.
“C’mon, Scout,” said Marenko, using the nickname he’d coined for her when they first started dating. He reached over a calloused hand and patted her thigh. “It’s just for a little while. Things won’t stay like this. I promise.” He reached behind her seat and extracted a dog-eared folder.
“While I’m driving, you’d better look at this,” he said, handing her the folder. “Carter showed it to me this afternoon.”
“What is it?”
“An old case of his. Carter wanted Brennan to take you off the FBI investigation. And for once, I agree with him.”
“What?” asked Georgia, straightening. “Randy went behind my back to the chief? I don’t believe it. What would make him—?”
“I think you’ll feel differently when you look inside.” Georgia opened the folder to a creased fashion-photo spread of a glamorous-looking young black woman in a slinky red cocktail dress. The woman had big brown eyes and a flowing mane of raven hair that curled past her bare, taffy-colored shoulders. Her bronze lips were full and pouty, and her figure had just enough curves to fill out the dress. Georgia held up the picture to Marenko and gave him a quizzical look.
“Her name was Rachel Cross,” said Marenko. “She was twenty-two in that photo shoot for Versace. It was taken twelve years ago. Six months later, Miss Cross had the misfortune to break up with a very rich banker’s son named Alan Welty. Welty had a jealous streak. Keep digging in the folder, I think you’ll see what happened.”
Georgia rummaged through old police reports and medical records until she came to another photo. Those same two brown eyes were staring at the camera, but that was all that was recognizable about the face. Ropy scars and rough mottled brown skin covered the woman’s once smooth cheeks. She wore a black wig on her head, and painted eyebrows where hair could no longer grow. She had no eyelashes and her lips were just crease marks now, her nose a lumpy bit of flesh. The face had a frozen quality to it, the result of muscle damage beneath the scar tissue. Sorrow and joy were no longer possible on a face like that, not that there was likely to be much joy again anyway.
“That’s what Rachel Cross looked like after fourteen surgeries,” said Marenko. “She stepped in front of a train a year after that picture was taken. She left a note telling her parents she didn’t want them to have anything resembling a body to bury. She couldn’t bear for anyone to look at her anymore—not even in death.”
Georgia put the pictures back in the folder. It did nothing to erase the hideous image etched in her mind. “What’s this got to do with the FBI investigation?”
Marenko turned to her. “McLaughlin,” he said softly. “Alan Welty hired him to douse Rachel Cross’s face with gasoline—not kill her, you understand. Just maim her. Carter could never get him on the assault. Rachel had no memory of it. And Welty lawyered up. Best lawyers in town. They managed to get every piece of incriminating evidence thrown out of court on one technicality or another.”
“So this is about ego and revenge—is that it?” asked Georgia. “Randy wants his pound of flesh?”
“He’s afraid of what Freezer will do to you,” said Marenko. “I am, too.”
“C’mon, Mac. You know as well as I do that the Feds are just going to have me shuffling papers anyway. They’re not going to let me within ten feet of their investigation.”
“Maybe.” Marenko said nothing while they inched past a fender-bender on the side of Northern Boulevard. Georgia sensed he was deep in thought.
“What?” she asked. “Are you trying to tell me that Chief Brennan’s already yanked me off the case?”
“No. Brennan turned Carter down. If the chief pulls you off the case, the Feds won’t let him bring in a substitute. So it’s you or nobody.”
“Gee,” said Georgia. “Thank you all for your vote of confidence.”
“It’s not that,” said Marenko. “Look, Randy Carter is the most stubborn, difficult SOB I think I’ve ever worked with. But I’ll say this about him: he’s never been an opportunist—or an alarmist. So I don’t buy him being jealous of you going over to the Feds. And I don’t believe he brought up Rachel Cross just to scare you. He doesn’t want you over there. And I don’t think he’s told us all his reasons.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He signed out this afternoon to go to Metrotech.”
Headquarters. In Brooklyn. “So? He went to plead with Brennan t
o put him on the Federal case instead of me.”
“Nah. Brennan was in Manhattan all day. Carter handled that one by phone. I called down to Metrotech. Carter signed in at the records division.”
“He was looking up Rachel Cross’s file.”
“Not Carter. He keeps copies of all his cases. He wouldn’t need to go to the records division unless it was about a case he had nothing to do with.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nope. You know how secretive he is,” said Marenko. “I ask him a question, he acts like he’s doing me a favor to answer it. And I’m his supervisor, though God knows, he acts like it’s the other way around most of the time.”
“If Randy had a concern, why didn’t he just come to me?”
“I don’t know.”
The rain had turned to drizzle by the time they reached Woodside, Queens. Marenko turned off his wiper blades and hung a left onto a side street of modest brick and stucco homes. Some of the tiny front yards sported life-sized plastic snowmen and Santas. Here and there, Georgia saw a crèche, but not as many as she used to when she was growing up. Back then, Woodside was defined by good Irish pubs and a strong parish church. Every car had a union sticker on the bumper, and about the only non-Irish thing in the neighborhood was Mario’s pizza parlor. Now, the cars were Japanese, Mario’s competed with a take-out Indian joint two doors down, the pub served frozen margaritas and the church held Masses in both Spanish and English.
Marenko found a parking spot along the street, then walked her back to her house. It was her mother’s house, really. Georgia had simply been living here since she was seven. At least, that’s how she’d always felt. In the bay window, her mother’s Hummel figurines were lined up in front of sheer curtains and satin drapes. The figurines were of impossibly jolly, rosy-cheeked children—the kind Georgia and her brother never were. The front door had three little rectangular windows running diagonally down the front. She’d been staring out those windows since she could only see out the bottom one.
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