Fireplay

by Suzanne Chazin

  “Richie, I want you to come over to this end and hold the compressed air hose. When I say go, you will point the hose at the entrance of the tube, just above the dish of coffee creamer.”

  “Okay.”

  Singh lit the Bunsen burner. A small blue flame shimmered in the base.

  “Ready. Set. Go.”

  Richie aimed the compressed air at the narrowest opening of the tube. The coffee creamer disappeared at once into the tube. A second later, at the wide end of the tube, the Bunsen burner’s blue flame exploded into an orange mass of fire as large as a soccer ball. Georgia was glad Singh had done the experiment under the hood. Had she been holding the fiery end, the shock might have made her let go. It was like turning on a hair dryer and getting a blowtorch instead.

  Richie strung out his favorite word until it became three syllables long. “Co-oo-ol.”

  After a couple of seconds, the creamer burned away, the flame died down and Singh turned off the air compressor:

  “You have just created the Venturi effect,” he told them.

  Georgia wagged a finger at Richie. “Don’t get any stupid ideas about doing this with your friends,” she said.

  “Mom,” he whined, “you don’t even like nondairy creamer.”

  “I still don’t get how this works,” said Georgia.

  “When airflow is constricted, its velocity increases and its pressure drops. If you introduce a substance at the point where the drop in pressure occurs, it will be absorbed rapidly into the air stream and atomized at the other end. In essence, the lower air pressure can make things that aren’t normally flammable—like grain or flour or nondairy coffee creamer—flammable because it disperses them into a fine dust. And it can maximize the flammability of things that are, like kerosene and gasoline. Most importantly, for your purposes, it creates a suctionlike effect, so that something that might not normally rise or disperse, will do so under these conditions.”

  “So the dumbwaiter shaft leading to Sullivan’s apartment was like this tube,” said Carter, gesturing to the black tubing on the counter. “And the five-gallon can of gasoline at the base of the shaft was like this coffee creamer.”

  “Correct.”

  “You saw what a little coffee creamer can do,” said Singh. “Now you understand what a little accelerant, placed in the proper location, can accomplish.”

  “A fireball,” said Georgia.

  “A fireball,” Singh agreed.

  “This was a pretty sophisticated torch—don’t you think?” asked Carter.

  Singh shrugged. “Not necessarily. Many old-law tenements in New York have dumbwaiters. The rest is simply a matter of knowing the laws of physics. The torch had to create an air current moving over the exit of a tube or shaft, then place the accelerant at the beginning of the shaft and the ignition source at the end. He could have found out how to do this over the Internet, if he really wanted to. In fact,” Singh added, “rewiring the junction box in the hallway to short out the wires in the bedroom was probably the only part of the process that required any ability at all.”

  Georgia recoiled without meaning to. Singh didn’t know it, but he’d just told her that the most involved procedure in the entire operation was the one Rick DeAngelo was more than capable of handling.

  28

  “Suarez and I have to question him—you understand that, right, girl?”

  Georgia noticed Carter was careful not to say Rick’s name in front of Richie.

  “Honey, go wait in the car,” Georgia told Richie. He rolled his eyes but obeyed.

  Georgia turned back to Carter. “I understand,” she said. “I’m going to call Krause as soon as I get home, tell him everything and get off this case.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ve told you what I could,” she reminded him.

  “I believe you have.”

  “So now it’s your turn. Why is Broph missing and Sully dead?”

  Carter paused a beat before answering. “I don’t know,” he said finally.

  “But you know more than you’re saying.”

  “When I’ve got something solid—”

  “Goddamn it,” she said. “Why are you keeping me out of this? I told you I’m quitting the investigation.”

  “This has nothing to do with the FBI.”

  “Then it’s me you don’t trust, is that it?”

  Georgia’s cell phone rang before Carter could answer. She fished it out of her bag. It was Krause. She turned her back to Carter and mumbled into the phone, requesting a meeting as soon as possible.

  “I understand you went to a fire scene last night you had no business being involved in,” said Krause.

  “Sir, I can explain—”

  “I think you’d better,” said Krause. “As of ten minutes ago, our office assumed jurisdiction over the Sullivan fire—”

  “What?” Georgia stared wide-eyed at Carter. Clearly, no one had told him. “But Jamie Sullivan was an ex-marshal. It’s a local case.”

  “It’s a local case if the FBI says it’s a local case, Marshal. In the future, you will limit the scope of your investigating talents to those specifically sanctioned by the FBI, or you will find yourself out of the FBI—are we clear?”

  “Yessir. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “I’ll be at an art show at Columbia University this afternoon. My daughter’s exhibiting some of her work. Meet me at the student center and we’ll discuss the situation.” He disconnected and Georgia gave Carter the bad news.

  “Sonofagun,” he said, slapping his thigh. “Somebody tipped the Feds off that DeAngelo’s phone number was in Sully’s apartment, and he’s part of your FBI case. That’s the only way to explain this.”

  “That, or the Feds know for a fact that Freezer had a hand in this fire, and they’re covering for him.”

  “They don’t need to cover for him,” said Carter. “Nothing ties him to Sully’s death. And best of all, you are his alibi at the time of Sully’s murder.”

  Georgia gave him a shocked expression. She didn’t know he knew that.

  “I checked out Freezer’s whereabouts last night, too,” said Carter. “I don’t know what y’all were doing, but I understand you were doing it together.”

  Georgia turned red under Carter’s gaze. She felt bad keeping secrets from her partner. But there was nothing she could tell him, and thankfully, he didn’t press. He banged the flat of his hand against the chain-link fence. “I can’t believe the Feds have stolen our case. Bunch of computer geeks and desk jockeys,” he hissed. “They’re not interested in solving Sully’s murder. They’re using it for Lord knows what end. Heck, the Feds can’t even scratch their own butts without a global positioning system and a silicon chip up their behinds.”

  Georgia left the crime lab and took Richie for lunch at McDonald’s, then dropped him off at his friend’s birthday party. Her mother had promised to pick him up. From there, she drove into Manhattan. She tried to piece together the Rick she once knew with the evidence before her now. She could picture him being stupid enough to ferry a couple of hippie radicals to a meeting. But she couldn’t picture him as a murderer. Then again, she couldn’t picture McLaughlin, with so much heat on him already, ordering the murder of another firefighter, either. Not unless his life was riding on it.

  Maybe it is, thought Georgia. Sullivan was dead. Brophy was missing, possibly dead. The two had been partners. And Broph had been mad enough at McLaughlin over something to take a baseball bat to his head. Could everything be tied to one of Brophy and Sullivan’s cases? Georgia could probably unearth copies of their files at the records division at headquarters. But the division was closed on Sundays. And even if they’d been open, she knew that cases going back more than a decade weren’t on computer. She’d have to search them by hand. Besides, the cases were filed by defendant and case number, not by the marshals who handled them.

  There had to be some other way of finding out. Georgia parked her car on a street near Columb
ia University, dialed Manhattan base and asked for Marenko. She knew he was working today.

  “Where the hell are you?” he asked when he heard her voice. “I waited for you all yesterday evening at your house. And then this morning I heard about that fire at Sully’s.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Mac. Listen, I really appreciate all the work you did last night on that car with Richie. I know he’s thrilled.”

  “Forget about it,” he said, but Georgia could tell he was secretly pleased she’d mentioned it.

  “I need some advice.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Is there any way to find out about the cases Jamie Sullivan worked on with Paul Brophy? I understand they weren’t partners for very long.”

  He hesitated. “If the FBI, once again, wants to take over one of our cases, let ’em. But I’m not gonna help them do their jobs.”

  “Mac, this isn’t for the FBI. It’s for me. I need to know why someone’s got a beef against Sully and Broph.”

  “Why do you need to know so bad?”

  “I can’t tell you all the reasons right now, but believe me, this isn’t to brownnose the FBI.”

  “It’s Sunday, Scout. Headquarters is closed.”

  “Wouldn’t Manhattan base have those records?”

  “Broph and Sully were partners in Queens, not Manhattan,” said Marenko. “Queens might have them, but you’d have to search them by hand. It could take days. And Broph can’t help you. He’s still missing.”

  “No sign of him?”

  “There’s been activity on his bank account, but it isn’t clear whether the figure the bank picked up on ATM surveillance is Brophy.”

  “I need to go through all the cases they handled jointly,” said Georgia. “I really think the key to Sully’s death and Broph’s disappearance is in there. Any ideas?”

  “Carter knew Broph. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Because he won’t tell me,” said Georgia. “He’s covering for somebody.”

  “Bullshit. He’d never cover up a crime. This is a man who dimed his own partner.”

  “He didn’t dime him. Mac. Brophy got what he had coming.”

  “I’m not saying he didn’t. I’m just talking about personality. Carter fills out his time sheets to the minute, for chrissakes. I don’t even like the SOB and I’d vouch for his integrity.”

  “Mac, when I talked to Broph the other night, he kept telling me he was sorry. Like he’d done something wrong—but not intentionally wrong. A mistake. I remember his words went something like ‘me and Sully thought it was an accident.’ A few days ago, Randy told me about a guy named Cullen Thomas who came forward two years ago about a fire that had been labeled an accident and wasn’t. Thomas said McLaughlin was behind it. Then he died before anyone could learn more. Don’t you think there might be a connection?”

  “That’s a reach,” said Marenko.

  “That’s a motive,” said Georgia. “If it turns out to be true, we may be able to get McLaughlin even if the Feds refuse to hand him over for Café Treize or Sully’s death. An arson that old would precede their hold on him. And there’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  Marenko thought a moment. “Broph went to jail for taking a bribe. That means the Manhattan district attorney’s office would have a file on him. They’d have gone through all his cases with a fine-tooth comb after something like that. Every defense attorney with a client Broph sent to jail would’ve tried to claim their guy was set up.”

  “You think they’d have records of all his cases?”

  “Not records. But maybe some kind of listing—like an abstract. In case the defense attorneys started making noise. I’ve got some good contacts in the D.A.’s office. They’re much better at computerizing their stuff than we are. Let me see what I can dig up.”

  “You can narrow it to cases that Brophy and Sullivan handled together. I’m looking only for fatal fires that were labeled accidental.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll call you later if I find anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So this isn’t about sucking up to the Feds, huh?”

  “No.”

  Marenko waited for Georgia to elaborate but she didn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the real reason she so desperately wanted to nail McLaughlin for Sully’s death.

  She couldn’t admit—even to herself—that no matter how much she thought she hated Rick DeAngelo, she didn’t hate him enough to help send him to jail.

  29

  Georgia had lived in New York all her life, and yet she had never set foot inside the quadrant of stone paths and manicured lawns of Columbia University. The Greco-Roman buildings had the look of greatness about them: Doric columns, broad steps and sweeping views of open plazas. It made Georgia wish she hadn’t dropped out of college halfway through her sophomore year. Then again, it wasn’t like she would have ever attended a school as lofty as Columbia anyway.

  She approached a couple of students barely out of their teens and asked for the student center. It was a modern, low-lying steel-and-glass structure, just off the main plaza near Butler Library. Inside, there was a coffee bar and a cafeteria. There were bulletin boards crammed with offers of apartment shares, typing services and tutoring. There were posters encouraging students to join picket lines for at least a dozen causes, from legalizing gay marriages to closing down the Dalcor plant on the Hudson River.

  Georgia asked around about the art show until she found the right room—a large, open space lit by skylights. It was crowded with young people with dyed-black ponytails, purple mohawks and rings in their noses. Paintings, photographs and collages adorned the walls, punctuated by sculptures in stone, metal and, in one case, recycled aluminum cans. Georgia’s eye was drawn to a cluster of bold black-and-white photographs that looked strangely familiar. One showed children running through an open hydrant on a New York City street. Another was a portrait of a thuggish-looking teenager beside a rooftop pigeon coop. Each of these stark, simple photographs reminded Georgia of the girl in the subway station that Michael McLaughlin had hanging in his house.

  “My daughter’s.”

  “Hmmm?” Georgia turned. Charles Krause was standing behind her, nodding to the photographs. “My daughter took those.”

  “She did?” Georgia squinted at the initials: LP.

  “Lauren uses her married name, Paley, these days. She thinks that being the struggling artist wife of a filthy rich investment banker is more glamorous than being the daughter of an FBI agent, I’m afraid. She’s very good, isn’t she? She does a lot of freelance photography for newspapers and magazines, but she also sells some of it directly to galleries.”

  “Those galleries have some interesting clients,” said Georgia. “I think I saw one of your daughter’s photographs in Michael McLaughlin’s house.”

  Krause frowned. Clearly, this was news to him. So I’m not the only head McLaughlin likes to play with, thought Georgia.

  “My daughter doesn’t always know where her prints end up,” said Krause. “My wife is pretty good at keeping track of the buyers for her, but”—he cast a quick glance in the direction of a young woman who looked surprisingly like the waif in McLaughlin’s photograph—“art and money make strange bedfellows.”

  “I’m sure,” said Georgia, staring at the woman now. She had long dark hair and wore a tight black scoop-necked shirt that barely skimmed the waistline of her faded hip-hugger jeans. The jeans had huge tears in each knee. When she lifted a plastic tumbler of soda, Georgia noticed a tattoo of red hearts encircling her wrist. She wondered what her FBI-father had to say about that—or, for that matter, her investment-banker husband.

  “You had something urgent to discuss with me,” said Krause. “Let’s find a quiet place to talk.” He led Georgia out of the room and down a long hallway to the cafeteria where they found a corner table. She could see that Krause was gearing himself up to lecture her about being at Sully’s apartment last night. She decided to take the offensive.<
br />
  “I’m here, sir, because I think you should know that I recognized one of the people at the Green Warriors meeting last night.”

  Krause leaned back in his chair. “Recognized? From where?”

  Georgia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. As angry as she was at Rick, she took no pleasure in what she had to do now. “The man is my son’s father.”

  “Your ex-husband?”

  “We were never married.” It always pained Georgia to say that. “I wasn’t sure it was him at the meeting. Our encounter was brief. It was dark. And I haven’t seen him in eight years. That’s why I didn’t say anything last night. But when I got back to my house, he was waiting for me.”

  “Did you break cover?”

  “No,” said Georgia. “But he knows I used to be a firefighter. It wasn’t that hard for him to figure out that I’m a fire marshal and that I’m working undercover. I never mentioned the FBI, though,” she added quickly.

  “Has he ever shown any…proclivities…toward extremist groups or environmental causes?”

  “Never.” Georgia smiled to herself. The only proclivities Rick had shown when she knew him were the three Bs: beer, broads and bikes. Then again, people were always more complex than they appeared. “The closest Rick DeAngelo ever came to nature was the time he totaled his motorcycle when he hit a deer.”

  “Did you say Rick DeAngelo?” Krause couldn’t hide his shock. “That’s why you went to Jamie Sullivan’s apartment.” Clearly, he had already obtained Carter’s initial case report with Rick’s business phone number noted in the evidence log.

  “No,” said Georgia. “I had no idea Rick’s number would be there. I didn’t even know it was his number until after I saw him.”

  “Did he say why he’s working with terrorists?”