The waiter brought the check. Rick reached for his wallet. Georgia waved it away. “I’ll get reimbursed,” she said.
“So what’s gonna happen now?”
“I’ll take your decision back to my superiors and they’ll decide how to handle this from there.”
“Am I going to jail?”
“I don’t know.”
“Whatever happens, I just want you to know—I won’t blame you, okay?” Rick grinned. “I might try to get myself on The Jenny Jones Show or something—‘Men who Get Busted by Their Ex-Girlfriends.’ But I won’t blame you.”
Georgia smiled and he seemed warmed by her amusement. “You could reenact it in front of a studio audience,” he teased. “Women would love it.”
“Believe it or not, I don’t want to see that happen.”
He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. The gesture was so unexpected, Georgia had no time to react. “I’m sorry about a lot of stuff, Gee Gee. But I’m not sorry there was once a me and you.”
31
Outside the diner, the air temperature hovered around freezing and rain had begun to fall, turning to ice the moment it hit the pavement and the cars.
“God, what a mess,” Georgia remarked as she and Rick left the diner. The lot appeared murky after the intense brightness inside. For a moment, Georgia forgot what the car she was driving looked like.
“Where are you parked?” asked Rick. “I’ll walk you to your car.” Georgia slipped on the ice and he caught her. “Better yet, I’ll walk—you skate.”
Georgia squinted around the parking lot. She remembered parking out of the way, near the Dumpsters. Her dark blue Chrysler with the broken antenna looked too FBI for her to draw attention to it. No one drove a car like that unless they were government—or ready for Social Security. Rick made the same connection.
“That’s not your car, is it? I thought you still had the Escort.”
“I do. And a Harley Davidson, too.”
His eyes widened. “Really? You ride motorcycles now? You never wanted to get on mine when I had it.”
“Kind of hard to ride a motorcycle when you’re eight months pregnant.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” Georgia hadn’t. A month shy of Richie’s birth, and what did Rick blow his money on? An 883 cc Harley Sportster. He obviously didn’t remember the argument, but she did.
A sheet of ice already covered the car. It seemed to weight it down on the passenger side. Rick noticed it too and walked around to examine it.
“Your front tire is flat. You ran over a two-by-four with nails in it.”
“What?” She walked to the other side of the car and Rick pointed to the piece of wood, still lodged near the rear tire. One of the nails was stuck in the rear tire as well. When he dislodged it, the rear tire, too, began to deflate.
“Damn it. I didn’t even feel the car go over it.”
“I’d change it for you, but one spare won’t do you any good with two flat tires.”
“I suppose not,” said Georgia. “If you can drop me off at the supermarket complex up the road, my boss is there. He’ll call a garage and get it towed.”
“Your boss? You mean you’ve got a fire marshal with you?”
“Sort of.”
He looked stricken. “Did you think I was going to hurt you or something?”
“It’s standard procedure, Rick. Don’t take it personally. Anyway, I’m glad he’s here. If you can give me a ride over to the supermarket parking lot, I’ll tell him what happened and we can get it towed.”
“Okay.” He wrapped an arm around her and gently guided her across the icy parking lot. It felt odd to be in Rick DeAngelo’s arms again. Odd, and not entirely unpleasant. Georgia tried to turn off those feelings. There was no place they could go—no place she even wanted them to go. She was with Mac now. Rick was with Corinne. Things were the way they should be. She told herself that, but she still got a rush of something being this close to the first man she had ever loved. Maybe it was just her youth she was pining for—a time when she was young and free and the world seemed full of possibilities.
The front windshield of Rick’s pickup truck was thick with ice, and his wipers looked cemented in place.
“Do you have a scraper?” asked Georgia.
“Somewhere behind the seat.” He shrugged. Knowing Rick, it was in there. Knowing Rick, it was buried beneath twenty pounds of junk. He unlocked the cab doors and they both climbed in. Several minutes of searching through jumper cables, duct tape, rolls of copper wiring and pieces of sandpaper produced nothing. From the cab’s back window, Georgia noticed a big steel toolbox welded to the inside of the truck bed.
“Could it be in your toolbox outside?” she asked.
“Could be.”
“Can’t you find anything?”
He winked at her. “I found you after eight years, didn’t I?”
“That was easy,” said Georgia. “I was right where you left me.”
“So’s the scraper.” He tossed her the keys. “Scoot over to the driver’s side, turn on the engine and put the defroster on. I’ll check the toolbox.” He closed the door and went around to the back of the truck.
Georgia stuck the key in the ignition. That’s when she noticed it—a great big ice scraper half-buried beneath a floor mat. She turned over the engine and reached under the mat.
She never got to do more. From underneath the truck came a sudden whoosh of air. Then a boom like an M-80. The hood flew off the car. The windows shattered into tiny pebbles of safety glass. The doors blew open. The front of the truck rose three feet off the ground. Georgia was thrown onto the pavement, dazed and bleeding. She scrambled back as the truck bounced up and down on its struts before finally settling back onto the asphalt. The tires were on fire. Flames were spreading quickly from the engine compartment to the cab. Not that it would have mattered had she stayed in the passenger seat. The explosion had pushed the seat to within four inches of the roof of the cab. Anybody sitting there would have been crushed to death.
“Gee Gee, are you all right?” asked Rick as he scooped her up and carried her away from the burning truck. Her ears rang. Her side hurt. She could taste something bitter and metallic in her mouth. Already, people were rushing out of the diner, dialing their cell phones. There was a lot of commotion, but it all sounded far off, drowned out by the ringing in Georgia’s ears.
“Can you hear me, Gee Gee?” Rick asked again.
“My ears are ringing,” said Georgia as she tried to ease herself onto her feet. Her side felt bruised. Her jaw ached, as if she’d been chewing for a long time. But thankfully, her only other injuries seemed to be a couple of minor cuts on her hands and arms. She followed Rick’s gaze to his truck. Black smoke was pushing out of the open driver’s side door of the cab and orange tendrils of flame were licking the roof. She could feel the heat from a hundred feet away.
“What in hell happened?” Rick wondered aloud in a dazed voice.
“A bomb,” Georgia mumbled. “Set off by the car’s ignition. I can’t believe I got out.”
“You didn’t get out, you were thrown from the truck as it blew,” said Rick.
“Still, I should be dead.” She closed her eyes and shuddered.
“Buscanti,” Rick mumbled. “He must’ve found out about our meeting.” He wrapped his arms around her to warm them both. Then he suddenly stiffened. “I don’t get it, Gee Gee. You’re a New York City fire marshal. Bureau of Fire Investigation, right? I don’t know enough about Buscanti’s operations to really hurt him at this point. Why bomb my truck?”
“I’m working for the FBI.”
Even in the shadows of the streetlamps, Georgia could see Rick’s face pale.
“Please tell me you’re dyslexic and you mean the BFI.”
“I mean the Feds, Rick. I’m on loan from the fire department. This is a Federal case.”
“Then I’m a dead man.” He loosened his grip and stepped back from her. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
>
Sirens were wailing in the distance. The police and local fire department would be here any minute, with Krause no doubt on their tail.
“You can’t go home.”
“I know that.”
“You’ve got to stay with me. I’m the only one who can protect you.”
“Protect me? You call this protecting me? My truck just got blown up. My wife and daughters are alone in my house, two hours’ drive from here.”
“The FBI can help you—”
“In return for ruining my life.”
“You don’t have a choice, Rick. I’m sorry. I never intended this to happen. But the way things stand, you don’t have any options.”
“I’m going to give myself up to Buscanti.”
“He’ll kill you. He probably just tried.”
“Wake up, Gee Gee. He tried to kill us. Us. You think you just happened to have a two-by-four with nails under your tires? Somebody only made it look that way. They wanted you dead, too.”
Georgia froze. In the shock of the moment, she’d forgotten about that.
“If I stay here, I’ve got no options but to wire up against Buscanti and the Green Warriors,” said Rick. “The best I can hope for after that is to go into the witness protection program. Do you understand what that means? It means I’ll never see you or Richie again—ever. And it means that you’re still at risk.”
Georgia closed her eyes. Her head throbbed as if she’d just spent six hours at an Aerosmith concert. She could see the logic of Rick’s words. Once Krause got his hooks into Rick, he’d never let him go.
“That’s why I’ve got to talk to Buscanti,” Rick pleaded. “I’ve got to get my wife and kids someplace safe and then handle this my own way. Please—if you ever cared about me, please listen to what I’m saying.”
“You can’t get out of here,” said Georgia. “Everyone will see you.”
“Not if I leave right now before the cops secure the scene. I can just blend into the crowd.”
She sighed. “Do what you have to do. I just hope you live through it.”
The police cars were turning into the lot now. There was just enough darkness and confusion for Rick to slip away.
“I feel bad leaving you,” he said.
“Now you feel bad.” She smiled weakly. “How about eight years ago?”
He smiled. All he said was, “Later.” And then he was gone.
32
By the time the Fort Lee Police walked over to speak to Georgia, Rick DeAngelo had melted into the crowd and disappeared. By every rule of police work, Georgia should have insisted he stay on the scene—held him at gunpoint, if necessary. And yet her gut told her to let Rick slip away until they could both figure out what had happened tonight.
“Ma’am,” asked an officer as he approached her, “do you need medical attention?”
“I’m okay.”
He nodded to the burning truck. Firefighters were dousing it with water. “Was that your vehicle?”
“No.”
“Whose was it, then?”
“It belongs to Richard DeAngelo.”
“And where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Georgia mumbled. “He was here a minute ago.” She suddenly realized how vague she sounded. “I’m working on a case with the FBI. I’m sure my supervisor, Charles Krause, is en route.” She slowly reached inside her bag and produced her U.S. Marshal’s I.D., which the officer examined.
“Is this Mr. DeAngelo a law enforcement officer?”
“No. He’s part of an undercover operation. I think you’ll need to talk to Agent Krause for anything more.”
“Go inside the diner and warm up,” said the officer. “I’ll direct Agent Krause to my supervisor when he arrives.”
Georgia took two steps, then turned. She wasn’t thinking clearly since the bomb blast. “There’s a Chrysler Three Hundred in the corner by the Dumpster. It’s mine, on loan from the FBI. It has two flat tires, which may be intentional. For all I know, it could be wired with a bomb, too. Please advise your people.”
The officer nodded and reached for his radio. “Are you sure you don’t need medical attention?”
“I just need some coffee.”
Georgia went inside and collapsed in a booth. The diner was now empty of patrons and most of the staff. The owner was speaking on a phone in what sounded like Greek. From the tone of his voice, he didn’t sound happy.
“We’re closed,” he yelled at her as she came in. Georgia flashed her shield. He didn’t soften, but at least he got her a cup of coffee. She was grateful for small favors.
The brightness of the diner made it hard for her to follow what was going on outside. The local firefighters had the blaze under control. The officer she’d spoken to earlier asked for the keys to her Chrysler. Georgia squinted at the activity beyond the portable spotlights. A bomb squad unit appeared to be checking her car—inside and out. Nothing blew up, thank goodness. She couldn’t decide if she was relieved or not. Someone had tampered with her tires after all. If Rick was going to get blown up, she was certainly intended as part of the deal.
Georgia could see Charles Krause out in the lot now. He was talking to a man in a fire helmet by the steps of the diner. There were several other men in trench coats swarming the area. She didn’t recognize the faces, but they all looked like FBI. Maybe it was the New Jersey office. Georgia rose from her seat and headed to the door.
The sleet had turned to snow and the hose runoff from the fire trucks was turning the parking lot into a sheet of ice. She walked slowly toward Krause. As soon as he saw her, he excused himself and hustled over. He looked shaken.
“Marshal, are you all right? There are EMS people—”
“I’m okay,” said Georgia. “Just a little ringing in my ears.”
“Do you know how lucky you are? The fire investigators on the scene are telling me you should be dead. The only thing that saved you was a homemade skid plate welded to the underside of the truck. I guess DeAngelo put it in place to prevent damage to his undercarriage when he drove on unpaved construction sites. In any case, it absorbed some of the bomb’s impact and probably saved your life. Where is DeAngelo, by the way?”
“He’s not here, sir.”
“I know he’s not here,” snapped Krause. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” Georgia sneaked a look at the burned hulk of his truck, the metal pitted and rust-colored from the fire. Fire investigators had removed the skid plate. It was convex in the center from the impact of the bomb. That could’ve been her. She shuddered at how close she’d come.
“You let him walk away?”
Georgia took a deep breath and felt the cold air slice through her lungs. Behind them, the smoke rising from the wreckage was white and translucent in the night air. The ringing in her ears was beginning to subside, but it was now replaced by a pounding in her head. She felt as spent as the fire.
“Marshal, I asked you a question. Did you let a man suspected of murder and conspiring with terrorists walk away tonight?”
“I was in shock, sir.”
“And how is it that he’s not hurt and you are?”
“He got out of the truck before it blew.”
“You were in a suspect’s truck after he exited the vehicle?”
“Yes. I guess so,” said Georgia, feeling more foolish by the minute.
“So, in other words, he set you up.”
“He was looking for an ice scraper in the truck bed.” Even Georgia realized how stupid she sounded.
“So in other words, you got into a suspect’s truck. You allowed him to exit it without you. You failed to maintain visual contact. And then you let him get away?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Georgia swallowed hard and fought back a sickening sensation in her stomach. She knew what was coming even before he said the words.
“You failed every single basic tenet of police work, Marshal. And for one reason only, as I see it. Because you have an emotional attachment to th
e suspect. I see no choice but to terminate your involvement with the FBI’s task force, effective immediately.”
“I understand,” said Georgia, trying to remain calm. “I would just like to ask that the Bureau give consideration to handing McLaughlin over when the FBI is through with him.”
“That’s no longer your concern, Marshal. I’ll take that up with your chief—after I explain exactly what you did and didn’t do tonight.”
33
It was nine-thirty on Sunday evening before an FBI agent delivered Georgia back to Woodside. By then, Chief Brennan had already been beeped at home and informed of Georgia’s “grievous misjudgments” this evening, and Krause’s subsequent decision to dismiss her from the case.
Georgia didn’t speak to Brennan. She was told only that he had an all-day meeting on Monday, but expected her to report to him at headquarters on Tuesday morning. She knew there would be talk of charges. But that wasn’t what was worrying her right now. Brennan, as both Marenko’s supervisor and his “rabbi,” or mentor, in the department, would have briefed him on the situation. Georgia had no idea how much Mac had been told. But considering he was at her house, watching her son while she was out with her ex, it promised to be a hell of an evening.
Marenko was waiting for Georgia as she walked in the front door. He hung back by the open doorway to the basement and wiped sawdust off his hands and onto his jeans. His blue eyes looked blank and distant. She understood why as soon as Richie scampered up the basement stairs. The child had Georgia by the arm before her coat was even off. She was thankful her cuts from the blast were small. Richie didn’t even seem to notice.
“Mom, you gotta come downstairs and see it,” said Richie excitedly. “The race car Mac and me are building. It’s almost done. It’s gonna be red and the wheels are huge—two on each axle.”
Georgia followed her son down the basement stairs. Richie practically skipped across the floor to the work-bench. The race car had been cut and assembled. Some of the pieces were freshly screwed and glued in place.
“Mac gave the back a spoiler,” said Richie, pointing to a flat protrusion from the rear of the car. “He said it will break up airflow and make the car go faster.”
Fireplay Page 19
