Then her eyes caught a familiar face across a crowd of men a head taller than Georgia. She recognized the walrus jowls and droopy, ash-colored mustache immediately: Captain Seamus Hanlon. He was in his dark blue dress uniform with a white cap on his head and white gloves on his hands. Across his left breast, a row of fire department medals gleamed. Georgia made eye contact with him and inched through the crowd. She was surprised he hadn’t walked over and surprised still more when she hugged him and he stiffened under her touch. Maybe he was embarrassed.
“Is Doug here?”
“He’s in the church, with the rest of the fellows from Ladder Seventeen,” said Seamus. Georgia expected him to offer more, but he didn’t.
“How’s he doing?”
“How do you think he’s doing?” Seamus snapped back.
“Seamus…Captain,” Georgia stumbled. Maybe today wasn’t the day to be informal. “Did I say something wrong to Doug the other night?”
Seamus stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at the long, straight rows of sand-colored steps leading up to the huge double-paneled doors of the church. “It’s what you didn’t say, lass.” His pale blue eyes fixed on hers. “You know,” he whispered. “You know who set the fire. And you’re not doing anything about it.”
Georgia felt her breath stall in her lungs. She held Seamus’s gaze, but could find no words to say. Inside the church, she could hear the sound of an organ, punctuated by the wail of bagpipes. In life, Fuentes probably never got within fifty feet of a bagpipe. But in death, even the non-Irish families tended to find comfort in the traditions. The sound cut right through her heart.
“Who told you this?” she asked finally.
“Is it true?”
“Seamus—Captain—please don’t put me in this position. You don’t even know if the information you have is correct.”
“All right,” he hissed. “You tell me if it’s correct. Yesterday, Ray Connelly, Kerry’s father, gets a tape in the mail. Some bastard named Michael McLaughlin is boasting about killing firefighters.”
Georgia tried not to betray her shock. “Who sent it?”
“We don’t know. There was a typed note inside, telling Ray that he and his buddies in the NYPD should know about this tape, but that he shouldn’t share it with Doug. Whoever sent it seemed to know that Ray was a retired police detective and Doug’s father-in-law.”
“You didn’t tell Doug about the tape, did you?”
“I went over to the Connellys’ house last night and spoke to Ray. We agreed not to tell Doug. But when Ray walked me to my car, Kerry listened to the tape and showed it to him.”
“Oh Jesus.” Georgia felt weak. She could hear the shuffling of bodies around her and the priest’s delivery of the Twenty-third Psalm floating in the bitter December air. A few blocks over, traffic on the Bruckner Expressway had the steady whoosh of ocean waves, and a far-off siren cried out, as if on cue. Hanlon straightened. He was breathing hard, as if he’d just run from someplace. Yet he was standing absolutely still. He looked at Georgia. He could read it all over her face. She’d never been good at lying.
“It’s all true, isn’t it?” asked Hanlon.
“Is Doug…is he okay?”
“Where’s Michael McLaughlin?”
“I can’t talk to you about this.”
“You can’t talk to me about this?” Hanlon’s voice rose above the murmuring inside and outside of the packed church. Firefighters craned their necks to see what the commotion was about. Hanlon, embarrassed, immediately lowered his voice. “For godsakes, lass,” he muttered. “This isn’t some staff chief or politician in pleats you’re talking to here. This is me—Seamus Hanlon. I’m the captain of the engine company your father worked in, God rest his soul. I see his bronze plaque in my firehouse every day. And Dougie’s my son. He’s hurting, Georgia. They’re all hurting. They deserve the truth.”
“Don’t you think I’d tell you if I could? I can’t, Seamus. Don’t put me in this position.” Georgia tried to retreat through the mass of bodies. She needed air. Space. A chance to control the trembling in her limbs. You are a police officer. You must uphold the law, she told herself. And then she thought of Doug Hanlon. And Joe Russo and Tony Fuentes. And most of all, her father. She understood how Paul Brophy felt when he swung that baseball bat at McLaughlin, how Randy felt when he looked at those pictures of Rachel Cross. She wanted to pull the trigger on McLaughlin herself.
The men were ten deep by the church and they fanned out across the closed boulevard of stores and small shopping arcades. She felt the claustrophobia of this sweep of blue. She saw the men look at her as she walked past. Every one of them seemed to stare in judgment, as if they all knew the terrible secret she was keeping. She wondered, if her father were here now, would he have kept such a secret? Would he have wanted her to?
She crossed the street. Awnings creaked above a Laundromat. On the second floor, a law firm advertised injury claims in English and Spanish. She had lost her bearings. She couldn’t even remember which direction her car was in. Hanlon caught up to her. For a heavy man, he was fast on his feet. Like most veteran firefighters, his survival had often depended on it.
“Don’t run away from me, Georgia—please,” he begged her. “I’m not trying to get you in trouble. I’m just trying to understand. Two firefighters are dead, love. Tony Fuentes’s wife is expecting their fourth child. Joe Russo’s wife is on three kinds of tranquilizers. Dougie’s started drinking heavily. Everybody’s a mess. What could be more important than giving these families a sense of closure? Of justice?”
“I could tell you everything about Michael McLaughlin and you still wouldn’t have a sense of closure or justice. Do you understand what I’m saying?” asked Georgia. “I want to kill him. Me. Right now with my bare hands. I want to blow that motherfucker away. But I can’t. And you can’t. And I can’t tell you why.”
Hanlon looked shocked. Georgia wasn’t sure if it was because she’d put things so bluntly or because she’d confirmed McLaughlin’s name or simply because she expressed her own desire to kill him. Whatever the reason, he suddenly became very pale.
“Dougie wants to kill him, too,” said Seamus softly. “I caught him this morning calling his brother Brendan’s precinct trying to track down where this McLaughlin might live.”
“Does he understand—do you understand—the implications of what he’s doing?” asked Georgia. “If Doug takes the law into his own hands, everything this department stands for will be ground into dust. We’re about saving lives—not taking them. You’ve got to make him understand that.”
Seamus Hanlon slumped against the graffiti-covered roll-down gate of a shoe repair store. “I’m trying, Georgia. But it’s like he can’t hear me anymore. You should see him. He was so calm this morning. Almost dreamy. I thought his anger was bad, but this is worse. Before Doug went inside to Mass, he asked me to tell Brendan that he can have Doug’s old baseball mitt signed by the Yankees. That’s Doug’s most prized possession.”
“I’m no shrink, Seamus, but when a person gives away their most cherished belongings, it sounds like they’re fixing to die.”
“He wouldn’t—”
“Yes, he would. I know the feeling, only I just wanted to die. Doug wants to take Michael McLaughlin with him. You have to get him help. Right away.”
Across the street, the doors of the church opened and mourners began pouring out. Georgia could hear the wail of the bagpipes playing “Amazing Grace.” She saw six strapping men in firefighters’ uniforms bearing the flag-draped casket of Tony Fuentes. Behind, a small, caramel-colored woman in a black dress and veil with a swollen belly was helped down the steps, along with three dark-haired little girls. Georgia’s throat began to close up and tears came to her eyes. She thought she couldn’t cry for the dead in this job anymore. And maybe she couldn’t. But she could cry for the living. She was crying for them now.
“Don’t let Doug out of your sight today, Seamus—whatever you do. I wil
l try to work out something. But please, please, get him some professional help. Make him see that he can’t take the law into his own hands. Nothing good can come of that.”
Hanlon turned and saluted as the casket was carried down the steps and into the hearse. Georgia did the same.
“What good can ever come of this?” he asked her hoarsely.
She pretended not to hear. She couldn’t bear to tell him what she felt in her heart—that nothing good could ever come of this.
38
Georgia watched the funeral procession until the bagpipes mingled with the fierce breeze and the Fuentes family had piled into dark cars, their doors thudding with the finality of a casket. Firefighters were standing about in tight-knit clusters. Many of them were smoking. The veterans had vacant stares. They had started out seeing men bury fathers on this job, and now they’d seen too many of them burying their sons.
She trudged down side streets of shadowy apartment buildings with ornate façades caked with years of grime. Here and there, in apartment windows, families had taped up signs: God Bless the FDNY. Georgia felt cheered by the words. A firefighter lives his life knowing that he may be called upon to lay it down for strangers. And when he dies, it seemed only fitting that strangers honor him.
Cars were double-parked for blocks in every direction. No one ticketed them. Every last one of them had either an FDNY sticker on the back window or one from another department. Georgia found her red Ford Escort and fished her keys from her purse. She stepped closer, then did a double take. The front passenger seat was tilted all the way back and a figure with a baseball cap over his face lay sprawled out, sleeping. At least she thought he was sleeping. She wanted to believe it wasn’t her car. She wanted to believe it wasn’t him. But as she checked the wheel base and saw the rust marks, and as she checked his unshaven chin and saw the dimple, she silently cursed under her breath and unlocked her door.
“What the hell are you doing in my car? You want me to arrest you? Is that it?”
Rick DeAngelo jumped up from what had obviously been a sound sleep. He blinked at her and fumbled in the front pocket of his jeans to produce a key. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn last night. He obviously hadn’t gone home. If he had, he would have been arrested. Georgia was sure the Feds were looking for him.
Rick tossed her the car key. “I helped you tie this spare behind the bumper when you bought the car, remember?”
“How could I forget?” said Georgia. “You borrowed my brand-new car and locked the keys inside—remember?”
“I knew you’d still have the key behind the bumper,” he said, yawning and ignoring her dig. “If it was me, I’d have moved it by now.”
“If it was you,” said Georgia, “the car would’ve been re-possessed by now.”
He allowed a grin and tipped his baseball cap down low again as firefighters and cops passed by to their own cars.
“What are you doing here?” Georgia demanded. “And how did you even know I’d be here?”
“’Cause I know you. Even before you were a firefighter, you were always very passionate about firefighters’ funerals. I knew you’d never skip it. I can’t go near your house. The cops are watching it. But I figured they wouldn’t tail you to this. You always go for your dad, don’t you?”
Georgia let the question brush past her. “You’re a wanted man. Everyone thinks you tried to kill me.”
“Tried to kill you? Gee Gee, my truck got blown up. If the windshield hadn’t iced up, we’d probably both be dead.”
“I got thrown off the FBI case because you ran last night. My boss is probably going to give me charges.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
“Your being here is getting me in trouble.”
He depressed the lever on the side of his seat and it became upright again. “Do you want to arrest me?” he asked.
“Don’t tempt me.”
“No sweat.” He held his wrists out. “Slap on the cuffs. Maybe you’ll get a medal.”
Georgia closed her eyes. She didn’t want that. And he knew it. “Why are you here?” she asked sharply.
“I got ahold of Louie Buscanti, Gee Gee. He agreed to see me tonight.”
“You mean kill you tonight.”
He picked at a hangnail without answering right away. He seemed to be debating that himself. “Maybe. I don’t know. Either way, I don’t have a choice. I can’t run from Buscanti.”
“You can’t run from the Feds, either.”
“I’m not planning to,” said Rick. “If I can straighten everything out with Buscanti—make him see I’m not fixing to go against him, I’ll turn myself into the Feds willingly. There’s nothing I can give ’em. I don’t know anything and I didn’t do anything. That’ll come out in time.”
He seemed pretty confident. Then again, Rick was never one to worry—even about things he should worry about.
“I can’t approve something like this,” said Georgia.
“I’m not asking for your permission.”
“I can arrest you,” Georgia said, not as forcefully as she would’ve liked.
“If you were going to, you already would’ve,” said Rick. “And I would’ve run. So unless you’re planning to shoot me, I suggest you drop the idea.”
“In other words then, you just dropped by to get me into more trouble, is that it? Or am I supposed to feel guilty when they dredge your body from the Hudson River?”
Rick reached over to a key chain attached to Georgia’s car keys. On the end of the chain was a brass cast of her father’s old badge number—her badge number now. It was attached to a plastic photo insert of Richie. It was a candid shot of him, taken last summer at their above-ground swimming pool in the backyard. His dark hair was plastered around his face, his hazel eyes were bright. He had a band of freckles across his nose—just like Georgia. And a dimple in his chin—just like Rick. Rick fingered the photograph now.
“Does he know I’ve seen you?”
“No.”
“I, uh…I wish I could see him.”
“You think that’s fair?” asked Georgia. “Walk out of your son’s life for eight years and then waltz back in right before you’re facing a truckload of legal trouble and a mobster’s bullet?”
“No.” He sighed. “You’re right.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a crumpled napkin. “I didn’t have any paper, but I, uh…I wrote him a note. You can read it, Gee Gee, if you like. Maybe you…can give it to him.” He handed the crumpled napkin to Georgia. She read it.
Dear Richie,
I’ve kept the letter you wrote me last spring in a drawer by my bed. I know you think I’ve forgotten you, but I always look at the school picture you sent me and think about you. You are my only son. I don’t deserve to call you that. If you hated me, I wouldn’t blame you. I was young and stupid once, and I ran away when I shouldn’t have. Now, I am a lot older and a little wiser. But it isn’t so easy to come back. I am in some trouble now and I don’t want you involved. But I swear to you, if I get out of this mess and your mother agrees, I will try to be a friend to you, even if I haven’t earned the right to be your father.
Yours,
xxx
“I didn’t sign it,” said Rick. “I didn’t know what to call myself.” When Georgia didn’t respond, he added with a grin, “I’m sure you’ve got a few suggestions.”
Georgia swallowed. She didn’t know what to say.
“That bad, huh?” he muttered. “It ain’t Shakespeare, I know.”
“It’s fine.”
“Hey, no sweat.” He looked at her. “Will you give it to him?”
Georgia nodded. Rick leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
“You know, Gee Gee, you’re still a hell of a woman.”
“‘Hell’ was a word you used to use a lot to describe me.”
He laughed. “Funny, too. You’re still the only woman who could ever go head-to-head with me.”
He put his hand on the door and went to step out of the car.
“Will you at least call me?” asked Georgia. “Let me know how your meeting went?”
He smiled ruefully. “Let me put it this way, if I don’t call, I think you’ll know how it went.” He looked back at her and mimed holding up a glass of champagne. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Then he closed the door and began to walk up the street, hands in his pockets, a little bounce in his step. At this distance, it was as if no time had gone by between them. He still looked like the boy in his early twenties she had known in that lifetime before she became a firefighter. She had been softer and more trusting then—weaker, some might say. More dependent. But there was also something about the girl she had once been that she wanted to be again.
He wants to see his son. And I said no? a voice inside her asked. But of course she said no. Any mother would. It was basic common sense—something Rick sorely lacked. Could she really introduce Richie to a man who might get killed?
But what if he is killed? What if I stopped my boy from his only chance to ever meet his dad? She had never yet made the right decision when it came to Rick. She had no idea if she was making the right one now. She turned on her car’s ignition and eased out of the tight parallel parking space. Rick had just turned the corner when she caught up with him and rolled down her window.
“Get in.”
“Huh?” He tilted his Yankees cap back on his head.
“You heard me. Get in.”
He walked over to the passenger side and slid into the seat.
“Ground rules,” said Georgia as she pulled out into traffic. “No telling him about your legal problems or your meetings with wiseguys. No making promises you can’t keep—”
Fireplay Page 22
