Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

The students-a boy and a girl in the bedroom, another girl on a mattress in the living room-were confused and wanted to pack their course notes. I ordered them roughly just to get dressed and move. I took a sweatshirt from a stack of clothes in the bedroom and put it on and bullied and harassed them out the window and down the fire escape.

The fire engines were pulling up as we half slid, half jumped, into the snow below. For once I was grateful to our building super for not shoveling better-the snow made a terrific cushion.

I found Roger in front of the building with my first-floor neighbors, an old Japanese couple named Takamoku. He’d gone in for them through a ground-floor window. The fire engines were drawing an excited crowd. What fun! A midnight fire. In the flashing red lights of the engines and the blue of the police cars, I watched avid faces gloating while my little stake in life burned.

Roger handed me my mother’s wineglasses and I cradled them, shivering, while he put an arm around me. I thought of the other five, locked in my bedroom, in the heat and flames. “Oh, Gabriella,” I muttered, “I’m so sorry.”

THE PARAMEDICS HUSTLED us off to St. Vincent’s hospital in a couple of ambulances. A young intern, curly-haired and exhausted, went through some medical rituals. No one was badly hurt, although Ferrant and I both were surprised to find burns and cuts on our hands-we’d been too keyed up during our getaway to notice.

The Takamokus were badly shocked by the fire. They had lived quietly in Chicago after being interned during World War II, and the destruction of their tiny island of security was a harsh blow. The intern decided to admit them for a day or two until their daughter could fly from Los Angeles to make housing arrangements for them.

The students were excited, almost unbearably so. They couldn’t stop talking and yelling. Nervous reaction, but difficult to bear. When the authorities came in at six to question us, they kept shouting and interrupting each other in their eagerness to tell their tale.

Dominic Assuevo was with the fire department’s arson unit. He was a hull-shaped man-square head, short thick neck, body tapering down to surprisingly narrow hips. Perhaps an ex-boxer or ex-football player. With him were a uniformed fireman and Bobby Mallory.

I’d been sitting in a torpor, anguished at the wreck of my apartment, unwilling to think. Or move. Looking at Bobby, I knew I’d need to pull my wits together. I took a deep breath. It almost didn’t seem worth the effort.

The weary intern gave exhausted consent for the police to question us-except for the Takamokus, who had already been wafted into the hospital’s interior. We moved into a tiny office near the emergency room, the hospital security-staff room, obligingly vacated by two drowsing security guards. The eight of us made a tight fit, the investigators and one of the students standing, the rest in the room’s few chairs.

Mallory looked at me in disgust and said, “If you knew what you looked like, Warshawski. Half naked and your boyfriend no better. I never thought I’d see the day I’d be glad Tony was dead, but I’m thankful he can’t see you now.”

His words acted like a tonic. The dying war horse staggers to its feet when it hears a bugle. Police accusations usually rouse me.

“Thank you, Bobby. I appreciate your concern.”

Assuevo intervened quickly. “I want the full story on what happened tonight. How you became aware of the fire, what you were doing.”

“I was asleep,” I explained. “The smoke woke me up. Mr. Ferrant was with me; we realized the kitchen was on fire, tried the front door and found it was on fire, too. We got out by the fire escape-I roused these kids, he got Mr. and Mrs. Takamoku. That’s all I know.”

Roger confirmed my story. We both vowed that the people we’d gotten up had been sound asleep at the time. Could they have been faking it? Assuevo wanted to know.

Ferrant shrugged. “They could have been, but they seemed pretty deep in sleep to me. I wasn’t concerned about that kind of thing, Mr. Assuevo. Just to get them up and out.”

After thrashing that out, Assuevo went on to explore our feelings about the landlord-did any of us bear a grudge, what kind of problems had we had with the apartment, how had the landlord responded. To my relief, even the overwrought students sensed where those questions were going.

“He was a landlord,” one of the girls said, the thin, longhaired one who’d been in the living room. The other two chimed in their agreement. “You know, the place was clean and the rent was cheap. We didn’t care about anything else.”

After a few more minutes of that, Assuevo murmured with Bobby near the door. He came back and told the students they could leave.

“Why don’t you go, too?” I said to Roger. “It’s time you were getting down to Ajax, isn’t it?”

Ferrant gripped my shoulder. “Don’t be an ass, V.!. I’ll call my secretary in a bit-it’s only seven o’clock. We’ll see this out together.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ferrant,” Assuevo said swiftly. “Since you were in the apartment at the time of the fire, we would have to ask you to stay, anyway.”

Bobby said, “Why don’t you explain how you two know each other and why.”

I looked coldly at Mallory. “I can see where this is headed, and I don’t like it one bit. If you are going to imply in any way that either Mr. Ferrant or I knew anything about the fire, we are going to insist on charges being brought before we answer any questions. And my attorney will have to be present.”

Roger scratched his chin. “I’ll answer any questions that’ll help solve this problem-I assume everyone agrees the apartment was set on fire by an arsonist-but if you’re charging me with breaking any laws, I’d better call the British consul.”

“Oh, get off your high horse, both of you. I just want to know what you were doing tonight.”

I grinned at him. “No, you don’t, Bobby: It’d make you blush.”

Assuevo stepped in again. “Someone tried to kill you, Ms. Warshawski. They broke the lock on the front door to get into the building. They poured kerosene on your apartment door and set fire to it. You want my opinion, you’re lucky to be alive. Now the lieutenant and I gotta make sure, Ms. Warshawski, that there aren’t some bad guys”-his eyebrows punctuated the remark to let me know that “bad guys” was facetious- “out there who are trying for you personally. Maybe it’s just someone with a grudge against the landlord, and he goes after you as a sideline. But maybe it’s against you, okay? And so maybe Mr. Ferrant here”-sketching a gesture at Roger-”is assigned to make sure you stay in the apartment tonight. So don’t be such an angry lady. The lieutenant and I, we’re just doing our job. Trying to protect you. Unless maybe you set the fire yourself, huh?”

I looked at Roger. He pushed the hair out of his eyes and tried straightening a nonexistent tie before speaking. “I can see you have to look into that, Mr. Assuevo. I’ve done my share of fire-claim investigations and I assure you, I know you have to explore every possibility. While you’re doing that, though, maybe we can try to find out who actually set that fire.” He turned to me. “Miss Warshawski, you don’t think it could be the same person who threw-”

“No,” I interrupted him firmly, before he could complete the sentence. “Not at all.”

“Then who? If it was personally directed-no, not the people who shot Agnes?” Roger looked at Mallory. “You know, Miss Paciorek was murdered recently while looking into a takeover attempt for me. Now Miss Warshawski’s trying to pick up that investigation. This is something you really need to look into.”