Jeffery Deaver - Hell's Kitchen

“What everything? A thousand bucks worth of old furniture and crap?”

Pellam said, “And her fingerprints? What about them ? You think she’s going to hire somebody then give the pyro a bottle with her fingerprints on them? And isn’t it kind of funny that the parts of the bottle with her prints on them don’t get melted into bubble gum?”

“What should I ask this fellow now, Tony?” Lomax asked his belabored assistant, who thought for a moment before answering. Then said, “I’d wonder how he knew we got her prints on the bottle.”

“Well?” Lomax raised an eyebrow.

“Lucky guess,” Pellam responded. “True to my name.”

“Turn here,” Lomax said to the driver. The car skidded around a curve. And stopped. “Tony,” the marshal gave the cue.

The assistant turned and Pellam suddenly found an very large pistol resting on his temple.

“Jesus…”

“I got more trivia for you, Pellam. Us fire marshals aren’t cops. We don’t have to worry about P.D. regs. We can carry whatever kind of weapons we want. What kind of gun is that you’re holding, Tony?”

“This is a.38 Magnum. I load it with Plus P rounds.”

“So you can fuck around with innocent people more efficiently?” Pellam asked. “Is that the idea?

The cop holding the gun drew it back. Pellam laughed again, shaking his head. He knew he wasn’t going to get hit. Physical evidence of a beating was the last thing these boys wanted. Tony looked at Lomax, who shrugged.

The gun disappeared into the big man’s pocket. He and Lomax climbed out of the front seat, looked away.

Pellam was thinking, Called their bluff, when the skinny man slammed his bony fist, wrapped around roll of quarters or nickels, into Pellam’s head just a behind the ear. An explosion of pain shot through him.

“Man… Christ.”

Another blow. Pellam’s face bounced off the window. Outside Lomax and Tony were examining a pile of trash in the alley, nodding.

Before he could lift his hands the skinny man delivered another fierce blow. There was a burst of yellow light and more astonishing pain. It occurred to him that the bruise and the welt would be virtually impossible to see through his hair.

So much for evidence.

The man dropped the roll of coins into his pocket and sat back. Pellam wiped pain tears from his eyes and turned to the man. Before he could say anything – or haul off and break the man’s jaw – the door opened and Lomax and Tony pulled him out, dropped him in the alley.

Pellam touched his scalp. No blood. “I’m not going to forget that, Lomax.”

“Forget what?”

Tony dragged Pellam up the deserted alley.

No witnesses was all Pellam could think.

Lomax escorted them halfway for about thirty feet. Motioned to Tony, who pinned Pellam to the wall, just like he’d done in Ettie’s hospital room the other day.

Pellam flinched. Lomax shoved his hands into his pocket. He said in a low voice, “I’ve been a supervising fire marshal for ten years. I’ve seen lot of pyros before but I’ve never seen anybody like this guy. This is your ground-zero asshole. He’s out of control and it’s gonna get worse before we get him. Now, are you going to help us?”

“She didn’t hire him.”

“Okay. If that’s the way you want it.”

Pellam balled his fists. He wasn’t going down without a fight. They’d arrest him for assault probably but they were going to arrest him anyway, it looked like. Go for Tony first, try to break his nose.

Then Lomax nodded to Tony, who released Pellam. The big guy walked back to the car, where the skinny man with the coins was reading the Post .

Lomax turned to Pellam, who shifted his weight, ready to start slugging it out.

But the marshal only gestured toward an unmarked gray door. “Go through there and up to the third floor. Room three-thirteen. Got it?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“In there.” He nodded toward the door. “Room three-thirteen. Just do it. Now, get out of my sight. You make me sick.”

Stepping into the elevator and pressing the disk of oily plastic that said 3.

The building was a hospital, the same one where he’d been treated and where Ettie Washington had been arrested.

Pellam followed the corridors and found the small room that Lomax had directed him to.

Pausing in the doorway, he didn’t pay any attention to the couple who stood inside. He didn’t notice the fancy medical equipment. He didn’t acknowledge the white-uniformed nurse, who looked at him briefly. No, all John Pellam saw was the pile of bandages that was a twelve-year-old boy. Young Juan Torres, the most serious injury in the fire at 458 W. Thirty-sixth Street.

The son of the man who knew Jose Canseco.

Pellam looked around the room, trying to figure out why Lomax had sent him here. He couldn’t figure it out.

In Pellam’s heart was a balanced pity – equal parts for the child and for Ettie Washington. (But, he wondered, were these sorrows exclusive? He debated for a difficult moment. If Ettie Washington was guilty, then yes they were.)

Forget it, he told himself. She’s innocent. I know she is.

Wondering again why Lomax had directed him here.

“ La iglesia ,” the woman said evenly. “ El cura .”

Another nurse walked brusquely into the room, jostling Pellam, and continued on without apology. She offered the mother a small white cup. Maybe the woman was sick too. At first Pellam supposed she’d been hurt in the fire. But he remembered helping her out the doorway herself, behind the fireman who carried her son. She’d been fine then though now her hands trembled and the two tiny yellow pills spilled from the wax cup and tapped on the floor. He realized that something about this room differed from the others he’d just walked past.

What is it?

Something odd was going on here.

Yes, that’s it…

The monitor above the bed was silent. The tubes had been disconnected from the boy’s arm. The chart had been removed from a hook welded to the bedframe.

Cura. Pellam had a Southern Californian’s grasp of Spanish. He remembered that the word meant priest.

The child had died.

This was what Lomax wanted him to see.

The boy’s mother ignored the dropped pills and leaned against her companion. He turned his head, covered with tight short-shorn curls and looked at Pellam.

“My daddy, he knows Jose Canseco. No, no, no. Really. He does!”

The nurse again walked past Pellam, this time uttering a soft “Excuse me.”

Then the room was silent or almost so. The only sound was white noise, an indistinct hiss, like the soundtrack on the tape of Otis Balm in his death pose or the tape of Ettie’s empty armchair after she rose to answer the door in the last scenes he shot of her. Pellam remained frozen in the center of the room, unable to offers words of condolence, unable to observe or to analyze.

It was some moments later that he finally realized the other implications of this silent event – that the charge against Ettie Washington would now be murder.

Business was brisk at New York State Supreme Court, Criminal Term.

John Pellam sat in the back of the grubby, crowded courtroom beside Nick Flanagan, the bail bondsman Louis Bailey had hired, round, world-weary man with grime under his nails and a rapid-fire mind that could figure various percentages of bail faster than Pellam could use a calculator.

After the boy’s death Bailey had revised his estimate of the bail upward – to a hundred thousand dollars. According to the usual bond arrangements, Ettie would have to come up with cash or securities worth ten percent of that. Flanagan agreed to post on five and a half percent. He did this grudgingly, revealing either his nature or – more likely – some vast, resented debt owed to Bailey that this was in small part repaying.