The fire seemed to close in on them, and the smoke thickened, as if the flames wanted to take advantage of the firefighter’s departure.
But they both knew the way. Emilio knew these streets.
The acrid smoke made their eyes sting and caused them to water. Their throats felt raw, and every cough hurt.
Squinting so he could see at least partially, Emilio took Anna’s hand, and they made their way among shadowy desperate figures, python-like coils of hose, flashing multicolored lights. There was a lot of shouting and cursing. A police car arrived, its siren dying as the vehicle pulled to the curb half a block away, then backed around at a right angle so the car blocked the street. Two uniformed cops got out and redirected traffic even as they jogged toward the intersection.
Emilio and Anna made their way along the far side of the street and sat on the stoop of a building across the street from theirs. Anna produced tissues from somewhere and they dabbed at their eyes.
When they could see better, Emilio looked more carefully at Off the Road. The building was burning fiercely. Flames seemed to show in every window.
Almost at ground level, toward the rear where it wasn’t noticeable from the street, there was movement. Emilio knew that a basement window was there; it was small, but it let in light.
Now it was letting someone out. A small figure fleeing the fire. At first Emilio thought he was imagining it. He used a wad of tissue to wipe tears from his eyes. Yes! A woman, judging by her size, was exiting the building via the basement window. Both arms were visible now, a leg crooked sharply at the knee. The figure didn’t look so much like a woman now. Something in the way it moved.
It was a small man, wearing a baseball cap crookedly cocked on his head. Outside the window, he glanced around, noticed Emilio staring at him, and trotted, then walked to join the gawkers down the street.
He glanced back again. In the brightness of the streetlight and police and FDNY flashing lights, Emilio noticed an elfin quality about him. Because of his ear. One large ear stuck straight out from his head and came to a sharp point. He had his head turned so Emilio couldn’t see the other ear. The jockey-size man moved away, back among the gawkers. He was so graceful that he almost danced. Within seconds he was invisible.
“Did you see that?” Emilio asked.
Anna shook her head and dabbed at her eyes with her tissue. “I can hardly see my toes,” she said. “What was it?”
“I thought I saw somebody, a small man, climb out of a basement window.”
“Getting away from the flames,” Anna said. “Did he make it?”
“Yes. He seemed to have plenty of time. Seemed . . .”
“What?”
“To know what he was doing. It was very strange, Anna.”
She moved to sit nearer to him on the hard concrete step. “This whole night has been very strange.”
“There’s something else that’s strange,” Emilio said, staring at the water from the fire hoses running like a small creek toward a storm sewer. “I see them directing their hoses to put water on the lower floors of the building, but not the upper.”
“It looks as if the streams of water won’t reach that high.”
“There are standpipes on the landings of the high floors. All they have to do is carry the hoses up and attach them.”
“That’s where the fire seems to have started,” Anna said. “Maybe they already decided they couldn’t save it.”
“Maybe.” Emilio looked again at the gurgling stream of water hugging the curb. “It seems that for such a big fire, we’ve seen very little water.”
Anna shook her head. “Water, fire, they both ruin things.”
Emilio snaked an arm around her and hugged. “Not everything.”
9
Seven people were dead. Thirteen more were still hospitalized, most of them the victims of smoke inhalation.
The morning after the Off the Road hotel fire, Quinn and Fedderman stood in the building’s ruined basement. Most of the ashes were soaked, and the acrid smell of the fire, which was still smoldering here and there, was enough to sting noses with every breath. There was a lingering, nauseating smell that Quinn recognized from other fires and their aftermaths. He wouldn’t eat steak for a while.
An Arson Squad investigator stood near the collapsed stairway, near a blackened furnace that was the origin of the fire. His name was Hertz, like the car rental company, but he wasn’t family, or what would he be doing analyzing fires? He was in dark blue uniform except for oversized green rubber boots that came almost up to his knees. He was carrying a clipboard with a thick sheaf of paper, which he now and then jotted on with a stubby yellow pencil. All three men wore yellow hard hats. Hertz’s had his name stenciled on it and it looked as if afforded more protection than the helmets on Quinn and Fedderman.
“We don’t wanna stay around too long here,” he said.
Fedderman glanced around nervously. “This place about to fall?” he asked, obviously trying to stay calm.
Hertz laughed in a way that was a kind of snort that aggravated Quinn.
“I wouldn’t be here myself if I thought it was dangerous.”
Fedderman looked at him. “You just said—”
“We believe in every measure of precaution,” Hertz assured him.
Quinn wasn’t sure what that meant but let it pass. “You sure the fire was deliberately set?” he asked. Already knowing the answer.
Hertz nodded his helmeted head. “Look at this.” He moved over a few steps to his right and pointed at a blackened, half-melted mass. “See that?” He pointed at a charred arc of metal, and something else, a tiny black arrow. “That’s the top of a minute hand. This is what’s left of a wind-up alarm clock. When it rang, a key rotated and wound some string that pulled two wires together and triggered an incendiary blast.” He gestured with his hand. “See how the alligatoring starts here and moves out in all direction? The floor looks that way, too, only on a larger scale. There was some kind of accelerant on it that caught fire and spread flames fast. People wouldn’t believe how fast.”
Quinn believed. He’d seen the results of fires set by clever arsonists.
“This guy know what he was doing?” Quinn asked.
“Judging by the results, he knew enough.”
“I mean, was he a pro?”
“I don’t think so. The timing device is jerry-rigged, but good enough to strike a spark. But it doesn’t look like the work of a really skilled arsonist. I’d describe this guy as a clumsy but talented amateur.” Hertz jutted out his chin and looked out to the side, thinking. “Unless. . .”
“What?” Fedderman asked.
“Unless he was an expert pretending to be an amateur,” Quinn said.
Hertz looked at him, obviously miffed that Quinn had been a step ahead of him and had stolen his line.
“Exactly,” he said, smiling. “Very good, Captain.” As if Quinn were an apt pupil. “But there’s also the sabotaging of the coiled fire hoses.”
“We didn’t know about that.”
“When there are fires higher than our ladders and hoses can reach, there are standpipes installed at each landing. Fire hoses are coiled in glass front cases near them. They’re usually not long enough to reach very far along the halls, so extension hoses carried up by the FDNY are coupled to them. Improvised steel clamps are used to pinch the standpipe hoses about seven feet from the standpipes, where they couldn’t be seen when the hoses were coiled. They backed up the water and the crimped hoses burst under the pressure. It took valuable time to replace them, especially considering that the brass on them had been beaten out of round. Amateur work, but effective.”
Quinn understood now why the flames had so fiercely ravaged the building’s upper floors. A simple shortage of water.
Hertz grinned in a way that wasn’t pleasant. “He’s a clever arsonist, our firebug.”