Danny grabbed a tool that had a metal piercer on one end and looked forward to using it to pry down rafts of Sheetrock. Besides, one axe was enough. They didn’t both need one. It was better this way, more efficient.
As they jogged over to the front door of the apartment building, he kept going with the list of reasons why there was a strategic imperative for him not to have an axe.
Residents were funneling out of the entrance, some still in bathrobes even though it was by now eleven thirty in the morning. Most were elderly and he anticipated a lot of cats. The building’s alarm system was going over, the shrill warning making his ears ring. The smell of smoke was in the air and he cursed.
This was a hot one, he thought. He could tell by the scent.
An old guy with Albert Einstein hair and a robe that looked like it had come out of Archie Bunker’s closet stopped in front of Danny.
“I told her that kid was going to kill her. Be careful—I don’t know if he’s got a gun.”
“Who?”
“Her grandson. Bad news. Been with her for the last three weeks. Has someone called the cops?”
“You better get moving.” Danny nodded to the slow-up the guy was causing. “We’ll handle everything.”
“Righto.”
As the man kept going, Danny hit his communicator. “Two-fiver-eight-seven, over.” When he was acknowledged, he said, “Confirm NBPD arrival, over.”
Captain Baker replied, “ETA three to four minutes. Over.”
“Two-fiver-eight-seven, over and out.”
He and Moose hit the second-floor landing and peeled off from traffic on the stairs. One look down to the far end, and Danny’s warning bells went off: There were eight doors on the hall, four on each side, and all but one were open or cracked, the residents in a rush to get out—or adhering to a not-uncommon building protocol requiring that everything be accessible during evacs.
The lone standout? The only one that was closed? Was where the smoke was coming out.
“I think we should wait for the badges to get here,” Danny said. “I got a bad feeling about this.”
“Are you kidding me? Don’t be paranoid.”
They started down the well-trod carpet, the chemical sting in the air irritating his nose and back of the throat. The smoke curling out of the affected apartment, both from around the door and outside, made him run through the analysis quick: volume, velocity, density, and color.
Volume was sizable, suggesting a hot fire in a limited, poorly ventilated area: There was a layer of smoke up along the ceiling in the corridor that was thickening, and through the window at the end of the hall, he could see great black clouds billowing from the apartment into the open area. Velocity was bad news, the smoke choppy and spastic, another sign of poor ventilation and a warning that an autoignition flashover was likely. Density was trouble as well; the smoke was like a solid, laden with airborne fuel solids, aerosols, and gases, all of which were ready to party. Finally, the color was the worst. Black meant high toxicity, and so the likelihood anyone was alive in there was very low.
A few breaths of that kind of “air” and a person loses consciousness, with death to follow in a matter of minutes.
Danny hit his communicator. “Two-fiver-eight-seven, over.” When the acknowledgement came, he stated, “We have black smoke in a chop on the second floor. Closed door. We need this vented and cooled right fucking now or this corner of the building is going to go H-bomb. Over.”
Captain Baker responded. “Can you open the door?”
“Not advisable—”
“Yup,” Moose interrupted on the line. “I’m doing it now.”
Danny grabbed the sleeve of the guy’s turnout. “Anybody in there is already dead.”
“Maybe not. We have to try.”
Captain Baker’s voice came over the connection. “Get in there. The ladder is in position and we are venting.”
There was a distant crash of glass, and instantly the volume of smoke dropped, the pressure released.
“We need to wait for that temp to cool,” Danny said.
“Don’t be a pussy.”
Moose marched over to the door, positioning himself off to one side. Taking the heel of the axe, he banged on the thing. “Fire and Rescue. Open your door.” When there was no response, Moose pulled a repeat. “Open up or we’re coming in.”
Through the window at the hall’s terminal wall, Danny saw the ladder shift position. They were breaking more windows, giving the fire a chance to lose heat and stabilize.
Moose tried the knob and, finding it locked, yelled, “We’re coming in!”
He swung that axe in a fat circle, and Danny had to look away from that sharp blade biting into the smooth surface. A couple of good hits and Moose punched his fist in, feeling for a dead bolt.
“Sonofabitch.”
Danny put his mask on. “I’ll shoulder.”
Moose stepped back to secure his own air source as Danny threw his weight into the panels. The wood, weakened by incineration, splintered, and a wave of heat and smoke knocked him back. Crouching down, he hit his head lamp and entered. Daylight didn’t mean shit with the air so thick with soot and contaminants, and he proceeded through the interior, visualizing burned furniture, blackened walls, rugs that were nothing but stains on the floor. Everything was still combusting, even the lowered temperature still hot enough to consume all manner of wood, plastic, and metal.
He found the first body in the hall.
It was lying with the arms and legs outstretched, as if the person had been running for the door when an explosion or other force knocked them off their feet. Impossible to tell whether they were face-up or facedown, male or female, clothed or naked. All the hair and any clothing had been burned off, and charring of the skin and meat over the skeleton was so extensive, there were no discernible features.
“Two-fiver-eight-seven, we have one deceased in the hall off living room. Proceeding back, over.”
“Two-fiver-eight-seven, prepare for water.”
“Roger. Over.”
The hoses were opened from the ladders, gallons and gallons of H2O arching in through the windows that had been broken. Smoke flared, white now from evaporation.
The first charred door he opened revealed a crappy bathroom that had been spared some of the damage, the plastic shower curtained melted like modern art on the edge of the tub, the walls glazed and sweating, the color scheme of pale blue and yellow dulled but extant.
The next door was probably going to be a bedroom—
As Danny opened the way in, he couldn’t process what he was looking at. Walls were stained with something, the pink-flowered paper marked with . . . brown handprints? That was when he saw, through the haze, the body spread-eagled on the bed. The wrists and ankles had been tied to the posts and there was a red gag in the mouth.
No movement.
Then again, the older woman appeared to have been gutted like a deer. Very recently. There was no meaty smell of anatomy, however. The stench of the fire was too loud in his nose.
Danny spoke into his communicator. “Second victim, bedroom. This is a murder scene.”
He forgot to ID himself, but he didn’t care. He went over. The old woman was staring through sightless eyes in terror at the ceiling overhead. Her loose skin was like folds of pale felt pooling under her arm pits, at her neck, on either side of her bony thighs.
He wanted to cover her up. Find a sheet or a blanket and give her some dignity. This was a crime scene, however.
“What the fuck.” Moose came in and stood next to him. “So that’s what was cooking when the fire started.”
chapter
29
“You know, I like unusual women.”
As Charles Ripkin spoke, his eyes focused on Anne’s prosthesis. “Tell me, how did you lose your arm?”
He already knew the answer, she thought. He had to have researched her.
“I think we need to stay on topic. Let’s talk about those fires in your warehouses.”
“Did it hurt?” The man smiled. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be deformed.”
“I understand that they’re held by various LLCs. I’m curious why you haven’t put them in the name of Ripkin Inc.”