“Jesus.” Pellam had scouted for a lot of action adventure films. Most of the spectacular explosions on screen, supposedly C4 or TNT or dynamite, were actually containers of gasoline-soaked sawdust, carefully assembled by the arms master on the set. Everybody kept far back when he rigged the charges. And stuntmen who thought nothing about free-fall gags from twenty stories up were damn cautious around fire.
Bailey looked over his notes. “Now, what’ve I found, what’ve I found? . . . God
damn
air conditioner! Jiggle that switch. It’s the compressor. Jiggle it. Did it go on?”
Pellam jiggled. No response from the dusty old unit. Bailey grumbled something inaudible over the throbbing motor. He pulled a fax off his desk. “The prelim arson report about Ettie’s building. Getting it cost most of your money. I made a copy for you. Read it and weep.”
Privileged and Confidential
MEMORANDUM
From: Supervising Fire Marshal Henry Lomax
To: Lois Koepel, Esq., Assistant District Attorney
Re: Preliminary findings, Fire of Suspicious Origin, 458 W. Three-six street
At 9:58 p.m. on August tenth, a call was received from box 598 on Tenth Avenue regarding a fire at the
458 W. Three-six street. A 911 was received at 10:02 p.m., regarding same. Ladder company Three Eight responded to the first alarm assignment and the captain at the scene concluded that because of the gravity of the fire and the presence of injuries a second alarm assignment was needed. This assignment went out at 10:17 p.m.
Present at the blaze were Two Six Truck, Three Three Truck, Four Eight Engine, One Six Engine, and One Seven Ladder. Lines were run immediately, and water was laid down on the three top floors. Access to the premises was gained by entry through the third floor and the building was successfully evacuated.
The captain on the scene concluded that the flames had so weakened the top floors that access through the bulkhead on the roof was inadvisable, and pulled the firefighters back. Shortly thereafter the roof and top two floors collapsed.
The fire was finally knocked down at 11:02 p.m. and all units took up at 12:30 a.m.
The captain requested a fire marshal because certain observations about the fire suggested it was of suspicious origins.
I arrived at 1 a.m. and began my investigation.
I concluded that the point of origin was the basement of the building. Spalling on the brick and melted aluminum confirmed this. I observed that the basement windows had been broken outward not due to heat fracturing but due to being struck with an object of some sort, possibly to provide better oxygen supply to feed the fire. This is consistent with witnesses’ observations that the flames did not have a bluish tint (which would indicate a high level of carbon monoxide and might be
expected with a fire in a closed space) but orange, indicating a plentiful oxygen source.
I observed fragments of melted and shattered glass consistent with a large (possibly half-gallon or gallon) bottle at the apparent site of origin and burn marks on the floor indicating that a liquid accelerant might have been used.
Subsequent spectrographic analysis indicated that there was such a substance, hydrocarbon-based (See NYFD laboratory Report 337490). The substance was approximately 60 percent 89-octane, unleaded gasoline, thirty percent diesel fuel, and ten percent dish detergent, determined by subsequent photospectrometric analysis to be Dawn brand.
This is consistent with witnesses’ observations that the fire appeared to burn orange in color with a large amount of smoke, indicating a hydrocarbon-based accelerant.
A gasoline can found on the premises contained residue of 89-octane, unleaded gasoline. But a comparison of the dyes added to both the gasoline contained in the accelerant, and those in the gasoline can indicated that they came from different sources.
Photospectrometric analysis was able to differentiate the fuel oil in the tank at the premises from the composition of the fuel oil found at the point of origin. An attempt was made to ascertain the supplier of the gasoline and fuel oil used in the accelerant but they were found to be blends, and so a source could not be determined.
In addition, it should be noted that thirteen semiautomatic pistols (four 9mm Glock, three 9mm Taurus and six .380 Browning) were found secreted behind the oil
tank in the premises. The weapons were unloaded and there was no ammunition present. They were shipped to NYPD forensic lab for latent fingerprint testing. AFIS search came back with no match. BATF and NYPD Major Crimes was notified.
Witnesses reported they had seen a tenant (E. Washington) enter the building through the back door, ten feet from the point of origin, shortly before the blaze.
On the basis of this I instituted a search of the National Insurance Underwriters Fraud Prevention Service which revealed that on July 14 of this year, Suspect Washington applied for and received an insurance policy from New England Mutual Casualty and Indemnity, Policy No. 7833-B-2332. $25,000 declared value policy. Proceeds payable into her checking account (East Side Bank & Trust, Acct. No. 223-11003).
Fingerprints taken from several of the glass bottle shards located near the point of origin were compared with fingerprints taken from three Knows found in the remains of the premises and known to be Subject Washington’s. Two partials matched.
This provided the basis for probable cause and Suspect Washington was arrested at New York Hospital, where she was recuperating from injuries sustained in the fire.
Subject Washington was read her rights and refused to say anything, and was given the opportunity to seek legal representation.
The investigation is ongoing, and I am continuing to search for evidence to assist the District Attorney’s Office in prosecuting this offense.
Note: The vast majority of for-profit arsons involve a
suspicious fire on the top floor and to the rear of the premises. This serves two purposes. It destroys the roof which in most cases is the most expensive portion of a building to repair. A destroyed roof will usually result in an insurance company declaring the building a total loss. Second it causes severe water damage throughout the rest of the premises, and thus causes significant additional damage, with minimal loss of life.
This particular fire was set in the basement—that is, without any concern whatsoever for human life. If the perpetrator is the individual who has set similar fires over the past several years, as the M.O. and nature of accelerant indicate, we have reason to believe that this individual is a particular threat to others.
We recommend that all pressure possible be brought to bear on Suspect Washington to have her reveal the identity of this perpetrator who, in my opinion, she hired for the purposes of perpetrating insurance fraud.
Insurance.
And fingerprints . . .
And damn if the color of the fire and the amount of smoke, all that technical stuff, hadn’t come right from his own mouth when he’d confronted Lomax at the scene, Pellam thought.
“The A.D.A.’s having a document examiner go over the insurance application to see if the handwriting matches hers. But there
is
a tentative match.” Bailey nodded his head in the direction Cleg, his green-jacketed emissary, had just disappeared. “I’m getting a copy of the report at the same time it’s sent to Ms. Koepel. If she hadn’t denied having the policy it probably wouldn’t have looked so bad for her.”
Pellam said, “Maybe she denied it because she didn’t take out the policy.” Bailey didn’t respond to that. Pellam returned to examining the report again. “The insurance is payable directly into her account. Is that unusual?”
“No, it’s pretty common. If a house or apartment burns, the company pays the proceeds directly into the bank. So the check wouldn’t be mailed to a place that no longer existed.”
“So whoever took out the policy would have to know her account number.”
“That’s right.” Bailey’s yellow pad was sun-faded around the edges. It looked like it was ten years old.
“Guns,” Pellam said, eyes on the report. “What do you think that means?
Bailey laughed. “That the apartment’s in Hell’s Kitchen. That’s
all
it means. There’re more guns here than on L.A. freeways.”
Which Pellam doubted very much. He asked, “Did you find out who the landlord is? And if the building was landmarked.”
“That’s why Cleg is delivering my thank-you presents.” Bailey rummaged in a file and dropped a photocopy on the desk. It bore the seal of the state attorney general. Bailey seemed to think this was a significant piece of paper but to Pellam it was legal gibberish. He shrugged, looked up.
The lawyer explained, “Yes, the building was landmarked but that’s irrelevant.”
“Why?”
“The owner’s a nonprofit foundation.” Bailey flipped through several pages and tapped an entry. Pellam read:
The St. Augustus Foundation. 500 W. Thirty-ninth Street.
Everybody in the Kitchen knew about St. Augustus. It was a large church, rectory and Catholic school complex in the heart of the neighborhood and had been here forever. To the extent Hell’s Kitchen had a soul, St. Aug was it. In an interview Ettie had told him that Francis P. Duffy, the chaplain of the Kitchen’s famous World War I regiment, the Fighting 69th, had celebrated masses at St. Augustus before becoming pastor of Holy Cross Church.
Pellam asked skeptically, “You think they’re innocent just because it’s a church?”
“It’s the
nonprofit
part,” Bailey explained, “not the theological part. Any money that a not-for-profit makes has to stay in the organization. It can’t be distributed to its stockholders. Even when it’s dissolved. And the Attorney General and the IRS are
always
checking upon the books of nonprofits. Besides, the foundation had it insured for its book value—that was only a hundred thousand. Oh, sure, I’ve known a lot of priests who ought to go to jail for one thing or another but nobody’s going to risk sailing up to Sing Sing for that kind of small change.”
Pellam nodded at the papers. “Who’s this Father James Daly? He’s the director?”
“I called him an hour ago—he was out finding emergency housing for the tenants of the building. I’ll let you know when he calls back.”
Pellam then asked, “Can you get the name of the insurance agent Ettie talked to.”
“Sure, I can.”
Can.
It was turning into the most expensive verb in the English language.
Pellam slid another two hundred, in stiff twenties,
toward the lawyer. He sometimes thought ATMs should flash a message that read, “Are you going to spend this money wisely?”
He nodded out the window toward the high-rise. Bailey’s office was only two doors from Ettie’s burnt tenement and a haze of lingering smoke still obscured his view of the glitzy place. “Roger McKennah,” he said slowly. “Ettie said some of his workers from across the street were in the alley behind her building the night of the fire. Why’d they be there?”
But Bailey was nodding as if he wasn’t surprised at this news. “They’re doing some work here.”
“Here? In your building?”
“Right. He’s part-owner of this place. That’s the work going on outside. That you hear.” He nodded toward the sound of hammering in a hallway upstairs. “The new Donald Trump himself—renovating my building.”
“Why?”
“That’s a source of some speculation but we think, we
think
he’s fixing up a hideaway for his mistress on the second floor. But you know rumors. You don’t suspect him, do you?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Bailey glanced toward his wine bottle but forewent another glass. “I can’t believe he’d do anything illegal. Developers like McKennah steer clear of shenanigans. Why bother with small potatoes like burning an old tenement? He’s got hotels and offices all over the northeast. That new casino of his on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City just opened last month. . . . You don’t look convinced.”
“A rule in Hollywood thriller scriptwriting is that if you don’t want to spend a lot of time developing your
villain’s character just make him a real estate developer or oil company executive.”
Bailey shook his head. “McKennah’s too top-drawer to do anything illegal.”
“Let me make a call.” Pellam took the phone.
The lawyer apparently changed his mind about the wine and graciously poured himself another. Pellam declined with a shake of his head as he punched in a long series of numbers. “Alan Lefkowitz, please.” After several clicks and long moments on hold, a cheerful voice came on the phone.
“Pellam?
The
John Pellam? Shit. Where you be?”
Hating himself for it, Pellam slipped into producer-speak. “Big Apple. What’s cooking, Lefty?”
“Doing that thing with Polygram. You know. The Costner one. On the way to the set right now.”
Pellam couldn’t recall whether he owed multimillion-dollar producer Lefkowitz anything at the moment or whether Lefkowitz owed
him.
But Pellam took on a the creditor’s attitude one when he said, “I need some help here, Lefty.”
“You bet, Johnny. Talk to me.”
“You know all the big boys out here on the Right Coast.”
“Some.”
“Roger McKennah.”
“We rub elbows. He’s on the film board at Columbia. A trustee. Or NYU. I don’t remember.”
“I want to get in to see him. Or let’s say I want to look
at
him. Socially. His crib. Not the battlefields.”
Silence from the other coast. Then: “So . . . Why’d you be interested in that?”
“Research.”
“Ha. Research. Poking around. Gimme a minute.”
Lefty remained on the line but grunted, somewhat breathlessly—as if he was making love though Pellam knew he was leaning across a massive desk and flipping through his address book. “Well, how’s this?”