Hells Kitchen

hurt me.”
    “But you were early, weren’t you?”
    Pellam finally said, “A few minutes, yeah.” Then: “But everybody’s missing one thing. What’s her motive supposed to be?”
    “Ah, yes. The motive.” As he’d done several times before Bailey paused and organized his thoughts. He drained his martini and ordered another. “Full jigger this time, Rosie O’Grady. Don’t let those massive olives lure you into cheating. Last week Ettie bought a tenant’s insurance policy for twenty-five thousand dollars.”
    Pellam sipped from the cup then pushed it away from him. The vile taste in his mouth was only partly the coffee. “Keep going.”
    “It’s a declared-value policy. Ever hear of that? It means she pays a high premium but if the apartment is destroyed the insurer pays off whether she’s got Chippendale furniture or orange crates inside.”
    “Pretty damn obvious. Buying a policy then burning the building the next month.”
    “Ah, but the police love obvious crimes, Mr. Pellam. So do juries. New Yorkers don’t do well with subtleties. That’s why clever bad guys get away with murder.” The martini arrived and Bailey hovered over the glass, like achild eyeing a present on Christmas morning. “On top of that, women are prime suspects in insurance fraud and welfare scams. See, if you’re a welfare mom and your place burns down you get moved to the top of the list for a nicer place. Happens everyday. The fire marshal saw a woman, an insurance policy and a suspicious fire. Bingo, his job’s done.”
    “Somebody’s setting her up. Hell, if it was insurance, why burn the whole building? Why not just her own apartment?”
    “Less suspicious. Anyway, this pyro goes for the most damage he can. She just happened to hire him. Probably didn’t even know what he was going to do.”
    Pellam, a former independent filmmaker and script writer, often thought of life as a series of storylines. There seemed to be some holes in this one. “Okay, they must’ve sent the insurance policy to her. What did Ettie say when she saw it?”
    “The agency claims she picked up the application, filled it out, mailed it back. They forwarded it to the home office. Her approved copy of the policy’d just been mailed from the headquarters the day before the fire so she never received it.”
    “Then the agent or clerk could testify that it wasn’t Ettie,” Pellam pointed out.
    “The clerk identified her picture as the woman who picked up the application.”
    Pellam, long suspicious of conspiracy theories, felt a plot worthy of an Oliver Stone movie at work. “What about the premium check?”
    “Paid in cash.”
    “And Ettie says?” Pellam asked.
    “She denies it all, of course,” Bailey said, dismissingly,as if a denial were as foremsically useful as the fly walking on the bar beside them. “Now, let’s talk practicalities. The arraignment is scheduled for tomorrow. The A.D.A.’s making rumblings about a postponement. You know what the arraignment is? That’s where—”
    “I know what it is,” Pellam said. “What’s the bail situation?”
    “I don’t think it’ll be too high. I’ll talk to some bailbondsmen I know. She’s a good risk, not being very mobile. And it’s not a homicide.”
    “Mr. Bailey,” Pellam began.
    The lawyer held up a hand. “Louis, please.” Louie. Bailey growled the name and for a moment he became the Damon Runyon character he aspired to be.
    “You’ve done this before?” Pellam asked. “Cases like this?”
    “Ah.” Bailey leaned his head back, touched a flabby jowl and caught Pellam’s gaze with eyes suddenly clear and focused. “I’ve seen you studying me. My bargain-cellar tie. My frayed cuffs. My Men’s Shack suit. Notice the plaid’s a bit mismatched? I wore out the original pants a year ago and got the closest I could find. And you’ve been gentlemanly enough not to mention my liquid brunch.”
    He pointed to his right hand—an otherwise dramatic gesture he managed to underplay. “This’s a class ring from New York Law School. That’s not NYU, by the way. Big difference. And I went at night while I served process during the day. And graduated somewhere to the left of the middle of my class.”
    “I’m sure you’re a fine lawyer.”
    “Oh, of course I’m not,” Bailey snorted a laugh. “But so what? This isn’t an Upper East Side case. It’s not a SoHoor Westchester case. For those, you need a good lawyer. This is a Hell’s Kitchen case.