Hells Kitchen

police tape, like shoppers waiting at the door for a one-day Macy’s sale. Most of them had the edgy eagerness of urban scavengers but the pickings were sparse. There were dozens of mattresses, stained and burned. The skeletons of cheap furniture and appliances, waterlogged books. A rabbit-ears antenna—the building wasn’t wired for cable—sat on a glob of plastic, the Samsung logo and a circuit board the only recognizable part of the former TV.
    The stench was horrific.
    Pellam finally spotted the man he’d been looking for. There’d been a costume change; he was now wearing jeans, a windbreaker and fireman’s boots.
    Ducking under the tape, Pellam walked up to the fire marshal, pasting enough authority on his face to get him all the way to the building itself without being stopped by the crime scene techs and firemen milling about.
    He heard Lomax say to his huge assistant, the man who’d pinned Pellam against the wall in Ettie’s room, “There, the spalling.” He was pointing to chipping in the brick. “That’s a hot spot. Point of origin’s behind that wall. Get a photog to shoot it.”
    The marshal crouched and examined something onthe ground. Pellam stopped a few feet away. Lomax looked up. Pellam had showered and changed clothes. The camouflage on his face was gone and it took a moment for the marshal to recognize him.
    “You,” Lomax said.
    Pellam, thinking he’d try the friendly approach, offered, “Hey, how you doing?”
    “Get lost,” the marshal snapped.
    “Just wanted to talk to you for a second.”
    Lomax’s attention returned to the ground.
    At the hospital they’d taken his name and checked with NYPD. Lomax, his detective friends and especially the big assistant seemed to regret that there was no reason to detain Pellam, or even to search him painfully, and so they settled for taking a brief statement and shoving him down the corridor, with the warning that if he wasn’t out of the hospital in five minutes he’d be arrested for obstruction of justice.
    “Just a few questions,” he now asked.
    Lomax, a rumpled man, reminded Pellam of a high school coach who was a lousy athlete. He rose from his crouch, looked Pellam over. Quick eyes, scanning. Not cautious, not belligerent, just trying to figure him out.
    Pellam asked, “I want to know why you arrested her. It doesn’t make any sense. I was there. I know she didn’t set the fire.”
    “This is a crime scene.” Lomax returned to his spalling. His words didn’t exactly sound like a warning but Pellam supposed they were.
    “I just want to ask you—”
    “Get back behind the line.”
    “The line?”
    “The tape.”
    “Will do. Just let me—”
    “Arrest him,” Lomax barked to the assistant, who started to.
    “Not a problem. I’m going.” Pellam lifted his hands and walked back behind the line.
    There he crouched and took the Betacam out of the bag. He aimed it at the back of Lomax’s head. He turned it on. Through the clear viewfinder he saw a uniformed cop whisper something to Lomax, who glanced back once then turned away. Behind them, the smoldering hulk of the tenement sat in a huge messy pile. It occurred to Pellam that, even though he was just doing this for Lomax’s benefit, it was grade-A footage.
    The fire marshal ignored Pellam for as long as he could then he turned and walked to him. Pushed the lens aside. “All right. Can the bullshit.”
    Pellam shut the camera off.
    “She didn’t start the fire,” Pellam said.
    “What’re you? A reporter?”
    “Something like that.”
    “She didn’t start it, huh? Who did? Was it you?”
    “I gave my statement to your assistant. Does he have a name, by the way?”
    Lomax ignored this. “Answer my question. If you’re so sure she didn’t start the fire then maybe you did.”
    “No, I didn’t start the fire.” Pellam gave a frustrated sigh.
    “How’d you get out? Of the building?”
    “The fire escape.”
    “But she says she wasn’t in her apartment when it started. Who buzzed you in?”
    “Rhonda Sanchez. In 2D.”
    “You know her ?”
    “Met her. She knows I was doing a film about Ettie. So she let me in.”
    Lomax asked quickly, “If Ettie wasn’t there then why’d you go in at all?”
    “We were going to meet at ten. I figured if she was out she’d be back in a few minutes. I’d wait upstairs. Turns out she’d been shopping.”
    “Didn’t that seem kind of strange—an old lady out on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen at ten