“You know what we call an easy case? One with witnesses and solid evidence?” Lomax asked.

“A grounder,” offered Tony.

Lomax continued, leaning close to Pellam, “You know what we call a case we can’t figure out?”

“A balk?” Pellam tried.

“We call it a mystery, Mr. Lucky. Well, that’s what we got here. A big fucking mystery. We know the lady hired this guy but we can’t find any fucking leads. And I just don’t know what to do about it. So I don’t have any choice. All I can think of is to start hitting that old lady hard. Am I saying this, Tony?”

“You’re not saying anything.”

“And if that doesn’t work, Mr. Lucky, then I’m going to start hitting you hard.”

“Me.”

“You. You were at the building around the time of the fire – like you were supposed to be an alibi for the old lady. Now you’re walking around, talking to witnesses, with that big dick of a camera you got. You’re a man’s been around cops, I can smell that. I think you’ve seen more of ’em than you’d like, you ask me. So before I start whaling on her and on you, I want a straight answer: What’s your interest in all this?”

“Simple. You arrested the wrong person. Getting that to register in your mind – that’s my interest.”

“By destroying evidence? Intimidating witnesses? Fucking up the investigation?”

Pellam glanced at the man beside him. A nebbishy guy. The sort you’d cast for an accountant or, if he had to be a cop, one from Internal Affairs.

Pellam said, “Let me ask you a few questions.” The marshal grimaced but Pellam continued. “Why’d Ettie burn down a whole building if she’s just got a policy on her apartment?”

“Because she hired a fucking psycho who couldn’t control himself.”

“Well, why’d she need to hire somebody at all. Why couldn’t she fake a grease fire?”

“Too suspicious.”

“But it was suspicious anyway.”

“Less suspicious than just burning her place. Besides, she didn’t know about the insurance fraud database.”

“She lost everything in the fire.”

“What everything? A thousand bucks worth of old furniture and crap?”

Pellam said, “And her fingerprints? What about them? You think she’s going to hire somebody then give the pyro a bottle with her fingerprints on them? And isn’t it kind of funny that the parts of the bottle with her prints on them don’t get melted into bubble gum?”

“What should I ask this fellow now, Tony?” Lomax asked his belabored assistant, who thought for a moment before answering. Then said, “I’d wonder how he knew we got her prints on the bottle.”

“Well?” Lomax raised an eyebrow.

“Lucky guess,” Pellam responded. “True to my name.”

“Turn here,” Lomax said to the driver. The car skidded around a curve. And stopped. “Tony,” the marshal gave the cue.

The assistant turned and Pellam suddenly found an very large pistol resting on his temple.

“Jesus…”

“I got more trivia for you, Pellam. Us fire marshals aren’t cops. We don’t have to worry about P.D. regs. We can carry whatever kind of weapons we want. What kind of gun is that you’re holding, Tony?”

“This is a.38 Magnum. I load it with Plus P rounds.”

“So you can fuck around with innocent people more efficiently?” Pellam asked. “Is that the idea?

The cop holding the gun drew it back. Pellam laughed again, shaking his head. He knew he wasn’t going to get hit. Physical evidence of a beating was the last thing these boys wanted. Tony looked at Lomax, who shrugged.

The gun disappeared into the big man’s pocket. He and Lomax climbed out of the front seat, looked away.

Pellam was thinking, Called their bluff, when the skinny man slammed his bony fist, wrapped around roll of quarters or nickels, into Pellam’s head just a behind the ear. An explosion of pain shot through him.

“Man… Christ.”

Another blow. Pellam’s face bounced off the window. Outside Lomax and Tony were examining a pile of trash in the alley, nodding.

Before he could lift his hands the skinny man delivered another fierce blow. There was a burst of yellow light and more astonishing pain. It occurred to him that the bruise and the welt would be virtually impossible to see through his hair.

So much for evidence.

The man dropped the roll of coins into his pocket and sat back. Pellam wiped pain tears from his eyes and turned to the man. Before he could say anything – or haul off and break the man’s jaw – the door opened and Lomax and Tony pulled him out, dropped him in the alley.

Pellam touched his scalp. No blood. “I’m not going to forget that, Lomax.”

“Forget what?”

Tony dragged Pellam up the deserted alley.

No witnesses was all Pellam could think.

Lomax escorted them halfway for about thirty feet. Motioned to Tony, who pinned Pellam to the wall, just like he’d done in Ettie’s hospital room the other day.

Pellam flinched. Lomax shoved his hands into his pocket. He said in a low voice, “I’ve been a supervising fire marshal for ten years. I’ve seen lot of pyros before but I’ve never seen anybody like this guy. This is your ground-zero asshole. He’s out of control and it’s gonna get worse before we get him. Now, are you going to help us?”

“She didn’t hire him.”

“Okay. If that’s the way you want it.”

Pellam balled his fists. He wasn’t going down without a fight. They’d arrest him for assault probably but they were going to arrest him anyway, it looked like. Go for Tony first, try to break his nose.

Then Lomax nodded to Tony, who released Pellam. The big guy walked back to the car, where the skinny man with the coins was reading the Post.

Lomax turned to Pellam, who shifted his weight, ready to start slugging it out.

But the marshal only gestured toward an unmarked gray door. “Go through there and up to the third floor. Room three-thirteen. Got it?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“In there.” He nodded toward the door. “Room three-thirteen. Just do it. Now, get out of my sight. You make me sick.”

Stepping into the elevator and pressing the disk of oily plastic that said 3.

The building was a hospital, the same one where he’d been treated and where Ettie Washington had been arrested.

Pellam followed the corridors and found the small room that Lomax had directed him to.

Pausing in the doorway, he didn’t pay any attention to the couple who stood inside. He didn’t notice the fancy medical equipment. He didn’t acknowledge the white-uniformed nurse, who looked at him briefly. No, all John Pellam saw was the pile of bandages that was a twelve-year-old boy. Young Juan Torres, the most serious injury in the fire at 458 W. Thirty-sixth Street.

The son of the man who knew Jose Canseco.

Pellam looked around the room, trying to figure out why Lomax had sent him here. He couldn’t figure it out.

In Pellam’s heart was a balanced pity – equal parts for the child and for Ettie Washington. (But, he wondered, were these sorrows exclusive? He debated for a difficult moment. If Ettie Washington was guilty, then yes they were.)

Forget it, he told himself. She’s innocent. I know she is.

Wondering again why Lomax had directed him here.

“La iglesia,” the woman said evenly. “El cura.”

Another nurse walked brusquely into the room, jostling Pellam, and continued on without apology. She offered the mother a small white cup. Maybe the woman was sick too. At first Pellam supposed she’d been hurt in the fire. But he remembered helping her out the doorway herself, behind the fireman who carried her son. She’d been fine then though now her hands trembled and the two tiny yellow pills spilled from the wax cup and tapped on the floor. He realized that something about this room differed from the others he’d just walked past.

What is it?

Something odd was going on here.