Yes, that’s it…

The monitor above the bed was silent. The tubes had been disconnected from the boy’s arm. The chart had been removed from a hook welded to the bedframe.

Cura. Pellam had a Southern Californian’s grasp of Spanish. He remembered that the word meant priest.

The child had died.

This was what Lomax wanted him to see.

The boy’s mother ignored the dropped pills and leaned against her companion. He turned his head, covered with tight short-shorn curls and looked at Pellam.

“My daddy, he knows Jose Canseco. No, no, no. Really. He does!”

The nurse again walked past Pellam, this time uttering a soft “Excuse me.”

Then the room was silent or almost so. The only sound was white noise, an indistinct hiss, like the soundtrack on the tape of Otis Balm in his death pose or the tape of Ettie’s empty armchair after she rose to answer the door in the last scenes he shot of her. Pellam remained frozen in the center of the room, unable to offers words of condolence, unable to observe or to analyze.

It was some moments later that he finally realized the other implications of this silent event – that the charge against Ettie Washington would now be murder.

Business was brisk at New York State Supreme Court, Criminal Term.

John Pellam sat in the back of the grubby, crowded courtroom beside Nick Flanagan, the bail bondsman Louis Bailey had hired, round, world-weary man with grime under his nails and a rapid-fire mind that could figure various percentages of bail faster than Pellam could use a calculator.

After the boy’s death Bailey had revised his estimate of the bail upward – to a hundred thousand dollars. According to the usual bond arrangements, Ettie would have to come up with cash or securities worth ten percent of that. Flanagan agreed to post on five and a half percent. He did this grudgingly, revealing either his nature or – more likely – some vast, resented debt owed to Bailey that this was in small part repaying.

Ettie Washington would contribute her savings to the cash deposit – nine hundred dollars. Bailey had arranged through one of his faceless Street Contacts to borrow the rest. Ettie wouldn’t let Pellam put up one penny, not that he had much to contribute.

Pellam was impressed with the dealings Bailey had orchestrated but he wondered if the lawyer’s skills in a courtroom would be equal to his sleight of hand in bars, clerk’s offices and filing departments.

Bailey had also received the handwriting report and the news wasn’t good. Ettie’s bouts of bursitis and arthritis made her handwriting very inconsistent. The signature on the insurance application was, according to the report, “more probably than not that of subject Washington.”

Pellam examined the assistant district attorney, Lois Koepel, a young woman with a sharp jaw, small mouth and a tangle of very unlawyerly hair. She seemed self-assured, brittle and far too young to be handling a murder case.

The clerk muttered, “People of the State of New York versus Etta Wilkes Washington.”

Bailey and, at his urging, Ettie, stood. His eyes were up, hers downcast. The elderly judge reclined along the bench in boredom, his fingertips supporting his temple, which was disfigured by a prominent vein, visible even from the back of the courtroom.

The A.D.A. said, “We’ve amended, Your Honor.”

The judge glanced down at the young woman. “The boy died?”

“Correct, Your Honor.” Not a single S in the sentence and she still managed to sound extremely shrill.

The judge scanned papers. “Ms. Washington,” he droned, “you’re charged with murder in the second degree, manslaughter in the first degree, criminally negligent homicide, arson in the first degree, arson in the second degree, assault in the first degree, criminal mischief in the first degree and criminal mischief in the second degree. Do you understand these charges?”

Startling the first several rows of spectators, Ettie Washington called out firmly, “I didn’t kill anybody. I didn’t do it!”

The A.D.A.’s ground-glass voice snapped, “Your Honor.”

The judge waved her silent. “Mrs. Washington, you’ve had the charges explained to you, have you not?”

“Yessir.”

“How do you plead to each of these charges?”

Without prompting, she said, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“All right. What is the state seeking for bail?”

“Your Honor, the People request Ms. Washington be held without bail in this case.”

Bailey grumbled, “Your Honor, my client is a seventy-two-year-old woman with no resources, no passport and severe injuries. She isn’t going anywhere.”

The A.D.A. droned, “She is charged with murder and arson-”

“I wouldn’t kill that boy!” Ettie shouted. “Never, never!”

“Counsel will instruct his client…” The judge roused himself from his boredom long enough to deliver this lethargic command.

The A.D.A. continued, “We have here a woman accused of a very elaborate scheme to defraud an insurance company, involving premeditation and the hiring of a professional arsonist.”

“Do you have that suspect in custody?”

“We do not, Your Honor. This is the man we believe to be responsible for a series of other fires around the city, resulting in a number of deaths and serious injuries. It seems he’s on some kind of rampage. I’m sure Your Honor’s read about it in the paper.”

“Those fires?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your Honor,” Bailey said, sounding appalled.

“Quiet, counselor.” The judge’s brow furrowed, the most emotion he’d displayed so far.

“We’ve had three fires in two days. The most recent was a subway, and I just heard a report before coming to Your Honor’s courtroom that there was another one.”

Bailey turned slowly and glanced at Pellam. Another fire?

Koepel continued. “At a department store on Eighth Avenue.”

“What happened?” the judge asked.

The A.D.A. continued, “That homemade napalm again, Your Honor. In a women’s clothing department. A clerk just happened to be standing by a fire extinguisher station in the store when it started. She put it out before it did much damage. But it could’ve been a real tragedy.” The A.D.A. fell out of character. She sounded exasperated as she said, “Judge, the police just don’t know what to do. They can’t find this perp. There are no witnesses. These fires just keep appearing. And frankly it’s got everybody on the West Side scared as hell.”

“Your Honor,” Bailey said in the voice of a melodramatic stage actor, “this is the most rampant form of speculation. Why, the month is August. It’s been hot, people’s tempers are flaring-”

“Thank you for the weather report, Mr. Bailey. What’s your point?”

“Copycat crimes.”

“Counselor?” The judge raised an eyebrow at the A.D.A.

“Unlikely. The mixture he uses in his bombs is unusual. It’s like a fingerprint of this particular arsonist. And the press has cooperated in not mentioning the exact substances. We’re sure the same perpetrator is behind them. The defendant’s been completely uncooperative in identifying him and-”

“She’s uncooperative,” Bailey said, echoing Pellam’s thought, “because she doesn’t know who he is.”

“This is, as I was saying, very elaborate scheme to perpetrate a vicious crime, resulting in a child’s death. And in light of her prior fraud conviction, we-”

“What?” the lawyer asked.

“Are you objecting, Mr. Bailey?”

“No, Your Honor, I’m not objecting.”

“Because if you’re objecting, it’s misplaced. There’s no jury here. There are no evidentiary issues.”

“I’m not objecting. What prior conviction?” He glanced at a mute Ettie, whose eyes were downcast.

Pellam was sitting forward.

“Well, Ms. Washington’s felony conviction for fraud and extortion six years ago. Arson was threatened in that case too, Your Honor.”