“Does he have a warehouse?”

“Yeah. He bought property in the area off the expressway that had that string of crummy motels. He built a nice little complex with an office and warehouse.”

“I have a tip that it may be torched. A matter of an over-due loan from the Badgett brothers.”

“Oh, boy. We’ll get over there right away. I’ll contact the bomb squad and the fire department.”

“I’m calling the feds. Talk to you later.”

“Wait a minute, Sean,” the lieutenant snapped. “Something big is coming in on the radio.”

Sean O’Brien knew even before Amaretto got back on the phone that he was too late. The Kramer complex was already in flames.

Hans Kramer received the call from his security service at 3:43 A.M. The smoke detectors in the warehouse had been activated. The fire department was on the way.

In silent desperation, Hans and his wife, Lee, threw on clothes, stuffed their bare feet into sneakers, grabbed jackets, and ran to the car.

I dropped a lot of the insurance coverage, Hans thought desperately. I couldn’t afford the premiums. If the fire department can’t save the warehouse, what will I do?

He felt a tightening in his chest. Even though the car had not yet warmed up, he was dripping perspiration.

“Hans, you’re trembling,” Lee said, her voice sick with worry. “No matter how bad it is, we can handle it. I promise, we can handle it.”

“Lee, you don’t understand. I borrowed money, a lot of money. I thought I could pay it back. I was sure business would pick up.” The road was almost empty. He pressed the accelerator and the car raced ahead.

“Hans, the doctor has been warning you. That last stress test you took wasn’t good. Please calm down.”

I owe them three hundred thousand dollars, Hans thought. The warehouse is worth three million, but I’m only insured enough to cover the mortgage. I won’t have enough to pay off the loan.

As they turned onto the street that led to the complex, both Hans and Lee gasped. In the distance they could see flames shooting through the darkness, fierce angry flames surrounded by thick billowing smoke.

“Oh, dear God,” Lee breathed.

Hans, in shock, said nothing. They did this, Hans thought. The Badgetts. This is their answer to my request for an extension on the loan.

When Hans and Lee reached the warehouse, it was surrounded by fire trucks. Gallons of water from high-powered hoses were pouring into the inferno, but it was obvious the blaze could not be contained.

As Hans pushed open the door of the car, a gigantic wave of pain washed over him, and he toppled onto the driveway.

Moments later he could feel something being clamped over his nostrils, a jolting in his chest, and strong hands lifting him. In a crazy way he felt relieved.

It was all beyond his control.

Sterling arrived back at the restaurant and was not surprised to see Nor getting out of her car in the parking lot. They must know about the fire already, he thought as he broke into a trot.

He followed Nor inside and up to Billy’s apartment, which encompassed the entire second floor of the building. Dennis was already there, and Billy had made coffee.

“Sean is on his way over,” Nor told Billy. She had no make-up on. Her hair was loosely caught up in a comb, but long tendrils were slipping around her neck and face. She was wearing a light blue sweat suit and a pair of sneakers.

Billy had on rumpled blue jeans, a wrinkled denim shirt, and old moccasins. His eyes looked tired, and he needed a shave.

Dennis was wearing a gray Madison Village sweatshirt over well-worn corduroy pants.

“Sean said it’s important that he talk to us right away,” Nor said as Billy poured coffee into mugs, and the three of them went to the table in the dining room.

From the chair he selected, Sterling could see into the living room. Billy’s place was a comfortable bachelor pad, slightly untidy, with sneakers under the coffee table and a pile of newspapers on top of it. The couch and chairs were basically nondescript but looked inviting.

It was clear that Billy worked on his music in the living room. There were a couple of guitars propped up against the piano, and sheet music was scattered on the couch.

As at Nor’s home, many of the homemade ornaments on the Christmas tree looked as though they had Marissa’s touch.

The ringing of the doorbell indicated that Sean O’Brien had arrived. Billy buzzed him in and waited as he climbed the stairs.

O’Brien’s expression was grave. He nodded when Billy offered coffee, joined them at the table, and told them about the fire.

“How bad is it?” Nor asked.

“About as bad as it gets,” O’Brien said. “Hans Kramer is in the hospital. He’s had a pretty severe heart attack, but he should make it.”

Nor inhaled sharply. “Oh, no.”

“His place burned to the ground,” O’Brien continued. “There’s absolutely nothing left. It was one expert job.”

“It was definitely set?” Nor asked flatly, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, it was.”

“What happens now?” Billy asked.

“The FBI will be here soon. They need to take statements from you. Your testimony directly implicates the Badgetts. When Kramer is well enough, we’ll get his statement. Then the feds will go for an indictment. Since you overheard Junior’s order to torch the warehouse, it looks like this time there will finally be a solid case against them. But I warn you, it’s absolutely imperative that no one knows you two are witnesses.”

Billy and Nor exchanged glances. “I think we both understand,” Billy said.

“I certainly do,” Dennis said grimly.

Sterling shook his head. The lawyer, he thought. The Badgetts’ lawyer, Charlie Santoli. He saw Billy and Nor coming out of the office. Do the Badgetts know that yet?

On Monday morning at 7:30, Charlie Santoli went downstairs to the kitchen of his home in Little Neck, Long Island. His wife, Marge, was already there preparing breakfast.

Hands on her hips, a worried frown on her face, she took a good look at him. “You look like you’ve been up for a week, Charlie,” she said bluntly.

Charlie raised his hand. “Marge, don’t start. I’m okay.”

Marge was an attractive, generously sized woman with short brown hair, a shade she preserved by regular visits to the local beauty salon. For years she had kept a standing appointment every Saturday for a wash, set, and manicure. Every fourth Saturday she had a seaweed facial and a color job.

Marge never allowed circumstances to quiet her lively tongue. She had a reputation for conducting conversations with fellow patrons of the salon while sitting under the dryer. Of course this meant that she had to shout to be heard, but, as Charlie had learned, Marge was born with her Irish ancestors’ gift of gab. Nothing stood in the way of her having both the first and the last word.

Now she continued to scrutinize her husband, studying his face, taking in the lines of fatigue around his eyes, the tightness of his lips, the faint quiver of a muscle in his cheek, and then began a familiar refrain. “You look terrible, and it’s all because those two are driving you crazy.”

A buzzer went off. Marge turned, and with her mittened hand, removed a tray of freshly baked corn muffins from the oven. “Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

Did I? Charlie wondered. His head was aching, his stomach was knotted and churning. He shrugged his answer.

Yesterday evening, when he arrived home at nine o’clock, Marge had pounced on him for details about the party, but he had begged off. “Marge, give me time to get over it.”

Mercifully she had done just that, helped by the fact that a vintage Christmas movie she’d always loved was about to start on an obscure cable station. A box of tissues next to the couch, a cup of tea on the table in front of her, Marge had cheerfully prepared herself for a good cry.