11

Transom and his crews might’ve managed to get the fire smothered, but that didn’t mean they’d controlled the situation as a whole. A trio of gawkers arrived at the foot of the burned out apartment husk as Transom, Rodgers, Quinto, and I left, asking questions and looking concerned. I’d given Transom a hard time at that point, thinking he’d already evacuated the building, and he’d taken my berating like a champ. Of course, he’d also produced a quality response, namely that he’d been pretty gods damn busy getting the fire under control and that he’d trusted the rest of his team to do the whole door to door thing.

Lucky for us, the fire hadn’t spread much beyond the victim’s flat, and given the building’s construction, it didn’t seem as if the structure was in any danger of coming down, not like yesterday’s complex. Still, our commitments to serve and protect took precedence over our duties as homicide detectives. Transom took the trio of residents outside to get them inspected and out of the way while Quinto, Rodgers, and I split up the duties of checking the remaining apartments for stragglers, Rodgers heading to the top floors, Quinto sticking in the middle ones, and me heading to the ones at the bottom.

I put my knuckles and lungs to good use, knocking on doors and calling for people to open up—in as warm and non-threatening a voice as I could muster, of course. Not that I really imagined anyone could’ve failed to notice the racket caused by the fire and the subsequent arrival of the firefighters, but you never knew. I’d been known to sleep though the occasional volcanic eruption myself, and clearly at least three people had been clueless enough not to leave the building at first warning.

Still, my initial suspicions proved correct. I knocked and knocked, calling out time and again, yet nobody answered my summons. On the one hand, that made me apprehensive. I hadn’t seen many individuals clustered around the building as I’d arrived, and if they weren’t hiding out in their apartments, that meant they weren’t home at all. Not that I found that fact surprising. The sumptuous nature of the building and its placement near the financial district made me suspect only working professionals lived here, and why would any of them be around at midday? That wouldn’t help my efforts to find out who might’ve set the fire on the third floor.

On the other hand, I appreciated the absence of the building’s residents because it let me mull over Transom’s musings. When I’d pressed him on what he meant by other things besides people being capable of setting fires, he’d responded with some indistinct suggestions. Fire sprites or hell hounds, maybe.

I hadn’t immediately dismissed them. I’d seen some crazy things in my near-decade on the force, and I couldn’t help but think about how we’d yet to have a single witness provide us a credible description of a potential suspect. It wasn’t exactly easy to get in and out of apartment complexes without notice, or at least to their higher floors. Fire sprites at least seemed plausible, as those suckers could fly right out a window after doing the deed. Not that I suspected a few sprites could have the power to immolate a body in ten minutes, but I really had no idea how anything magic-related worked, so what did I know?

Hell hounds, on the other hand? Now that was just silly.

I headed through the lobby and out the building after having finished my rounds, not having found any stragglers. I spotted a small contingent of residents chatting together across the street, many of them shaking their heads and looking concerned, but none of them looked devastated. Not like the folks at yesterday’s fire.

A man on my side of the street leaned against the adjacent building, his lips pressed together tightly and his brow creased with worry. He wore a knee-length gray coat with shiny buttons and trim embellished with silver thread. A matching cap perched atop his head.

I approached him. “Excuse me.”

He straightened, making sure his cap was in place. “Morning, sir. Or afternoon. I guess it’s the latter, now.”

I gestured to his outfit. “I don’t suppose you’re the doorman at this place.”

He nodded. “Yessir. Sure am. Fenrick’s the name.”

I didn’t ask if that was a given name or surname. “And you’ve been here all day?”

He looked a little green around the gills. “Ah…yessir.”

Finally. A stroke of luck. “Perfect. I’m Detective Jake Daggers, NWPD. I’m guessing you know most of the people who live in this unit, then?”

“Most of them, yeah.”

I’d also lucked out that the fire hadn’t spread enough to destroy the signage on the third floor. “Any chance you know who lives in apartment three-oh-eight?”

“Three-oh-eight?” The man’s brow furrowed. “Well, let’s see now… I think that would be Mr. Fletcher.”

“Does he have a first name?”

“Well, I imagine so,” said the doorman, “but I don’t recall it off the top of my head. Why? Is his the apartment that caught fire?”

I nodded. “Tell me about him.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What does he look like? Where does he work? Does he live alone, with a girlfriend, with a family?”

“He’s about your height, sir,” said Fenrick. “Black hair. Short. Well-maintained. Wears rich suits most of the time. Kind of a necessity in his line of work. Why are you asking? Was he…? I mean, when you went up there, was there a…?” He trailed off.

“We found a body,” I said. “I’m not sure whose yet. What exactly was Mr. Fletcher’s line of work?”

“Was?”

“Again, we found a body. I’m assuming it was his. You were saying?”

Fenrick gulped. “Right. Well, as far as I know, he was a financier, sir.”

“Like a banker?”

Fenrick shook his head. “Not exactly. He worked in private finance. Venture capitalism, I think.”

I lifted a brow. “You’re familiar with the difference?”

“Lots of residents here work in finance,” said Fenrick. “I’ve developed a working knowledge of some of the basic concepts through conversation.”

“And do you know where he worked, exactly?”

Fenrick shot a thumb up the road. “Had his own firm, or practice, or whatever you want to call it. A few blocks from here. I’m sure I can find the address if you need it.”

“In a minute,” I said. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“Um…not much, I don’t think,” said Fenrick with a grimace. “He was a workaholic. Some of the residents, they like to stop, chat, tell me about their lives. Mr. Fletcher was never rude, but he was always busy, too busy to tell me much of what was going on. I guess it was paying off for him, though. I heard he’d done quite well for himself lately. Made some good guesses on a number of big investments. Rumor had it he was building a nice home up in Brentford.”

“Was he married?”

“No, sir.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“So…any idea why he might not have gone into work this morning?”

Fenrick shook his head. “Oh. No, sir. He went in, or at least I assume he did. Saw him leave at just after seven, same as always.”

“Wait, so…” I blinked. Maybe I’d been right. Maybe it was someone else’s corpse in Fletcher’s room. “Did he come back? Like for lunch?”

“Ah…no. I don’t think so, sir.”

I peered at the doorman more closely. “You hesitated. Why?”

“Nothing, sir. No reason. It’s just that…” He grimaced again. When he spoke, it was in a low voice. “I ate something that didn’t agree with me last night, sir. Bad beef, perhaps. I’ve had to leave my post a good five, six times already this morning. To, you know—take care of urgent business.”

“So you don’t know for sure if Mr. Fletcher came back.”

Fenrick shook his head.

“And I’m going to take a wild guess that you didn’t see any other suspicious or otherwise unknown faces entering the building this morning, either.”

Fenrick looked guilty. At least I now understood why he’d seemed so uncomfortable. Either he was worried he’d screwed the pooch by leaving the front door unattended the day an arsonist decided to strike, or his stomach problems weren’t entirely resolved.

“Did you at least notice when the fire started?” I asked.

Fenrick perked. “I did, sir.”

“Anyone strange try to leave after the fact?”

He shook his head again. “But there’s a fire escape in back. Someone could’ve headed down that way. Might be worth checking to see if the ladder is down.”

I sighed, feeling defeated once again. How ironic would it be if the escape only helped our criminal mastermind get away? “Sure. I’ll do that.”

I spotted a familiar face split off from the street traffic and head toward us.

“Griggs,” I said as the dustbag approached. “What took you so long?”

He grunted, looking even more dour than normal. “Couldn’t find a rickshaw. Had to walk.”

“Well, get ready to walk some more. We’re about to follow a lead on a new victim’s place of business.” I snapped at Fenrick for him to go get the address. He hopped off.

“The hell we are,” said Griggs. “I just walked all the way here from the station. I’m not going anywhere for a good forty-five minutes.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I said. “I know you’re old, but when did your legs stop functioning?”

“Wipe that damn smile off your face,” said Griggs. “Knowing you, when you get to be my age you’ll be bitching twice as hard as I am. Balky knees suck, and they suck hard.”

Fenrick returned, handing me a slip of paper.

“You realize I’m not going to wait for you,” I said. “This lead is hot and I don’t want it to cool off—no pun intended.”

Griggs scowled.

“Whatever. Rodgers and Quinto are still inside pounding on doors. Whenever they’re done and you’ve found a fountain of youth, come find me.” I flashed the note. “Four fifty east eleventh. See you there.”