Page 1 of Playing With Fire

Prologue

New York City Fire Department Engine Company 264 and Ladder Company 134 got the call. Dense black smoke was leaking from a window in the public housing block in Hammels, Queens.

The engines arrived in two minutes flat from their base at Central Avenue. The residents of Rockaway Boulevard hadn’t seemed surprised by the sight and sound of fire engines racing to the ageing seven-story brick block.

Lieutenant Ricky Sharp was on the second half of his double shift, fueling up with a high-carb cooked breakfast and caffeine, when the alarm was routed through from the dispatcher. The instant surge of adrenaline banished any thoughts of sleep.

This was what he trained for—lived for—if he was honest. The intoxicating blend of danger, of pushing his endurance to the limits, of making snap life and death decisions. And at the end, the sweet exhaustion of peeling off the smoky, sweat-stained clothes and knowing he had survived to fight the next battle.

Just another day at the office.

Up until two minutes and thirty-five seconds ago.

Even through the mask, the smell was depressingly familiar. Vermin, nicotine, and dirt were an unbeatable trifecta any day, but the extra layer of scorched fat and chemical fire extinguisher made his post-breakfast stomach roil.

All the emergency services folk knew Hammel’s Houses. But Ricky had what you might call intimate experience with the small boxy apartments.

The last time he saw her, Chrissie had moved here to couch surf with “friends”. Two, maybe three years ago?

By then, both of them were done with arguments. Had moved so far apart that they were strangers.

Chrissie, with hair like a Botticelli angel and feet that never tired of dancing.

She was a big girl, he had told himself as he walked away from the dank apartment papered with half-finished sketches and peopled with folks he didn’t know. Strangers who gazed at him with heavy-lidded, contemptuous eyes.

The stench of weed and paint fumes and the lazy laughter had followed him down the hall.

Good luck and have a nice life.

Perspiration trickled down Ricky’s forehead.

Chrissie didn’t look so big now. She lay curled up like a sleeping child.

Ricky eased off his thick glove to lift the mask and mop his face. Inhaled the unfiltered stink of deadly smoke, heard the muffled tramp of boots and the crackle of radios.

His gaze flittered over the mess of personal effects. Unwashed laundry, a few tawdry bits of jewelry, a pathetic collection of toiletries and makeup. Unopened mail, mostly bills. And there, under the sooty pile, something achingly familiar.

He reached down with his ungloved hand and pulled out the small sketch pad that Chrissie had always carried.

The radio crackled in his ear. “Lieutenant. All clear upstairs.”

Ricky adjusted the frequency and cleared his throat. Without thinking too much about what he was doing, he slid the battered pad into one of the deep pockets in his bulky coat.

“Send up the gear. I’ve found a body.”

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