Chapter 6 of 9. See previous chapters beginning on Friday, July 26. Or check link to author archive – https://www.evesun.com/authors/31

I looked out the window.

The sky was still gray, but sunlight splotched the sidewalks like slabs of melting butter, and the awning over the deli across the street blazed as red as a stoplight against a background of snow.

I looked down again at my address book. I had stayed on the Lower East Side for three more years. Then I moved to a large studio apartment on the Upper East Side.

The neighborhood was too far uptown to be fashionable, but the street was lined with gray-green silver linden trees, and if you craned your head out one window, you could see a smidgen of Central Park. That was my first truly nice apartment. It had a fully functioning fireplace, and a cute but useless wrought-iron balcony wide enough for flowerpots but nothing else.

The studio itself was enormous, with a high ceiling and beautiful oak parquet floor. Other than the basics, my furniture consisted of a brown corduroy sofa bed with a matching armchair and a thick burgundy carpet on which I could lie in front of the fireplace and daydream as I stared at the flames.

From the minute that I took possession, I felt as if I were living the movie version of my own life. I was in heaven.

Oh. And one more thing. On my desk, I had a telephone. Same number as at my old address, but the area code had been changed to 347.

I dialed. The phone rang five times before my twenty-seven-year-old self picked up.

“Hello! Hello!” A breathless voice rang out.

“Hello yourself,” I sang back.

“Oh,” she stopped. “It’s you.”

“It’s me.”

“Wait a second. I have to take off my coat.”

I waited.

“I’m back. So how are you, you decrepit old thing?”

I grinned. “Not all that old and not all that decrepit. The big question is how are you?”

I heard the armchair being dragged over to the desk. Then, a soft plop as she dropped down onto the cushion.

“Don’t you remember?”

I shook my head. It was a few seconds before I realized that she couldn’t see me, so I said, “I just remember bits and pieces. I need a refresher course.”

“Okay,” she practically grunted. “Other than being a mess, a catastrophe, and a nervous wreck, I am perfectly fine.”

“I think you need a cup of coffee,” I suggested soothingly.

“No. I do not need a cup of coffee. Nor do I need your condescending benevolence. What I need is for life to be different. Specifically, I need my life to be different.”

“Your personal life or your professional life?”

“I have no personal life. All I have is a profession which, thanks to you, is a living nightmare.”

I modified my tone.

“Does this have anything to do with your boss?”

“Yes,” she snarled. “It has everything to do with Edward the weasel Nygh.” She added with a hysterical laugh, “When Nygh is nigh, the innocent cry.”

I heard her inhale deeply. And exhale. Then she began to talk. The story she told had too much of everything. Too many victims. Too many arsonists. A villain. A bureaucracy. Some lawyers. And a hero. The hero’s name was Macmillan Hughes.

She started by telling me about the fire.

It occurred on May 19th at Futterman’s Fine Apparel on West 23rd Street in Manhattan. An insomniac walking his dog during the wee hours of a Sunday morning saw flames shooting out the roof of the one-story brick building at 3:17 a.m. He called 911 on his cell phone.

The department store, approximately 100 feet by 120 feet, had display windows running along the sidewalk and a heavy timber bowstring arch roof … whatever that is.

Flames, first seen at the rear of the structure, raced through the building, and conditions rapidly escalated from all-hands to a three-alarm and then directly to a five-alarm fire. Twelve firemen and one emergency medical technician were injured while trying to douse the flames. Forty minutes after the alarm was called in, five firemen were fighting the fire on the roof when it collapsed. Three fell through the hole in the roof and plunged into the flames below. All three died.

Supervising Fire Marshal Macmillan Hughes of the FDNY Bureau of Fire Investigation was assigned to investigate the origin and cause of the fire. In his report, F.M. Hughes stated that the fire had started in the southwest corner of the men’s bathroom, where a pipe chase extended up the wall and through the ceiling to the cockloft under the roof. Burn patterns indicated that flammable liquid had been poured on the floor at the base of the pipe chase. An empty gasoline container and the residue of gasoline-soaked rags were found at the scene, photo-documented, and logged into evidence. In the narrative section of his report, Fire Marshal Hughes stated that the cause of the fire was arson.

This conclusion had serious implications for the firemen who had died when the roof collapsed, because – even though still line-of-duty fatalities – their deaths were reclassified as homicides.

Prosecuting the crime of arson in New York County is the job of the Manhattan District Attorney. Three dead firemen meant three dead heroes, and dead heroes are always head-line news. So, Edward the weasel Nygh, addicted to media attention, elbowed himself forward and got assigned to the case.

“How did that affect you?” I asked my twenty-seven-year-old self.

“I had to help him prepare for the trial.”

“What trial?”

“The one for Levon Williams.”

“Who is Levon Williams?”

“Levon was an arsonist. But he was not the arsonist.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t ask me. Ask Fire Marshal Hughes. It practically destroyed his career.”

“Why?” I asked. “Because he arrested the wrong man?”

“No,” my younger self answered. “Because he refused to arrest the wrong man.”

Then she hung up.

I put my telephone back in its cradle, dropped my elbows to the desktop, and buried my fingers in my hair.

Continued next week.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2024. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com