Chapter Seven
T he boys denied everything . Ricky hadn’t expected a full and frank confession, but a little cooperation would have been nice.
They were seated in Silas’ study: the twins, Silas, and Ricky. The room smelled of coffee and old musty corners. The somber scene lacked only the relentless ticking of an old-fashioned clock.
They were five minutes into what Silas had described as a time of prayerful meditation. In other words, silence.
Joshua and Judah were slumped together, eyes closed, like world-weary, victimized outcasts the world over. Silas was leaning over, his head in his hands. His lips moved soundlessly.
Ricky choked off an uneasy sigh. He wasn’t at all sure what the Almighty could do here. Facts were facts.
He didn’t like what he had to do next. And at the moment, he didn’t like himself much either.
Silas sat up straight. His eyes were sharp, and he had a natural authority that reminded Ricky that the preacher was ex Wall Street, a former trader with millions of dollars in investments and pension plans in his hands.
“Judah and Joshua, look at me please.”
The twins reluctantly opened their eyes and struggled to a semblance of sitting up straight.
“Didn’t do it.” Judah’s voice veered between the squeakiness of a frightened child and the gruffness of an adolescent. His brother nodded agreement.
Ricky opened his mouth, but Silas held up his hand, and such was his authority that Ricky sat back.
Fine, he thought, let the man of God have the first crack. His turn would come.
“You were both seen at the retirement village. Yesterday, around lunchtime. And Hattie says you disappeared while Mr. Sharp here was talking to all the playgroup parents.”
Judah looked around the room as though seeking inspiration. He shrugged. “Yeah. So what?”
Silas’ gaze hardened. Judah instantly retreated. He swallowed, and wriggled as though trying and failing to find a comfortable spot.
“I mean...like yeah, we did leave without permission, Silas, and we’re really sorry about that. We most always tell Hattie, ’cos she gets worried and we don’t want to upset her.”
He glanced at his brother, who nodded. “We wouldn’t upset Hattie.”
“But she was real busy, like. And this dude—” he glared at Ricky, “—was banging on about some sh— I mean, stuff about fires and matches. And he was watching us, man, we could tell. Like we were white trash and didn’t have no rights.”
“No rights,” echoed Josh.
Ricky shifted uneasily under the combination of Silas’ penetrating gaze and the aggrieved glares of the twins.
“If I gave you that impression, then I’m truly sorry,” Ricky said quietly. “But I have to do my job—and you need to tell me the truth before someone really does get hurt.”
Silas nodded. His gaze was steely as he turned to his foster sons.
“Were you at the retirement village?”
There was silence. Faint sounds from outside filtered through the storm windows. A truck, perhaps a motorbike.
The twins nodded simultaneously, and Ricky was surprised by the wave of disappointment that washed through him.
“Tell me what happened,” Ricky said heavily.
Silas seemed to have retreated, as though preparing himself for the upheaval and the grief that was about to unfold. The twins would be taken away from foster care, that was certain, and probably slotted into the already overcrowded juvenile crime system. He and Hattie had failed these boys.
But Judah’s gaze was clear when he lifted his head. Clear, and defiant.
“We were there, yeah. Hanging around.” His eyes shifted sideways briefly. “But we did not set a fire at the old folks’ home.”
Ricky heard a hiss of breath from Silas.
Josh nodded. “I mean, like, it’s full of old dudes. On walkers and shit.”
Ricky tamped down his rising impatience. Now he simply wanted to get this over, to make the best of a very bad lot.
“You need to tell the truth, boys,” he said gently. “What’s ahead now is going to be hard, I know that, but things will go better if you admit guilt and take your punishment.”
As one, the boys folded their arms and shook their heads. The seconds slipped by.
Ricky tried again. “So what were you up to?”
The boys glanced at each other but remained mute. The mute, stubborn and hopeless silence which is the only resistance of those who dwell outside the safety of home and family.
Ricky turned to Silas. He raised both eyebrows.
Your turn , his expression invited.
The tall, stocky man regarded his foster sons for a few more seconds. He gave a quick nod, as though signing off on a Wall Street deal.
“We’re done here,” Silas said. The old armchair gave a creak as he rose to his feet. “You can go, boys. After you’ve apologized to Hattie, you take yourselves outside and I want to see that woodpile up to the roof and every leaf off the lawn.”
The boys’ eyes lit up.
Ricky was aware of their quick, sideways glance, but he couldn’t tell if it was triumph or vindication. He stared at the preacher in disbelief.
“The woodpile, that’s it? I’m afraid this has gone way beyond Huck Finn. This is out of your hands, Silas, and mine too.”
Silas stood eye to eye with Ricky.
“I said, we’re done here,” Silas said calmly. “Because if Joshua and Judah say they didn’t light that fire, then I believe them.”
***
J odi was waiting in her car outside the rectory, tapping away on her cell as she cobbled together her breaking story. Her chest was tight with tension.
Maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong about the twins. God knows that the two of them had had enough bad role models in their short life. Bad role models, plus being told often enough that they were worthless pieces of shit.
She glared at the hero shot, the Chief looking like St. Peter himself as he stared grimly at the mess inside the shed.
There were couple of hefty Browning quotes, father and daughter, which needed a judicious edit for length, political fluff, and legal minefields. And a few colorful bystander comments of the I-thought-the-whole-place-was-about-to-go-up variety.
According to the residents, the probable villains fell into two main camps: Al Qaeda and drug cartels from Canada. Jodi wasn’t planning to air either theory.
She sat up straight when Ricky’s tall figure slipped out the front door of the rectory and headed down the path. He walked with the compact stride of someone only just controlling their temper. His expression was grim.
She wound down her window. Cold air rushed in.
“Ricky.”
His eyes lit up. A brief smile softened his face, and Jodi felt a private, delicious thrill that snaked down to her toes. She couldn’t stop her own goofy grin.
“Hi,” she said inanely.
Was this what it was like to be in love, she wondered. To feel your heart soar at the sight of the other and to read that same secret joy in their face?
Girl, you are living in the clouds.
Jodi cleared her throat. Reminded herself sternly that she wasn’t a lovestruck kid anymore.
“Am I being stalked by the media?” Ricky crossed the road and leaned down. “If so, then ‘no comment’. But if we are off the record, then a piece of pie from Bean they were often out and about on a weekday morning, and more damning—both boys smelled suspiciously of tobacco. This last bit of evidence, admittedly, was based entirely on Ricky’s fleeting olfactory response as the boys had hightailed past him to get out of the study.
Jodi chased the last piece of apple around with a fork, dunked it in the last blob of ice cream, and popped it in her mouth.
“Ummm,” she murmured. She held up a finger, and he waited patiently, both hands flat on the table. His body language was warm rather than intimate, and although she ached to reach out and trail a finger over those tiny scars, to feel the warm, reassuring touch of his skin, she dared not.
“All that is circumstantial. Suspicious, but no slam dunk,” she finally managed. “Or there’s something else you are not telling me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Otherwise, the twins would be wearing orange onesies at the county lockup and getting their knuckles inked as we speak.”
Ricky threw back his head and laughed, a glorious full belly laugh that released a rush of pure longing in Jodi. She locked her hands tightly together like a circuit judge.
No touching, she reminded herself. One kiss—technically, two kisses—didn’t mean a thing, especially to handsome and successful New Yorkers.
“You’re wasted as a journalist. You’d make a great creative writer. But yes, there is something.” The smile slipped off Ricky’s face. He leaned over the table, blocking out the noisy chatter in the crowded café.
“Silas believes the boys. According to him, if Josh and Judah say they didn’t do it, then that’s good enough for him.”
Ricky leaned back. Jodi read both sadness and frustration in the tight set of his jaw.
“But that’s his job, believing people,” he added. “Looking for the good. My job is seeking out the bad, and believe me, it’s out there. I’ve seen it.”
Jodi sat silently for a few minutes, thoughts flying through her brain. Finally, she shook her head.
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss Silas. Sure, he loves those boys, and he wants to protect them. But he’s no fool, and his instincts are spot on. Maybe they didn’t do it.”
Ricky suddenly looked tired.
“Well, that means that your grandfather is wrong, and more importantly, that Chief Leroy Browning is wrong—because that man is hounding me to pull the boys in so he can chalk up a big win for the voters come election time.”
Jodi drummed her fingers against the table.
“Then we have to find out who did do it. Or at least find proof that the twins didn’t do it.” She paused. “That was a terrible sentence. But you know what I mean.”
A new energy surged through her. This was a story that mattered, for more reasons than simply protecting the trash cans and garden sheds of Temple Mountain.
“You let me in on the evidence, pizza boxes, printing fluid or whatever, we’ll figure out the truth, and then I’ll write an exposé on the firebug.” Jodi smiled, pleased. “Another scoop for The Temple Mountain Monitor .” She pulled out her cell and ran an eye over her already ridiculous schedule.
Ricky’s face was grave. “This is serious stuff Jodi. That harmless fertilizer in the shed probably contains ammonium nitrate. It’s stable under most conditions, but if it comes into contact with open flame, it can explode. Think Oklahoma City. You saw inside that shed.”
“Open flame...like cigarettes?” Jodi could barely get the words out. The dreadful image leaped into her mind of the elderly gardeners pottering away in the veggie patch or warming up on the tennis courts, blissfully unaware that a cigarette butt was smoldering in the shed.
“Would someone actually do that, on purpose?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said firmly. “Not on purpose. But we need to warn people—and by that I mean whatever idiot is setting fires—of the danger. And some of those old folks insist on their constitutional right to smoke. And if they can’t do it out in the open, they might head for—”
“The woodshed,” she finished his sentence. “Or the garden shed or the bike shed.”
Jodi took a deep, shuddering breath. She glanced back at her diary.
Monday, she would be at the printers in Rochester trying to sort out why the print was shadowing through from the front page onto the second page, which didn’t please either the advertisers or the letters-to-the-editor writers. And some of those colors in the social pages were definitely not from any Pantone color chart Jodi had ever seen. And then there was a Zoom meeting with the owners.
“Tuesday morning, we go over the evidence in your office?” Her voice was crisp.
He reached over and squeezed her fingers gently, one thumb rubbing against her palm. His skin was warm and dry. Jodi ignored the signals this engendered.
These New Yorkers were always doing air kisses and faux hugs. Touchy feely. Look at all those so-called influencers. Even if they hated each other in real life.
“Maybe not,” he said with a smile. “First, Leroy won’t be pleased to see the Acting Editor of The Monitor pawing through the evidence like Nancy Drew.”
He grinned as Jodi immediately bristled. “Just teasing, ma’am. You’re much more like Lara Croft. But our...collaboration should probably be discreet.”
Jodi nodded sagely.
Like no one saw you kiss me thirty minutes ago in full public view outside the most popular café in Temple Mountain.
“We can meet...” she looked at the busy sidewalk, the crowd of cheerful, chattering people enjoying coffee. And the newspaper office was definitely out. Ditto the library.
“You could come to my apartment,” she blurted. “I can duck home late morning after the editorial meeting.”
The words hung between them, and for a moment Jodi wished she could haul them back. Her small apartment was her private retreat, her bolt hole after years of living in the semi-public space of the rectory.
No one, save a few close girlfriends, had been there.
He shook his head. “Can’t do Tuesday morning.”
She frowned.
“Do you have rehearsal for a cute puppy calendar shoot? Need to check out if Bubbles is behaving?”
She knew she sounded snappish.
Ricky looked awkward. His laugh was forced. “Nothing so much fun I’m afraid. I’m doing another training session with young parents. Hattie lined it up.”
Jodi relaxed, ridiculously relieved that he wasn’t planning an intimate consult with Bonnie Browning about training sessions. Behind closed doors.
“Nice. Maybe I’ll come along and get some more photos...”
He was looking decidedly uneasy. “Not this group, Jodi.”
She raised a single, interrogatory eyebrow.
“It’s a group of adoptive parents,” he said finally. “So photos are out. As are identities.”
His cell rang. Ricky glanced down. His eyes flared.
“Sorry, I need to take this...”
He stood up. “Thanks for getting back to me...sure...could you please hold for a minute...yup...”
He cradled the phone awkwardly, as though deciding whether a goodbye kiss would be in order. He settled for a brief touch of the hand.
Jodi nodded politely. She watched him walk away, phone glued to his ear. His face grew animated, and there was a new spring to his step.
She rested her chin in the palm of her hand. Told herself it was none of her business. Ricky Sharp was a charmer, and he knew it. He had a whole life that she didn’t know about; friends, acquaintances, lovers...
And what’s more, Jodi’s every investigative instinct told her that he would be heading back to that life in the big city one day real soon.
***
I t was the call Ricky had been hoping for. He tried to hide his surprise that the legal counsel from the Creating Families adoption agency had even bothered to respond to his message.
“Mr. Sharp. Lyle Standish here. I understand you have a query about a private adoption?” The official-sounding voice grew sharper. “You do realize that adoption information is protected by law; county, state and federal?”
Ricky looked around for a quieter spot than the main street of Temple Mountain. He ducked down an alley graced by a colorful graphic of people working in a community garden. There was a small park hidden away at the end. He headed towards a solitary bench, trying to still the agitation thrumming through his veins.
The voice went on to list the many regulations and legislative changes affecting adoption.
“Mr. Standish, thanks, yes.” Ricky took a breath. “Yes, I do realize that. However, as the biological father of the child...”
Standish cut in. “We cannot tell you anything. That includes verifying whether or not...Ms. Caitens is or was a client. I can tell you that many women advise us that they do not know who the father of their child is, and we are bound to accept them at their word.”
Ricky bristled at the what-else-can-you-expect tone of voice.
The guy was only doing his job, he reminded himself. He eased onto the bench, avoiding ancient chewing gum and sticky spots, and stretched out his legs. The park smelled dank, acrid, as though a cadre of dog walkers had chosen this private spot to let Buster do his business.
Ricky studied the soles of his boots dourly. Only a month or so in Temple Mountain, and his expensive New York boots were already rippled by damp.
Focus.
Ricky closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of a tiny playground and a weary young woman pushing a toddler in the swing and jingling a baby in a front sling.
“Understand,” he said crisply. “My question is, if my former partner put my biological child up for adoption without informing me, and if the adoption agency accepted, falsely and without proof, that the father was unknown, is the adoption agency liable?”
The bark of laughter from the other end was the sound of a lid slamming shut.
“Mr. Sharp, please. As they say, this is not our first rodeo. And we regard any attempt to threaten or harass us most seriously. Most seriously indeed...my only advice...and this is of course general and not specific to you...is to discuss this with your former partner. So thank you for your inquiry...”
Ricky sat up quickly. “I can’t. She’s dead,” he blurted. There was a brief silence.
The lawyer sighed. “I’m sorry for your loss then. But—”
“I know,” said Ricky urgently. “I get it. People give up a child and someone else adopts it, and both parties are entitled to privacy. But is there a way to prove that a child is mine? DNA?”
“But you don’t know where the child is. And what would you do, anyway? Drag a two-year-old through the courts to take her away from the only mom and dad she has ever known?”
Lyle Standish was trying to be kind. Ricky felt the dull pain in his temples that presaged a headache.
“Ricky...to be frank, in our experience most children given up for adoption have far, far better lives than they would have had staying with their birth mothers—and it is mostly mothers who give up their children. And we do make sure that those mothers have a lot of support to make that choice—or not. Unfortunately, the court sometimes needs to intervene and to make that choice in the best interests of the child. It’s not like the bad old days, I promise you. We see young, vulnerable, drug-dependent women, sometimes victims of abuse...or just not ready to be a parent. We see it all here Ricky.”
There was a pause.
“What about other family members?”
Standish cleared his throat.
“Of course, grandparents can seek temporary and permanent custody of children who are their blood relatives, if the parents are unable to nurture in the best interests of the child.” Silence. “You can probably assume that that did not happen in this case.”
Ricky closed his eyes. He made one last stab. “But Creating Families does do open adoptions, where biological parents can keep track of, even share the lives of their...offspring.”
More silence. “That is true. But you know what? Most people, and I’m talking about the biological parents here, sign that option away. However, since adoption law was changed in New York State in 2019, individuals who were adopted can get their birth certificate when they turn 18. But that doesn’t help you. Not right now. I’m sorry.”
Ricky pulled himself together. He hadn’t expected anything, not really. He thanked Lyle Standish, who seemed pleased to be shown some gratitude, and hung up.
Ricky stared at the playground. The young mother had gone. Late afternoon shadows threw the simple play equipment into a landscape of dark caverns and giant towers.
The light faded, and still he sat. And it was only when he roused himself to go home that understanding flashed through Ricky.
And what would you do, anyway? Drag a two-year-old through the courts to take her away from the only mom and dad she has ever known?
Standish had not left him empty-handed. He had confirmed several things. That Ricky’s child was now two years old, and that a heterosexual couple had adopted her.
There was one more possible avenue for information. One that Ricky had already considered and rejected.
Chrissie’s parents.
Because if they did not know (and Ricky was as sure as he could be that the Caitens had no idea about their granddaughter) ...then he was about to add to their already unbearable grief.
And like a pebble tossed in a pond, the sorrow would grow to encompass Lottie and Herbie Sharp, and indeed every member of both families who would mourn the lost child.
So be it .
Ricky whipped out his phone.
***
J odi’s instinct had been right. She had seen the Caitens’ name.
The Monitor was old-fashioned enough to run classifieds, and the townsfolk were old-fashioned enough to read them. And as her grandfather had pointed out, there was a lot more dignity in reading a funeral notice on newsprint than while flicking through social media.
Angela Christine Caitens. Aged twenty-six years. Passed away in a tragic fire in Queens, NYC. Treasured daughter of Tom and Molly. No flowers by request. Private cremation. In God’s hands.
The words leaped off the screen. Jodi sat back. Her somber reflection stared back from the dark window.
Chrissie. A deadly fire. Queens. Ricky, on leave after an undisclosed trauma.
Her fingers flew as she explored the internet, dragging up snippets of news. No mention of his name, but it didn’t take much to put together that Lieutenant Ricky Sharp of the New York City Fire Department Engine Company 264 was the one who had found a body in Hammels, the public housing block in Far Rockaway. Smoke inhalation.
Chrissie, that fair-haired, laughing young woman with whom he had once walked down the main street of Temple Mountain, their arms around each other and their faces bright with expectation.
Jodi closed the file. Ricky hadn’t told her. But why should he?
She stared into space, thoughts whirling until she wrenched them back on track. She pulled up her notes and the photos she’d taken earlier and began writing.
For now, and for the sake of the twins, she’d pull her punches.
A late morning unexplained fire in a shed at the Temple Mountain Retirement Village was quickly dealt with without injury by the Temple Mountain Fire Department. Residents alerted the manager, Ms. Bonnie Browning, and Chief Leroy Browning and volunteer firefighters were on the scene in minutes...
***
T here is nothing quite so humbling as the realization that all one’s achievements count for naught in the eyes of your new boss. Lieutenant Ricky Sharp, responsible for a crack firefighting team, was trying hard to accept this truism with as much grace as possible. .
This was his choice.
And if it meant being treated like a slow-learning probationer by a man who probably hadn’t ridden the truck since thermal imaging cameras were introduced and firefighters ditched their classic helmets for high-tech gear straight from NASA—then too bad.
“Now don’t get me wrong.” The Chief leaned back in his leather chair, twirling his pen like a propeller. “Fire safety talks to young moms is a great initiative, and we sure need that increased visibility in the community. It’s great social media content, so the marketing folks tell me.” He stopped twirling and leaned forward. “It’s all about something called click bait.”
Ricky nodded. He could tell by Leroy’s face that the kicker was still to come.
“But our primary business is community safety,” said the Chief. “And right now that doesn’t mean running down pooches or kissing babies. It means taking those crazy juvenile delinquents off the street so they don’t burn down the retirement village or the goddamn library or the veterans’ hall.”
“We don’t have enough evidence,” said Ricky mildly. “And Silas Beecham more or less told me to show him a warrant from a judge before I can even talk to the twins again. He believes they didn’t do it.”
Leroy looked scornful. Ricky shrugged. “The fire at the retirement village was the first time any real damage was done.” He couldn’t help adding, “Though if we’d gotten our equipment there sooner, we would have been able to see if the MO is the same.”
The Chief’s face darkened. Ricky chose his next words carefully.
“It concerns me that the firebug may be accelerating his campaign. Up to now, the arson has been a nuisance without endangering anyone. Every one of the other fires fizzled out in a couple of minutes.”
He glanced out of the window. The front window of The Temple Mountain Monitor was visible further down the street.
Jodi’s online report had contained only the bones of the story, and she’d promised Ricky (and readers) a follow-up piece by Dougie about the dangers of household chemicals, including the nitrates in fertilizer.
Ricky only hoped that the arsonist was a keen follower of The Monitor .
Browning was tapping his pen impatiently on his desk.
Ricky cleared his throat. “So, in my view, the best way forward is to warn whoever is out there that fire and chemicals don’t mix. I’ve got The Monitor on board. And in the meantime, keep working through the evidence from all the fires...”
Leroy’s fist slammed the desk. His face was pink.
“Is that your opinion Mr. New York Fire Department Lieutenant? You never seen the wind change...” Leroy snapped his fingers, “just like that, never seen a few sparks turn into an inferno in the space of a few seconds? You ever think about the crap that might be in those trash bins, accelerants or flammables that can explode and blow off a child’s fingers?”
Ricky flushed.
“I agree Chief,” he said tightly. “And I’ve seen all those things happen.” He pushed aside the chilling images. “But we need more evidence that Joshua and Judah are responsible. Evidence that won’t get shot down by a lawyer or thrown out of court. And whether this is an acceleration or something new, we got to find them fast.”
The muffled sounds of the busy street outside; a honking car, a burst of laughter, a distant ambulance siren—only added to Ricky’s growing sense of urgency. He was getting up to leave when Browning’s parting shot pulled him up short.
“And you keep your eyes on Ms. Ruskin and your hands off her. This is Temple Mountain, son. You can’t do a thing without the whole place knowing.” Browning smirked. “Oldest trick in the book, cozying up to a powerful man to sweet talk him into spilling the beans.”
Ricky’s face was taut with anger.
“Jodi Ruskin is a professional, and I’m willing to put my career on the line to vouch for her integrity,” he said through stiff lips. “Keeping the media informed and on our side is being smart.”
He was about to add something to the tune of and-mind-your-own-fucking-business, but managed to clamp his mouth shut.
Leroy chuckled.
“Your call then, son.” The Chief’s tone blended affability with threat. “That sweet girl has your career in her hands—and don’t think for a minute that conduct unbecoming can be left behind here in little old Temple Mountain. I got plenty of friends in New York City.”