She let herself back into the apartment, gave Rolf his breakfast, and climbed into the shower. By the time she came out, wrapping one towel around herself and another around her hair, Carlyle was up and pulling on his trousers. He’d been woken by the running water.
“Morning, darling,” he said, coming over to give her a kiss. She ran her hands over his shoulders, savoring the feel of his skin against hers.
“Morning,” she replied. “I ran into your boy Ian outside.”
Carlyle sighed. “I told the lad he could go home. He seems to think I’m in some sort of danger.”
“Aren’t you always?”
“It’s a matter of degrees. He’s of the opinion the unsettled atmosphere in this city is making it more likely someone’s intending to take a shot at me.”
“Why you?” Erin asked. “You’re not in the drug business.”
“I asked him that myself,” Carlyle said, buttoning his shirt. “He said incoming fire doesn’t discriminate.”
“Could just be hyperawareness,” she said. “That happens to a lot of combat veterans. They get really nervous all the time, assuming threats are out there.”
He nodded. “That doesn’t make him wrong, but I imagine you’re right. I’m not particularly worried. If I thought I’d bring trouble, I’d not have come to your home last night.” He looped his necktie around his throat and knotted it with swift, skillful movements. “No matter how much I wanted to,” he added.
“You want any breakfast?” she asked.
“I’ll eat at the Corner.” He tied his shoes, pulled on his coat, and walked to the door.
“See you in a couple of hours,” she said. She caught him in the doorway and gave him one more kiss. He drew her into his arms and smiled. For just a moment, they were like any couple in love, heading off for work.
“Grand,” he said. Then he was gone.
Levine had been up all night, working on the bodies the FDNY had pulled out of the wreckage. The fruits of her labor were waiting for Erin on her computer. While Erin was looking over the results, Webb stalked into the office.
“We’ve got IDs,” Erin announced.
“Great,” Webb said. “Coffee first.” He disappeared into the break room. A minute later he was back with a steaming cup in his hand. “Sorry. City of New York won’t let me smoke indoors, I have to get my stimulants somehow.”
“They should put cocaine in the vending machine downstairs,” Erin deadpanned.
“Bad idea. It already won’t take money half the time. You’d have junkies breaking the glass every day. What’ve we got?” He walked to her desk and stood looking over her shoulder.
“Three of the burn victims are Colombian nationals,” she said. “Sebastian Alvarez, Javier Montero, and Francisco Contreras. They’re known associates of Diego Rojas, the guy Agent Johnson was asking about.”
“What about Rojas himself?” Webb asked.
“Looks like it was his lucky day. He’s not one of our bodies. I guess he wasn’t inside.”
“Or he’s still buried somewhere onsite,” Webb suggested.
“The Colombians were found around this table,” Erin went on, pointing to a floor plan of the building annotated by Levine. “There was a fourth body also at the table, but according to the doc, he’s definitely not Rojas. She doesn’t have a positive ID on him yet. All four also suffered multiple GSW, both ante- and post-mortem.”
“The shooters kept firing after they were dead,” Webb said. “Just to make sure.”
“Well, one of them was shot twice several minutes after his heart stopped beating,” she said.
“Ah.” Webb put down his coffee and rubbed his temples. “That’d be Neshenko’s one-sided gunfight.”
“Yeah. At least he hit the guy he was aiming for. Of the other three bodies, two were in the kitchen, tentatively identified as cooks. Federico Greco and Cristian Rossi. No extra holes in them. Looks like cause of death was third-degree burns and smoke inhalation. Levine appended a report from Skip Taylor. Skip says the firebomb sent flames through the swinging doors and ignited a whole lot of shit in the kitchen, cooking oil and stuff. Apparently the gas stove blew up, too.”
“Ouch,” Webb said. “That’d do it.”
“The last victim was the only woman,” Erin finished. “Arianna Rossi. She died in the dining room, in the middle of the floor, shot to death.”
“Same last name as one of the cooks,” Webb observed.
“Probably related,” Erin said, already checking the city records. “Yeah, looks like she’s Cristian’s daughter. It was a family restaurant. Geez, she was just seventeen.”
Webb looked away and didn’t say anything. Erin remembered he had a pair of daughters from his first marriage, probably about the same age as the victim.
“Okay,” he said. “How firm are these IDs?”
“Levine’s got our good facial-recognition program,” she said. “She gave the Colombians a probable match of ninety-seven percent based on the photos I gave her. The others didn’t actually get ID’d in the morgue. Vic talked to some folks in the neighborhood and figured out who was working that day. He shot Levine the names at three-thirty this morning. Levine says she’s waiting on a DNA match or confirmation from relatives to be sure.”
“I guess that’s why Neshenko’s not in yet,” Webb said. “I’m surprised he bothered to go home at all.”
Erin nodded and stood up. “That coffee smells too good,” she said. “I’m getting some.”
She walked through the break room’s doorway, put a cup under the nozzle, and started filling it. Then she did a double take. She turned, looked at the couch for a moment, then went back to her drink. She came out and returned to her desk.
“Vic didn’t go home,” she informed Webb. “He’s in the break room, on the couch.”
“Oh.”
“You didn’t see him there?”
Webb shook his head.
“He’s pretty big, sir.”
“In
