Page 3 of Christmas with Three Firemen

“Well, so am I, Meadows.”

“I help the city investigate alleged arsons,” I state, as if he needs reminding.

“Correct.”

“Nothing about that role requires me to live side-by-side with firefighters.”

“Not usually, no.” Morrison shrugs. “It’s temporary. You’ll be out of there by the new year at the latest.”

That’s still weeks away.

“Why is it necessary?” I ask. “And why me?”

The look on his face tells me he’s willing to play twenty questions, but his mind is already made up.

“You’re the best,” he replies simply. “And 23 is most likely the next target, if we’re assuming that this is a pattern.”

I purse my lips. I already had a feeling about that. One burnt firehouse is a tragedy. Two burnt firehouses is an unpleasant coincidence. Three burnt firehouses is most definitely a rhythm, and that means it’s my job to figure out the melody.

And it’s not just the way they were destroyed that makes them similar. It’s the fact that they were all considered historic structures, old brick monoliths hailing from an earlier era of Manhattan’s rapid growth. As a result, it means they also all went through similar preservation processes, renovations designed to conserve the dignity of their age but keep them functioning for the twenty-first century.

They were all also located in popular neighborhoods, serving a stylish demographic and standing proud among the brown-brick elite.

Firehouse 23, built in 1914 and positioned on East 96th Street where the Upper East Side meets Lower Harlem, was already on the top of my list of suspected victims.

If this is truly arson. If it’s all being done by the same person. If that person is following a strict pattern.

Again, we haven’t had much luck confirming anything all that useful.

“Why don’t you just send a patrol unit?” I ask Morrison.

“I have.”

“Bolster the surveillance system.”

“Did that, too.”

“Make sure the crew is prepared for anything.”

“They always are, Meadows. It’s their job.”

I look away, doing my best to hide the flinch that I already know I can’t prevent at those words.

Morrison, ever so patient, waits for my response. He already knows where the conversation will end, and so do I. Of course, I could argue. I could come up with an excuse and volunteer one of my colleagues for the task instead, then make it up to them later.

But the problem is that everyone already knows I’m the most available person for the job. It’s Christmastime, after all. They have partners and children and happy hometowns.

I have none of that.

Also, Morrison is right. Firehouse 23 is probably next and I’m the best at what I do.

I let out a long exhale. “Fine. When do I start?”

He grins. “Today.”

I fight the urge to groan out loud.

“Right. Okay. Who’s the captain?”