Free Hell's Kitchen by Jeffery Deaver Page A

possible be brought to bear on Suspect Washington to have her reveal the identity of this perpetrator who, in my opinion, she hired for the purposes of perpetrating insurance fraud.
    Insurance.
    And fingerprints . . .
    And damn if the color of the fire and the amount of smoke, all that technical stuff, hadn’t come right from his own mouth when he’d confronted Lomax at the scene, Pellam thought.
    “The A.D.A.’s having a document examiner go over the insurance application to see if the handwriting matches hers. But there is a tentative match.” Bailey nodded his head in the direction Cleg, his green-jacketed emissary, had just disappeared. “I’m getting a copy of the report at the same time it’s sent to Ms. Koepel. If she hadn’t denied having the policy it probably wouldn’t have looked so bad for her.”
    Pellam said, “Maybe she denied it because she didn’t take out the policy.” Bailey didn’t respond to that. Pellam returned to examining the report again. “The insurance is payable directly into her account. Is that unusual?”
    “No, it’s pretty common. If a house or apartment burns, the company pays the proceeds directly into the bank. So the check wouldn’t be mailed to a place that no longer existed.”
    “So whoever took out the policy would have to know her account number.”
    “That’s right.” Bailey’s yellow pad was sun-faded around the edges. It looked like it was ten years old.
    “Guns,” Pellam said, eyes on the report. “What do you think that means?
    Bailey laughed. “That the apartment’s in Hell’s Kitchen. That’s all it means. There’re more guns here than on L.A. freeways.”
    Which Pellam doubted very much. He asked, “Did you find out who the landlord is? And if the building was landmarked.”
    “That’s why Cleg is delivering my thank-you presents.” Bailey rummaged in a file and dropped a photocopy on the desk. It bore the seal of the state attorney general. Bailey seemed to think this was a significant piece of paper but to Pellam it was legal gibberish. He shrugged, looked up.
    The lawyer explained, “Yes, the building was landmarked but that’s irrelevant.”
    “Why?”
    “The owner’s a nonprofit foundation.” Bailey flipped through several pages and tapped an entry. Pellam read: The St. Augustus Foundation. 500 W. Thirty-ninth Street.
    Everybody in the Kitchen knew about St. Augustus. It was a large church, rectory and Catholic school complex in the heart of the neighborhood and had been here forever. To the extent Hell’s Kitchen had a soul, St. Aug was it. In an interview Ettie had told him that Francis P. Duffy, the chaplain of the Kitchen’s famous World War I regiment, the Fighting 69th, had celebrated masses at St. Augustus before becoming pastor of Holy Cross Church.
    Pellam asked skeptically, “You think they’re innocent just because it’s a church?”
    “It’s the nonprofit part,” Bailey explained, “not the theological part. Any money that a not-for-profit makes has to stay in the organization. It can’t be distributed to its stockholders. Even when it’s dissolved. And the Attorney General and the IRS are always checking upon the books of nonprofits. Besides, the foundation had it insured for its book value—that was only a hundred thousand. Oh, sure, I’ve known a lot of priests who ought to go to jail for one thing or another but nobody’s going to risk sailing up to Sing Sing for that kind of small change.”
    Pellam nodded at the papers. “Who’s this Father James Daly? He’s the director?”
    “I called him an hour ago—he was out finding emergency housing for the tenants of the building. I’ll let you know when he calls back.”
    Pellam then asked, “Can you get the name of the insurance agent Ettie talked to.”
    “Sure, I can.”
    Can. It was turning into the most expensive verb in the English language.
    Pellam slid another two hundred, in stiff twenties,toward the lawyer. He sometimes thought ATMs