Page 39 of A Matter of Pedigree
Carole turned to Frank-O. “Is that true?” she demanded.
“Yeah, Ma,” he whispered.
Polly busied herself by refilling the water glass that stood on his bedside stand and held it so he could drink from the straw. “Thanks, Nana,” he whispered, before taking a sip.
“Look at him!” said Carole, waving her hand. “He’s in no condition to be questioned, and he’s just a kid. You come in here looking all important and official in your uniform, what’s he gonna say?”
“It’s okay, Ma,” whispered Frank-O. “Honest. I don’t know anything,” he added, before he was overtaken by a series of chesty coughs.
“We understand from your son that there were a number of artists squatting in the building,” said Salvati. “Do you know anything about that?”
“I know nothing about it,” declared Carole. “I don’t know anything at all. And I think it’s time for you to get out of here.”
“Fine, that’s fine,” said Salvati, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “But it might be better for your son if he cooperated with the department. Maybe you want to think about that.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Carole.
“Well, one theory is that the fire started when somebody was cooking up some meth …”
Carole was furious. “Are you implying that my son is operating a meth lab?”
“All I’m saying is that, if he cooperates, we can cut a deal …”
“Get out of here!” shrieked Carole, as Frank strolled into the room.
“What’s goin’ on here?” he demanded. “Is this a party or something?”
“How about a nice hello for your mother-in-law who just got here from Paris?” said Polly, giving Frank a flirtatious smile.
Frank stared at her. “What are you doing here?”
“What? Like I can’t visit my daughter? My grandson?”
His gaze shifted to the two investigators. “And who are these guys?” demanded Frank. As soon as he learned they were there to question Frank-O about the fire, he pulled out his cell and called Vince Houlihan. He explained the situation to Vince, listening intently to his replies. While he was involved in the conversation, Carole made her way to the head of the bed, where she smoothed Frank-O’s hair and adjusted his covers. Polly, meanwhile, wasted no time joining Salvati and the videographer, who were holding their ground at the foot of the bed.
“So tell me,” she began, in classic Polly fashion, batting her eyelashes, “it must be very exciting to investigate fires. And dangerous, too.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Salvati, obviously flattered by her attention.
“But you have to deal with such dangerous people,” cooed Polly. “Arsonists!”
Carole couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t bad enough that her mother was flirting shamelessly with these fire-cops—at her age, no less; she was pushing sixty-five—but she was practically incriminating poor Frank-O when he was lying in bed and too weak to defend himself. “Mother!” she warned.
“Do you have one of those fire dogs?” asked Polly.
“Sure do,” admitted Salvati.
“What’s its name? Is it a Dalmatian? With spots?” continued Polly, cocking her head.
“Cinders. She’s a black Lab.”
“Ooh, I love Labs.”
“Me, too,” chimed in the guy with the cell phone. “I got a mix, named Snickers.”
“Aren’t you lucky,” purred Polly. “I’d love to have a dog, but, you know, I have such an unsettled lifestyle. I’m back and forth between here and Paris, and, well, it wouldn’t be fair to the poor creature, what with these ridiculous immigration rules. Quarantines and things.” She smiled. “Do you know you can’t bring unpasteurized cheese into the US? You’d think a big country like this could handle a little bitty piece of cheese!”
The two investigators were shaking their heads, agreeing with her, when Frank hit the red button on his cell. “Okay!” he announced, in a voice that made it clear there would be no further discussion. “These guys are getting out of here, now.” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “You wanna talk to my son, you call my lawyer, Vince Houlihan, first. Got it?”
