small, neat hands, as if in prayer. “It has recently come to our attention that
one of the first firefighters through the door claims to have seen black smoke
near the electrical socket in question. Now, wood and most other combustible
items in Room 6906 burn brown-gray smoke. Accelerants—including chemicals with
low ignition temperatures such as gasoline, kerosene, and alcohol—burn black.
In light of this new information, the investigators were forced to take a
second look at the evidence. They reassessed their original conclusion of
faulty wiring in favor of the theory that someone had been trying to make it look like an electrical fire.”
Sal gave himself
a few seconds to let this information sink in, a kind of delayed bewilderment
washing over him. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why would someone want to set a
fire? The hotel was—still is—unoccupied. Why would someone want to burn it
down?”
“According to
your statement,” Al Marri said, “not all the rooms were unoccupied.”
“Of course they
were—” Sal clamped his mouth shut. The hotel hadn’t been completely unoccupied.
He had been staying in it for most of December, in the Royal Suite, which was
on the seventieth floor, directly above 6906. The night of the fire the alarm
had woken him at 4:12 a.m. By the time he’d gotten dressed, the stairwell had
been full of smoke. He couldn’t go down, so he went up, to the roof. Fifteen minutes
later his ex-Mossad security chief, Danny Zamir, picked him up in a helicopter
and got him the hell out of there. From the air he had a clear view of the
blaze, which by then had consumed the top two floors and the one-hundred-foot
script sign. If Danny had been even a few minutes later, he knew he likely
wouldn’t have made it.
“So you’re
telling me someone was trying to murder me, Inspector?” Sal shook his head.
“Forgive my skepticism, gentlemen. I find that extremely difficult to believe.”
“We have already
ruled out the motive of financial gain,” Al Marri said. “That leaves either
random violence or pyro-terrorism or revenge.”
“Do you know of
anyone who might have some sort of vendetta against you, Mr. Brazza?” Al Zafein
asked.
“I’m not in the
business of speculation, Mr. Zafein.”
“You should know,
sir,” Al Marri added gravely, “that this has become an attempted murder
investigation. It would be in everyone’s best interest to get it solved.”
“I’m not a crook,
Inspector. Nor do I associate myself with criminals.”
Al Marri glanced
briefly at the deputy general, then returned his attention to Sal. “I am sure
you are a very busy man, sir.” He handed Sal a business card. “If you should
think of anything, anything at all, please do not hesitate to contact me.”
The two police
officers left.
Edward Lumpkin
shifted in his seat, his gangly arms folded across his chest, his face pulled
down in thought. “Christ, Sal. I don’t know what to say.”
“Will this have
any impact on the hotel’s opening?”
“Hard to say, but
I’d keep an eye on the reservations during the first few weeks of operation. An
attempted murder in the hotel could potentially turn off a lot of families.
Thankfully, that’s not our core demographic.”
“This is going to
be a bloody circus.”
“I heard what you
told the cops, Sal. But be straight with me. Can you think of anyone who might
have a bone to pick with you?”
“Everybody has
enemies, Ed.”
“But someone
serious enough to, you know, want you dead?”
Sal didn’t reply.
“Could it be a
union thing?” Lumpkin asked suddenly.
When Sal went
non-union with the Prince last summer, labor picketed and sent death threats.
One had threatened to blow up After Taxes , his $60-million, 155-foot
yacht docked over at the Marine Club, while another had promised to gouge out
his eyes while he slept.
“These union
guys, they talk the talk,” Sal said simply. “But they’re neither inclined nor
capable of pulling
one of the first firefighters through the door claims to have seen black smoke
near the electrical socket in question. Now, wood and most other combustible
items in Room 6906 burn brown-gray smoke. Accelerants—including chemicals with
low ignition temperatures such as gasoline, kerosene, and alcohol—burn black.
In light of this new information, the investigators were forced to take a
second look at the evidence. They reassessed their original conclusion of
faulty wiring in favor of the theory that someone had been trying to make it look like an electrical fire.”
Sal gave himself
a few seconds to let this information sink in, a kind of delayed bewilderment
washing over him. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why would someone want to set a
fire? The hotel was—still is—unoccupied. Why would someone want to burn it
down?”
“According to
your statement,” Al Marri said, “not all the rooms were unoccupied.”
“Of course they
were—” Sal clamped his mouth shut. The hotel hadn’t been completely unoccupied.
He had been staying in it for most of December, in the Royal Suite, which was
on the seventieth floor, directly above 6906. The night of the fire the alarm
had woken him at 4:12 a.m. By the time he’d gotten dressed, the stairwell had
been full of smoke. He couldn’t go down, so he went up, to the roof. Fifteen minutes
later his ex-Mossad security chief, Danny Zamir, picked him up in a helicopter
and got him the hell out of there. From the air he had a clear view of the
blaze, which by then had consumed the top two floors and the one-hundred-foot
script sign. If Danny had been even a few minutes later, he knew he likely
wouldn’t have made it.
“So you’re
telling me someone was trying to murder me, Inspector?” Sal shook his head.
“Forgive my skepticism, gentlemen. I find that extremely difficult to believe.”
“We have already
ruled out the motive of financial gain,” Al Marri said. “That leaves either
random violence or pyro-terrorism or revenge.”
“Do you know of
anyone who might have some sort of vendetta against you, Mr. Brazza?” Al Zafein
asked.
“I’m not in the
business of speculation, Mr. Zafein.”
“You should know,
sir,” Al Marri added gravely, “that this has become an attempted murder
investigation. It would be in everyone’s best interest to get it solved.”
“I’m not a crook,
Inspector. Nor do I associate myself with criminals.”
Al Marri glanced
briefly at the deputy general, then returned his attention to Sal. “I am sure
you are a very busy man, sir.” He handed Sal a business card. “If you should
think of anything, anything at all, please do not hesitate to contact me.”
The two police
officers left.
Edward Lumpkin
shifted in his seat, his gangly arms folded across his chest, his face pulled
down in thought. “Christ, Sal. I don’t know what to say.”
“Will this have
any impact on the hotel’s opening?”
“Hard to say, but
I’d keep an eye on the reservations during the first few weeks of operation. An
attempted murder in the hotel could potentially turn off a lot of families.
Thankfully, that’s not our core demographic.”
“This is going to
be a bloody circus.”
“I heard what you
told the cops, Sal. But be straight with me. Can you think of anyone who might
have a bone to pick with you?”
“Everybody has
enemies, Ed.”
“But someone
serious enough to, you know, want you dead?”
Sal didn’t reply.
“Could it be a
union thing?” Lumpkin asked suddenly.
When Sal went
non-union with the Prince last summer, labor picketed and sent death threats.
One had threatened to blow up After Taxes , his $60-million, 155-foot
yacht docked over at the Marine Club, while another had promised to gouge out
his eyes while he slept.
“These union
guys, they talk the talk,” Sal said simply. “But they’re neither inclined nor
capable of pulling
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