Page 29 of Christmas with Three Firemen

Someone has put considerable effort into the decorations. Evergreen garlands wound around the support beams, candles on every table, a twelve-foot tree in the corner that makes the one at the station look modest by comparison.

A jazz quartet is playing something that sounds like a Christmas standard filtered through a very sophisticated disagreement with Christmas standards, and I find myself pausing near the door for a moment just to locate it.

The neighborhood shows up in full.

Families, local business owners, and a contingent of city officials who all know each other and stand in a cluster near the bar, doing what city officials do at these events: being seen doing the right thing.

The firefighters move through the room differently. Easier, more relaxed, and stopping to talk to people.

Danny Kowalski is deep in conversation with an elderly man near the food table, gesturing broadly with a dinner roll.

Rico has apparently already charmed his way into the orbit of a group of women near the bar, which doesn’t surprise me at all. Wes stands near the wall with a glass of something and the expression of a man who has made his peace with social events without ever fully making friends with them.

Mateo appears at my elbow. “You look like you’re conducting surveillance.”

“I’m always conducting surveillance.”

“Relax, Meadows. Have a drink. Listen to the music.”

“I don’t drink.”

“There’s a very good Malbec situation happening at table four.”

I consider this. “Fine.”

He grins like he’s won something significant.

I’m on my second glass of the very good Malbec when Matthew Delaney introduces himself.

I don’t recognize him at first. The name in my files has existed as exactly that. A name, a pattern in spreadsheets, a corporate entity attached to a series of property acquisitions. It hasn’t had a face.

The face, it turns out, is disarmingly ordinary.

He’s somewhere in his fifties, silver-haired, the kind of well-maintained that comes from good genetics and the financial ability to act on them.

His tuxedo sits on him as if it were sewn onto his body that morning.

He’s laughing at something the man beside him just said when he turns and sees me, and the laugh doesn’t disappear so much as it transforms into something warmer and more direct.

“You must be the investigator,” he says, extending a hand. “Matthew Delaney.”

I shake it. “Noelle Meadows.”

“I’ve heard good things.” His grip is firm but not performative. “Morrison speaks highly of you. Says you’re the best he’s got.”

“Morrison is generous.”

Delaney smiles. It’s a good smile, practiced without being insincere, which is a difficult thing to pull off, and most people don’t manage it. “I understand you’re looking into these terrible fires. Three historic stations. It’s devastating. These buildings are part of the fabric of the city.”

“They are,” I agree.

“Delaney Urban Partners has actually been involved in preservation efforts with several historic city structures over the years.” He says it easily, the way people mention things that are simply true and therefore require no emphasis. “I have a deep appreciation for what these places represent. The history. The community function.”

“That’s admirable.”

“It’s self-interested, honestly.” Another smile. “A city that doesn’t protect its history loses its identity. Bad for everyone, including business.”

He’s funny. That’s the unexpected thing, but not in the way Mateo is funny.