by Karen Rose
“Who are you, that you want me? A man like you could have anyone.”
A man like you. “Tonight,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know about me.” With one very big exception. That he couldn’t share. “I’m not that complicated.”
Her smile was grim. “If you think I believe that, you’re not as smart as I thought.”
Tuesday, September 21, 8:55 a.m.
Kane was at his desk when Olivia dropped into her chair. Her cheeks flamed as soon as her eyes fell on her fedora, rakishly adorning the head of her goddess statue as it always did. She’d mulled over David’s words all the way in and, God help her, could see herself in nothing more than her fedora, cuffed to his bed. She leaned over and pulled the hat so it covered the goddess’s face. Foolish, she knew. “Hell,” she muttered.
Kane’s brows went up. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”
“No.” Most definitely not. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged, disappointed. “You never dish anymore. Where’s the excitement?”
“You couldn’t handle my excitement, old man,” she said dryly and made him chuckle. She noted the breakfast-sandwich wrappers on his desk. “Jennie’s gonna be mad. You know you’re only allowed one egg and pastrami every two weeks.”
“Jennie won’t find out.” He crunched the wrappers and threw them in her trash can. “There, problem solved.” He handed her a thick folder from his desk. “I’ve been going through the CDs Tomlinson’s wife gave us. Those are Tomlinson’s paying customers.”
“All these? How come he was going bankrupt, then?”
Kane lifted another folder, twice as thick as the first one. “These are the customers who owed him money.”
Olivia began scanning pages. “Rankin and Sons?”
“In the nonpaying folder.”
“So there’s a connection. Condo contractor owes plumbing supplier money.”
“But not a lot. Rankin owed a lot less than a lot of these other guys. Certainly not enough to warrant killing Tomlinson to make the debt go away.”
“Maybe the debt was more than money.” Olivia checked her watch. “It’s nine. Let’s go.” Kane ambled while she walked quickly, as usual.
“Can you at least tell me if you got my field glasses back?”
She winced. “I forgot again.”
“No glasses and no dish. This day sucks already.” Then he stopped abruptly in the door of Abbott’s office.
Olivia craned her neck to see around him. A man in a black suit and shiny black shoes sat at Abbott’s round conference table, looking serious and slightly sour. “Who’s that?” she murmured, but she knew.
“Come in,” Abbott said. “Meet Special Agent Crawford. Crawford, these are the lead detectives on the case, Kane and Sutherland.”
They shook hands with the federal agent and Olivia looked at Abbott from the corner of her eye. “Morning meeting?”
“In here,” Abbott said. “Crawford will be joining us. On a consulting basis.”
Crawford’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, sitting back down in his chair.
“Bruce,” Olivia said gingerly, “we need to talk to you. Outside?”
Abbott rose wearily. “Of course.” Olivia felt a stirring of pity as her boss closed the door of his own office behind them and leaned against the wall. “Don’t give me shit, please,” he said. “I’ve had enough already.”
“From who?” Olivia asked.
“My boss’s boss, who doesn’t want to be caught playing cowboy if this is domestic terrorism. Can you tell me that it’s not?”
He sounded so hopeful that Olivia hated to burst his bubble. “I don’t think we can say with a hundred percent certainty yet.”
“Great.” Abbott sighed. “Crawford’s already put in a request for jurisdiction.”
“My ass,” Olivia said.
“I know. But we have to share the sandbox. Prove the glass ball is just a ruse and Special Agent Crawford goes away.” Abbott leaned closer. “Please make him go away,” he whispered. “He is a major pain in the ass and I’ve only known him an hour.”
Olivia patted his arm. “We’ll do our best. You want us to spill all in there?”
Abbott shrugged. “For now.”
They went back in the office where Crawford was still scowling sourly.
“Arson and CSU are en route from the scene,” Abbott said. “I expect them to be here soon. You can go get yourself some coffee if you like.”
“It’s okay,” Crawford said flatly. “I’ll wait here.”
Abbott shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, then looked relieved at the appearance of one of his detectives. “Come in, Detective Webster.”
Olivia was always glad to work with Noah, who was solo for the time being. His former partner was Jack Phelps, who’d returned to Homicide a few months ago after taking a medical leave. It was common knowledge that Jack had been through rehab, but nobody had mentioned it since his return. Jack’s new partner was rookie detective Sam Wyatt. Olivia suspected Noah had cut Jack too much slack when they’d been partners, hoping Jack would work out his addictions on his own.
Olivia also suspected she and Noah would be assigned together once Kane retired at the end of the year. It was one of the sparkles of silver in a dark cloud.
Noah came in, looking warily at Crawford. “Good morning. The meeting’s here?”
“It is. Detective Webster, this is Special Agent Crawford, FBI.”
Noah sat down next to the Fed. “You investigated Preston Moss.”
“I did,” Crawford said, his tone inviting no chitchat, so Noah turned to Abbott.
“I got the list of the condo contractor’s employees from Faye. She’s pulled backgrounds on the ones who were financially strapped, which was damn near all of them. Anything special I’m looking for?”
“Probably,” Abbott said, “but let’s wait for the others. I don’t want anyone missing anything.” They sat in awkward silence for another two minutes until the arrival of Barlow, Micki Ridgewell, and the shrink, Jessie Donahue.
Abbott did the introductions. “Ian called to say he won’t be here,” he said. “He’s started Tomlinson’s autopsy. He did say that the man’s blood alcohol was nearly point two. No evidence of any narcotics in the urine. He hasn’t done the cut, so he didn’t yet know if there was smoke in Tomlinson’s lungs. So, Barlow? You want to get started?”
“The arsonists came in through a back door,” Barlow said, “and left the same way. There was no sign the alarm had been tampered with. They drugged the guard dog. I spoke with the vet this morning, who said the dog was still unconscious. The vet drew blood and sent it to the lab for testing, to see what drug they used. The fire was set with gasoline, a long fuse, and probably a match. They kept it simple.”
“Security video?” Abbott asked.
“The warehouse ran on an old video system,” Barlow said. “The video should have been in a recording unit in the electrical closet, but the unit was empty. The manager, Lloyd Hart, said they kept four videotapes in cycle, changing the tape once a week. We found three melted tapes, but the one inside the recorder is gone.”
“Inside job again?” Olivia murmured.
“Maybe.” Barlow held up a sketch of the warehouse layout. “They poured the gas around the stacked boxes, but none near the office.”
“They didn’t mean for Tomlinson’s body to burn up,” Olivia said, remembering what David had told her.
“He was shot execution style,” Kane said. “Maybe we’re looking at a message of some kind. Rankin and Sons construction was one of Tomlinson’s customers and they did owe him money.”
“Or maybe it’s about money, but not the way you think,” Crawford said in an overly paternal, condescending way. “These activists have torched insurance companies that sell policies to animal labs and construction companies. Why not threaten a construction company’s supply chain? Terrorize enough vendors and they’ll think twice before selling t
o a company building in a controversial area.”
“It’s possible,” Kane said. “That’s why we’re looking at both arsons individually, as well as establishing connections.”
“But,” Barlow put in, “these two fires lack an important hallmark of environmental terrorism. Nobody’s claimed credit—and SPOT always did.”
“But,” Crawford said, too patiently, “you have two glass balls. Globes, just like SPOT left behind. That’s signature enough.”
“We also have two gunshot vics,” Micki said. “We found the slug in a fragment of Tomlinson’s wall. Ballistics says it came from the same gun that killed Henry Weems.”
“SPOT never shot anyone,” Crawford admitted. “Preston Moss was very anti-gun.”
“Did you bring any photos of the glass balls SPOT left behind?” Micki asked.
“One better.” Crawford reached into his briefcase and pulled out a small evidence envelope. He shook out a box and took off the lid. “This is one of the actual balls.”
Olivia reached for the box, but Crawford held it back. “Look only, please.”
She frowned at Abbott, who looked beleaguered. “This is Super Ball–sized,” she said. “Ours is larger. This one’s continents are embedded in the glass. Ours are etched.”
“Maybe they couldn’t get the original model,” Crawford said. “We were never able to trace the maker of this ball. We had it narrowed to three companies. I’ve got the list.”
Olivia took the folder he offered. “Two of them have online catalogs. Let’s see if they sell an etched globe.” She let him see she was surprised by his gesture. “Thanks.”
His nod was stiff. “I spent a career chasing Moss, Detective. I want him gone.”
“Tracey Mullen was only sixteen years old and Henry Weems was a good cop,” Olivia responded briskly. “We want whoever killed them gone, too.”
“I noticed you didn’t say anything nice about Tomlinson,” Crawford said dryly.
“From all accounts, he was a royal jerk. But he’s a victim and we want his killer.”
“Tomlinson was a very flexible, royal jerk,” Micki said. “There were photos on his desk when he was shot. We’ve pieced together some of the fragments from the rubble. There’s a lot of water damage from putting out the fire. Reclaiming them won’t be easy.”
Micki placed copies of three pictures on the table. All were missing pieces, like a puzzle in process, but there was enough remaining for everyone to wince.
“Ouch,” Kane said. “How did he do that?”
Olivia tilted her head. “I was a gymnast in college, and nobody I knew could do that.”
Beside her, Olivia could hear Noah clear his throat, as if swallowing a laugh that would have been entirely inappropriate.
Abbott shook his head. “People,” he admonished. “Who’s the woman?”
“Her name is Shondra,” Kane said. “She’s on Tomlinson’s list of employees, even though the manager said she was a temp. When Tomlinson’s wife found out about the affair and got a restraining order on his corporate checkbook, Shondra walked.”
“Give me a copy of Tomlinson’s employee list,” Noah said. “I’ll do a cross-check against Rankin’s list. See if anything pops.”
Micki started to gather the photos, but Olivia stopped her. “When was this taken?”
“There were no time stamps that we could see,” Micki said. “The originals appear to be printed on photo paper on a printer, not at a photo shop. Why?”
“Well, just that Hart, the manager, said Tomlinson golfed,” Olivia said slowly. “He should have tan lines on his upper arms from his golf shirt, but he’s white as a ghost. All over.” She glanced at Kane. “When did Louise Tomlinson say she filed for divorce?”
“She didn’t, but the files she copied from her husband’s computer were dated June fifteenth. Hart said she filed the very next day.”
“That must be it,” she murmured. “He wouldn’t have had time to get much sun.”
“Why is that important, Olivia?” Abbott asked.
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right with what the wife told us.”
“Then we dig deeper into Mrs. T,” Kane said simply. “Anything from the gas cans?”
“A few prints,” Micki said. “We’re running them through AFIS, but they could belong to anybody. The gas cans were old and rusted. If you find the arsonists’ car, we may be able to match rust residue from the cans, putting them at the scene.”
“Speaking of cars,” Barlow said, “we recovered Barney’s. It was parked about a half-mile away, keys in the ignition. We didn’t find any prints on the keys.”
“So his killer took his keys?” Kane asked. “Then drove his car away?”
“Took his BlackBerry, too,” Micki said. “The manager said Tomlinson never went anywhere without it. We found footprints all around the property, but with so much foot traffic, they could belong to anyone, like the gas cans.”
“What about the shoeprint we found in the mud near the lake?” Olivia asked.
“The lab matched the tread to Converse high-tops, male, size ten,” Micki said.
“So, Tracey’s partner wore shoes when he ran from the condo fire, but Tracey didn’t,” Olivia mused. “Why? They’d just had sex. Why did he have shoes on?”
“Maybe he was getting ready to leave when the fire broke out,” Barlow said.
“Which meant he wasn’t squatting with her,” Olivia said. “He had someplace else to be, but she was hiding out. More weight to the theory that he’s local. We need to find him and find out how he got access to the building to start with.” She checked her watch. “We’re meeting the sign language interpreter in half an hour. We’re going to the deaf school to see if anyone knows this boy. The principal promised total support.”
“What about the girl’s parents?” Abbott asked.
“Mom’s supposed to call when she and stepdad get to the airport,” Olivia said.
“We met with the dad last night,” Kane said. “He ID’d Tracey and told us she’d gone to a Camp Longfellow this past summer. It’s in Maryland. We’re wondering if this could be where she met the boy.”
“So get a roster,” Abbott said. “See if they had any campers from the Twin Cities.”
“I can take that,” Noah said, “while you’re out at the deaf school.”
“It might not be that straightforward,” Kane warned. “I checked out the Web site last night and I couldn’t find a contact name. There are some e-mail addresses and one toll-free number, but there’s a note on the page that says, ‘Leave a message and we’ll call you as soon as possible.’ I’m thinking the camp’s not staffed year-round.”
“Wonderful,” Noah muttered. “Well, I guess I’ll have to dig.”
“I need to see the condo and the Tomlinson warehouse,” Crawford said.
Barlow slanted a look at Abbott, who nodded. “You can ride with me,” Barlow said.
Crawford’s jaw had tightened at Barlow’s double check. “Thank you,” he said coldly.
“You’ve been quiet, Jess,” Abbott said to the shrink, ignoring the Fed. “What are you thinking?”
“That there is a very big disconnect,” Dr. Donahue said. “The fires were set to burn stuff, not people. But in both, a person was shot—Weems in the heart and Tomlinson in the back of the head. You’re right, Kane, Tomlinson was an execution. Weems… not. It’s like the shooter was caught unaware by Weems, but shot anyway. And accurately. Like target practice. But Tomlinson… that was revenge. Neither mesh with the fire. Right now, there seems to be a very divergent set of personalities in this group.”
“Or divergent agendas,” Olivia said.
Donahue nodded. “Quite possibly. The question is, are the divergent agendas acceptable to all the group members, and if not, when will they splinter?”
“How many people are in this group?” Abbott asked.
“At least three,” Barlow said. “We found two sets of footprints mixed with accelerant at the con
do door. But whoever killed Weems did not set the fire. So at least three.”
Donahue nodded again. “The shooter not only brought a gun to the condo, but he procured hollow-point bullets. He planned to kill, if he fired.”
“He killed Tomlinson from behind,” Olivia said. “He had to walk through the office door and around his desk. Tomlinson didn’t happen on him like Weems did. He went there to kill Tomlinson. But why? And assuming this isn’t really about environmental arson, why hide behind it?”
“Go find out,” Abbott said. “Keep me informed. Be back at five. Be careful.”
Everyone stood to go, then halted when the office door opened and Faye, their clerk, stuck her head in. “Turn on the TV. Channel Eight. They know about the ball.”
With an oath, Abbott turned on the television, where a reporter stood in front of the wreckage of Tomlinson’s warehouse, holding an orange in one hand.
“Sources tell us that the ball was about the size of this orange. They also tell us that a similar ball was found in the condo fire. The ball is solid glass, with the map of the earth etched on its surface,” the reporter said. “This is important, as it links these fires to the infamous SPOT organization, which destroyed an office building twelve years ago, leaving one woman dead. SPOT’s leader, Preston Moss, is still wanted for the fire and the woman’s death. Moss disappeared and has not been seen since.”
Abbott muted the sound when they rolled old footage. “Goddammit,” he snarled.
“It was all over the fire department, Bruce,” Olivia said. “I told you yesterday it was just a matter of time.”
“I know, but I was hoping for more time. This changes nothing about our plans, so go do what you were going to do. I’ll deal with the press. Barlow, please impress on all the firefighters the importance of keeping quiet on this story.”
“They know, Captain,” Barlow said. “If the leak came out of the fire department, I’m sure they’ll deal with it appropriately. But I’ll tell them again.”
“That firefighter,” Abbott said, “the one who caught the ball. What was his name?”
“David Hunter,” Olivia said. “I’ll call him, warn him.”
“Fine.” Abbott waved them to the door. “Go, get me some answers.”
