As they munched on chips and salsa, they talked a little more about their day, but kept the conversation light.
The food was quick in arriving, the beers even quicker. As they ate, the conversation turned toward current events, politics, and the upcoming demolition of the mill’s utility building to make way for the club house and pool.
“How’s the arson investigation going?” Maggie asked between bites.
“It’s going nowhere. I can’t figure out who has anything to gain by torching the place.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t vandals? We have a few of those around. Ask me how I know.”
“That’s what I thought after the first fire, but after the second, its clearly more than some kid screwing around, plus we caught the guy who did it.”
She looked at him in surprise. “I thought you said it wasn’t going anywhere.”
“It’s not. If it had been some firebug who started the fires just so he could watch the place burn, then we might have something, but it wasn’t. It was a homeless guy, and he said Barns paid him a grand to burn the place down.”
“Barns? The same Barns that’s converting the place into apartments?”
“One and the same.”
She squinted at him, one eye closing in bafflement as her face twisted. “That’s doesn’t make sense. Why would he try to burn the place down and then still go forward with the project?”
“Now you see my problem, plus the guy who said Barns hired him couldn’t pick him out from a group of pictures.”
She shook her head. “What a mess. What are you going to do?”
“I have one more thing to check. There was another firm that was interested in the property and I want to talk to them.”
“You think maybe they had something to do with it?”
“Probably not. Rudy and Barns both said that until a company shows you the money, the deal isn’t serious. If it doesn’t pan out, and I don’t think it will, then I’ll probably file this one under d-e-a-d,” he said, spelling out the last word. He gave her a sideways grin. “I can use it to make sure the inactive case flag in the software is working properly. Pete told me only something like fifteen percent of arsons are solved, so the odds were against me from the beginning.”
“Well, I guess you can’t win them all.”
“That’s true. I’d be a lot more concerned if someone were hurt, but as it is, it’s just property damage. Barns has insurance for that.”
“Ouch!” she teased.
“I know it sounds harsh, but if there are no clues, there are no clues. I can always reopen the case if anything comes up. That’s one of the nice things about this software. It helps with stuff like that.”
“How?”
“Well, for example, I can set it to periodically scan IAFIS, CODIS, or other databases, and flag a case if it gets a hit. Not that it’ll help with this case.”
“IAFIS? CODIS?” she asked, pronouncing them like he did—Ay-Fis and Co-Dis.
“IAFIS… Integrated Automated Fingerprint Information System. It’s a database of fingerprints collected from felons. CODIS… that stands for, let me think… COmbined DNA Index System. It’s the same thing as IAFIS except for DNA. If we have a fingerprint or DNA sample we can’t match, and the guy we’re looking for is picked up later, even if he’s in another state, the system will hit on the fingerprint or DNA and flag the case for review. Then someone can look at it and decide what to do, reopen the case, close it, whatever.”
“It can do that?” Maggie asked, her eyes wide.
“Oh yeah, and a lot more. If I purchase the add-on modules, we can use it to track patterns, find similarities in cases, all kinds of stuff to help us build a profile.” He smiled again. “With the technology we have available now, it’s not a good time to be a criminal. A full-blown PISTOL package is overkill for Brunswick, but I only bought the basic modules because we don’t need all those other bells and whistles. That’s the kind of stuff places like Boston, New York, LA, and other big municipalities use.”
“Cripes! I had no idea.”
Sean nodded. “Yeah. The software is only as good as the information going into it, but it’s a terrific tool for investigating. Everything is indexed and searchable, so if you have one piece of information, you can find everything related to that piece of information, no matter which case it’s in. Doing stuff like that by hand with paper files is almost impossible. You’d need an army of people, but with the right modules, the software can find and make those connections automatically, and that’s when you start to see patterns immerge.”
“And the software you bought can do that?”
He snorted. “The software I bought could do that, if I’d bought the modules. I didn’t. We don’t need it, but being able to click on a name and have it pop up all the cases he’s been attached to, or key in all the street names in an area and see what cases have those streets attached? We can’t do anything like that now without a lot of digging through paper. The modules I bought won’t do that kind of data mining for us automatically, but it makes it a lot easier for us to do it manually if we have to.”
“How much more would the other modules cost?”
“A lot. With no custom modifications, our software was about a hundred grand. That’s for the base module, personnel, and the remote access module so we can use it in our cars. The cost for all the other add-ons, crime lab, intelligent case review, advanced evidence inventory, 9-1-1 and dispatch, fleet management, and a dozen more, would probably add another three or four hundred to the number. A big install with a bunch of custom programming could easily push the price to a million or more, not to mention all the hardware to run it on.”
“That’s a lot of money!”
“Yeah. We don’t need most of that stuff, but we had to have something. We’re buried in paper and we have no easy way to track our cases. When I was working the Locoste case, I carried the case around in the car with me in a file folder. The paper was constantly falling out, or I couldn’t find what I was looking for, or whatever. It was a pain in the ass. This will be a lot better.”
“You sound like a kid with a new toy.”
He grinned. “This’s what I like to do. Some people collect stamps, cars, wine, whatever. I like to collect information.”
“That’s not creepy at all,” she said with a teasing grin.
He chuckled. “Yeah, that didn’t come out quite right. I think a better way of putting it is to say I like to solve puzzles. To do that, you need to have information, information you can find.”
“Okay. That sounds a little better, I think.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not J. Edgar Hoover. I don’t have files on everyone in town, and don’t want to.” He grinned at her again as he held her gaze with his own. “There’s only one person who I want to know everything about.”
“Oh?” she asked, arching one eyebrow. “Who’s that?”
He said nothing but his smile spread and he continued to gaze into her eyes.
“Is that so? What information do you have on me?” she challenged.
“Let’s see… Margaret Michelle Neese, aka Maggie, formally Mrs. Randal Bryan. Born in Faulkner, North Carolina, June twenty-first, nineteen seventy-seven. Only child of Douglas and Merrill Neese. Divorced two thousand ten. Five-five, about one fifty. Brown—”
“One forty-three, I’ll have you know!” she interrupted with mock irritation.
“Five-five and about one forty,” he amended quickly. “Brown hair and eyes. Works for the City of Brunswick and has for most of her adult life. Currently plant superintendent and ORC of the Lizard Lick Creek Wastewater Treatment Plant. Bachelors in Chemistry from UNC Charlotte. Brilliant, with a wicked sense of humor. Loves movies and cries at the emotional ones. Knows everything about every movie ever made. Likes cats, British sports cars and fast paced country music. Favorite cuisine is Italian. Can run her boyfriend into the dirt without breaking a sweat.” He paused and leaned closer across the table, his gaz
e never wavering from hers. “Stunningly beautiful and amazing in bed,” he added softly before leaning back. “I could go on, but how am I doing?”
She blinked at him a moment. “Wow. You’ve known me, what, four months? Five? I think you know more about me than my ex-husband did after eight years of marriage and three years of dating. What’s my favorite color?”
“Yellow.”
“My favorite flower?”
“Rose,” he said with confidence, but was he guessing and playing the odds.
“How the hell do you know all that stuff?”
He shrugged. “I listen and observe.”
“Yeah, but my favorite color?”
“I mentioned how much I liked the yellow in your kitchen and you said, ‘I love yellow.’”
“And the flower?”
He grinned. “Okay, you caught me. That was a guess.”
She grinned back. “You sly dog. But still, I’m impressed. What else do you know?”
“I know I’m ready to go home and watch The Invisible Guest,” he said, wanting to quit while he was ahead.
“You know what? So am I.”
They slid out of the booth and he left a tip as Maggie gathered her to-go box. He paid and then led her to his car. He opened her door for her as she slid in and held the box in her lap.
“You really think I’m stunningly beautiful and amazing in bed?” she asked as he flopped into the car.
“Oh yeah,” he said with a grin, drawing the words out.
She smiled and leaned over for a kiss. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Thanks, I think.”
She snickered and gave him a pat on the leg.
La Parrilla was about as far from his apartment as you could get while remaining in Brunswick. They were driving along Cagney, chatting about whatever topic came up, when his radio squawked.
“Dispatch! Ambly! I’m in pursuit of that green Jeep, headed west on Sycamore, crossing Garret. Requesting additional units to assist!”
Sean looked at Maggie. The Jeep was heading their way.
“Go!” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“I’ll stay in the car.”
“Brady responding,” another voice said.
He put his foot down and turned on his lights. “Call it in,” he said, handing her the radio mic.
“What do I say?” she asked, taking the device.
“McGhee responding.”
“McGhee responding,” she repeated.
He was doing nearly seventy as he approached Sycamore. The Jeep, and a moment later a Brunswick cruiser, flashed past in front of them. He braked hard, checked for cross traffic, then roared across the street.
“Tell them where we are,” he said as the Dodge bellowed, straining for speed.
“McGhee headed north on Cagney.”
He flipped on his siren as they wailed through the residential area. His car would go much faster, but he didn’t dare drive more than about sixty, staying in the center of the road while watching for pedestrians, lifting then returning to the throttle with every movement he saw.
When he reached Wayland, the tires howled in protest as he slowed, checked for traffic, then rounded the corner to the left. Wayland was a much wider road with businesses on both sides and far less traffic this time of the evening. He buried the throttle, trying to reach Cockrell, the next major road, to cut off the Jeep if it came this way.
“McGhee headed, uh, west on Wayland,” Maggie said, her voice tight.
He saw the Jeep cross the street far ahead, and a long moment later, the lights of either Ambly or Brady’s cruiser. When he reached Cockrell, he looked right and saw the flickers of strobes in the distance. He turned right and pursued, but at a much slower pace and without his siren.
“You okay?” he asked, glancing at Maggie.
Her eyes were wide, one hand white with her death grip on the mic, the other pressing her leftovers carton into her legs, legs that were stiff against the floor. He took the mic from her hand.
“Dispatch, McGhee. I’m out of it.”
She nodded. “Yeah. My heart is still pounding. Jesus!”
“Dispatch. Ambly. I’ve lost him.”
“Brady, Ambly, McGhee,” he said. “We probably won’t find anything, but let’s do a quick drive-by search in the area where you lost him. What’s your twenty?”
“Corner of Trenton and Cockrell. That Jeep is fast as… is fast.”
Sean chuckled. “Watch the radio chatter, but I feel your pain.” He glanced at Maggie. “You okay if I help with the drive-bys? It should only take twenty minutes or so.”
She nodded. “Yeah. It’ll give my heart a chance to stop pounding.”
They spent fifteen minutes cruising the area, but he saw nothing. The driver of the Jeep was making them look like chumps. He finally called off the search and they returned to his apartment. The stiffness had left Maggie’s body, but she was still subdued.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked as they entered his apartment.
“Yeah. Just a little shook up is all.” She paused as she looked at him, her expression troubled. “It reminded me that what you do is dangerous.”
“It was just a short chase.”
“I know. But what if someone had pulled out in front of you, or worse, stepped out in front of you? What if, even if the guy stopped, he started shooting?”
He took the leftovers from her, placed them in his refrigerator, and then pulled her in and held her snugly.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I told you to do it, but it’s easy to forget what can happen.”
“You still want to watch the movie?”
“No. I think I’d rather go to bed and have you hold me.”
His lips eased into a small smile as he placed a hand softly on her head and held it to his chest. He didn’t mind doing that at all.
Twenty-Two
Sean was looking over the applications he’d received for the new positions while he waited to hear back from Rudy’s office. He was starting with Garland Jacoby and Tyrell Pickerling, two officers late of Tilley’s dissolved police force. Former Police Chief Wayne Cooper and the other officer hadn’t elected to apply.
Jacoby and Pickerling looked like good candidates. Like many of Brunswick’s officers, they were young and only a few years off their BLET—the Basic Law Enforcement Test. If they were a good fit, and he could pick them up, they could hit the ground running since they were already familiar with Tilley and knew what to watch for.
He rose and carried their two applications and résumés to the dispatcher’s office.
“Kim,” he said as he entered and held out the papers to his dispatcher. “Give these two a call and setup an interview for as soon as possible, so long as it’s not today.”
She took the papers. “You got it.”
“Thanks,” he said just as her phone started ringing.
As he approached his office, he heard his own phone start ringing. He picked up his pace and snatched the receiver from the cradle.
“Sean McGhee.”
“Sean, it’s Rudy. I have that information you wanted. Why do you need it?”
“Just trying to tie up loose ends on this arson case,” he said as he circled his desk and sat down.
“You think Olentangy Development has something to do with it?”
“Probably not, but this is my last thread to pull on. Everything else has come up empty.”
“Okay. It’s Olentangy Development. 614, 855…” Sean jotted the name and number down as Rudy read it off. “That’s in Columbus, Ohio. You’ll want to speak to Reese Davenport.”
“Reese Davenport,” Sean mumbled, as he wrote.
“That’s right. He was the one doing the due diligence for the project. His is the only name and number I’ve got.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“No. I’ve told you everything already.”
“This is the company that was lo
oking at the property at the same time as Barns, and wanted to tear the place down and build a strip mall, right?”
“An outlet mall, yeah.”
“And they never put any money on the table?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Thanks, Rudy.”
He hung up and transferred his scribble from the note pad to PISTOL before he dialed the number Rudy had given him.
“Olentangy,” a female voice said after only one ring.
“Reese Davenport, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Sean McGhee, chief of police, Brunswick, North Carolina.”
He smiled at the long pause. The woman was probably trying to decide if someone was pranking them.
“Just a moment, please.”
While he waited for Reese, he keyed ‘Olentangy’ into a web browser and discovered that, among other things, it was the name of a river in Columbus.
“Mr. McGhee? What’s this call in regard to?” the female voice asked.
“We had an arson on a piece of property Olentangy Development was looking at. I’m talking with everyone who has a connection to the property.”
“Just a moment, please,” she said and was gone again.
He was browsing the Olentangy Development website when the woman returned.
“Mr. McGhee, Mr. Davenport isn’t available at the moment. Can he call you back right after lunch?”
“That’ll be fine,” Sean said and then gave the woman his number.
“Thank you. You should expect his call sometime between one-thirty and two.”
“I’ll be here,” he said. “May I have your name? Just for my records.”
“Meredith Henkenberns.”
“Can you spell the last name?”
She did.
“Thank you, Ms. Henkenberns. I look forward to Mr. Davenports’ call.”
After he hung up, he typed a few more notes into PISTOL and then returned to his applications.
-oOo-
He’d selected the first five candidates he wanted to talk to and given the information to Kim to arrange the interviews.
Flashover (A Sean McGhee Mystery Book 2) Page 19
