Cutting Edge

by Allison Brennan

  Fire fatalities were among the most difficult crimes to investigate. Much of the damage to the body came from necessary fire-suppression activities, but when firefighters discovered a victim, they did everything they could to preserve evidence while also putting out the flames. Unless there was a bullet in the body, severe blunt-force trauma, or another obvious external force, determining cause of death was extremely difficult.

  The man inspecting the body glanced up. “Chief.”

  “Keith, this is Special Agent Nora English with the FBI’s domestic terrorism unit.”

  “Don’t come in,” he ordered.

  “Nora, have you met our M.E., Keith Coffey?”

  “No,” she said. “Dr. Coffey, does it seem odd to you that the victim is on his back?”

  He stopped his inspection and looked at her. “Yes, it is very odd. But I don’t want to jump to conclusions before the fire inspector gets here.”

  “She’s on her way,” Nora said. “She was out of town and—”

  A raspy voice behind her bellowed, “She? Last I checked I’m still a man, sugar.”

  Nora bristled and turned. The smoker’s voice belonged to a man who looked old enough to be her grandfather. He wore black pants and a red plaid shirt on which was clipped a fire marshal’s badge.

  The man grinned at her and winked. “Yep, still a man.”

  “Ulysses, this is Special Agent Nora English with the FBI. I told you about the task force—”

  Ulysses waved away the chief’s introduction. “Task force,” he said with derision. “All talk, no action.”

  “We should discuss this, Mr—” Nora began.

  “Ulysses.”

  “I’ve brought in a consultant from the state fire inspector’s office, who’s been on the task force since the first fire twenty months ago—”

  “This is my jurisdiction, or are you going to flex your federal muscles and screw everything up?”

  Nora didn’t want friction with the locals, but she would “flex her federal muscles” if she had to. Domestic terrorism fell squarely on the FBI’s shoulders. She was about to say that when her sister Quin bounced into the room, the polar opposite of the craggy fire marshal.

  “Ulysses!” Quin exclaimed, all petite blond ball of energy fawning over the graying man. She gave him a hug that was longer than it needed to be and Nora watched, bemused, as Ulysses turned to putty.

  “If I’d known you were coming, sweetheart, I’d have put out the red carpet.”

  Quin laughed. “Nora is my sister. Cut her cute federal ass some slack, okay?”

  “Anything for you, sugar.”

  Quin caught Nora’s eye with a happy smugness that had Nora twisting her mouth to avoid smirking back. At least the victim was in good hands. Her sister didn’t take anything but her job seriously, which had been a bone of contention between them for years, and there was no one Nora trusted more than Quin with this case. Quin would catch Ulysses up on the previous arsons, freeing Nora to focus on interviewing Payne’s partner and staff. While there was little doubt that this arson was connected to the others, she needed all documentation of threats either in person or writing, a list of any known trespassers over the last few weeks, and information on current Butcher-Payne projects.

  Dr. Coffey turned to Nora. “To answer your question, Agent English, I’ve never seen a case where the victim was on his back except if he was dead or unconscious when the fire started.”

  Quin crossed over to where Nora stood by the entry and said under her breath, “Sheriff Sanger is here, and he’s on a rampage about Professor Cole, yada yada. That slimy reporter Buttface is here—”

  “Belham—”

  “Right, Buttface. He’s hanging around Sanger, who’s giving this hot, tall, and sexy hunk an earful. Don’t know if he’s Payne’s partner, but—” She gave Nora the I think he’s stirring up shit sideways glance.

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “I’ll take care of Ulysses—he’s ornery, but he’s one of the smartest in the business.”

  Nora excused herself after one final look at Jonah Payne’s remains.

  Unconscious or dead before the fire. That would mean his death wasn’t an accident—he’d been intentionally murdered. Had he caught the arsonists red-handed? Why not hit the panic button? She assumed he would have a method to alert security quickly, but she’d need to double-check with the security company. What happened to the alarm system? Why hadn’t he called the police? Was he unable to? Maybe he had confronted the arsonists and been killed. Or he might have known the perps. Payne’s murder could have been premeditated, and the arson merely a way to cover up the crime and destroy evidence. That would make this crime far more personal, and the culprit more likely to be someone who’d benefit from his death: a partner, wife, or relative. But the M.O. matched the other BLF arsons, which made the personal scenario unlikely.

  Quin took command of the crime scene the way she commanded everything in her life—fast and completely, with a sugar coating so no one knew what hit them.

  Now Nora had to control whatever damage Sheriff Sanger had done by his public vendetta against Professor Leif Cole. This investigation was already sliding down the slippery slope of legal posturing and games, the press circling like vultures because the biotech industry was controversial, and high-ranking politicians were calling Washington wanting to know what was being done in Sacramento and why they didn’t have an arrest. Shit runs downhill fast.

  Sanger was going to jeopardize the entire case if he didn’t keep his big mouth shut.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Duke Rogan had watched friends die during his tour in the Marines; he had seen and touched the dying, moved and buried the dead. But he’d never felt so damn helpless. At least, not since his parents were killed in a plane crash more than a decade ago. Worse, guilt nipped at the edges of his mind, gaining traction. His security system had failed, and a good man had paid the ultimate price.

  “Are you certain the victim is Jonah Payne?” he asked Sheriff Lance Sanger. They stood near the front entrance of the burned-out research lab in the unnatural illumination of spotlights attached to the fire trucks. Fire trucks and police cars littered the small parking lot like a child’s forgotten game; the fire was out and aftermath activities were methodical, without the controlled urgency necessary while the fire raged.

  “Near one-hundred-percent positive,” Sanger said. “His car is in the lot—”

  “Where?” Duke hadn’t seen Jonah’s red four-wheel-drive Jeep when he’d driven up a few minutes before.

  “Behind the building.”

  “Is that usual?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I called Jim Butcher, his partner, then you. Jim’s in L.A. He’s flying back on the first available flight.”

  Duke wished Jim hadn’t heard about Jonah’s death over the phone. Jim and Jonah had been friends since college, starting Butcher-Payne Biotech right after graduate school. They’d been deemed by some as young upstarts not putting in their time or paying their dues, but they nevertheless managed to grow their business into a successful enterprise, moving into these larger facilities five years ago after selling a popular patent. Duke had known Jim even longer, since they had lived on the same street growing up, gone to the same high school, even played football together, though Jim was a couple years older.

  “Did you check his house?” Duke asked.

  “As soon as we discovered the body and his vehicle, we called Jonah’s house. No answer. I did a well-being check. No obvious disturbance.”

  Jonah often worked late at Butcher-Payne, especially after Trevor, his son, had enlisted in the military when he turned eighteen last year.

  Trevor. He was going to be devastated. “Have you contacted Jonah’s son in Iraq?”

  “Not yet. I needed to confirm the victim’s identity before notifying any next of kin.”

  Duke jerked his head toward the reporter standing only a few feet away not so discreetly eaves
dropping. “Trevor may hear about it sooner in the news. I’ll call him.”

  When Sanger glanced at the reporter, the journalist took it as a sign to approach.

  “Hello, Rich,” Sanger said.

  “I saw the M.E.’s car here. Is there a body?”

  “I’ll be issuing a formal statement after I notify the next of kin.”

  “I heard it’s Jonah Payne.”

  Duke took a step toward the tall, skinny reporter, straightening his spine to reach his full six feet two inches. Through a tight jaw, he said, “I wouldn’t repeat that until it’s publicly announced.”

  Rich took a step back, his hands up, a digital minirecorder in one hand. “Hey, I’m not an asshole.”

  Sanger coughed into his hand. Duke grabbed the minirecorder, verified it was off, and took out the batteries before handing them back to the reporter. “I don’t give you permission to record me or quote me. Understand?”

  “It’s cool, dude.” Rich put the recorder in one pocket and took a small spiral notepad from the other. “Lance, come on, give me something. I already saw the graffiti, I know it’s the same group that hit Langlier and Sac State. Is this ELF? ALF? Someone else? What’s going on?”

  “When I know, you’ll know.”

  “I spotted the arson investigator and a couple government cars. Is the FBI here? Have the feds taken over the case?”

  Sanger bristled. A sore spot? Duke had contacts in the local FBI, he’d make inquiries about the other arsons, find out who was running the case. He could help since he had security and background information on all Butcher-Payne employees and vendors.

  “The fire was extinguished less than two hours ago,” Sanger said. “We have a lot of work to do, and until I get answers, I’m not going on record with anything.”

  Rich sighed, shoving his notebook into his jacket pocket. “Okay, okay, off-record. Is it Jonah Payne? Did he die in the fire?”

  Sanger relented. “We have every reason to believe the victim is Jonah Payne, but we do not have confirmation and until we do, if I hear this in public I will make sure you are banned from every crime scene in Placer County as long as I’m sheriff.”

  “I’m not going to say anything. I swear, Lance, trust me.”

  Sanger simply shook his head.

  Rich looked at Duke and tilted his chin up. “I know you.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Rich Belham, from the Bee.”

  He was waiting for an introduction, but Duke didn’t respond.

  “Rogan!” Rich snapped his fingers when the name came to him. “Rogan-Caruso! Private security, right? You take care of the rich and famous.”

  Duke tensed. Rogan-Caruso Protective Services handled a wide range of personal and corporate security issues, but inevitably the few high-profile clients they managed became the news. But he wasn’t about to get in a discussion about his company with a nosy reporter.

  “Are you in charge of security here? How did the arsonists get in? Did they hack into your system?”

  The silence was palpable. The reporter had hit the target dead center, and he knew it. Duke said, “I will be investigating the matter thoroughly and reporting my findings to law enforcement. What they do with the information is up to them.”

  Rich turned to Sanger. “I heard the FBI was talking to Professor Cole at the college.”

  Sanger’s hands twitched, his jaw tightening so hard Duke heard the joints click. “No comment.”

  “Come on, you’ve been talking about Cole since the first arson. That he was instigating a riot. You arrested him for breaking into the courthouse three years ago and stealing the confidential settlement between the county and EnviroTech Supply.”

  Duke remembered that controversy. The county was going after EnviroTech for illegal dumping, but before the trial there was a confidential agreement between the parties. It had been alleged that EnviroTech bribed high-ranking county officials to dump the lawsuit, and that the lawsuit was the county’s way of leveraging money from private business. It had been nasty, then seemed to disappear overnight.

  “Leif Cole and I go way back,” Sanger said. “But you know that, Belham. Don’t go fishing in that lake.”

  Sanger jerked his head toward Duke and said, “I want to show you something.” He held up the crime-scene tape for Duke to walk under. They walked just out of Rich Belham’s earshot.

  “Damn, I hate that reporter,” said the sheriff.

  “Who’s Professor Cole?” Duke asked quietly.

  “Leif Cole, head of the social sciences department at Rose College.”

  “You know him?”

  “We went to school together. We used to be friends, but I don’t condone civil disobedience, and he’s gone too far too many times. Our dads worked for the lumber company and the four of us used to go hunting and camping together every summer. We were responsible out there, my dad wouldn’t have it any other way. When Leif went off to college, he changed. His big cause is genetic engineering. Thinks the entire world is going to crash and burn because of it, it’s practically a religion to him. His classes at the university are just brewing with trouble. I’ve talked to him about inciting these kids, and he thinks it’s a good thing if they can change the world.” He gestured toward Butcher-Payne. “I fear his rants have gone too far. This shouldn’t have happened.”

  No shit. “What’s with the initials?” Duke gestured toward the main entrance, where “BLF” was spray-painted in large, bold block letters. “Who’s BLF? Is that Professor Cole’s group?” He had a million questions, but Sanger interrupted.

  “The feds think BLF stands for Biotech Liberation Front, an anarchist group formed specifically against biotechnology, like the Animal Liberation Front, who release research animals and often destroy equipment. Most anarchist groups are loosely formed and there’s no obvious connection between the BLF and the ALF As far as I’m concerned, they’re all culpable. A few years ago, a group of teens burned down several houses that were under construction in Rocklin—a firefighter was seriously injured in the last one and is still on disability.”

  “You think the ALF may have been involved with this fire? How many arsons are we talking about?” Duke was trying to be reasonable, he understood police investigations, but his friend Jonah was dead. How long was it going to take the FBI and police to get their act together? If they knew who was responsible, why hadn’t there been an arrest?

  “The idiots in the ALF have all been arrested and are in prison. The soonest any of them will be released is late next year. Their ringleader has another decade.”

  That would have been too easy, Duke thought. “And BLF?”

  “This is the fourth arson that they have taken credit for.”

  Duke didn’t miss that Sanger raised his voice a fraction as he continued. “The feds have talked to Cole several times, since he’s publicly advocated for the end of the biotech industry, but they don’t have anything solid.”

  It was clear Sanger wanted the information out there. Belham, who stood just on the other side of the crime-scene tape, was writing as fast as Sanger spoke.

  Sanger continued, “The feds are really mucking this up. The lead agent is this mightier-than-thou bitch. I’m on the regional domestic terrorism task force with her, and she’s so focused on the fucking procedures and rules that she makes bureaucrats look like party animals.”

  Domestic terrorism? Duke almost smiled. If this was domestic terrorism there was only one agent who could elicit such passionate anger.

  Sanger glanced left, looking beyond Duke, a tight sneer on his face. “Oh, hello, Agent English.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.

  Nora. If there was even a faint silver lining on this tragedy, it was that Duke would be seeing a lot more of Nora English.

  He turned around, watched as Nora realized it was him standing with the sheriff. It was instantaneous. Her confident stride slowed a fraction, her dark eyes widened in surprise. Then Nora plastered on that impassive expression sh
e’d perfected.

  But Duke knew better.

  No matter how rigid Nora English tried to pretend she was, under that icy shield was a woman rippling with energy and passion. Besides, a woman who looked like Nora, with perfect curves and athletic prowess, couldn’t be all hardened cop. That she could deny for the four years Duke had known her that she was as attracted to him as he was to her showed a stubborn streak that Duke had been slowly wearing down the half-dozen times they’d worked together. The last case he’d consulted with her on, only a year ago, he’d been this close in getting her to agree to a date, but she’d clammed up and avoided his calls. He’d left the ball in her court, but now all bets were off. He liked puzzles, and Agent English was an extremely complex and sexy puzzle he couldn’t wait to put together.

  “Duke Rogan,” Nora said, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. “Security?”

  She was playing the professional cop, but Duke smiled. “Good to see you, Nora. You’re looking terrific, as usual.” And other than her tired eyes, she looked even better than the last time he’d seen her.

  Her eyes narrowed and she bit her lower lip. “Do you know the principals?”

  He nodded somberly. “Jim Butcher and I went to school together, I’ve known Jonah almost since they started the business, when Jim hired me to run background checks on employees.”

  “Did you design the security here?”

  “Yes.” He glanced at the building, knowing that he’d screwed up somewhere. He just couldn’t see where. He’d have to go through the logs line by line.

  “I didn’t know you knew each other,” Sanger said.

  Nora’s chin jutted forward and she said, “Mr. Rogan has consulted for the FBI before.”

  Mr. Rogan? Duke was bemused. “I’ve worked with Agent English a few times.”

  She glanced slyly at him, her eyes narrowed as if wondering what he was up to, then turned to the sheriff. “As sheriff, you know that criminals will walk if law enforcement doesn’t play by the rules.”

  “But sometimes you need to push the envelope. I’m not talking about breaking the law, I’m talking about putting pressure on the bastards we know are involved even if we can’t prove it.”