Consumed (Firefighters #1)

by J. R. Ward

  “Ripkin Development has purchased three of the six warehouse sites in the last twenty-four months. You don’t think there’s a connection?”

  “He’s buying cheap real estate to develop. That’s what developers do. Hence the title of his company. And nothing devalues even depressed sites more than a good a fire.”

  “He bought those warehouses before the fires.”

  Don frowned. “The structures weren’t worth much. I mean, you want to make some money doing insurance fraud, you torch a mansion to the ground. Not a dilapidated warehouse.”

  “What if you wanted to clear the land and not have to pay for it? You burn what’s on it, cash in the insurance policy, use the proceeds to clear what’s left in terms of debris—which is considerably less than even the rotted shells that were there first. It pays for itself—not that bad a strategy.”

  “You could get away with it once. But you try that two or three times and it’s like an engraved invitation for fraud charges.”

  “What if you had different insurance companies. The properties are all owned by different entities. It wasn’t until I went on a wild-goose chase through layers of incorporators that I discovered Ripkin owns them. He’s covering his tracks about a lot of things.”

  There was a long silence. And then Don shut her door. “Listen, about Ripkin.”

  “Do not tell me I can’t go talk to him. I reject completely the notion that rich people should be granted special privileges. He’s no different than any other witness or interested party.”

  “I agree.”

  “But . . .”

  “You recall that fire at Ripkin’s oceanfront estate. It was about, what, just over a year ago?”

  “I responded with the 499 to it.”

  “I remember from the report.” There was another pause. “I put a really good investigator on the scene, a guy named Bob Burlington. He was doing a thorough job.”

  “You’d accept nothing less from a subordinate.”

  “But he didn’t finish the investigation because his body washed up on shore in the bay about three weeks into the case.”

  Anne frowned. “Now that you mention it, I read something about that in the paper. And there was talk at the station. He had a heart attack though, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t think we’re ever going to know the truth. His boat was found first by a trawler ,and there was no evidence of foul play. His remains turned up a day later, and they had been chewed on. The medical examiner stated that the cause of death was an MI, which given Bob’s affinity for fried food and no exercise wasn’t a news flash. The manner, however, was undetermined.”

  From what Anne understood about determinations of death in Massachusetts, the Commonwealth’s medical examiner and his or her office assessed the remains and assigned a cause that could be anything from a disease process like cancer, cardiovascular , or an infection to trauma to the body like an internal bleed from a gunshot wound or blunt force from someone getting hit with something. The manner was then assigned to one of four categories: natural, accident, homicide, or suicide. If the medical examiner could not place the death within those criteria, then it was ruled “undetermined.”

  In Bob Burlington’s case, you had to wonder if he’d had a heart attack on his boat and fallen overboard because of it—or whether someone had thrown him off the vessel and he’d died trying to swim to shore.

  Except if you were trying to kill somebody, you wouldn’t take a chance on the guy’s ticker quitting halfway to land, would you.

  “Was an autopsy performed?” she asked.

  “It was. But again, because of damage to the remains, it was impossible to rule out trauma—or state it had conclusively taken place.”

  “And you think Ripkin was involved in the death?”

  “I don’t know, but I am very clear that I feel a responsibility to all you guys not to put you in harm’s way. So be very careful with that man. I won’t stop you from going up there because you’ve laid out a valid investigatory rationale for talking to him. But I do think Bob’s death was suspicious, and I’m not about to bury another agent on my watch.”

  “What happened to the investigation afterward?”

  “It was closed by another agent of ours, and the question I still ask myself is what did Bob know that he didn’t get to document officially before he died.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll watch myself.”

  “Good.” Don lifted the mug up and looked inside. Checked out the handle. “I’m a coffee drinker, you know.”

  “I didn’t. I might’ve guessed from the bagel, but I don’t like to take things for granted.”

  “You sure about that?” He looked around the desk. “How’s the dog.”

  “Great. He’s a good boy.” Soot offered a wag, like he knew he was being discussed. “I’m really glad he’s with me.”

  Her boss took his mug back over to the door. “If Ripkin gives you any problems, I’ll get you a warrant. I’d love to bring him down. And if you need someone to watch the dog during business hours, I’ll let him out. Long as he doesn’t bite me.” Don opened the way out. “Oh, and we’re getting some bad storms later. Be careful on your drive home.”

  * * *

  God, Tom hated rubber chicken dinners. And suits. And ties.

  As he walked out of the howling wind and hail and into the Grand Canyon-–sized lobby of the downtown Marriott, he was already planning his exit and immediate removal of the navy blue straight jacket and red hangman’s noose that were not just cramping his style, but making him scratch. As he was childless, he didn’t have the sick-kid/nanny-issue/sitter’s-a-no-show option.

  But he always had the firehouse-emergency card in his back pocket.

  The registration tables were mobbed, folks lining up for their Hello, My Name Is badges. He skipped that nonsense. He never wore a name tag. For one, he’d been in the paper enough that his identity spoke for itself, but more than that, he wasn’t going to encourage approaches, casual conversations, or the airing of issues. Especially after the Anne thing.

  God, the first month after she’d been hurt had been ridiculous, all kinds of acquaintances and hangers-on coming at him with various levels of sincerity. Like his family business was any of theirs.

  “Chief, over here.”

  Brent Mathison, the president of IAFF Local 5690, waved from the base of the escalators. The guy was dressed in a navy blue suit and a red tie, his union pin on his lapel, his military haircut making him look like the security detail for a dignitary.

  People called out Tom’s name as he went across the patterned carpet, and he nodded at the various political wonks, society types, and media whores.

  He put his palm out to Brent, and they did the shake and slap. “Just so you know, I plan on having an urgent stationhouse call in thirty-five minutes.”

  “Shocker.” Brent straightened his tie. “So Graham Perry came and found me. The mayor wants to see us.”

  “Now? What about her dog and pony show to the masses.”

  “It’s the cocktail hour. There’s time. Come on, the greenroom is over here.”

  Tom fell into step with the other guy. “Why do I get the feeling I’m being set up?”

  “Because you’re paranoid.”

  Tom nodded at a pair of lobbyists, but didn’t slow down as they started to roundabout. “Tell me something, how old are you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How old?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  They entered a carpeted hallway that was nothing but brass-plaqued double doors and poster ads for theater shows, high-end restaurants, and jewelers. The air smelled like steak, which suggested the hotel had ventilation issues, and he wondered when the last time its management had done a fire drill for the staff.

  Brent looked over. “Why’d you ask me my age?”

 
“Because you look a little old to be this naive.”

  “I don’t know what your problem with Catherine is—”

  “Oh, so now we’re on a first-name basis, are we. What’s next? Netflix and chill?”

  “—a good mayor, a better person, and she gets us. Her father was a firefighter.”

  Tom shook his head. “Politicians do one thing with reliability and that’s look out for themselves. You’re going to learn this the hard way, but that evolution is not my problem.”

  “You don’t know her.” Brent stopped in front of something called the Salisbury Room. “And you’re too young to be this cynical.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Brent opened the way in, and talk about standing room only. There were a good fifty people crammed in around a boardroom table long enough to bowl on, everyone talking loud enough so they could be heard over the very din they were creating.

  “There you are.” The mayor’s right-hand guy came over, porcelain caps flashing as he smiled. “Thanks for stopping by, Chief.”

  Graham Perry was the kind of sharp, useless, egoist in a Brooks Brothers suit who made Tom scratch. He’d had to deal with them all his life, Ivy League golden boys with Greco-Roman playbooks, all kinds of Et tu, Brute? pole marks on his ass. If this was who the mayor thought she needed at her side? She was either a bad judge of character, or she shared Perry’s opinion that people would fall for a faker.

  Brent cleared his throat and elbowed Tom in the ribs. But he was not shaking that greasy palm.

  Perry retracted the offending item and smiled some more. “Well. We just wanted you to know how much we appreciate your department’s support in this election.”

  “I haven’t given it to you.”

  As Perry looked at Brent, there was an awkward pause.

  “Are you kidding me,” Tom muttered. “Seriously, did you—”

  The warm bodies in the room parted like the Red Sea and he knew without a proper look that there was only one person who could get that kind of effect.

  Mayor Catherine Mahoney was wearing red, the dress totally modest, the body it was covering absolutely not. Tom kept his eyes on her face, but his peripheral vision filled in all kinds of details about her that he really could have done without.

  He wasn’t going to be Brent, damn it.

  “Tom,” she said in her smooth voice, “I’m glad you came. Thank you so much for your support. It’s going to make a big difference in the election. Barrington is going to be a tough opponent.”

  “I didn’t give you anything.” He turned to Brent. “I thought I made myself clear. I’m not endorsing anyone.”

  The flush that rode up the guy’s face made Tom want to bitch-slap him.

  Perry spoke up. “Mayor Mahoney is very pro-union, and I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but her father—”

  “Was a firefighter,” Tom muttered. “Yeah, I’ve heard. What you two don’t mention is that it was for six months on a volunteer basis to build his application for B-school. I doubt those skills held up much over the last thirty years as he’s run Mahoney Technologies. Now if the bunch of you will excuse me, I’m going back to work. It’s clear you don’t need me.”

  He hit the door and strode off, his molars locked, his throat loaded with all kinds of fuck-you-Brent. Unbelievable. The guy had a hard-on for that woman and was willing to sell the futures of three hundred New Brunswick firefighters down the river just to get into that red dress—

  “Tom.”

  As a female voice called out his name, he cursed and almost kept going, but he wanted to yell at someone—and clearly, Mayor Mahoney was willing to put a target around her neck. Turning around, he tried not to notice how those long legs of hers were eating up the carpet between them.

  “I gather that was a surprise.” As she halted in front of him, he was surprised to find she was tall enough to meet him right in the eye. “It was my understanding that Brent had discussed the endorsement with you.”

  Her security detail discreetly parked it about fifteen feet away, the man with the earpiece and the hidden gun staring off into the otherwise empty corridor.

  “Oh, we talked about it.” Tom crossed his arms over chest. “I didn’t agree with the endorsement.”

  Hazel eyes. She had hazel eyes that matched her brunette hair. The latter was shoulder length and curled at the bottom. Not a lot of makeup; the lipstick neutral; the lashes real, not fake. She smelled like clean air for some reason.

  “I’d welcome the opportunity to change your mind.”

  “Is this the part where you remind me your father’s a firefighter?”

  “No, it’s where I tell you that if Barrington gets this job, he’s going to shrink your workforce by ten percent to fund a new arena. He wants his NBA team, no matter what it does to this city.”

  “People have been talking about that for a decade.”

  “Barrington will do it. On the backs of the firefighters, the cops, and teachers.”

  “Fearmongering.”

  “What’s your email address?”

  “You can find it on the website.”

  “You don’t have a card?”

  “What are you going to send me?”

  “The truth. And then maybe you and I can meet and talk.”

  Tom narrowed his stare and wondered just exactly they would do at the “meeting.” It wasn’t ego that made him look for signs she was propositioning him: He was not ugly. He had a little positional power in the city. And it wouldn’t be the first time an elected official had headed down a dirty road for reelection.

  How far had she gone with Brent?

  “I’m a straight shooter,” she maintained. “There are good reasons to support me. I’ve only had nine months to do this job. I want four years so I can really make a difference.”

  “Look, I don’t know you—”

  “I want to change that.”

  “—and I don’t need to know you. My department has been struggling for a decade. As we are chronically underfunded, we spend half our downtime repairing our equipment, our pay base is lower than the national average for a city of this size, and our facilities are in desperate need of renovation. And you’re going to stand in front of me and maintain you can magically change all that? Bullshit. I’ve been in the service for the last fifteen years and every single politician has said that and done nothing. I work around people like you and I never put my faith in elect-me rhetoric—and as for the four years you want? When Greenfield died, your father paid the Metro Council to get you elected to finish out the term. You are a rich girl playing with the city I happened to give a shit about, so please don’t tell me about how well suited you are for this position or how much you want to change things.”

  “You’ve got me wrong. I am different.”

  “The other politicians—who had a leg up on you when it comes to relevant experience—all said that, too. And pardon me for not taking you seriously. It’s not like your father wants to make you mayor so he can get tax breaks for that new division he wants to set up down by the wharf.”

  “My father is not involved with my campaign—”

  “I’m not going to argue with you, and I’m going to save you valuable suck-up time because there are a couple hundred people here waiting for you to kiss their asses. You’re got our union endorsement from its president. Take it, add it to your campaign materials, and go about your business. Just like I’ll go about mine.”

  “Give me a chance. That’s all I’m asking.”

  Tom looked into her eyes and did not like what he felt. At all. “You’ve got what you wanted. Leave me out of this shitshow.”

  “I’m going to win you over.”

  His eyes went up and down her. “I’m not interested in any of your attributes, professional or otherwise. If Brent wants to lock the union in,
that’s up to him as its president and I won’t stand in his way. He is going to be held accountable, however, and this is a lesson he’s only going to have to learn once. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to stay focused on my job.”

  Tom walked off, confident that not only would she let him go, she wouldn’t send him anything.

  He was almost through the lobby and out the revolving doors when his phone went off. As he checked who was calling, he gritted his teeth and let it go to voicemail.

  In his current mood, he couldn’t deal with his mother. He just didn’t have the patience for her telling him that it was raining and there was thunder and he needed to drive carefully and asking when was he going to be home and off the roads.

  Like he was sixteen with a learner’s permit.

  Outside, the storms were whipping sheets of rain round and bending treetops, and the weather suited his mood. Jogging through the fury, he was jumping into his SUV when his cell went off again.

  It felt good to slam the door shut.

  His mother was largely a flincher and a worrier, and it was times like this that he understood Anne shutting the door on the drama. But his sister’s boundary setting meant he got the full, undiluted brunt of the anxiety.

  Taking out the phone, he—

  Frowning, he accepted the call from Captain Baker. “Chip. What’s up.”

  “Emilio Chavez OD’d a half hour ago. He was found by Remy LaSalle and taken by ambulance to University. I thought you’d want to know.”

  Tom closed his eyes. “Shit.”

  chapter

  24

  As Danny ran through the rain to the entrance of the University Hospital ER, he knew where he was going before the receptionist and the triage nurses pointed him toward the “Staff Only” door next to the check-in area. A buzzing noise sounded out as he got in range, and when he punched the bar, the heavy steel panel swung free.

  On the other side, he strode around to the patient bays. He didn’t need to ask where Chavez was. Moose and the others were standing in a cluster about halfway down, and as he came up to them, the grim faces were too familiar.