by J. R. Ward
As she pulled up, a side door opened and Jack gave her a wave. “Park over there.”
“Got it.”
She eased the muni sedan off the asphalt and parallel to the facility. “Thanks for having me out here.”
“No problem.” He gave her a quick hug, and then welcomed her into an open bay that was so big it should have had its own zip code. There were thirty or so marked, unmarked, personal, and armored vehicles lined up, along with all manner of four-by-fours and ancillaries. The ammo room was a locked cage in the far corner, the weapons mounted on pegs in rows, everything from assault rifles to shotguns to handguns registered and accounted for, in addition to whatever the officers had on their bodies at the time.
“Check out our new BEAR.” Jack played Vanna White in front of an armored troop transporter. “Her name is Shirley. We also call her Big Momma.”
“She is beautiful.”
“I love a woman who can appreciate fine equipment.” He led the way over to a coded door. “Come on in, I’ve got everything up on the computer.”
The conferencing space was a lecture hall with two dozen tables set up facing a dais and a screen. Off to one side, a dozen men of Jack’s physical description were clustered in groups over laptops, and there was both an electronic board and a dry-erase with all kinds of staffing notes and tables on them. Framed photographs of teams from different eras were mounted around a blacked-out American flag, and a glass display shelf had a lineup of badges, officers killed on the job.
All of the men and two women looked up as she entered, their eyes making a quick and professional assessment before returning to their work.
“We’re over here.” Jack took her over to a laptop. “So meet Ollie Popper.”
Anne sat down in an office chair. “Tell me that is not his given name.”
“It’s what he’s known by. Works for him, don’t it.”
The mug shot showed a twenty-ish Caucasian with long dark hair, bulging eyes, and the pockmarked skin of a meth user.
“Cute, huh. Bet his mother loves him, though.” Jack changed images. “And here is his collection.”
“Holy . . . shit.” She moved closer to the screen. “That’s . . .”
“Got a bad case of sticky fingers.”
The rooms appeared to be standard eight-by-twelves, with nine-foot ceilings and different window configurations—and they were crammed with so much office equipment, it looked like Ollie was running a return center for telephones, computers, laptops, and projectors.
“Where does he get them all?” She shook her head. “This is crazy.”
“He’s fencing them. We think he’s got crews working for him across the state. They execute the petty-theft, breaking into small businesses, and he gives them a cut.”
“But who’s he selling the stuff to?”
“Ever heard of this thing called eBay? And there are other sites.”
“That’s a lot of work, though. I mean, he’d have to post each one, right?”
“We’re thinking he sells ’em bulk. The detectives are getting warrants to access his online accounts.”
Anne sat back. “So how would it work with respect to the warehouse fires? Like, he gets served a warrant for something else.”
“And he’s got a problem.” Jack hit another button, and an image of the same room she’d been looking at came up showing it mostly empty. “He has to get rid of the evidence. He’s familiar with those empty warehouses down by the wharf because he sells drugs and does drugs, and that area is good for his clientele.”
“He takes the stuff down there.”
“Picks a building.”
“And lights it up?” She looked at Jack. “Sounds like a lot of trouble.”
“What’s the alternative? Burying it in his backyard?” Jack sat back, his heavy shoulders shifting under his SWAT T-shirt. “Here’s the thing. The fucker is smart. He doesn’t want to kill anybody because that’s a rap that’s hard to beat, so those buildings are a better bet for being vacant. Plus, who’s watching them? And what better way of making sure he can’t get tied to anything when all that plastic melts and destroys serial numbers and hard drives. Untraceable is his friend.”
“Does he have a fire background?”
“How much background do you need? Gasoline is everywhere. Toss a match and run.”
She thought of the apartment fire she went to on Saturday. “True. But how the hell did he get all of it moved?”
“You think you can’t buy cheap labor with drugs? Means, motive, and opportunity.”
“But it’s pretty circumstantial.”
She was aware she was fighting the logic. Then again, she wanted to nail Ripkin. That bastard had made it personal.
“I’m going to arrange to go and talk to Ollie.”
“Good deal.” Jack frowned. “There’s something you need to know, though. We think Ollie’s got friends in low places.”
“Isn’t that a country-and-western song?”
“My favorite, as a matter of fact. But in this case, I’m talking about the mob. We just can’t figure out who else he’d been working with.”
“Good to know. I’ll expect delays and obstruction.”
“You need to be careful, too. Ollie as an independent contractor on the black market is one thing. Backed by the mob? He’s going to have resources and people looking out for his interests, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ll be careful. Thanks, Jack.”
* * *
Like most of the fire stations in New Brunswick—except for Chief Ashburn’s fancy present from Charles Ripkin—the 499 had been built for its purpose in the early 1900s. Made of brick that was given a fresh coat of red every five or six years, it had three bays for the engines and the ladders, a shorter addition for the ambulance, and bunks and bathrooms on the second floor. The kitchen and eating/hang-time space was in the back on the first level, and there was also an office for the captain.
Danny was in the galley, surveying the cupboard contents. After check-in, Moose had taken up res on the sofa in front of the TV, Deshaun, Duff, and T.J. were lifting weights in the bay, and the other six men on duty were scattered throughout the stationhouse, cleaning equipment, checking the ladder, restocking the ambulance.
Against his better judgment, Danny had volunteered for cook duty, even though he’d caught shit from everyone about it. But he couldn’t sit around without doing something between out-calls, and pumping iron with the boys was not an option thanks to him and Anne having worked on his backyard all day yesterday.
Uninspired, he went over and opened the fridge. As he became threatened at the sight of the eggs and the milk, the leftovers and the blocks of cheese, he was confronted with the fact that even after all these years in the stationhouse, he still had few skills. And he gave Duff a hard time?
Closing the door, he decided to go out the back and have a cigarette while he considered his options. There were ten guys on shift today, including the engine’s crew of him, Duff, T.J., Deshaun, and Moose—and he had about two and a half hours, barring an alarm or training drill, to get this figured out.
When in doubt, he could do sandwiches. There were enough cold cuts and lettuce in the fridge. Fresh jar of mayo in the cupboard. Chips, too. For dessert, he could give them ice cream.
Looked like he had it sorted.
“Where you going?” Moose said from the sofa. “You don’t want to miss this. The mother-in-law is in denial and Phil’s about to serve her a whole lot of reality.”
Moose loved Dr. Phil. Then again, he was probably looking for tips on how to handle his wife.
“I’ma go out back for a sec.”
“You need to stop smoking.”
“Give up your beer first, then we’ll talk.”
“Fuck you,” Moose replied genially.
The back door
opened out to the parking area, which was fully fenced in, the crew’s trucks parked against the chain link. No sun, today. Colder.
As he lit up, he leaned back against the bricks and propped the sole of his boot on the side of the building.
When his phone went off, he nearly dropped the cig into his undershorts as he fished it out of his pants pocket. Was it Anne—
Frowning, he nearly let it go into voicemail. “Yeah.”
There was a pause. “Is that any way to speak to me?”
“Deandra, what the hell are you doing on my phone?”
“I wanted to talk to you.” There was a rustle. “I wanted to hear your voice.”
“You gotta stop this.”
“Why.”
“Because you’re married to Moose.” He took a drag. “Come on, Deandra.”
“I told you I wanted it to be you.”
“It never will be. And I’m not answering anymore, ’kay? We’re done with this bullshit—”
“Why, because you’re with Anne?”
“No, because you’re not my type.”
“I used to be.” That voice dropped into the phone-sex-operator octave. “You know you liked it with me. You know you want me, Danny—”
Moose put his head out the door. “Yo, Captain Baker wants us to review Friday’s apartment fire.”
“Coming.”
Deandra cut in. “I can make you come. You remember, Danny?”
As Moose ducked back into the stationhouse, Danny had really fucking had it with the two of them. “Don’t call me anymore. If you do, I’ll have to tell your husband.”
“Tell him. I don’t give a fuck. I’m tired of that house out in the sticks, I’m tired of him, the whole thing was a fucking mistake.”
“Then fix your own damn mess, I got more than enough of my own to work on.”
“She’s never going to be with you, Danny.” That cruel edge he knew so well sharped the corners on all those consonants. “She’s never going to want you the way I do. She knows the truth about you and it turns her off.”
“Says the woman with fake tits. Forgive me if I don’t look to you for authenticity. Don’t call me again or you won’t like where it takes you.”
“Two can play at that game.”
“I’ve got less to lose than you do, sweetheart.”
As he hung up, he banged his head back against the building. Deandra was a road that he should never have gone down. The hook up had been a classic across-the-bar kind of thing. Sol had just been killed, he’d been sure that he didn’t have a chance with Anne, and he’d taken up the offer that had been so emphatically presented to him.
As far as he’d been concerned it was a one-nighter, an over-and-done-with-the-sun. Deandra had disagreed with that assessment and had come by the apartment at all hours of the day and night. Seeing a lady in distress, Moose had stepped into void, first as counselor then as a willing piece of gym equipment that the woman had ridden to much vocalizing effect.
Danny hadn’t bothered to point out what seemed obvious to everyone but Moose. Then again, the guy had needed a “win.” After he’d had a rough time in the foster care system, he’d barely graduated from college, had failed at SWAT, and compared to Danny, Jack, and Mitch, had always been the Michael Anthony instead of the Eddie Van Halen or David Lee Roth. George Harrison rather than John, Paul or Ringo.
The store brand, not the name brand.
Deandra had taken things way further than anyone had expected, all the way to that walk down the aisle. And now that she was trapped with Moose, she was thrashing in the net she’d thrown over herself. Talk about knowing the truth, though. She wasn’t the type to jump ship until she had another landing pad, so these phone calls were attempts to set up a place. When it didn’t work, she was going move on to someone else.
Which was how she’d wound up with Moose in the first place.
chapter
39
The call Anne had been waiting for didn’t come in until she was packing up to leave her office at the end of the day.
The male voice on the other end of her desk phone was brisk and efficient. “I’m calling from traffic enforcement. You’re seeking access to camera feeds down at the wharf?”
She sat back down in her chair. “Yes. I have the dates—do you want me to send them to you?”
“We’ve got a form I can email you? It takes two weeks to process.”
“Two weeks?” She looked over at Soot, who was curled up in his crate. “Is there any way to get it faster?”
“That’s for subpoena.”
“I’m working six fires, and there were at least two deaths. I’m really trying to get through all this.”
“How far do your dates go back?”
“A while.”
“We don’t keep footage very long. Only thirty days.”
And it takes two weeks to get the access? What the hell? “Okay, well, I’d appreciate it if you’d email me the form. I’ll get the ball rolling with you and see if there are some other angles I can get to.”
“Listen, the form tells you to send it back to the open inbox. Just shoot it back to me. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you. That’d be great.”
Hanging up, she’d been hoping there was another way, but it looked like she was going to have to go with option two: hardball.
Getting to her feet, she grabbed a folder she had prepared during lunch. “I’ll be right back, Soot. And then we’re going home.”
The Arson Investigation and Fire Inspection Division of the City of New Brunswick took up one floor of the muni building with its dwindling number of inspectors and their support staff working out of a rabbit warren of little spaces with more doors than windows. Don had a corner office, but it was not luxurious, what with its two-sided view of the parking lot.
As she knocked on the jamb, he looked up from his computer. “Now what.” But he eased back and took his “World’s Greatest Boss” mug with him. “You look like you’re on the warpath.”
“I need your help.”
“Wait. I want to be prepared.” He opened a drawer and took out a bottle of Motrin. After taking two, he muttered, “Let’s do this.”
She handed him the folder across his desk and then took a step back while he read.
Her boss went through the paperwork twice. Then looked up at her. “You want to subpoena Ripkin for access to his security cameras on those buildings.”
Anne paced around, unable to stand still. “I’m surprised the previous investigators on the first five fires haven’t already. No offense, but I think they were writing the scenes off because of their location and lack of intrinsic value. We need to see who was going in and out of those buildings because if the Ollie Popper theory is right, he had a sizable amount of evidence to move around. There would be a vehicle that would pull up to the site and enter. It would be there for an hour or so while he moved the goods. And if Ripkin is burning those buildings down? We’d still see someone enter.”
She sat down in one of the two vacant chairs opposite Don, remembering the wired seat Ripkin had made her sit in while they’d spoken in his office. “I’ve been thinking about something. Ripkin Development is a huge corporation, and I have a feel the guy’s paranoid about security and monitoring. There were copious amounts of office equipment in at least two of the fires—so maybe Ripkin is the one disappearing hard drives and laptops. There is no way to completely wipe out memory from computers, unless of course you melt them.”
Don closed the folder. “I get the feeling you’re focused on Ripkin.”
“Or Ollie.”
“Mostly Ripkin. Be careful about seeking information to confirm your hypothesis.” Taking a pen, he signed at the bottom of the form. “But I like your focus, Ashburn.”
“Thanks, boss. I’m going to send this ov
er right now. I’ve also got another one to do for the traffic feeds, but I’ll do that tonight from home for your signature first thing in the morning.”
When she got back to her own office, her cell phone was ringing and she caught the call right before it went into voicemail. “Tom?”
Great, her brother only called her when something was wrong.
“Hello?” she prompted when there was no response.
“Can you meet me over at Mom and Dad’s now?”
Anne frowned. “Your voice sounds weird. Are you okay?”
“Just meet me over there, okay.”
“Yeah. Sure—gimme ten. I’m still at the office.”
Maybe the renovations needed to repair the tree damage were much more than he’d thought? Or . . . she couldn’t think what else it could be.
“Is Mom going to be there?” she asked.
“No. Just you and me.”
* * *
As Anne turned onto the correct street, she was looked around at the houses and was surprised to find that her own neighborhood, where she lived now, was almost identical. Why hadn’t she noticed before? Then again, when was the last time she’d been down here?
A couple of years.
And why wouldn’t she live similarly? Her father had bought the house on the same salary, adjusted for inflation, that she was earning now. Sure, she hadn’t had a wife and two kids—but he hadn’t started out like that and her mom had contributed a kindergarten teacher’s salary to the household income.
Jesus . . . it was still pale blue.
The two-story had been built in the late sixties, and the siding had been white back then. But her mother hadn’t wanted to lose the opportunity to “pretty” it up. So that blue had been born and thrived, despite the fact that it turned the place into an Easter egg that was embarrassing.
Anne parked the Subaru in the driveway, behind her brother’s SUV. “Soot, I’ll just be a few minutes. You already went out, so you’ll be okay. Bark if you need me.”
