Once You're Mine

by Barbara Freethy

  "Did you report that to the police?" she asked.

  "I did, but nothing came of it. There wasn't anything in the files about the fires. And there was no suspicion regarding your father's death. It was witnessed by his best friends. Since it didn't appear that your family had any concerns, I dropped it. I told myself that it was just a coincidence, that your dad always had a big story he was just about ready to break, that this one was no different than any of the others. He was always going after big fish. Assuming that one of those fish had something to do with his death was a big stretch in the absence of any evidence whatsoever."

  She didn't like that he'd given up so easily, but would she have done any differently? All he'd had was conjecture, and it was difficult to go against the fact that Mitch and Jim had told the same story about what happened on that boat. The men had been friends for twenty years. No one doubted their version of events.

  "You said the fires stopped after Ben died," Dylan interjected.

  "Yes. I think there was one small suspicious fire that made me wonder about the story again, but that was it."

  "Did anything else happen besides the hack?" she asked. "Any other odd conversations or people looking for anything after my dad died?"

  Hal thought for a moment. "I did talk to the fire investigator. He'd had a few conversations with Ben about the arson fires and wondered if Ben had left any notes that might be pertinent to the investigations, but as I mentioned before, there wasn't anything."

  "Do you remember the name of the investigator?" Dylan asked.

  "Sure do. It was Wallace Kruger. We worked with him quite a bit that summer."

  "Kruger?" she echoed, looking at Dylan. "He's the guy working on the hotel fire."

  "No," Dylan said. "That's Gary Kruger, Wallace's son."

  "Oh." So it wasn't the same man, but it was his son. It still felt like an unexpected connection that might be significant.

  "That's about all I can tell you," Hal said. "Do you have any more questions?"

  She usually had a dozen ready to go at all times, but at the moment she couldn't think of anything. "Not right now. But can I keep in touch?"

  "Sure. I'm here most days."

  "Thanks," she said, as they all stood up.

  "You're more than welcome," Hal said. "I respected your father more than just about anyone on the planet. He was one of the best journalists I ever worked with. He left some big shoes to fill. I hope you know that."

  "I'm not trying to fill them, just hoping to do good work myself," she said, as they walked back up to the deck.

  "I'm sure you will. Have a good night."

  She and Dylan didn't speak until they got into the car, then she said, "It's weird, isn't it? The arson fires? The Kruger connection? The computer hack? Or am I reaching? If I am, you need to pull me down to earth, Dylan, because I am getting some wild ideas in my head."

  He gave her a small smile. "I don't think you're reaching, but before you jump off a cliff, let's talk it out."

  "Instead of us talking to each other, maybe we should talk to Gary Kruger."

  "He is not interested in talking to me. I spoke to him at the pawn shop fire yesterday and he made it clear he was doing his job and I should stick to doing mine."

  "It's weird that his father was the investigator seventeen years ago."

  He nodded. "I'd forgotten that his dad was in the department. Gary gives me crap for being a Callaway, but he followed in his father's footsteps, too."

  "There's a lot of that going around," she said.

  He nodded. "There is. Let me talk to Emma about it. She'll know how we can work with Kruger or go around him to get what information we need."

  "Maybe she can also go back seventeen years and find out whether there was any evidence linking anyone to the fires my dad was looking into."

  "That's an excellent idea." He pulled out his phone and put in Emma's number. "Voicemail," he said, when she didn't answer. He waited a moment, then left a message. "Emma, it's Dylan. We have some information on fires that happened seventeen years ago. There might be a connection to what's going on now. Call me when you have a chance." He set his phone down. "She'll call us back."

  "I know. I just hate waiting."

  "We have a lot to discuss. That will make the waiting go faster, and I'm thinking we should have our conversation over dinner. I'm hungry. What about you?"

  "My stomach is churning. But I don't know if that's anxiety or hunger."

  "I think some crab cakes and some wine might take care of both," he said lightly.

  "Let's give it a shot."

  Seventeen

  Dylan had never seen Tori so quiet. Over crab cakes and wild salmon, her expressions changed quite a bit, but few words came out of her mouth. She was working a lot of things out in her head, which was also different. She usually liked to talk things out.

  "Okay, what's going on in your brain?" he asked, as she let out the third sigh in a row.

  "What?"

  "You are somewhere far away. Care to invite me along?" he asked.

  "You wouldn't like the trip. I feel like I'm in a pinball machine."

  He smiled. "I think I know where you're going with that, but let's see."

  Her eyes sparkled at his words, which made him feel a lot better. Tori was definitely resilient. She always bounced back. She had good survival skills, probably some of which she'd learned after her father died. But mostly it was just not in her personality to stay down on the mat too long. She was always up on her feet and ready to fight again.

  "I'm like that silver ball in the machine bouncing from one thing to the next," she explained. "I think I'm heading in one direction, and then I hit a wall and find myself upside down and spinning in a different direction."

  "I like pinball. I'm good at it, too."

  "You think you're good at every game," she said dryly. "Remember when we used to go to the Village Host? You and Scott would play the arcade games for an hour straight. You were obsessed."

  "We were high scorers on a couple of those machines."

  "Ah, the glory days. You were good because you spent about a thousand dollars in quarters to play the machines."

  "I cannot deny that we didn't run through a lot of cash. But it was fun."

  "Those were certainly simpler days," she said with another sigh.

  "Were they?" he challenged. "Growing up is its own pinball game. Lots of wrong turns and brick walls to run into while you're figuring things out."

  "I'm surprised you would say that. Your path to adulthood seemed pretty straightforward. I don’t remember you having an awkward phase with braces, glasses, acne, and a tendency to say the wrong thing all the time."

  "You weren't that bad. And we all had insecurities in high school. It's part of growing up."

  "I suppose, but some people seem to skip the worst parts of adolescence whereas I usually hit them head on."

  "Maybe that's why you're so strong."

  "Maybe."

  "So where are we in our pinball game?"

  "Okay," she said, gathering herself together. "Let's see. We have the arson connection—the fires my dad was researching, the hotel fire I was caught up in, and the one from yesterday. All of those fires link back to an investigator with the last name of Kruger."

  "That's not that unusual. The fire department is filled with legacy firefighters and investigators. And arson is an ongoing problem."

  "Which might have spiked back when my father was investigating and is spiking again now, for some reason we don't know."

  "Okay, I agree with that. What else do we have?"

  "The computer search at the Herald after my dad's death."

  "And there was the disappearing laptop after the boat trip," he added. "But if someone was looking for something after your father died, I wonder why they didn't go after the files that are now in your possession, and were, I presume, in your mom's house this entire time."

  "That's a good question," she said, her teeth worrying h
er bottom lip as she considered his comment. "I should have thought of that."

  He smiled at her annoyance. "You usually think of all the questions. Maybe there are just too many in your head."

  "So, let's come up with some answers…"

  "All right. Let's consider that someone did look through the files in your mom's house," he said.

  She met his gaze with a knowing gleam in her eyes. "Someone who didn't have to break in, because he was there all the time."

  "Mitch or Jim."

  "Or both. They were always around." She tapped her fingers restlessly on the table top. "Mitch is a money guy. He worked in banking, accounting, and venture capital, and he's well-connected in the city. He has a lot of wealthy clients and friends. Could he have somehow been involved with whoever my dad was trying to take down?" Shadows filled her eyes revealing anger, pain, fear… "I can't believe what I'm thinking, Dylan."

  Because she couldn't seem to say it out loud, he did. "You're thinking that Mitch set your father up."

  "I don't want to believe that. But he could have taken the laptop, gotten rid of my dad, searched my mom's house, pretended to be devastated, and kept an eye on us just to be sure my mom didn't know anything."

  "That would be a huge betrayal," he said quietly.

  "Bigger than huge. And it's not just betrayal; it's murder. How can I think that about Mitch? He's been a second father to me."

  "Let's consider another alternative. Your father finds out that his friend Henry Lowell and his family have been killed. He's afraid he's next. So Mitch and Jim help your father disappear because he's in trouble."

  "And they keep the secret for seventeen years?" she asked doubtfully.

  "To protect you and your family—yes."

  "Where would my dad have been all these years? Why wouldn't he have come out of hiding at some point?"

  "The danger lingered, or he did something he couldn't take back. Maybe your father crossed some sort of line. If he came out of hiding, he could go to jail."

  "I can't see my father committing a crime. He was a hero, Dylan. He fought for the little people. He was all about truth and justice."

  "He could have had to do something wrong in the pursuit of that. Or maybe he was being framed or blackmailed and had to disappear," he suggested.

  She didn't look happy with any of his comments.

  "I know you're trying to help, Dylan, but it's so impossible for me to believe in any of those ideas."

  "Well, you don't have to believe. We're just talking." He picked up his water glass and finished it off. "Do you want dessert? Ice cream?"

  She shook her head. "Maybe later. I still have some at home. It's time to get back to work. I'm starting to think there's nothing in the files at my house, but I might as well finish reading through them to be sure."

  "I agree. We need to start crossing some things off the list. I'll help."

  "You must be tired after your long shift."

  He was tired, and if he had any sense, he would drop her off and go home. But where Tori was concerned, he didn't seem to have any sense at all.

  * * *

  Two hours later, his weariness was catching up to him, and he noticed Tori yawning more than a few times in a row, but they were almost done with the files, and he really wanted to finish them off, so there would be no loose ends.

  Tori rolled her head around on her neck as she set a folder on the kitchen table and picked up another one.

  "Time for ice cream?" he asked.

  She smiled. "You read my mind."

  "I'll get you a cone. One or two scoops?"

  "It's definitely a two-scoop night."

  He went into the small kitchen and pulled the carton out of the freezer. He made her a cone and took it out to her. "I think you'll have to go shopping tomorrow. There's enough for a cone for me, but otherwise you're out of your most vital food group."

  She took the cone from his hand and gave him a smile. "I'll definitely have to find time for a trip to the market."

  He went back into the kitchen and made a cone for himself, then returned to the table.

  As he ate his ice cream, his gaze settled on Tori. Her hair was mussed. She had a tendency to run her fingers through her hair or tuck strands behind one ear when she was thinking. There were dark shadows under her eyes. He had a feeling she hadn't been sleeping well, and he wished he was responsible for her lack of sleep and not this damned case she was caught up in.

  As her tongue snaked out to catch a drip of ice cream, his body hardened. She really had a great mouth, and she could definitely use it for more than questions, as he'd found out the other night.

  This wasn't the time to let his thoughts go in that direction, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. He was completely caught up in Tori—in ways that were both terrifying and exciting. He didn't know where the two of them were going, but that was part of the thrill.

  Tori challenged him in ways that other women had not. She pushed him with her questions. She saw through his defenses. She knew things about him that very few people knew. He felt more like himself with her than he'd ever felt with anyone.

  But…and, of course, there was a but…he wasn't quite sure what to do about his unexpected and ridiculously strong attraction to a woman he should be treating as a little sister. That had gone out the window Sunday night when Tori's persuasive mouth had made it impossible to keep his hands off her.

  It was supposed to be one night of fun—no strings, no promises, no regrets. Only problem was he wanted another night—maybe tonight and tomorrow and the night after that…

  "Wait a second," Tori said suddenly, swallowing the last bit of her ice cream cone.

  "What?" he asked, seeing her gaze on the file in front of her.

  "I might have something."

  She pulled out a piece of paper and put it on the table between them. It looked like a flow chart with words and arrows.

  "Look," she said. "Wallace Kruger's name is at the top."

  He ran his gaze down the chart, which had arrows leading from Kruger to four other boxes labeled respectively: Henderson, Castleborough, St. John's Manor, and Randolph. Underneath was another row with more names: Oscar Martinez, John Litton and Neil Lundgren.

  "What do you think it means?" Tori asked impatiently.

  "St. John's Manor could be a building. In fact, the first four boxes could be people or buildings or streets."

  "Or fire locations," she suggested.

  "Possibly."

  "Kruger was the fire investigator that my dad spoke to. We know Martinez was the mayor the year my father died. The Lundgrens are big real-estate developers."

  "The Littons are, too," he said.

  "I wonder if we just found our big fishes." She grabbed her computer out of her bag and opened it up. She quickly typed in a name, then said, "John Litton founded Litton Capital, a corporation invested in real estate, commercial construction, venture capital and numerous other businesses. Some of his bigger holdings over the years have included the Viceroy hotel, the Delancey Inn, and the Italian Social Club. He died about eight years ago. His son Eric and his daughter Sheila now run the company. There's a grandson in the mix, too."

  "What about Lundgren?"

  "Let me pull him up. I know that Peter Lundgren is a developer. He was actually at one of the meetings I recently attended with representatives from the various housing agencies." She paused. "Okay, I've got a bio on him. Neil Lundgren was Peter's father. The Lundgrens own quite a few historical buildings in the city, including many of the oldest Victorians, or painted ladies as they're called."

  "So the Littons and Lundgrens probably know each other. They seem to move in the same circles," he said.

  "Yes. Neil Lundgren died eight months ago. He's survived by his wife Constance and three sons: Peter, Donald and Tyler. It looks like Donald is a doctor and Tyler works with Peter on the real-estate end." She looked up from her computer. "We need to find out if any of the buildings torched seventeen years ago
can be tied to these families."

  "And whether or not insurance claims were filed," he added. "If we can figure out who might have been profiting from the fires, we'll know who your father was looking into and who would have been most afraid of his questions."

  "I agree."

  "Look up St. John's Manor," he said.

  "Okay." She took a moment, then said, "St. John's Manor was a six-story, turn-of-the-century apartment building that survived two major earthquakes and was home to many in San Francisco's art community. It was burned down seventeen years ago." She raised her gaze to meet his. "Our hunch was right. These names are probably arson sites."

  He pulled out his phone. "I'm going to try Emma again." The phone rang a few times and then Emma picked up.

  "Hi, Dylan. Sorry I didn't call you back. I had a late doctor's appointment."

  "I hope everything is all right."

  "I'm fine. I just wish doctors didn't make you wait an hour to have a five-minute checkup," she grumbled. "So you have some information for me to check out?"

  "Yes, and by the way, you're on speaker with me and Tori."

  "Great. Hi Tori."

  "Hi," Tori said. "Sorry to bother you."

  "No problem. What's up?"

  "We think that Tori's father was investigating a string of arson fires in the city seventeen years ago," he said. "We have some names for you to check on. I don't know if they're buildings or streets, but I have four."

  "Okay, hang on one second. Let me grab a notepad. All right, what are the names?"

  "St. John's Manor, Henderson, Castleborough, and Randolph," he said. "We think Wallace Kruger was involved in those investigations."

  "Where are you getting this information?" Emma asked.

  "From my dad's old files," Tori put in. "He also mentions Neil Lundgren and John Litton, but I don't know what the context is."

  "Lundgren and Litton," Emma repeated. "I know those names. They're important San Francisco families. What's their connection?"

  "We don't know yet," he said. "They could have owned the buildings in question or be connected in some other way."