I wish I knew. “What do you mean?”
“Who are you, that you want me? A man like you could have anyone.”
A man like you. “Tonight,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know about me.” With one very big exception. That he couldn’t share. “I’m not that complicated.”
Her smile was grim. “If you think I believe that, you’re not as smart as I thought.”
Tuesday, September 21, 8:55 a.m.
Kane was at his desk when Olivia dropped into her chair. Her cheeks flamed as soon as her eyes fell on her fedora, rakishly adorning the head of her goddess statue as it always did. She’d mulled over David’s words all the way in and, God help her, could see herself in nothing more than her fedora, cuffed to his bed. She leaned over and pulled the hat so it covered the goddess’s face. Foolish, she knew. “Hell,” she muttered.
Kane’s brows went up. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”
“No.” Most definitely not. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged, disappointed. “You never dish anymore. Where’s the excitement?”
“You couldn’t handle my excitement, old man,” she said dryly and made him chuckle. She noted the breakfast-sandwich wrappers on his desk. “Jennie’s gonna be mad. You know you’re only allowed one egg and pastrami every two weeks.”
“Jennie won’t find out.” He crunched the wrappers and threw them in her trash can. “There, problem solved.” He handed her a thick folder from his desk. “I’ve been going through the CDs Tomlinson’s wife gave us. Those are Tomlinson’s paying customers.”
“All these? How come he was going bankrupt, then?”
Kane lifted another folder, twice as thick as the first one. “These are the customers who owed him money.”
Olivia began scanning pages. “Rankin and Sons?”
“In the nonpaying folder.”
“So there’s a connection. Condo contractor owes plumbing supplier money.”
“But not a lot. Rankin owed a lot less than a lot of these other guys. Certainly not enough to warrant killing Tomlinson to make the debt go away.”
“Maybe the debt was more than money.” Olivia checked her watch. “It’s nine. Let’s go.” Kane ambled while she walked quickly, as usual.
“Can you at least tell me if you got my field glasses back?”
She winced. “I forgot again.”
“No glasses and no dish. This day sucks already.” Then he stopped abruptly in the door of Abbott’s office.
Olivia craned her neck to see around him. A man in a black suit and shiny black shoes sat at Abbott’s round conference table, looking serious and slightly sour. “Who’s that?” she murmured, but she knew.
“Come in,” Abbott said. “Meet Special Agent Crawford. Crawford, these are the lead detectives on the case, Kane and Sutherland.”
They shook hands with the federal agent and Olivia looked at Abbott from the corner of her eye. “Morning meeting?”
“In here,” Abbott said. “Crawford will be joining us. On a consulting basis.”
Crawford’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, sitting back down in his chair.
“Bruce,” Olivia said gingerly, “we need to talk to you. Outside?”
Abbott rose wearily. “Of course.” Olivia felt a stirring of pity as her boss closed the door of his own office behind them and leaned against the wall. “Don’t give me shit, please,” he said. “I’ve had enough already.”
“From who?” Olivia asked.
“My boss’s boss, who doesn’t want to be caught playing cowboy if this is domestic terrorism. Can you tell me that it’s not?”
He sounded so hopeful that Olivia hated to burst his bubble. “I don’t think we can say with a hundred percent certainty yet.”
“Great.” Abbott sighed. “Crawford’s already put in a request for jurisdiction.”
“My ass,” Olivia said.
“I know. But we have to share the sandbox. Prove the glass ball is just a ruse and Special Agent Crawford goes away.” Abbott leaned closer. “Please make him go away,” he whispered. “He is a major pain in the ass and I’ve only known him an hour.”
Olivia patted his arm. “We’ll do our best. You want us to spill all in there?”
Abbott shrugged. “For now.”
They went back in the office where Crawford was still scowling sourly.
“Arson and CSU are en route from the scene,” Abbott said. “I expect them to be here soon. You can go get yourself some coffee if you like.”
“It’s okay,” Crawford said flatly. “I’ll wait here.”
Abbott shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, then looked relieved at the appearance of one of his detectives. “Come in, Detective Webster.”
Olivia was always glad to work with Noah, who was solo for the time being. His former partner was Jack Phelps, who’d returned to Homicide a few months ago after taking a medical leave. It was common knowledge that Jack had been through rehab, but nobody had mentioned it since his return. Jack’s new partner was rookie detective Sam Wyatt. Olivia suspected Noah had cut Jack too much slack when they’d been partners, hoping Jack would work out his addictions on his own.
Olivia also suspected she and Noah would be assigned together once Kane retired at the end of the year. It was one of the sparkles of silver in a dark cloud.
Noah came in, looking warily at Crawford. “Good morning. The meeting’s here?”
“It is. Detective Webster, this is Special Agent Crawford, FBI.”
Noah sat down next to the Fed. “You investigated Preston Moss.”
“I did,” Crawford said, his tone inviting no chitchat, so Noah turned to Abbott.
“I got the list of the condo contractor’s employees from Faye. She’s pulled backgrounds on the ones who were financially strapped, which was damn near all of them. Anything special I’m looking for?”
“Probably,” Abbott said, “but let’s wait for the others. I don’t want anyone missing anything.” They sat in awkward silence for another two minutes until the arrival of Barlow, Micki Ridgewell, and the shrink, Jessie Donahue.
Abbott did the introductions. “Ian called to say he won’t be here,” he said. “He’s started Tomlinson’s autopsy. He did say that the man’s blood alcohol was nearly point two. No evidence of any narcotics in the urine. He hasn’t done the cut, so he didn’t yet know if there was smoke in Tomlinson’s lungs. So, Barlow? You want to get started?”
“The arsonists came in through a back door,” Barlow said, “and left the same way. There was no sign the alarm had been tampered with. They drugged the guard dog. I spoke with the vet this morning, who said the dog was still unconscious. The vet drew blood and sent it to the lab for testing, to see what drug they used. The fire was set with gasoline, a long fuse, and probably a match. They kept it simple.”
“Security video?” Abbott asked.
“The warehouse ran on an old video system,” Barlow said. “The video should have been in a recording unit in the electrical closet, but the unit was empty. The manager, Lloyd Hart, said they kept four videotapes in cycle, changing the tape once a week. We found three melted tapes, but the one inside the recorder is gone.”
“Inside job again?” Olivia murmured.
“Maybe.” Barlow held up a sketch of the warehouse layout. “They poured the gas around the stacked boxes, but none near the office.”
“They didn’t mean for Tomlinson’s body to burn up,” Olivia said, remembering what David had told her.
“He was shot execution style,” Kane said. “Maybe we’re looking at a message of some kind. Rankin and Sons construction was one of Tomlinson’s customers and they did owe him money.”
“Or maybe it’s about money, but not the way you think,” Crawford said in an overly paternal, condescending way. “These activists have torched insurance companies that sell policies to animal labs and construction companies. Why not threaten a construction company’s supply chain? Terrorize enough vendors and they’ll think twice before selling to a company building in a controversial area.”