“It’s possible,” Kane said. “That’s why we’re looking at both arsons individually, as well as establishing connections.”
“But,” Barlow put in, “these two fires lack an important hallmark of environmental terrorism. Nobody’s claimed credit-and SPOT always did.”
“But,” Crawford said, too patiently, “you have two glass balls. Globes, just like SPOT left behind. That’s signature enough.”
“We also have two gunshot vics,” Micki said. “We found the slug in a fragment of Tomlinson’s wall. Ballistics says it came from the same gun that killed Henry Weems.”
“SPOT never shot anyone,” Crawford admitted. “Preston Moss was very anti-gun.”
“Did you bring any photos of the glass balls SPOT left behind?” Micki asked.
“One better.” Crawford reached into his briefcase and pulled out a small evidence envelope. He shook out a box and took off the lid. “This is one of the actual balls.”
Olivia reached for the box, but Crawford held it back. “Look only, please.”
She frowned at Abbott, who looked beleaguered. “This is Super Ball-sized,” she said. “Ours is larger. This one’s continents are embedded in the glass. Ours are etched.”
“Maybe they couldn’t get the original model,” Crawford said. “We were never able to trace the maker of this ball. We had it narrowed to three companies. I’ve got the list.”
Olivia took the folder he offered. “Two of them have online catalogs. Let’s see if they sell an etched globe.” She let him see she was surprised by his gesture. “Thanks.”
His nod was stiff. “I spent a career chasing Moss, Detective. I want him gone.”
“Tracey Mullen was only sixteen years old and Henry Weems was a good cop,” Olivia responded briskly. “We want whoever killed them gone, too.”
“I noticed you didn’t say anything nice about Tomlinson,” Crawford said dryly.
“From all accounts, he was a royal jerk. But he’s a victim and we want his killer.”
“Tomlinson was a very flexible, royal jerk,” Micki said. “There were photos on his desk when he was shot. We’ve pieced together some of the fragments from the rubble. There’s a lot of water damage from putting out the fire. Reclaiming them won’t be easy.”
Micki placed copies of three pictures on the table. All were missing pieces, like a puzzle in process, but there was enough remaining for everyone to wince.
“Ouch,” Kane said. “How did he do that?”
Olivia tilted her head. “I was a gymnast in college, and nobody I knew could do that.”
Beside her, Olivia could hear Noah clear his throat, as if swallowing a laugh that would have been entirely inappropriate.
Abbott shook his head. “People,” he admonished. “Who’s the woman?”
“Her name is Shondra,” Kane said. “She’s on Tomlinson’s list of employees, even though the manager said she was a temp. When Tomlinson’s wife found out about the affair and got a restraining order on his corporate checkbook, Shondra walked.”
“Give me a copy of Tomlinson’s employee list,” Noah said. “I’ll do a cross-check against Rankin’s list. See if anything pops.”
Micki started to gather the photos, but Olivia stopped her. “When was this taken?”
“There were no time stamps that we could see,” Micki said. “The originals appear to be printed on photo paper on a printer, not at a photo shop. Why?”
“Well, just that Hart, the manager, said Tomlinson golfed,” Olivia said slowly. “He should have tan lines on his upper arms from his golf shirt, but he’s white as a ghost. All over.” She glanced at Kane. “When did Louise Tomlinson say she filed for divorce?”
“She didn’t, but the files she copied from her husband’s computer were dated June fifteenth. Hart said she filed the very next day.”
“That must be it,” she murmured. “He wouldn’t have had time to get much sun.”
“Why is that important, Olivia?” Abbott asked.
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right with what the wife told us.”
“Then we dig deeper into Mrs. T,” Kane said simply. “Anything from the gas cans?”
“A few prints,” Micki said. “We’re running them through AFIS, but they could belong to anybody. The gas cans were old and rusted. If you find the arsonists’ car, we may be able to match rust residue from the cans, putting them at the scene.”
“Speaking of cars,” Barlow said, “we recovered Barney’s. It was parked about a half-mile away, keys in the ignition. We didn’t find any prints on the keys.”
“So his killer took his keys?” Kane asked. “Then drove his car away?”
“Took his BlackBerry, too,” Micki said. “The manager said Tomlinson never went anywhere without it. We found footprints all around the property, but with so much foot traffic, they could belong to anyone, like the gas cans.”
“What about the shoeprint we found in the mud near the lake?” Olivia asked.
“The lab matched the tread to Converse high-tops, male, size ten,” Micki said.
“So, Tracey’s partner wore shoes when he ran from the condo fire, but Tracey didn’t,” Olivia mused. “Why? They’d just had sex. Why did he have shoes on?”
“Maybe he was getting ready to leave when the fire broke out,” Barlow said.
“Which meant he wasn’t squatting with her,” Olivia said. “He had someplace else to be, but she was hiding out. More weight to the theory that he’s local. We need to find him and find out how he got access to the building to start with.” She checked her watch. “We’re meeting the sign language interpreter in half an hour. We’re going to the deaf school to see if anyone knows this boy. The principal promised total support.”
“What about the girl’s parents?” Abbott asked.
“Mom’s supposed to call when she and stepdad get to the airport,” Olivia said.
“We met with the dad last night,” Kane said. “He ID’d Tracey and told us she’d gone to a Camp Longfellow this past summer. It’s in Maryland. We’re wondering if this could be where she met the boy.”
“So get a roster,” Abbott said. “See if they had any campers from the Twin Cities.”
“I can take that,” Noah said, “while you’re out at the deaf school.”
“It might not be that straightforward,” Kane warned. “I checked out the Web site last night and I couldn’t find a contact name. There are some e-mail addresses and one toll-free number, but there’s a note on the page that says, ‘Leave a message and we’ll call you as soon as possible.’ I’m thinking the camp’s not staffed year-round.”
“Wonderful,” Noah muttered. “Well, I guess I’ll have to dig.”
“I need to see the condo and the Tomlinson warehouse,” Crawford said.
Barlow slanted a look at Abbott, who nodded. “You can ride with me,” Barlow said.
Crawford’s jaw had tightened at Barlow’s double check. “Thank you,” he said coldly.
“You’ve been quiet, Jess,” Abbott said to the shrink, ignoring the Fed. “What are you thinking?”
“That there is a very big disconnect,” Dr. Donahue said. “The fires were set to burn stuff, not people. But in both, a person was shot-Weems in the heart and Tomlinson in the back of the head. You’re right, Kane, Tomlinson was an execution. Weems… not. It’s like the shooter was caught unaware by Weems, but shot anyway. And accurately. Like target practice. But Tomlinson… that was revenge. Neither mesh with the fire. Right now, there seems to be a very divergent set of personalities in this group.”
“Or divergent agendas,” Olivia said.
Donahue nodded. “Quite possibly. The question is, are the divergent agendas acceptable to all the group members, and if not, when will they splinter?”
“How many people are in this group?” Abbott asked.
“At least three,” Barlow said. “We found two sets of footprints mixed with accelerant at the condo door. But whoever killed Weems did not set the fire. So at least three.”