Silent Scream (29 page)

“Oh. Exactly how far did you change her mind?”

He thought of Olivia going taut in his arms and clenched his teeth against a new wave of need.
Not nearly far enough
. “None of your business,” he said. “Look, she offered to introduce us and I didn’t know what to say. Now what?”

“I tried last night, but she was so mad,” Paige said miserably. “I was about to blurt it out when she got called to that fire.
I thought you were history, and I had more time.”

“Well, I’m not and you don’t.” At least he hoped he wasn’t. She hadn’t taken kindly to his watching her and he couldn’t really
blame her. “I’ll tell her.”

“Tell her I was duped. Or you could just blame it on Rudy. Everybody does.”

“Tempting, but no,” he said dryly. “I’ll see you tonight.” He whistled for the dog and went back inside. The shower stopped
and he couldn’t help but think of Olivia wearing nothing more than drops of water. Trying to push the picture from his mind,
he wandered her living room, satisfying at least a small portion of his curiosity.

He’d wondered how she lived. Very modestly, he could see, most of her money going into the posters on her wall. She collected
animated art cels, she’d told him the night they’d talked until the sun came up. He could see them now, hanging in her living
room—Daffy Duck and all the other characters from the cartoons he’d loved as a kid. Road Runner, it seemed, was her favorite.
A giant poster of the Coyote holding his little umbrella hung over her TV and on top of her set was a stack of Road Runner
DVDs.

There were pictures on the mantel over her fireplace. An older couple smiling from a faded snapshot that he assumed were her
grandparents. A pair of teenagers mugging for the camera. He leaned closer, recognizing a young Olivia and Paige, arm in arm.
There was another of a woman he thought was her mother. In another a stunning redhead sat on the grass, surrounded by puppies.
And finally, a more recent picture of Olivia with Paige and the redhead at a restaurant, lifting glasses in a toast.

“That was my birthday,” Olivia said from behind him. “The big three-oh. Last year. Those are my friends Brie and Paige.”

She’d dressed in what seemed to be her work uniform,
slacks and a blouse. Her face was free of makeup, the way he liked it best. She was braiding her hair and for a moment he
just let himself watch.

“I know,” he finally said and she frowned.

“What?”

“I know your friend.” He held the picture out as if that explained it. “Paige.”

Slowly she lowered her arms. “How?”

He explained how he’d met Paige, how he’d gleaned information on Olivia over the past seven months, how Paige had been unaware.
Olivia’s eyes went flat and David got the uncomfortable feeling that this was how she approached suspects. “Are you mad?”
he asked when he was done.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“While you’re thinking, think on this.” He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her hard. “All these months, all I thought
about was you. About this. Now, go to work.”

“Mojo—”

“Can ride in my truck. I’ll drop him off. Just tell me where.”

She gave him the address and backed away, studying him in a way that made him want to squirm. “Who are you?” she asked him
quietly.

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.”

“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.”