“Roger. Over.”

The hoses were opened from the ladders, gallons and gallons of H2O arching in through the windows that had been broken. Smoke flared, white now from evaporation.

The first charred door he opened revealed a crappy bathroom that had been spared some of the damage, the plastic shower curtained melted like modern art on the edge of the tub, the walls glazed and sweating, the color scheme of pale blue and yellow dulled but extant.

The next door was probably going to be a bedroom—

As Danny opened the way in, he couldn’t process what he was looking at. Walls were stained with something, the pink-flowered paper marked with . . . brown handprints? That was when he saw, through the haze, the body spread-eagled on the bed. The wrists and ankles had been tied to the posts and there was a red gag in the mouth.

No movement.

Then again, the older woman appeared to have been gutted like a deer. Very recently. There was no meaty smell of anatomy, however. The stench of the fire was too loud in his nose.

Danny spoke into his communicator. “Second victim, bedroom. This is a murder scene.”

He forgot to ID himself, but he didn’t care. He went over. The old woman was staring through sightless eyes in terror at the ceiling overhead. Her loose skin was like folds of pale felt pooling under her arm pits, at her neck, on either side of her bony thighs.

He wanted to cover her up. Find a sheet or a blanket and give her some dignity. This was a crime scene, however.

“What the fuck.” Moose came in and stood next to him. “So that’s what was cooking when the fire started.”

Chapter 29

“You know, I like unusual women.”

As Charles Ripkin spoke, his eyes focused on Anne’s prosthesis. “Tell me, how did you lose your arm?”

He already knew the answer, she thought. He had to have researched her.

“I think we need to stay on topic. Let’s talk about those fires in your warehouses.”

“Did it hurt?” The man smiled. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be deformed.”

“I understand that they’re held by various LLCs. I’m curious why you haven’t put them in the name of Ripkin Inc.”

“Do you feel ugly now? You know, as a woman. Now that you’re not whole anymore.”

“I’m also curious why they’re insured by different companies. It’s like your spreading risk.”

“Not to get too personal, but when you’re with a lover, do you hide the stump? Keep it under a pillow, a sleeve, a fold of sheet? So they don’t see it. Get distracted. Lose the mood.”

“Because I’m wondering why the concentration of arson.”

His left eyebrow twitched. “Are you ashamed now? Of yourself. Do you miss who you used to be?”

“Yet no one has been charged. I realize that the argument will be derelicts, but if that were true, that area of the city has been run-down for decades. Why in the last two years is all of this happening?”

“Once a firefighter. Now a pencil pusher. You are your own cliché, you realize.”

“Do you have any explanation?”

“Of course I do. It’s a bit obvious to have to paint a picture to a smart girl like you, but since you asked—you lose your arm, and now you’re an also-ran with an unsatisfied yearning to get back to work. The problem is, you can’t do the work you want anymore because you can’t pass the physical tests you used to ace. You’re stir-crazy, searching for purpose, and this itch that cannot be scratched no matter how many forms you fill out or investigations you do is driving you insane. So your brain is finding connections that do not exist, which is what women do, and all of that mental storm got you in your little gray municipal sedan and drove you all the way up to the big city.” The man sat forward. “I permitted you this one get-together because I feel sorry for you. I have a daughter whom I care for very much, and she, too, had a fire ruin her. She was once very pretty. Now she looks like a monster. But you people saved her life and that’s why I gave you that new stationhouse. I am very pro-firefighter, very supportive of your previous profession.”

“So you have no comment.”

“I just gave you plenty.”

“You didn’t explain anything, but I’m not going to argue with you.”

“Good.” The man stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go on about my day. I have indulged you this visit because I feel sorry for you, but anything past this I will regard as harassment. There are consequences to things, as you have learned firsthand. Let’s both make sure you don’t lose anything else, shall we?”

Anne got to her feet. “I’m going to do my job, Mr. Ripkin. If you’re hiding anything, it’s going to come out. You need to be prepared.”

“I always think it’s wise to take our own advice.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“We’ll see about that. Oh, before you go, how’s your mother?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nancy Janice. She lives alone, doesn’t she? In that house on Crandall Avenue. A tree fell on it from the storms, didn’t it.”

Anne froze and her stomach knotted up. She thought about Bob Burlington, the arson investigator whose body had washed ashore in the bay, and her boss’s warning. But she was also not going to be bullied.

“Mr. Ripkin, I am very sure this act of yours works with most of the people you come in contact with, and I congratulate you on the cultivation of such a successful intimidation tool.” She put her hand up. “Wait, before you tell me that I need to take you seriously, I’d like to show you something.”

She took her cell phone out and turned the screen around to him. “I’ve recorded this entire conversation and every two minutes this handy app has sent a file to my boss, Don Marshall.”

“That is not admissible as evidence,” Ripkin said in a bored tone.

“You’re right. But Don believes you had Bob Burlington murdered because he investigated the fire at your mansion. So if anything happens to me, my family, or anyone close to me, I’ve got that little comment of yours about my mother’s house on lock—” As her phone vibrated, she smiled and pointed at the screen. “Oh, look. It’s just sent another file—swatch what happens next.” A text notification came through. “And here’s Don, confirming receipt.”

“No one can do anything with it. You gave me no notice.”

She pointed to the chair she was in. “Don’t pretend you didn’t record this, either. Guess we’re even.”

The double doors opened and the animatron with the great legs waited in between the jambs like a Doberman pinscher.

Anne walked over and then looked over her shoulder. “One more thing. I’d rather have a plastic hand and a clear conscience than be an OCD-ridden Cialis candidate with hair plugs and murder in his background. I can change jobs and enjoy the satisfaction of helping to put sociopathic criminals like you behind bars. Your future, on the other hand, is going to involve more male pattern baldness as well as the joy of sharing a communal shower with all kinds of people who you will view as beneath you. Oh, and as for the erectile dysfunction, I’m just guessing at that because only a guy who can’t get it up would try to play the ‘you’re lesser as a woman’ bullshit with someone like me—oh, look.” She indicated her phone’s screen again. “Another file got sent. I think I’ll make a best-of CD and send it to the local CBS affiliate—no, wait, you’re so excited about being in the big city, CNN is even better. Have a good day, Mr. Ripkin.”

Anne left the office and did not look back. As she went down the corridor, her legs were like rubber and she wanted to wipe the sheen of sweat off her forehead—but she resisted the latter because she didn’t want to look weak.

Behind her, the executive assistant’s footfalls were sharp as curses.

As Anne came up to the glass wall that fronted the reception area, she was glad when she could push it open and get the hell out of there.

At the elevators, she used her prosthetic hand to push the down button.