She didn’t mean it. But people had levers to be pulled in certain circumstances and her end goal was to have her mother safe until she figured this Ripkin thing out.

At least she knew the woman was safe here.

“I am, too,” her mother said sadly.

Chapter 31

Striding into the Canterbury Inn’s lobby, Tom felt the floorboards under the deep red carpeting bend beneath his weight, the adjustment causing creaks to rise up from his feet. Everything was brass-chandelier, old-school New England, lithographs of American revolutionaries on the walls, grandfather clocks in the corners, simple moldings on the low ceiling.

He half expected a lobster in colonial dress to be behind the front desk.

Wrong. It was a brunette in a uniform.

As she looked up at him, he gave her a wave and pointed in the direction of the dining room. She nodded and went back to whatever she was doing.

Probably refreshing her memory on the Boston Tea Party. Paul Revere. Faneuil Hall.

None of which was in New Brunswick, all of which the city had commandeered as part of its tourist trade, like a little brother mugging his older sibling’s stuff.

The dining room was red and navy blue, all patriotic, the tables set far apart, the place more than three-quarters full of the white-hair-and-dental-implant set. Autumn always brought the leaf peepers, busloads of over-seventies riding the highways through the colorful season so they could return home with Vermont maple syrup, fake ivory carvings from Maine, and miniature laminated maps of the Freedom Trail from Massachusetts.

“May I help you?” the hostess asked from behind her stand.

“I’m here to meet—”

“There you are!” Graham Perry came out of nowhere like a gremlin. “We’re in a private room.”

In any other circumstances, Tom would have been pissed that he had to deal with the guy. But he would have taken anyone as a chaperone for this, including Mr. Hi-how’re-ya.

“I’m not staying long,” Tom said by way of a greeting. “And why the hell are we meeting in a private room. I thought campaigns like to save money.”

“We’re building a coalition.”

“And you can’t do this at a Howard Johnson’s?”

“They don’t exist anymore. And no, we can’t.”

Perry opened a door, and yup, it was another boardroom setup, but this time Tom was looking at a whole bunch of aftermath, the seats turned away from the table, bound reports half-cocked in some places, mint wrappers and half-empty Snapple and Poland Spring bottles next to glasses with melting ice in them. A portable screen and projector were in place, and a laser point that had been left on was beaming across at the side wall, a red eye.

“She must have gone to the bathroom. Hold on.”

Perry shuffled out and Tom felt like following the trend. Instead, he sauntered over and checked out one of the reports.

“Warehouse District Repurposing Proposal” was the title, and he smiled. Flipping through the pages, he saw Ripkin Development’s name all over the place.

“Thanks for coming to see me.”

Tom looked up at Mayor Mahoney. Navy blue dress tonight, same figure, same hair, same scent. God, he wished he weren’t attracted to her.

“Warehouse wharf development, huh.” He tossed the report on the table. “Big plans. Expensive plans—what were you saying about firefighters and teachers?”

“We need business development in this city.”

“I thought we weren’t allowed to talk about your father.”

She almost caught the frown before it hit her face. Almost. Her problem was that he’d seen it so many times, that expression that reflected the internal thought: Wow, you really are the asshole people say you are.

“It’s not about my father.”

“So is it about Charles Ripkin? I saw his name all over that.”

“He’s a potential major investor.”

“Who owns a lot of property down there.”

“Which is why we have to get him involved.” The mayor shook her head. “But that’s not why you’re here.”

Tom became very aware that Perry had not returned to the room. And that the doors were closed.

He put his palms up and took a step back. “It’s not for that. I did not come for you.”

“What?” The frown came back. “Are you suggesting—are you serious?”

“Don’t pretend that it doesn’t happen. And you’ve made it clear that you’ll do anything to get reelected.”

Mayor Mahoney’s jaw clenched, and he found it interesting that she was forcing control over her emotions—because it suggested there might be some heat underneath all that composure. Then again, he’d just accused her of using sex for union votes, soooooooo . . .

“I would like to make this very clear,” she bit out. “I asked you here to discuss my plans for addressing the city employee pension deficit so that you can have some confidence that your firefighters will get what they deserve when they retire. I was also going to ask for your help with on-the-job injury compensation. There are some best-practice models out of LA and Chicago that we might be able to use. What I most certainly was not offering was any part of me.”

See, this was the problem, he thought. He hadn’t understood as he’d driven across town why he was showing up. For a highly decisive person like himself, that was an anomaly, and a sign he needed to back off.

Mirroring her pose, he crossed his arms, too. “I guess I misread you,” he muttered in a bored tone.

“You know, you’ve got a problem, Chief Ashburn.”

“Do I.”

“You have a reputation around town for being inflexible and closed-minded. No one can argue how you run the department and its equipment and facilities, but you are very difficult to get along with and people are forced to work around you.”

“You know, it’s strange. I thought my job was to run the fire department for the city and that includes its equipment and facilities.”

“It is.”

“So I’m knockin’ it out of the park.”

“Not really. Compared to national standards, you have among the highest levels of personnel dissatisfaction and burnout. Your men and women feel disempowered to make changes in procedures, they’re frustrated by a lack of support from management, and they’re worried about their futures. You are the head of a very unstable foundation, Chief.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You don’t think your union is on the pulse of its membership?”

Brent, you fucker, he thought.

“What I see,” Tom ground out, “is a group of people fighting fires with equipment that is aging in facilities that need renovation, and your buddy Ripkin’s ‘donation’ was more a showpiece for his name than a gift designed to help the department. Before you harp on me about a bunch of intangibles, maybe you should look at our resources.”

“Personnel are your resources. And they’re hurting. Your people need support—”

“Don’t talk to me about what I need. You don’t know the first thing about what our lives are like.”

“If I don’t tell you, no one will.”

“Why, because you’re so special? Don’t believe everything your daddy tells you.”

“No,” she snapped, “it’s because I’m your boss. I’m the mayor of this town and that means you work for me, you answer to me—and I have no trouble firing you if you don’t realign your attitude and realize you are part of a very serious problem in this city’s fire service.”

In the silence that followed, Tom knew he had to leave before he said something he really regretted.

Leaning in, he said in a low voice, “Stay out of my business.”

“Do you hear yourself? Seriously. I tell you you’ve got a problem in the department and your only response is about you. You’re not even open to hearing it or considering your own behavior. All you want to do is get territorial and shut off the noise. That’s not a leader, Tom. That’s a despot.”

“Don’t call me by my first name. I’m Chief Ashburn to you. And when I watch Barrington whip your ass on election night, please picture me smiling from ear to ear, will you? It’ll add to my satisfaction.”