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.”
“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.”