“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.”
Donahue nodded again. “The shooter not only brought a gun to the condo, but he procured hollow-point bullets. He planned to kill, if he fired.”
“He killed Tomlinson from behind,” Olivia said. “He had to walk through the office door and around his desk. Tomlinson didn’t happen on him like Weems did. He went there to kill Tomlinson. But why? And assuming this isn’t really about environmental arson, why hide behind it?”
“Go find out,” Abbott said. “Keep me informed. Be back at five. Be careful.”
Everyone stood to go, then halted when the office door opened and Faye, their clerk, stuck her head in. “Turn on the TV. Channel Eight. They know about the ball.”
With an oath, Abbott turned on the television, where a reporter stood in front of the wreckage of Tomlinson’s warehouse, holding an orange in one hand.
“Sources tell us that the ball was about the size of this orange. They also tell us that a similar ball was found in the condo fire. The ball is solid glass, with the map of the earth etched on its surface,” the reporter said. “This is important, as it links these fires to the infamous SPOT organization, which destroyed an office building twelve years ago, leaving one woman dead. SPOT’s leader, Preston Moss, is still wanted for the fire and the woman’s death. Moss disappeared and has not been seen since.”
Abbott muted the sound when they rolled old footage. “Goddammit,” he snarled.
“It was all over the fire department, Bruce,” Olivia said. “I told you yesterday it was just a matter of time.”
“I know, but I was hoping for more time. This changes nothing about our plans, so go do what you were going to do. I’ll deal with the press. Barlow, please impress on all the firefighters the importance of keeping quiet on this story.”
“They know, Captain,” Barlow said. “If the leak came out of the fire department, I’m sure they’ll deal with it appropriately. But I’ll tell them again.”
“That firefighter,” Abbott said, “the one who caught the ball. What was his name?”
“David Hunter,” Olivia said. “I’ll call him, warn him.”
“Fine.” Abbott waved them to the door. “Go, get me some answers.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday, September 21, 9:25 a.m.
David pulled his pickup truck in front of a big sign that read K-9 TRAINING, and below it hung a much smaller sign in a child’s script that read… AND DOGGY DAY CARE.
“Come,” he said and Olivia’s German shepard jumped from his truck and ran to the door. Assuming the dog knew the way, David followed. He knocked, but there was no answer. The door was unlocked, so he went in, setting off a beep and a flashing light overhead.
“Hello?” he called. He could hear dogs barking from somewhere behind the wall. There was a reception counter, but no receptionist. Then he heard it-a small moan of pain. He looked down at Mojo, saw the dog’s ears had pricked up. He’d heard it, too.
David saw a woman, facedown on the desk, red hair hanging down her back, her arms dangling uselessly at her sides. “Ma’am?” he said but she didn’t respond. He took her arm to check her pulse, then jumped back when she leapt to her feet, fists clenched.
“Who are you?” she demanded and once he’d recovered his composure, he immediately recognized her from one of the pictures on Olivia’s mantel.
“David Hunter,” he said. “You’re Brie, Olivia’s friend.”
She narrowed dark brown eyes. “You’re the jerk.”
David rolled his eyes. “Not anymore,” he said.
“Wait.” She stumbled to her desk, finding what looked like two hearing aids. Popping one behind each ear, she squinted at his face. “Did you say ‘not anymore’?”
She was hearing impaired, he realized, and hadn’t heard him come in. “I did. See, she even trusted me with him.” He patted the dog’s head, and Mojo licked his hand.
“You must be a sweet talker to have earned a second chance after what you did.”
Embarrassed, his cheeks heated. “I heard someone moaning.”
She sank into her chair. “That would have been me. Dying. Don’t talk so loud.”
He smiled. “You must have been in on the major mojitos last night.”
She put her face back down on the desk. “Don’t say that word ever again.”
“I might be able to help,” he said.
Blearily she looked up at him. “You have a gun?”
“Give me your hand.” He put pressure against the base of her forefinger.
“Voodoo?” she mumbled.
“Acupressure. It should help the nausea.”
“Oh. Paige does that.”
“I know.”
One brown eye opened, then narrowed. “How do you know?”
“Because I know her from the dojo. We train together.”
“Ohhhh. So that’s what was up with her last night. I bet Liv’s mad.”
“Jury’s still out on that. Any better?”
“Maybe. Why did you scream another woman’s name when Liv was doing you?”
For a moment the question left him speechless. “Because I’m a jerk.”
“Very good answer,” she mumbled. “For a jerk, you have really good hands.”
“Thank you,” he said dryly. “Next time, maybe you shouldn’t have so many mojitos.”
“And maybe next time you should lay off the champagne,” she shot back.
He winced. “Touché. Can I leave the dog with you?”
“Of course. What are your intentions toward Liv?” she asked.