All of the men and two women looked up as she entered, their eyes making a quick and professional assessment before returning to their work.

“We’re over here.” Jack took her over to a laptop. “So meet Ollie Popper.”

Anne sat down in an office chair. “Tell me that is not his given name.”

“It’s what he’s known by. Works for him, don’t it.”

The mug shot showed a twenty-ish Caucasian with long dark hair, bulging eyes, and the pockmarked skin of a meth user.

“Cute, huh. Bet his mother loves him, though.” Jack changed images. “And here is his collection.”

“Holy . . . shit.” She moved closer to the screen. “That’s . . .”

“Got a bad case of sticky fingers.”

The rooms appeared to be standard eight-by-twelves, with nine-foot ceilings and different window configurations—and they were crammed with so much office equipment, it looked like Ollie was running a return center for telephones, computers, laptops, and projectors.

“Where does he get them all?” She shook her head. “This is crazy.”

“He’s fencing them. We think he’s got crews working for him across the state. They execute the petty-theft, breaking into small businesses, and he gives them a cut.”

“But who’s he selling the stuff to?”

“Ever heard of this thing called eBay? And there are other sites.”

“That’s a lot of work, though. I mean, he’d have to post each one, right?”

“We’re thinking he sells ’em bulk. The detectives are getting warrants to access his online accounts.”

Anne sat back. “So how would it work with respect to the warehouse fires? Like, he gets served a warrant for something else.”

“And he’s got a problem.” Jack hit another button, and an image of the same room she’d been looking at came up showing it mostly empty. “He has to get rid of the evidence. He’s familiar with those empty warehouses down by the wharf because he sells drugs and does drugs, and that area is good for his clientele.”

“He takes the stuff down there.”

“Picks a building.”

“And lights it up?” She looked at Jack. “Sounds like a lot of trouble.”

“What’s the alternative? Burying it in his backyard?” Jack sat back, his heavy shoulders shifting under his SWAT T-shirt. “Here’s the thing. The fucker is smart. He doesn’t want to kill anybody because that’s a rap that’s hard to beat, so those buildings are a better bet for being vacant. Plus, who’s watching them? And what better way of making sure he can’t get tied to anything when all that plastic melts and destroys serial numbers and hard drives. Untraceable is his friend.”

“Does he have a fire background?”

“How much background do you need? Gasoline is everywhere. Toss a match and run.”

She thought of the apartment fire she went to on Saturday. “True. But how the hell did he get all of it moved?”

“You think you can’t buy cheap labor with drugs? Means, motive, and opportunity.”

“But it’s pretty circumstantial.”

She was aware she was fighting the logic. Then again, she wanted to nail Ripkin. That bastard had made it personal.

“I’m going to arrange to go and talk to Ollie.”

“Good deal.” Jack frowned. “There’s something you need to know, though. We think Ollie’s got friends in low places.”

“Isn’t that a country-and-western song?”

“My favorite, as a matter of fact. But in this case, I’m talking about the mob. We just can’t figure out who else he’d been working with.”

“Good to know. I’ll expect delays and obstruction.”

“You need to be careful, too. Ollie as an independent contractor on the black market is one thing. Backed by the mob? He’s going to have resources and people looking out for his interests, if you know what I mean.”

“I’ll be careful. Thanks, Jack.”

* * *

Like most of the fire stations in New Brunswick—except for Chief Ashburn’s fancy present from Charles Ripkin—the 499 had been built for its purpose in the early 1900s. Made of brick that was given a fresh coat of red every five or six years, it had three bays for the engines and the ladders, a shorter addition for the ambulance, and bunks and bathrooms on the second floor. The kitchen and eating/hang-time space was in the back on the first level, and there was also an office for the captain.

Danny was in the galley, surveying the cupboard contents. After check-in, Moose had taken up res on the sofa in front of the TV, Deshaun, Duff, and T.J. were lifting weights in the bay, and the other six men on duty were scattered throughout the stationhouse, cleaning equipment, checking the ladder, restocking the ambulance.

Against his better judgment, Danny had volunteered for cook duty, even though he’d caught shit from everyone about it. But he couldn’t sit around without doing something between out-calls, and pumping iron with the boys was not an option thanks to him and Anne having worked on his backyard all day yesterday.

Uninspired, he went over and opened the fridge. As he became threatened at the sight of the eggs and the milk, the leftovers and the blocks of cheese, he was confronted with the fact that even after all these years in the stationhouse, he still had few skills. And he gave Duff a hard time?

Closing the door, he decided to go out the back and have a cigarette while he considered his options. There were ten guys on shift today, including the engine’s crew of him, Duff, T.J., Deshaun, and Moose—and he had about two and a half hours, barring an alarm or training drill, to get this figured out.

When in doubt, he could do sandwiches. There were enough cold cuts and lettuce in the fridge. Fresh jar of mayo in the cupboard. Chips, too. For dessert, he could give them ice cream.

Looked like he had it sorted.

“Where you going?” Moose said from the sofa. “You don’t want to miss this. The mother-in-law is in denial and Phil’s about to serve her a whole lot of reality.”

Moose loved Dr. Phil. Then again, he was probably looking for tips on how to handle his wife.

“I’ma go out back for a sec.”

“You need to stop smoking.”

“Give up your beer first, then we’ll talk.”

“Fuck you,” Moose replied genially.

The back door opened out to the parking area, which was fully fenced in, the crew’s trucks parked against the chain link. No sun, today. Colder.

As he lit up, he leaned back against the bricks and propped the sole of his boot on the side of the building.

When his phone went off, he nearly dropped the cig into his undershorts as he fished it out of his pants pocket. Was it Anne—

Frowning, he nearly let it go into voicemail. “Yeah.”

There was a pause. “Is that any way to speak to me?”

“Deandra, what the hell are you doing on my phone?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” There was a rustle. “I wanted to hear your voice.”

“You gotta stop this.”

“Why.”

“Because you’re married to Moose.” He took a drag. “Come on, Deandra.”

“I told you I wanted it to be you.”

“It never will be. And I’m not answering anymore, ’kay? We’re done with this bullshit—”

“Why, because you’re with Anne?”

“No, because you’re not my type.”

“I used to be.” That voice dropped into the phone-sex-operator octave. “You know you liked it with me. You know you want me, Danny—”

Moose put his head out the door. “Yo, Captain Baker wants us to review Friday’s apartment fire.”

“Coming.”

Deandra cut in. “I can make you come. You remember, Danny?”

As Moose ducked back into the stationhouse, Danny had really fucking had it with the two of them. “Don’t call me anymore. If you do, I’ll have to tell your husband.”

“Tell him. I don’t give a fuck. I’m tired of that house out in the sticks, I’m tired of him, the whole thing was a fucking mistake.”