Consumed (Firefighters #1)

by J. R. Ward

  “Ripkin’s used to getting his way,” she said. “He’s a successful businessman, and I think he believes the world and everyone in it is his for the taking. But it was nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “Did he come on to you?” Danny asked in a low voice.

  “Not in the slightest.” Anne shrugged. “He just did a lot of posturing, none of which impressed me.”

  Jack put his clean plate down—which made him worthy of a medal, as far as she was concerned. The lasagna had been like an MRE.

  “You know, I have a case you might be interested in.” The guy sat back on the enormous white couch that was big as a river barge. “You talked about finding a lot of office equipment in those fires? Well, we served an arrest warrant on a guy with previous offenses and gun felonies, and found an entire room full of cords, chargers, and parts of monitors and computers, as if he’d been storing a Best Buy’s worth of phones and PCs there, but had had to move them quick. He was obviously a black market dealer, and here’s the thing. The warrant took us a week to serve because we had to go looking for him. The timing is interesting, is all. I mean you’re talking about office equipment in these fires—and he’s been up on so many charges over the past two years that I wonder if he didn’t burn evidence a number of times.”

  Anne was unaware of having sat up straight until she nearly slipped off the slick cushion. “I want to talk to him. And see the case file.”

  “You got it.” The guy took out his phone. “Come to our HQ Monday morning. I’ll show you everything, and then you can work your channels to interrogate him.”

  “That’s great. Thanks, Jack.”

  “My pleasure. I’ll text you tomorrow after I get it all set up.”

  Danny got to his feet. “Hey, Anne, come help me with the pan out in the garage? I think we can get it out.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  As she followed him into the kitchen with her plate, she felt like she was walking into a brick wall. The vibe was tense at the table, Duff and T.J. playing eyeball ping-pong, Deandra sitting with her arms crossed over her chest, Moose cracking open another beer. Deshaun was getting up with that coat of his on.

  “We going back out?” Moose said with all the hope and anticipation of someone about to be called up from the DMV line.

  “There’s dessert, you know,” Deandra said. “But fine. It’s not like you ate anything.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Deshaun interjected. “Thanks for dinner.”

  Duff stood up and T.J. was a split second behind. “We’ve got to head, too. Sorry. But we’re on shift tomorrow, which was why we weren’t drinking.”

  “Aw come on, you guys can stay a little longer.” Moose looked back and forth between them. “You got to stay. It’s frickin’ eight o’clock.”

  But there was no stopping the tide, and Anne was glad to be on the forefront of the evac, even if she was arguably heading deeper into their territory instead of away from it.

  She and Danny were quiet as they walked back to the garage, and as she entered its cool confines, he stayed by the open bay and lit a cigarette with his Bic. The sun had long since set, and it was dark out, but the lighting from the house silhouetted him, making him seem even bigger.

  As he exhaled over his shoulder, she went over to Moose’s tool zoo. Working through the tangle, she started to make piles of screwdrivers, wrenches, vises.

  “You’re a huge help, you know.”

  She looked over at him. “I’m glad you asked me. It feels good to be doing something with my hands. Hand.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Deandra is a god-awful cook.”

  “Moose could stand to lose some pounds.”

  “He’ll be lucky if that’s the only thing she takes off of him.” Anne shook her head. “I knew they were making a mistake at that wedding. I just didn’t expect it to get this bad this soon.”

  “It’s their bed. They gotta lie in it.” He turned his cigarette around and stared at the lit tip. “Listen, I got a favor to ask you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Talking about hands and all. I could use an extra set out at the farm tomorrow. I don’t have many good working days left on the property, and I could finish what I started if I had another hauler for the debris, another person on the saw.”

  Anne followed his example and inspected the star-shaped tip a Phillips head. The idea of being outdoors, conquering a tangle of brush, having something with an easy start and finish was exactly what she needed. But Danny was always a complication.

  “I’d really appreciate it,” he said.

  She thought of her mother. Sundays were church, lunch with her girlfriends, and usually a movie and tea. Lots of people, public places, busy, busy. There was a chance that she might feel compelled to stay home to be polite, though.

  “Can I bring Soot?” Anne asked abruptly.

  chapter

  35

  To Vic Rizzo, fall Sundays were sacred, and not because he was religious. He was as lapsed a Catholic as a man could be, much to his mother’s disgust and heartbreak. No, if he was lucky enough to get the Lord’s day off of rotation, he worshipped at the altar of ESPN, prepared to do nothing but veg in front of the TV and work the remote around college and pro ball games.

  Seeing no one. Talking to no one.

  Just sitting on the ratty couch across from his concave screened paradise, breaking only to re-beer and re-chip.

  His apartment was a one-bedroom, one-bath in a converted triplex just five blocks down from the 617. He was on the middle floor, over an old couple who had the ground level, and the seventy-two-year-old owner who was on the top. It was a quiet place, and he helped everyone take their garbage to the curb, and shoveled snow, and fixed all manner of minor problems around the building.

  He kept his more . . . hardcore . . . pursuits well away from his home. Then again, he didn’t want his identity or his address known.

  That was why he always wore masks.

  With a groan, he lowered himself down on Old Faithful and extended his stiff leg out onto the beat-to-shit coffee table. Turning on the remote, he was ready to watch the Pats game from the day before that he’d DVRed and then transition to the LSU/Bama game—

  The knock on the door was loud, a single pounder that clearly came courtesy of a big set of knuckles.

  Putting the recording on pause, Vic reached under the cushion next to him and palmed his nine. “Who is it.”

  Not a question. More like a warning.

  “It’s your boss.”

  “Tom?” Vic released the hold on the gun and sat up. “Hold on.”

  He groaned as he got to his feet, although that was a function of not just his bad shoulder and the sore leg, but because his vibe was being ruined.

  When he opened the door, he frowned. Chief Ashburn looked like he’d been pulled through a thorn bush backward, his face weary and drawn, his mouth a tight line—as if he didn’t want to be here any more than Vic wanted to welcome anybody into his crib.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Vic demanded.

  “You got a second.”

  “For what?”

  “I need to talk to someone.”

  Vic stepped back. “I’m not a good listener, I give shitty advice, and I have all the compassion of a hunting knife, but sure, by all means, let me be your therapist.”

  The chief brushed by him. “You got a real way with charm, Rizzo.”

  “Call me Hallmark.”

  As he shut them in, Tom looked around and then went over to the sofa. “I see you used the same decorator we did back at the old stationhouse. Cheap meets fraternity. Good call.”

  “At least I’m comfortable in both.” Vic limped back across to the couch. “Have a seat.”

  Tom parked it, then got back up and took the gun out from under the pillow. �
��Your security alarm got a registration?”

  “Nope.” Vic resettled, extending his legs once more. “And no serial numbers, either. You gonna write me up.”

  “Nah.” The chief handed the weapon over. “Paperwork bores me. Just don’t shoot anybody while I’m here.”

  “Roger that.” Vic tucked the gun under where he was sitting. “Let me guess, this is about Damnit. What’s he done now? Is Chuckie P. quitting? Or did the asshole pick on Wedgie again?”

  Tom focused on the TV. “This the Pats game from yesterday?”

  “Don’t tell me who wins.”

  “I didn’t see it, either.”

  As the guy fell silent, Vic hit Play because the quiet was grating. “So what’s on your mind, chief.”

  It was much more comfortable with the chatter of the commentators, the distraction making whatever was going on with Tom less intense.

  Kinda.

  “I need to your assessment of the department,” Tom said in a low voice. “Like, how we’re functioning both within our units and as a cohesive whole.”

  A commercial for Buffalo Wild Wings came on and made Vic hungry.

  “I think we’re good,” he said. “I mean, we do fine.”

  Tom looked across the sofa. “How do you think I am at my job as chief. That’s what I’m really asking you.”

  Vic didn’t bother to hide his surprise. Probably couldn’t have anyway. “In what way?”

  “How I handle personnel issues. People. Problems.”

  See, this was why he liked to spend his Sundays by himself. No, wait, that didn’t go far enough. This was why he liked to be alone, period.

  “What do you want me to say?” he muttered. “You’re great.”

  “Don’t bullshit me.”

  Vic rubbed his face and wished he had a drink. But it was a little early for beers.

  And as the chief waited for a real answer, he knew there was only one way out of this conversation.

  “The guys all look up to you.” Vic put his hand up to his chief’s face. “You asked me what I think so I’m going to tell you. You are respected greatly. You’re a natural leader. I mean come on, you’re responsible for the biggest bunch of crackpot adrenaline junkies on the planet, and you manage to keep us all alive and focused and mostly in line.”

  “Do you think people feel like they can’t come to me with their shit?”

  “Yeah. I do. But you can’t be friends with people you manage, and you want to try to keep Damnit on an even keel without screaming in his face? Unless you’re hitting with a frying pan in the face, I don’t think you’re gonna get far.”

  “But maybe there’s another way.” Tom shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.”

  “Where’s this coming from?”

  “I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with the mayor.”

  “A one-on-one with Mahoney?” An image of the tall, authoritative woman came to mind. “She’s something else.”

  “She served my ass to me on a plate.”

  “That’s hot.” As Tom shot a lot over, Vic shrugged. “What. It’s the truth.”

  “She’s an elected official.”

  “So I’m not allowed to notice her as a woman?”

  “No. You’re not.”

  Ahhhh, so it’s like that, Vic thought with a smirk.

  “Lemme get this straight, chief,” he said. “You have one conversation with Mahoney and now you’re thinking we’ve got to wipe each other’s asses or some shit? Come on. We’re firemen, not in community theater. Besides, do you want to get into the ins and outs of disputes over parking spaces, things left in the refrigerators, and who used whose towel in the shower? Hell no. And ’scuse me for mentioning this, but remember last year, when you gave up yelling for Lent? You lasted three days and had to go to confession because you called Damnit a cunt loud enough for his dead grandmother to hear it in her grave.” He looked over at the guy. “You got a bad history with impulse control, chief. But what you do not have is a problem doing your job well—or a problem with helping the rest of us stay on track.”

  The chief exhaled a curse. “We got a lot alcoholics in the departments. People with serious problems, Vic. You know this.”

  “That’s on them. Not you.”

  “I’m not so sure of that right now.”

  “Look, you’re fine. We’re fine. Everything is cool. And if you bring in therapy dogs to the next stationhouse meeting, I will laugh at you. Then probably play with them. I love dogs. Dogs are awesome. Can we have dogs?”

  Tom smiled a little. “Anne just got one.”

  “Really? I always did like your sister.” He put his palm up again. “No, not like that. Jesus, and people think I’m a perv.”

  “You are a perv.”

  Vic started to grin as he thought about what he had lined up later in the week. “Yeah, I am.”

  “You got any beer?”

  As the Pats kicked off, Vic nodded toward his kitchen. “Help yourself. And bring one back for the host.”

  The chief groaned as he got up, and Vic knew exactly how the guy felt. “Oh, and you’re buying lunch, Chief.”

  Tom looked over his shoulder. “How’d you know I’m staying?”

  Vic stared up at his boss for a moment. The guy really did look worn out, and Vic had to wonder if maybe Sheila, the ex-wife, hadn’t hit him up about something. But there was no asking about that. Wives and girlfriends were not even on the list of acceptable guy talk.

  Exes? No fucking way.

  Vic shrugged. “I can just tell you’re here for a while—and it’s cool. As long as you stop talking and keep bringing me cold Buds, you’re welcome on my couch. And I want pizza from Antonio’s, pepperoni with the thin crust. I’d like a large. Oh, and they’ll bring more beer if you tip them well, too.”

  He expected a hard comeback. Instead, the guy just nodded and kitchen. “Good deal.”

  Wow. Looked like Mahoney could add “Dragon Slayer” to her election taglines.

  What a woman she was, Vic thought to himself.

  chapter

  36

  The morning was classic New England in the autumn, the sky a bright, endless blue, a clear sea flipped on its head, the sun so intense, it turned the world to chrome. As Anne traveled away from houses and neighborhoods, shopping centers and office buildings, she felt a calm come to her. Forty minutes later, she was almost there.

  “You ready for the country, Soot?” she asked him.

  He had his head out the window, looking around at the trees and the farmland. He was wagging to himself, his tail going back and forth.

  The lane she was looking for came just around a tight corner, and Anne had to double back after turning around in the middle of a straightaway. Rolling fields intersected by low stone walls and vibrant trees made it impossible not to fall in love with the area—and then she came up to the farm.

  Not what she had expected.

  The buttercup-yellow Victorian was set back on its land at the top of a little rise. The closer she got to it, the more she saw the age in flaking paint and a sagging front porch, but that didn’t matter. With some work and some time, it was going to be a haven away from the stress of Danny’s job.

  It was the perfect place to bring a family.

  That pierced her heart, a javelin of a realization. She didn’t have time to think about it, though, because as she rolled to a stop, Danny opened the front door and stepped out of his house.

  “Hey,” he called over.

  “Hey,” she said as she got out. “Nice place.”

  “Glad you made it.”

  Letting Soot out, she wondered if she should hook his lead, but then he just stuck by her, trotting along as she went across to the three steps up to the porch.

  Danny was in work clothes, old jeans hanging low on
his hips, scruff on his jawline, a muscle shirt giving his tattoos airtime. Scratches that were partially healed marked his forearms, evidence of the work he’d been doing, and he glowed with health.

  “This is . . .” She glanced around. “Amazing.”

  His smile was that of a boy who’d been told he got the answer right in school. The teenager with the hard-to-get concert tickets. The grown man who had something special and shared it with someone who mattered.

  “How much acreage do you have?” she asked.

  Danny’s knees cracked as he got down on his haunches to greet Soot—who welcomed him like a close friend, well missed.

  “Fifty.” Danny put his face right into the dog’s. “I missed you, boy. How’s tricks. You ready to mark my property?”

  “But where’s the mess?” Anne tried to keep the suspicion out of her voice. “I mean, everything looks great out here.”

  As she motioned to the mowed meadow around the house, Danny rose and thumped over his shoulder. “Wait for it. But first, lemme show you the house.” He went over and held the door open for her. “I’ve got running water and electricity, but other than that, this is a work in progress.”

  He wasn’t kidding. Every window was hung with shredded drapes, and what little of the panes showed was so layered with dust you couldn’t see out of them. The floorboards were scuffed, and the wallpaper was so old and faded, it was hard to tell what its original colors had been. The kitchen was a discordant seventies-era harvest gold and pea green, the appliances all throwbacks out of a Sears catalogue from the Jimmy Carter years. But God, the potential. The woodwork throughout was incredible, the molding heavy on the ceiling, around the fireplaces and up the staircase—a wonder of artistic flourish. There were also no stains on the ceilings, which suggested the roof was sound, and so was the flashing around the chimneys, and the doors were all plumb. Upstairs there were three little bedrooms, and just one bathroom for all to share—but holy crap, that claw-foot tub.