by Julie Miller
Cole and Agent Rand went into investigator mode, snapping pictures of the vehicle with their phones and sending the information on to a third party—a fellow investigator or someone in the crime lab, he guessed.
“This fire was no accident.” Matt led his uncle to the front of the car to point out the ignition device beneath the hood. Amos took a picture of the cell phone itself and then dropped it into an evidence bag from another pocket of his coat. “I figured it was some kind of insurance scam. Abandoned car. Remote ignition. Whoever set it only had to call the number on the cell. Like striking a match in the oil pan. A spark, oxygen and fuel to burn. Ignition 101.”
Agent Rand stood on the other side of Cole and tucked his phone away. “You think Meade’s people are sending him a message—keep your mouth shut or you’ll be in the car next time it burns?”
“Meade?” Mark frowned at the name from Kansas City’s storied criminal history. “I recognize that name. You mean Jericho Meade and his mob connections? I thought he was dead.”
“Alleged mob connections. And he is.” Cole shook his head. “Tori and I took care of them.”
Matt had heard the story of the undercover op several years earlier where Uncle Cole had met his wife, then–FBI agent Victoria Westin. They’d both infiltrated the crime family and had been forced to become allies to protect each other’s cover and complete their respective missions. Pretending to be a couple had become the real thing. They’d both left undercover work once they’d gotten married and had their twin girls. And though Cole had remained a detective with KCPD, Tori had retired from the FBI to manage a small art gallery and focus on their girls.
Cole reached up with a gloved hand to smack Matt’s shoulder, including both him and Mark in the point he was making. “But, just like the next generation of Taylor clan brothers are fighting to keep Kansas City safe, we believe the next generation of Meade’s crime family is fighting to regain their influence. Jericho’s nephew Chad Meade was released from prison after seventeen years a few months back. He’s trying to take up where his uncle left off. Our CI was going to confirm that Meade has been stealing cars and sending them to a chop shop. Auto theft may be old-school, but we suspect he’s using those profits to finance his efforts to bring illegal arms into the city. And using some legit businesses to launder money for suspected terrorists.” He nodded toward Agent Rand. “That’s the connection that brought NCIS into our investigation.”
Mark frowned at what Matt suspected was a glossed-over version of Meade’s criminal enterprise. “All that’s going on in KC? In this neighborhood? There’s a lot of money here. I thought this was where the Millennials and old-school yuppies worked and tore down old buildings to put up condos.”
“They do.” Cole pointed to the office building where the curious crowd had come from. “This isn’t gang turf, but there are a couple of import/export and agricultural distribution companies headquartered in that building that we’re monitoring. With KCI Airport and the Missouri River carrying so much traffic, Kansas City is considered a port city. That’s why we’ve got all the embassies and customs offices here.”
Agent Rand nodded. “Making it a hub for supply lines and money changing hands if the right man establishes a foothold here.”
Mark snorted at the enormity of what Chad Meade was trying to accomplish after his stint in prison. “You mean the wrong man.” He looked around the parking lot, tall buildings and crowd of suits and dresses that was dissipating now that the excitement of the fire was over and Ray Jackson had rejoined the team stowing gear on the trucks. “Although this would be a great neighborhood to find some nice cars to steal.”
“Exactly. Not where our mechanic would be hanging out. We thought it’d be a good location to meet our CI.” Cole studied the burned-out car again. “Apparently, someone else didn’t agree.”
Organized crime in their neighborhood? Were there really terrorist connections in the Firehouse 13 district? Matt thought of Corie and Evan McGuire, slight of build, super cautious and all alone in the world. Their building was about nine blocks from here—a bit of a long walk, but certainly doable. And Pearl’s Diner, where Corie worked, was just around the corner, less than two blocks away. Several of the people working in these office buildings had probably eaten their lunch there. Maybe he should be worried about how safe any of them were.
“And you think this fire could have been set as a deterrent to your informant speaking out against Meade?” Matt asked.
Cole shrugged. “No proof one way or the other yet. Your first instinct could be right, and this is an insurance scam. If Maldonado had a change of heart, he could be looking for some quick cash from an insurance payout, or he could have torched the car to throw Meade’s men—and us—off his trail. He’d have the know-how to rig a car like that.”
Amos Rand shifted on his feet, looking anxious to leave. “I’d sure like to get eyes on him. Find out if he’s had a change of heart, or if Meade’s people got to him. Make sure he’s still in one piece somewhere.”
Two mysterious fires in two days. Not that Corie McGuire would have any connection to a police informant and organized crime. Matt suspected her son, left to his own devices for entertainment last night, had been playing with setting a fire. This burned-out car couldn’t have anything to do with that.
It had to be a coincidence.
Not that he liked coincidences. But Matt was paid to put out fires and save lives, not solve cases for his uncle or anyone else in the police department.
“You okay, big guy?” Cole asked, pulling Matt from his thoughts. “You seem distracted.”
Mark grinned like the annoying little brother he was. “That’s what I said. I think there’s a woman involved.”
Matt slid him a warning glance. “Shut up.”
That big grin must be a family trait. Cole matched Mark’s amused expression. “Definitely a woman judging by that reaction.”
Matt wasn’t ready to admit to any emotion he wasn’t sure he understood yet. “Can’t a man get any privacy in this family?”
But Mark wouldn’t let it go. “Hey, you’re the only Taylor bachelor left until our cousins graduate from high school and college. After being the baby brother for so many years, it’s only fair that I get to pick on you for a change.”
“Some things never change,” Cole agreed. “Mitch, Brett, Mac, Gideon and Josh used to give me grief about finding a woman and settling down. Even Jess found a husband before I met your aunt Tori.” He squeezed Matt’s arm, offering some hard-won advice. “It’ll happen when it happens. And it’ll be worth the wait. But if there is somebody special, you know we’d all like to meet her. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Taylors!” Captain Redding shouted. He answered the dispatch summons on his radio before heading over to the first fire truck. “We got another call!”
Mark swore. “This whole neighborhood is turning into a dead man district.”
“What does that mean?” Agent Rand frowned.
Matt explained the terminology. “A dead man zone is the spot where we suspect a fire will shift and spread to, given wind conditions, structural composition and so on. It’s the place you don’t want to be because the fire is coming your way.”
Amos nodded with grim understanding. “You’re saying this whole neighborhood is a danger zone.”
“Yes.”
Cole stepped back, reaching out to shake Matt’s and Mark’s hands again before sending them on their way. “Go do your job. We’ll work the crime scene here and copy you on anything we find out. You boys be safe.”
Mark traded a quick hug before he and Matt jogged on past him. “Say hi to Aunt Tori and the girls.”
“Will do. Hey, are we getting an invitation to your wedding?”
Mark turned, backing toward the engines. “They should go out next month. Amy’s designing and making them herself. She’s not just an artist,
she’s a perfectionist.”
“She and Tori should have a lot to talk about at the next family get-together.”
“Taylors!” Redding shouted from the captain’s seat in the truck.
Matt tugged on Mark’s coat. “Gotta go.”
He doffed a salute to Cole and Amos before climbing up to his seat behind the steering wheel of the fire engine and starting it up. “What’s up?” Matt asked.
The captain was still on his radio across the cab of the truck. “Class B fire at the recycling plant on North Front Street.” Class B meant flammable liquids—several steps up in danger from an engine fire one man could put out. The recycling plant would definitely be a dead man zone if they didn’t get there quickly enough.
All thoughts of Corie, Evan and mysterious fires he couldn’t yet explain had to be put on hold.
“Let’s go.” Matt shifted the engine into gear and turned on the lights and siren. “Lucky 13 rolling.”
Chapter Three
“Mom, if we had a watch like Mr. Taylor’s, you could set the timer on it, and you wouldn’t have to keep checking your watch every minute to see if we get home by my bedtime.” Evan hopped from one foot to the next, following Corie down the aisle and off the bus. “Or we could use it to check the temperature to see if I need to wear my mittens and hat.”
The bus door opened, and the damp, wintry night air slapped her in the face. Corie pulled her scarf snug around her neck and flipped up the collar of her coat before turning to her son and tugging his knit stocking cap down around his ears. “I don’t need a fancy watch to know you have to wear your mittens and hat.”
She looked over his head to Mr. Lee, the bus driver, who grinned from ear to ear at her son’s persistent, supremely logical argument on the merits of buying a fancy watch for his next birthday, which was nearly a year away. “Good luck with that one,” he said before bidding her good-night. “He’ll keep you on your toes.”
“That he will.” She felt lucky and a little sad that the affable older gentleman who drove them home from the diner nearly every night was one of the most familiar faces she knew in Kansas City. Other than her coworkers at the diner and Evan’s school, where she worked as a para-educator until she finished her teaching degree, she hadn’t made any effort to form friendships since moving across the state. Not since her last new friend in St. Louis had turned out to have a connection to her ex-husband, and she discovered Denise had been feeding Kenny Norwell information about her work and school schedule, and she ended up getting an unwanted and unfriendly surprise visit from Kenny at the sports bar where she’d waited tables one night. It was one of the few times she’d been glad Evan was spending the night at her mother and stepfather’s. That visit from Kenny and the subsequent lecture from her mother about blowing her chance at a reunion with the man whose money and connections she liked more than his treatment of her only daughter had been reason enough to transfer her college credits and move to Kansas City. “Good night, Carl.”
Corie stepped off the bus, wishing she had on jeans or slacks instead of her waitress uniform. At least her sturdy support shoes allowed her to move quickly so that she didn’t have to spend any longer than necessary out in the cold air. She reached for Evan’s hand and, as soon as the bus pulled away from their stop, they hurried across the street and down the two blocks that would take them to their building.
Evan danced along beside her, full of energy after spending four hours obediently sitting at a corner table in the diner, completing his homework, eating dinner and playing a game on her phone. “Honestly, if it’s any help, I don’t mind staying up past nine o’clock.”
“I appreciate the offer,” she teased. “But I know how impossible it is to get you up for school in the morning if you’re up too late the night before.”
“Or I could get a new watch,” he countered. “My birthday’s coming up in November.”
“How about we just hustle for now, little man.” She tightened her grip around Evan’s hand and matched his eager pace.
If she could afford a Swiss Army Knife–like watch like Matt Taylor’s, she’d be spending the money on a new, warmer coat that fit her son better, making a down payment on a cheap car so they wouldn’t have to wait at a bus stop or walk these last two blocks in the open air, or, what the heck, maybe pay a bill or something. Making it completely on her own in the world was proving to be more rewarding than she’d imagined, even though it was sometimes a challenge to make ends meet. Even though a single phone call back to St. Louis would instantly fill her bank account, the help came with too many strings attached. Strings she had no intention of ever reconnecting.
Her life was here now, in Kansas City with her son. It might be a small life. But it was a good one. They were safe. Evan was growing stronger and more confident every day. And she believed—she hoped, at least—that one day they could have a normal life and be happy.
Corie’s sigh formed a white cloud of air, and Evan slowed down to play at making clouds with his warm breath. Even though she played along to see how big they could make a cloud before it chilled and dissipated, she kept Evan moving beside her, worrying as much about his exposure to the cold air as their safety.
Fortunately, there was a bus stop on the same block as Pearl’s Diner, and bus passes were cheap. But she worried about the January night air on Evan’s young lungs and every alley or parking garage they had to walk past before they got safely inside the locked lobby of their building. She wasn’t above scoping out the driver of every vehicle that passed, either, checking to make sure her ex-husband hadn’t made tracking her down to their new apartment in a new city his top priority since his release from prison in Jefferson City eleven months earlier. He’d contacted her through her attorney in St. Louis demanding visitation rights with Evan, but a firm no and a reminder of all the custody papers and restraining orders she had in place had been her only reply. Being told no wouldn’t have made Kenny happy, but Evan’s panicked reaction to the possibility of seeing his father—even under the parameters of a supervised visit—had made her decision quick and easy. Corie’s job was to protect her son from the man he only remembered as a monster. She hadn’t even given her estranged mother her new name or address, and she hadn’t listed her new phone number. Their life in St. Louis felt like a lifetime ago, but the wariness of her surroundings and the potential threat of that past catching up to them was as fresh as the diner’s cheesy burritos for tomorrow morning’s breakfast she carried in her backpack.
Since the lobby of the building was locked 24-7, she had her key card ready to swipe as soon as they climbed the granite steps and reached the outer glass doors. It was noticeably warmer the moment the door closed behind them, blocking the wind. Corie’s stress level went down, as well, as soon as she heard the lock clicking into place. Once she and Evan got through the interior door, she inhaled a deep, calming breath, unbuttoned the top of her coat and loosened her scarf.
She considered stopping at Mr. Stinson’s apartment while they were here on the first floor, but Evan had already run ahead to press the call button on the elevator. Nodding in silent agreement that her son had a better plan than knocking on the super’s door, Corie followed Evan to the elevator, catching his mittens and cap as he shed them and stuffing them into the pockets of his backpack. Not that his energy level was showing any signs of ebbing, but she’d stayed late at the diner to fix their to-go breakfast and had missed their regular bus. Getting Evan to calm down and fall asleep by his nine o’clock bedtime was a challenge, even without the late start to his nightly routine. Mothering first. She’d run back down to see about the state of the oven and electrical outlet once she got her son in his pajamas.
Corie grabbed Evan by the shoulder when the elevator doors opened, checking the interior before following him inside the empty car. When the doors opened onto the seventh floor, Evan skipped down the hallway, leaving Corie to hurry after him. “Can I ope
n it, Mom?”
Evan’s fascination with gadgets, even one so simple as a key in a lock, gave her a moment to glance over her shoulder to the door across the hall. She idly wondered if Matt Taylor was home this evening. He’d said he usually had Tuesdays off, but what about Wednesdays? And just what did he do behind that door? Watch sports on TV? Work out? Maybe he was a gourmet cook or a fix-it guy with some carpentry or painting project going on. Was he into fast cars or monster trucks? Maybe he read books.
Evan pushed the door open and tossed her the keys, running inside to shed his coat and dump his backpack on the couch. Corie shook her head and followed him inside.
It didn’t matter what Matt Taylor did behind closed doors. She had plenty to deal with right here inside this apartment. “Hey, little man.” She turned the dead bolt behind her and nodded to the coatrack beside the door. “Hang up your coat and take your backpack to your room. You know we don’t leave a mess in the living room.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Corie was dragging with the length of her day after working two jobs, knowing she still had to get on her laptop to do more research for the paper she was writing for next week’s class. But Evan happily bopped from one spot to the next, hanging up his coat and dashing down the hall to his bedroom before she even got her coat unbuttoned. “Get your pajamas on. Do you need a snack before you brush your teeth?”
“Can I have chocolate milk?” he shouted from his bedroom. From the sound of things, he’d opened a drawer in his toy chest and was riffling through his collection of tiny plastic building bricks to add to the ever-expanding fantasy fortress he was building on the table that had once been his desk. While she worried about the significance of her son building defensive fortresses and attack dragons, the school counselor insisted they were healthy outlets for the fears he’d carried with him since he’d been a toddler. “Cookies, too?”