“What if you wanted to clear the land and not have to pay for it? You burn what’s on it, cash in the insurance policy, use the proceeds to clear what’s left in terms of debris—which is considerably less than even the rotted shells that were there first. It pays for itself—not that bad a strategy.”
“You could get away with it once. But you try that two or three times and it’s like an engraved invitation for fraud charges.”
“What if you had different insurance companies. The properties are all owned by different entities. It wasn’t until I went on a wild-goose chase through layers of incorporators that I discovered Ripkin owns them. He’s covering his tracks about a lot of things.”
There was a long silence. And then Don shut her door. “Listen, about Ripkin.”
“Do not tell me I can’t go talk to him. I reject completely the notion that rich people should be granted special privileges. He’s no different than any other witness or interested party.”
“I agree.”
“But . . .”
“You recall that fire at Ripkin’s oceanfront estate. It was about, what, just over a year ago?”
“I responded with the 499 to it.”
“I remember from the report.” There was another pause. “I put a really good investigator on the scene, a guy named Bob Burlington. He was doing a thorough job.”
“You’d accept nothing less from a subordinate.”
“But he didn’t finish the investigation because his body washed up on shore in the bay about three weeks into the case.”
Anne frowned. “Now that you mention it, I read something about that in the paper. And there was talk at the station. He had a heart attack though, didn’t he?”
“I don’t think we’re ever going to know the truth. His boat was found first by a trawler ,and there was no evidence of foul play. His remains turned up a day later, and they had been chewed on. The medical examiner stated that the cause of death was an MI, which given Bob’s affinity for fried food and no exercise wasn’t a news flash. The manner, however, was undetermined.”
From what Anne understood about determinations of death in Massachusetts, the Commonwealth’s medical examiner and his or her office assessed the remains and assigned a cause that could be anything from a disease process like cancer, cardiovascular , or an infection to trauma to the body like an internal bleed from a gunshot wound or blunt force from someone getting hit with something. The manner was then assigned to one of four categories: natural, accident, homicide, or suicide. If the medical examiner could not place the death within those criteria, then it was ruled “undetermined.”
In Bob Burlington’s case, you had to wonder if he’d had a heart attack on his boat and fallen overboard because of it—or whether someone had thrown him off the vessel and he’d died trying to swim to shore.
Except if you were trying to kill somebody, you wouldn’t take a chance on the guy’s ticker quitting halfway to land, would you.
“Was an autopsy performed?” she asked.
“It was. But again, because of damage to the remains, it was impossible to rule out trauma—or state it had conclusively taken place.”
“And you think Ripkin was involved in the death?”
“I don’t know, but I am very clear that I feel a responsibility to all you guys not to put you in harm’s way. So be very careful with that man. I won’t stop you from going up there because you’ve laid out a valid investigatory rationale for talking to him. But I do think Bob’s death was suspicious, and I’m not about to bury another agent on my watch.”
“What happened to the investigation afterward?”
“It was closed by another agent of ours, and the question I still ask myself is what did Bob know that he didn’t get to document officially before he died.”
“Fair enough. I’ll watch myself.”
“Good.” Don lifted the mug up and looked inside. Checked out the handle. “I’m a coffee drinker, you know.”
“I didn’t. I might’ve guessed from the bagel, but I don’t like to take things for granted.”
“You sure about that?” He looked around the desk. “How’s the dog.”
“Great. He’s a good boy.” Soot offered a wag, like he knew he was being discussed. “I’m really glad he’s with me.”
Her boss took his mug back over to the door. “If Ripkin gives you any problems, I’ll get you a warrant. I’d love to bring him down. And if you need someone to watch the dog during business hours, I’ll let him out. Long as he doesn’t bite me.” Don opened the way out. “Oh, and we’re getting some bad storms later. Be careful on your drive home.”
* * *
God, Tom hated rubber chicken dinners. And suits. And ties.
As he walked out of the howling wind and hail and into the Grand Canyon-–sized lobby of the downtown Marriott, he was already planning his exit and immediate removal of the navy blue straight jacket and red hangman’s noose that were not just cramping his style, but making him scratch. As he was childless, he didn’t have the sick-kid/nanny-issue/sitter’s-a-no-show option.
But he always had the firehouse-emergency card in his back pocket.
The registration tables were mobbed, folks lining up for their Hello, My Name Is badges. He skipped that nonsense. He never wore a name tag. For one, he’d been in the paper enough that his identity spoke for itself, but more than that, he wasn’t going to encourage approaches, casual conversations, or the airing of issues. Especially after the Anne thing.
God, the first month after she’d been hurt had been ridiculous, all kinds of acquaintances and hangers-on coming at him with various levels of sincerity. Like his family business was any of theirs.
“Chief, over here.”
Brent Mathison, the president of IAFF Local 5690, waved from the base of the escalators. The guy was dressed in a navy blue suit and a red tie, his union pin on his lapel, his military haircut making him look like the security detail for a dignitary.
People called out Tom’s name as he went across the patterned carpet, and he nodded at the various political wonks, society types, and media whores.
He put his palm out to Brent, and they did the shake and slap. “Just so you know, I plan on having an urgent stationhouse call in thirty-five minutes.”
“Shocker.” Brent straightened his tie. “So Graham Perry came and found me. The mayor wants to see us.”
“Now? What about her dog and pony show to the masses.”
“It’s the cocktail hour. There’s time. Come on, the greenroom is over here.”
Tom fell into step with the other guy. “Why do I get the feeling I’m being set up?”
“Because you’re paranoid.”
Tom nodded at a pair of lobbyists, but didn’t slow down as they started to roundabout. “Tell me something, how old are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“How old?”
“Thirty-five.”
They entered a carpeted hallway that was nothing but brass-plaqued double doors and poster ads for theater shows, high-end restaurants, and jewelers. The air smelled like steak, which suggested the hotel had ventilation issues, and he wondered when the last time its management had done a fire drill for the staff.
Brent looked over. “Why’d you ask me my age?”
“Because you look a little old to be this naive.”
“I don’t know what your problem with Catherine is—”
“Oh, so now we’re on a first-name basis, are we. What’s next? Netflix and chill?”
“—a good mayor, a better person, and she gets us. Her father was a firefighter.”
Tom shook his head. “Politicians do one thing with reliability and that’s look out for themselves. You’re going to learn this the hard way, but that evolution is not my problem.”
“You don’t know her.” Brent stopped in front of something called the Salisbury Room. “And you’re too young to be this cynical.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Brent opened the way in, and talk about standing room only. There were a good fifty people crammed in around a boardroom table long enough to bowl on, everyone talking loud enough so they could be heard over the very din they were creating.