Consumed (Firefighters #1)(63)

Fly-fishing wasn’t.

The lanes of the highway were congested, making her think of clogged arteries, sump lines that were full of silt, gutters that had yet to be cleaned of autumn leaves. She also thought of all the lives in all of the cars, the details, the timelines, the beginnings, middles, and ends. In this respect, every morning and every evening, in every major city across the globe, biographies gathered on the asphalt, books lined up one to another as if on a shelf, the pages at once anonymous within the collection and totally personal between the covers, within each automobile.

Humanity was a galaxy, countless, unfathomable, too vast to comprehend.

Not that she’d ever wanted to be God.

When she finally pulled into the Ripkin Building’s underground parking garage, it was 9:20. She got her ticket, found a slot on the third of the six levels, and was not surprised to learn that Ripkin’s office was all the way up at the building’s top floor, a king surveying the world he had conquered.

When she stepped off the elevator, there was no question which way to go. Down to the right, a wall of glass bearing the Ripkin logo cordoned off a reception area that seemed to be built around an enormous crystal R.

Anne entered and went over to the black granite desk. The attractive blonde was like any other piece of art, dressed in a black, her hair slicked back into a bun that gave Anne a headache just looking at it.

“I’m Inspector Ashburn,” she said. “I’m here to see Mr. Ripkin.”

Flashes of Bud Fox showing up at Gordon Gekko’s office and getting put on the back burner for hours made her thank Don. He was on Soot duty for however long this took.

“But of course. He’s expecting you.”

“But of course”? When was the last time she’d heard that expression? But she wasn’t going to argue with the access.

“Please come this way.”

The blonde didn’t so much stand up as levitate, and as she led the way down a long gray hall, Anne wondered whether she was a fembot or something. She moved like she had no bones and ball bearings for joints.

Utterly bizarre, Anne thought as she looked around at all the closed doors. She didn’t hear any phones ringing. There were no voices. Nobody else striding the corridors.

“Mind if I ask you something?” she said.

The blonde glanced over. “As you wish.”

As I wish? Is this an Alfred Hitchcock movie? “Is this Ripkin Development headquarters?”

“Ripkin Development takes up the top ten floors. This floor is for Mr. Ripkin.”

“An entire floor. Wow.”

“Mr. Ripkin is a very busy man.”

“Well, I would think he would be with all the buildings he owns.”

“You are very lucky Mr. Ripkin decided to see you. Ordinarily, he is booked months in advance.”

“Arson is a priority. Especially when it happens on property you own.”

“Mr. Ripkin is not worried about meeting with you.”

Okay, Bob Vance, Vance Refrigeration. “I didn’t catch your name?”

If she said Phyllis, Anne was going to believe for sure God existed.

“Persephone.” The future Stepford wife stopped in front of a pair of dove-gray doors that were tall as a waterfall. “Please wait here. I will announce you to Mr. Ripkin.”

As she was left to her own devices, she wondered if Mr. Ripkin was sleeping with good ol’ Persephone/Phyllis. It was a fair bet that was a yes. Loyalty like that either had to be bought with a good wage, or it had to be seduced with the promise of a good lifestyle. Besides, hadn’t the original Mrs. Ripkin died a few years back?

The doors opened again. “Mr. Ripkin will see you now.”

As the woman stood to one side, Anne entered a room she knew she was never going to forget. The ceilings were even higher than the doors, and the square footage was nearly that of a hotel lobby. Everything was covered in gray marble, great sheets of the stone covering the walls and the floor. No rugs, no paintings, just windows on three sides, and three or four sitting areas with conference tables.

Framed against a view out to the vast ocean, Mr. Ripkin was seated behind a gray marble desk that was uncluttered by even a phone. The man was seventy, but he looked sixty, no doubt the result of some very expensive, very subtle plastic surgery. His hair was snow white and thick as a snow drift, and his expression of calm professionalism reminded her of a hockey goalie’s mask.

He was protecting a lot behind that composure, making sure no one pucked him in the face.

She instantly mistrusted him, and she thought about that stationhouse the man had bought the department.

“Inspector Ashburn.” Voice was even, the townie in the vowels mostly brushed out, like stain from a cloth. “How nice of you to come.”

As if he’d issued an invitation? “Thanks for seeing me.”

“Perhaps we’ll sit over here. Would you care for coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

He issued a curt nod and Anne knew without looking over her shoulder that Persephone had vanished sure as a shadow chased away by the light. And as they processed over to some silk-covered chairs, she was aware that her hand was beginning to sweat.

“You will sit here,” he announced as he pointed to a seat that appeared to be no different from any other.

Yeah, except for the wire that was running out the back and into the floor. She would have chosen another, but she was willing to bet that whatever he had had installed there was the same in all of the others . . . except for the one he picked.