Consumed (Firefighters #1)(66)

“Of course I do. It’s a bit obvious to have to paint a picture to a smart girl like you, but since you asked—you lose your arm, and now you’re an also-ran with an unsatisfied yearning to get back to work. The problem is, you can’t do the work you want anymore because you can’t pass the physical tests you used to ace. You’re stir-crazy, searching for purpose, and this itch that cannot be scratched no matter how many forms you fill out or investigations you do is driving you insane. So your brain is finding connections that do not exist, which is what women do, and all of that mental storm got you in your little gray municipal sedan and drove you all the way up to the big city.” The man sat forward. “I permitted you this one get-together because I feel sorry for you. I have a daughter whom I care for very much, and she, too, had a fire ruin her. She was once very pretty. Now she looks like a monster. But you people saved her life and that’s why I gave you that new stationhouse. I am very pro-firefighter, very supportive of your previous profession.”

“So you have no comment.”

“I just gave you plenty.”

“You didn’t explain anything, but I’m not going to argue with you.”

“Good.” The man stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go on about my day. I have indulged you this visit because I feel sorry for you, but anything past this I will regard as harassment. There are consequences to things, as you have learned firsthand. Let’s both make sure you don’t lose anything else, shall we?”

Anne got to her feet. “I’m going to do my job, Mr. Ripkin. If you’re hiding anything, it’s going to come out. You need to be prepared.”

“I always think it’s wise to take our own advice.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“We’ll see about that. Oh, before you go, how’s your mother?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nancy Janice. She lives alone, doesn’t she? In that house on Crandall Avenue. A tree fell on it from the storms, didn’t it.”

Anne froze and her stomach knotted up. She thought about Bob Burlington, the arson investigator whose body had washed ashore in the bay, and her boss’s warning. But she was also not going to be bullied.

“Mr. Ripkin, I am very sure this act of yours works with most of the people you come in contact with, and I congratulate you on the cultivation of such a successful intimidation tool.” She put her hand up. “Wait, before you tell me that I need to take you seriously, I’d like to show you something.”

She took her cell phone out and turned the screen around to him. “I’ve recorded this entire conversation and every two minutes this handy app has sent a file to my boss, Don Marshall.”

“That is not admissible as evidence,” Ripkin said in a bored tone.

“You’re right. But Don believes you had Bob Burlington murdered because he investigated the fire at your mansion. So if anything happens to me, my family, or anyone close to me, I’ve got that little comment of yours about my mother’s house on lock—” As her phone vibrated, she smiled and pointed at the screen. “Oh, look. It’s just sent another file—swatch what happens next.” A text notification came through. “And here’s Don, confirming receipt.”

“No one can do anything with it. You gave me no notice.”

She pointed to the chair she was in. “Don’t pretend you didn’t record this, either. Guess we’re even.”

The double doors opened and the animatron with the great legs waited in between the jambs like a Doberman pinscher.

Anne walked over and then looked over her shoulder. “One more thing. I’d rather have a plastic hand and a clear conscience than be an OCD-ridden Cialis candidate with hair plugs and murder in his background. I can change jobs and enjoy the satisfaction of helping to put sociopathic criminals like you behind bars. Your future, on the other hand, is going to involve more male pattern baldness as well as the joy of sharing a communal shower with all kinds of people who you will view as beneath you. Oh, and as for the erectile dysfunction, I’m just guessing at that because only a guy who can’t get it up would try to play the ‘you’re lesser as a woman’ bullshit with someone like me—oh, look.” She indicated her phone’s screen again. “Another file got sent. I think I’ll make a best-of CD and send it to the local CBS affiliate—no, wait, you’re so excited about being in the big city, CNN is even better. Have a good day, Mr. Ripkin.”

Anne left the office and did not look back. As she went down the corridor, her legs were like rubber and she wanted to wipe the sheen of sweat off her forehead—but she resisted the latter because she didn’t want to look weak.

Behind her, the executive assistant’s footfalls were sharp as curses.

As Anne came up to the glass wall that fronted the reception area, she was glad when she could push it open and get the hell out of there.

At the elevators, she used her prosthetic hand to push the down button.

Her real one was shaking too badly.

By the time she reemerged into the parking garage, she was light-headed from the adrenaline and fear, and as she went over to her car, she looked up. Pods containing security cameras were set into the ceiling at regular intervals, and she was willing to bet every property that Ripkin owned was the same.