Olivia couldn’t stifle the icy shiver that cut through her at the thought of David plunging four stories. She did, however, manage to stifle the mixed dread and anticipation at sharing the close quarters of a bucket with him. She’d do her job, as would he. “We’ll take the videos if that’s all we can get right now, but I want to see the scene. I guess going up in the bucket is our best option at the moment. We should get out there before they leave. They’ve been there for about eight hours now.”

“They’ve probably got another two hours ahead of them,” Barlow said, “so you don’t have to rush.” He pulled a sooty envelope from his front pocket and handed it to Kane. “You asked for the Rankin and Sons personnel list. I had them run an extra copy for you.”

“Thanks. We’ll start background checks. Anyone we should be looking at?”

“As in anyone who’d have access to the guard’s schedule and their camera feeds?” Micki asked sarcastically. “Try anyone on that list and just about any entry-level hacker.”

Olivia winced. “You snuck into the system that easily, huh?”

Micki rolled her eyes. “We didn’t have to sneak. Rankin’s IT guy left their server wide open. I’d check the IT guy. If he’s not on the take, he’s the most inept we’ve ever come across.”

“So anyone could have cut the camera feed,” Kane said glumly.

“Sorry,” Micki said. “I wish I could give you better news. We are trying to trace where the command to disable the cameras came from. That’ll take a little while. Like Barlow said, that aspect of this job was done very well.”

Dr. Donahue sat back in her chair. “Sergeant Barlow, could this fire have been set by one individual?”

Barlow hesitated. “Maybe. But if this really was SPOT, then they probably were a cell of two to four people. If it was arson for hire or some other reason, it could have been one. The job itself could have been accomplished solo, with adequate planning.”

“So we have one to four people, educated in computer networks but who didn’t do their homework on actually setting the fire,” Donahue said. “At least one of them was capable of shooting a guard in cold blood. They brought at least one gun with them, so they were prepared for violence of some nature-even if it was to protect themselves. Were any warning shots fired that you could see?”

“No,” Micki said. “We found the slug that killed Weems. Hollow-point,.38. We didn’t see evidence of other shots fired. We’ll keep looking now that it’s daylight.”

Donahue nodded. “So for now we’ll assume they did not fire warning shots, just the one shot that hit Mr. Weems… where?”

“Right through the heart,” Kane said grimly and Donahue’s brows rose.

“Interesting. A more surefire target would have been his head. I mean, Weems could have been wearing a vest. Through the heart is very personal.”

“Weems represented authority, even if they didn’t know he’d been a cop,” Olivia said. “Most of these groups are anarchists. That they’d despise Weems isn’t unusual.”

“But apparently to shoot him, is.” Donahue scribbled in a small notebook. “I’ll do some research on SPOT. See if anyone developed profiles back in the nineties.”

“We’ll keep on the girl’s ID,” Olivia said. “Ian’s supposed to call when he’s done with the girl’s autopsy. For now we’ll start checking into Rankin’s personnel.”

“And I’ll call Special Agent Crawford at the Bureau’s field office,” Abbott said. “We keep the details of the glass globe from the press for as long as we can. Can this firefighter be trusted not to talk to reporters?”

“Yes,” Olivia said quickly. Too quickly, she thought when everyone looked at her. She shrugged. “He’s an old family friend with no love for reporters. He won’t talk.”

Abbott nodded. “Good. Barlow, let me know if you need support. I have a few detectives I can pull in from other cases if we need them. Everyone back here at five.”

Monday, September 20, 8:55 a.m.

Eric could recite the thirty-minute newscast from memory. What am I going to do?

You’re going to sit here and wait, just like he told you to. Just as he had for the past five hours. The news wasn’t new since disclosing the second victim had died of gunshot wounds. So he’d sat, listening to the same report again and again and watching his cell phone. Waiting for it to buzz, waiting for the next text from his “master.” Sonofabitch.

And if he makes me wait days? Eventually he’d have to leave his apartment, go to class. Maybe even eat. Although the very thought of food made him want to gag.

We killed that girl. But they had not shot that guard. Which meant somebody else did. The only other person was the damn blackmailer. He did it. He shot the guard.

But who would believe them? The texter had them on video. Video, goddamn it.

How could we have been so stupid? How did he know we’d even be there? He’d racked his brain all night, trying to think of where, when they’d been together, discussing their plan. But so far he’d come up blank. Unless one of them had told.

He closed his eyes. It was top of the hour. Time for another identical report on the condo arson, word for word. He started to murmur the words along with the anchor, then bolted upright in his chair when the mouth on the tube said, “This just in.”

The television screen had split. The anchor was on the right, but on the left was a picture of the guard. In a cop’s uniform. Eric’s mouth went bone dry and he stared at the man’s badge as the talking head on the right began to speak.

“ Minneapolis police have confirmed the identity of the guard killed in last night’s arson. The victim is Henry Weems, who retired last year after a twenty-five-year career with the Minneapolis police. His daughter, Brenda Weems, gave this statement.”

The screen switched to Brenda Weems who stood on the steps of a modest house in a modest suburb, arms tightly crossed over her chest, her face tearstained.

“My father was a good cop, a good husband and father. He was murdered last night, along with another victim. I know the police will not rest until his killer is brought to justice-not because my father was a cop, but because he was a member of this community. My mother and I ask for privacy so that we may grieve. Thank you.”

The screen switched back to the anchor and Eric felt numb.

A cop was dead. So are we. The police wouldn’t rest until they’d hunted them down.

Joel had said as much last night, when they’d still thought their worst problem was the dead girl. Eric stood abruptly. He had to get to Joel before he found out about this. There was no telling how Joel would respond. He might break, crack, tell everyone.

And we all go to prison. Not going to happen.

He’d turned to wash up when his phone buzzed on the table. For a moment he just looked at it, then carefully picked it up, as if it were poisonous. His shoulders sagged. Not a text. It was an incoming call from Albert.

“Did you see the news? I didn’t kill him. I only hit him. Somebody shot him. Who?”

“I… I don’t know,” Eric said numbly.

“He was a cop. If that pussy Joel tells, we’re dead.”

He thought of the video. The texts. You have no idea how dead we are. “I know.” Eric made a decision. “We have to stop Joel from talking.” And he had to keep the texter from showing the video that would damn them all. “Just don’t hurt him, okay?”

Albert said, very quietly, “We will not speak of this again.”

Eric drew a breath, knowing he was sentencing Joel to death. “No, we will not.” He closed his phone, completely unsurprised when a text popped up immediately.

go to 11 ^th and nicollet. sit on bench at bus stop. find envelope taped to seat. come alone. tell no one. yes or no?

Suddenly, coolly calm, Eric texted back, yes. He went to his bedroom and grabbed the plastic bag in which he’d stuffed his smoky-smelling clothes. He couldn’t let the maid find them. He’d throw them in a dumpster.