Wildfire
Page 71
“I’ll go see if I can find more,” the dark-haired man offered.
I laid the painting on the floor and tried the next one. A picture of the house, two adults and two children, and a ghostly outline of a dog. Was the dog dead? Was Kyle wishing for a puppy? I took the painting off the wall, just as the dark-haired man and Delun brought in four more. They moved on upstairs, while Melosa and I took the next frame apart.
Half an hour later all twenty-four paintings lay on the floor. I had gone through every inch of paper and wood with a fine-toothed comb. Nothing.
The disappointment crushed me. I had been so sure.
The paintings ticked all the right boxes, ranking right there with hollow books as a cliché hiding place: most people wouldn’t think of it, so those who did thought they were being really clever and enjoyed knowing that their valuables were hidden in plain sight. It was just the kind of thing I would’ve expected Olivia Charles to do. She framed all of Kyle’s paintings.
“Do you want to look anywhere else?” Delun asked.
“Not tonight.” I’d come back in the morning with an ultraviolet light and give it another go. “Let’s go home.”
The escort faithfully followed me all the way to the parking lot in front of the warehouse, then they veered toward Rogan’s HQ. I parked the car, got out, and walked around the warehouse. It was easier than punching the code in and going through all the doors inside.
I turned the corner. A twisted wreck that might have been a car at some point lay mangled in the street. Someone had taken a car frame, crushed and twisted it, like a piece of aluminum foil, and then tossed it onto the street. Odd.
Ahead the commerce-size garage door stood open, spilling yellow electric light onto the street and another dented wreckage. This one looked like some giant pressed the car into a ball and decided to practice soccer tricks with it.
I sped up.
The motor pool was mostly empty. Someone had conveniently moved the vehicles to the side, leaving an open space in the center. Smaller chunks of metal, wrenched and twisted, littered the concrete floor. Grandma Frida leaned against Romeo. He was Grandma Frida’s pet project. He’d started out his life as an M551 Sheridan, a light armored tank, armed with nine antitank Shillelagh missiles, and other fun things. However, Grandma Frida had made modifications, and ever since Romeo saw some action almost two weeks ago, she’d been tinkering with him nonstop.
At the far end, near the inner wall, Rogan loomed, like the living embodiment of manly darkness, by two large screens, studying the footage of Garen. On the left, Bern sat in a chair a few feet away from the screen with his keyboard on his lap. Bug had straddled a chair backwards on the right and leaned over the back of it, his chin on his forearms. My mother sat near Bug, Grandma Frida’s knitting on her lap. As I approached, she picked at it with a crochet hook and unraveled another tangled row. Two blankets lay on the floor, next to a half-finished bowl of popcorn. My sisters must’ve been in attendance.
I paused by Grandma Frida and nodded at the metal carnage.
“He was watching your date and the walls started buckling. I needed some old frames scrapped so I gave him something to do.”
“And the girls?”
“They went to bed. While you were having your adventures, we’ve been running tornado drills all day. They’re sick to death of running across the street into the basement. Don’t worry, they watched the whole thing. You’ll get an earful tomorrow.”
I rolled my eyes. That’s what was missing in my life, the teenager perspective. “What’s Mom doing?”
Grandma Frida gave me the evil eye. “That yarn cost thirty-eight dollars a skein. I want her to salvage it. I tried doing it myself, except I have frayed nerves today. I was going to set it on fire for closure, but your mother took away my blowtorch.”
I nodded and went to stand by Rogan. “Did you catch all that?”
“Yes.” The voice was glacially cold.
“I especially liked the part where he casually threatened me.”
“I caught that too,” he said.
I leaned forward to look at his face. The dragon was out in all his terrifying glory. I grinned. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
Lie. “You can’t kill Garen Shaffer.”
“Technically, I can. I choose not to. And I wasn’t thinking of killing him.”
“If you go over to his place and break his arms in five places, it would look bad. People will be afraid to do business with me.”
“I wasn’t thinking of breaking his arms either. I was thinking of hamstringing his corporation, ripping it apart, and selling it piece by piece while he watched.”
Mad Rogan, the Scourge of Mexico. A civilized and considerate enemy. “You can’t ruin every man who threatens me.”
“Yes, I can. Besides, I would only have to ruin the first couple and the rest will get the hint. Except for the Maderos, who are particularly stupid, apparently.”
“It’s okay. I had a nice chat with Frank and Dave’s grandpa. We understand each other now.”
On screen, Garen reached out and touched my hand. The carved biceps on Rogan’s arm visibly tensed. Behind us, a chunk of metal rose in the air and crimped, contorting with a harsh screech.
I had to thaw him out. “See how he maintains eye contact. A gentle, yet firm touch, just brief enough to underscore sincerity. Reassurance that he’s on my side, he’s in charge, and he will take care of everything.”
Bug turned and looked at me, his face surprised.
I winked at him. “Garen knows how to read people. He watched them lie his entire life. It gives you a unique perspective. He knows how to obtain a confession. You do it by convincing the person you’re on their side. He started with that charming confession about being uncomfortable with choosing the wine and it only got better from there. He was sincere, disarming, and logical.”
“Is that magic?” Bug asked.
“No, it’s human nature. Shaffer is a professional interrogator. But so am I.” I gave Bug my best reassuring smile. “I can see into your brain, Bug. I know what makes you tick.”
He shuddered. “Don’t do that.”
Bern laughed in his chair. Rogan remained stoic. Still no dice.
“The good news is, Garen isn’t involved in the conspiracy, so he isn’t our problem. We can set this aside and move on.”
I laid the painting on the floor and tried the next one. A picture of the house, two adults and two children, and a ghostly outline of a dog. Was the dog dead? Was Kyle wishing for a puppy? I took the painting off the wall, just as the dark-haired man and Delun brought in four more. They moved on upstairs, while Melosa and I took the next frame apart.
Half an hour later all twenty-four paintings lay on the floor. I had gone through every inch of paper and wood with a fine-toothed comb. Nothing.
The disappointment crushed me. I had been so sure.
The paintings ticked all the right boxes, ranking right there with hollow books as a cliché hiding place: most people wouldn’t think of it, so those who did thought they were being really clever and enjoyed knowing that their valuables were hidden in plain sight. It was just the kind of thing I would’ve expected Olivia Charles to do. She framed all of Kyle’s paintings.
“Do you want to look anywhere else?” Delun asked.
“Not tonight.” I’d come back in the morning with an ultraviolet light and give it another go. “Let’s go home.”
The escort faithfully followed me all the way to the parking lot in front of the warehouse, then they veered toward Rogan’s HQ. I parked the car, got out, and walked around the warehouse. It was easier than punching the code in and going through all the doors inside.
I turned the corner. A twisted wreck that might have been a car at some point lay mangled in the street. Someone had taken a car frame, crushed and twisted it, like a piece of aluminum foil, and then tossed it onto the street. Odd.
Ahead the commerce-size garage door stood open, spilling yellow electric light onto the street and another dented wreckage. This one looked like some giant pressed the car into a ball and decided to practice soccer tricks with it.
I sped up.
The motor pool was mostly empty. Someone had conveniently moved the vehicles to the side, leaving an open space in the center. Smaller chunks of metal, wrenched and twisted, littered the concrete floor. Grandma Frida leaned against Romeo. He was Grandma Frida’s pet project. He’d started out his life as an M551 Sheridan, a light armored tank, armed with nine antitank Shillelagh missiles, and other fun things. However, Grandma Frida had made modifications, and ever since Romeo saw some action almost two weeks ago, she’d been tinkering with him nonstop.
At the far end, near the inner wall, Rogan loomed, like the living embodiment of manly darkness, by two large screens, studying the footage of Garen. On the left, Bern sat in a chair a few feet away from the screen with his keyboard on his lap. Bug had straddled a chair backwards on the right and leaned over the back of it, his chin on his forearms. My mother sat near Bug, Grandma Frida’s knitting on her lap. As I approached, she picked at it with a crochet hook and unraveled another tangled row. Two blankets lay on the floor, next to a half-finished bowl of popcorn. My sisters must’ve been in attendance.
I paused by Grandma Frida and nodded at the metal carnage.
“He was watching your date and the walls started buckling. I needed some old frames scrapped so I gave him something to do.”
“And the girls?”
“They went to bed. While you were having your adventures, we’ve been running tornado drills all day. They’re sick to death of running across the street into the basement. Don’t worry, they watched the whole thing. You’ll get an earful tomorrow.”
I rolled my eyes. That’s what was missing in my life, the teenager perspective. “What’s Mom doing?”
Grandma Frida gave me the evil eye. “That yarn cost thirty-eight dollars a skein. I want her to salvage it. I tried doing it myself, except I have frayed nerves today. I was going to set it on fire for closure, but your mother took away my blowtorch.”
I nodded and went to stand by Rogan. “Did you catch all that?”
“Yes.” The voice was glacially cold.
“I especially liked the part where he casually threatened me.”
“I caught that too,” he said.
I leaned forward to look at his face. The dragon was out in all his terrifying glory. I grinned. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
Lie. “You can’t kill Garen Shaffer.”
“Technically, I can. I choose not to. And I wasn’t thinking of killing him.”
“If you go over to his place and break his arms in five places, it would look bad. People will be afraid to do business with me.”
“I wasn’t thinking of breaking his arms either. I was thinking of hamstringing his corporation, ripping it apart, and selling it piece by piece while he watched.”
Mad Rogan, the Scourge of Mexico. A civilized and considerate enemy. “You can’t ruin every man who threatens me.”
“Yes, I can. Besides, I would only have to ruin the first couple and the rest will get the hint. Except for the Maderos, who are particularly stupid, apparently.”
“It’s okay. I had a nice chat with Frank and Dave’s grandpa. We understand each other now.”
On screen, Garen reached out and touched my hand. The carved biceps on Rogan’s arm visibly tensed. Behind us, a chunk of metal rose in the air and crimped, contorting with a harsh screech.
I had to thaw him out. “See how he maintains eye contact. A gentle, yet firm touch, just brief enough to underscore sincerity. Reassurance that he’s on my side, he’s in charge, and he will take care of everything.”
Bug turned and looked at me, his face surprised.
I winked at him. “Garen knows how to read people. He watched them lie his entire life. It gives you a unique perspective. He knows how to obtain a confession. You do it by convincing the person you’re on their side. He started with that charming confession about being uncomfortable with choosing the wine and it only got better from there. He was sincere, disarming, and logical.”
“Is that magic?” Bug asked.
“No, it’s human nature. Shaffer is a professional interrogator. But so am I.” I gave Bug my best reassuring smile. “I can see into your brain, Bug. I know what makes you tick.”
He shuddered. “Don’t do that.”
Bern laughed in his chair. Rogan remained stoic. Still no dice.
“The good news is, Garen isn’t involved in the conspiracy, so he isn’t our problem. We can set this aside and move on.”
