Chapter Three
Sunday, April 9 six a.m.
Tom unlocked the construction site before the sun rose, his heart pumping like he’d had five cups of coffee. He would never have said it out loud, but he was excited. It was sick and perverted to be intrigued and curious in the face of a catastrophe, but there it was.
He was alone, but that wouldn’t last long. Not with an accident of this level. OSHA had been out the day before, but there would be more investigators coming. He had to be careful not to disturb anything that would be considered evidence. If OSHA made a finding of “willful intent,” then the construction site became a crime scene. He went into the trailer and set up shop in the conference room. He opened his laptop and began assembling information. The crane make and model were in an email. Someone had thought to type up the names and contact information for staff onsite, along with unofficial testimonies. He read each three times.
The color outside the stingy window changed from black as night to dingy gray when a cup of hot coffee appeared on the table. He lifted his head, following the hand that had set it there.
“Riley? I’m Stinson. Jim Stinson. I work for Fabrini.”
The man paused as if he were waiting to be recognized. The name didn’t ring any bells, and neither did the face attached to it. Tom would remember meeting the guy, as he was ugly in a mismatched sort of way. Eyes too small for his face. Mouth too big. His eyes were a dark brown, but his skin was colorless.
Growing up, he didn’t answer to “Riley.” That was his uncle. Or his father. “Call me Tom. Thanks for the coffee.”
“I figured you’d be in need of a refresher. Any progress?”
He hated being interrupted when he worked and wasn’t nice about it, as his family had pointed out. He sipped the steaming brew and was glad he remembered to appreciate the man’s thoughtfulness. His neck was sore from hunching over the computer. Maybe it was time for an interruption. “It’s going to be a while yet.”
“I think we’re all in shock, you know? F&F has some of the highest safety standards in the industry. We’d make more money on a job if we worked like the other guys do.” He held up his hands. “I’m not complaining. People need to come first. I’m just saying that doing things right is slower than doing things, you know, good enough. Slow is more expensive. That’s construction finance 101.”
Is that what happened? Someone picked profit over people? The idea sickened him, and it came across in his voice. “I grew up in construction. My father is one of the brothers in Riley Brothers General Contractors. I’ve been in construction longer than I’ve been in long pants.”
“Oh, well, then you get what I’m saying.”
It didn’t feel like they were speaking the same language. “What do you do for F&F, Jim?”
“I head up the accounting division. Been with Frank for nearly ten years.” He looked to the grimy window. “There’s accidents. There’s always accidents…but this…”
Accountant. That explained it, but there was no mistaking the remorse from Stinson. He might be a numbers man, but he saw the people. Anyone who walked onto a construction site accepted there were risks, but it wasn’t like back in the day. At the turn of the 20th Century, it was said that a man died for every million dollars that was spent. Five men died building the Empire State Building. Twenty-seven died building the Brooklyn Bridge. In the United States, progress had made death the exception, not the norm. The Occupational Safety and Health Administration—OSHA for short—would be working as hard as he was to get to the root cause.
“Did you know many of the men?” Tom asked.
“Jack Hawthorne ran several of the projects assigned to me when I first started out. He invited me to get out of the office. He made the work real to me, you know? Taught me the equipment and consumables and the lingo that got me where I am today.” He rubbed his eyes. “Sorry.”
“I knew Jack, too.” He wanted Stinson to know he wasn’t alone, hiding grief because that’s what you were supposed to do. “Twenty years ago, he worked for my dad. You couldn’t put anything past him.”
“No, you couldn’t. God, what his wife and kids must be going through. She’s…a real nice lady.” Neither said what they so obviously thought: Jack Hawthorne was gone.
“What about the others missing? Morales and Carter. Did you know them?”
“Carter I knew. He interned at the home office and then worked there once he went full time. This was maybe his third project? Something like that. I can get the details from his timecards if it’s important.”
“I appreciate it. I’d like to know everyone who was on this site within the last week. Sun’s up. I’m heading out.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Tom slung two high-powered cameras around his neck. One digital. One film. Sometimes, there’s just no beating old school. He put on his hard hat, safety vest, and glasses, tucked his notebook and pencil under his arm, and turned to Stinson. “Ready when you are.”
It was a humbling, amazing sight to see steel twisted like ribbon. It was a reminder of how fragile the human existence was. With fire, technology, and brute force, man created structures that were beautiful and functional, productive and protective. But when something like this happened, it was hard not to think of it as a little reminder of who was God…
And who wasn’t.
“Did you see what happened?” Tom asked.
“No, but I was in the trailer. We audit accounts quarterly. I have my staff go to the projects to see that it’s more than numbers on a sheet. A legacy of Jack, I guess. I don’t have the luxury of spending days out of the office, so I take a local project myself. It helps keep me in touch. Anyway, I’d been ass-deep in paper since seven that morning. People think doctors have bad handwriting. Try foremen with frozen fingers. Next year, we’re piloting tablets for direct entry—sorry, I keep getting off track. So I heard the noise. Remember that old movie Godzilla, the really old one? That’s what the sound made me think of. There was shouting, and the ground shook. I ran out of the trailer, but it had already happened. I dialed 9-1-1 and went to see what I could do.”
“Watch where you walk.” Tom picked his way over the ground, careful of his footing. Anything could be a clue. “What could you do?”
“Not a lot.” Stinson followed in his footsteps. “There were men lying on the ground. I don’t know if they jumped or fell when the frame started to topple, but they were hurt. We got them a safe distance back and then went to the water. It was so cold, my feet went numb in my boots, but we got three men out. Emergency services were here by then.”
Off in the distance, the high whirl of a small engine carried on the air. A Jet Ski raced parallel to the shore. The genderless rider in a wet suit and helmet rode the waves like a snow skier over moguls.
Stinson spat on the ground, kicking his toe in the dirt to cover it. “You’d have to be insane to be out on the lake today.”
Sunday, April 9 nine a.m.
Peach wasn’t insane. She was desperate. She needed to find her uncle’s body and bring him home. It was the only way for her grandfather to find closure. Sitting around and waiting for things to happen wasn’t her style, so she set out as soon as it was light enough to see. The research she had done the night before on Lake Erie indicated the water moved west to east, with the wind. She started at the bluff and public beach, where she had parked the day before, and searched east, past the working port to the downtown entertainment district several miles away. All with no luck.
She moved farther west and began again, getting even closer to the shore. She braced her weight like she was riding a horse and took the machine over the cresting waves. At the construction site, two figures moved in the distance. Deciding on a quick detour, she took the Jet Ski around a bend and out of sight before running it ashore. Staying low, she crawled along the sandy beach until the rocky shore protection started. Then she slid into the water.
She moved silently until she was under the bowed crane. Two men were talking. Stinson. She learned that name the day before. Some type of manager. No one her uncle would know, not to talk to at least. The other one was Tom. No last name.
Stinson was doing most of the talking. His voice was higher, and he had a nervous laugh. He answered questions posed by a lower voice. Authoritative. Slightly annoyed. Was he an investigator? Maybe he didn’t like company.
It would be more helpful to see what they were doing, which she couldn’t from her position. So she started to climb. The trusses of the crane provided ample hand and foot holds. She dropped onto the rocks that were the size of cows and crouched to stay invisible.
The one with the anxious laugh had nervous hands to match. His thin, pale blond hair was flopping in the breeze. His cheeks, nose, and ears were bright red. Stinson.
The annoyed man was at the base of the crane, taking pictures of the severed steel. He paused to take the pencil from his mouth and write in a notebook.
“Can you get me a measuring tape? I left one on the conference table.” Tom returned to his photos and then suddenly looked right over her.
She remembered the set of that face from the bar last night. The eyes were dark and very sharp. She imagined little got by them. His darker complexion stood up to the temperature. His thick dark hair barely noticed the breeze. That handsome face was the same. The smirk was missing, but the jaw was the same. This was Fabrini’s boy. Riley.
She descended back into the water with the name.
Now she had something to work with.
“Something wrong?” Stinson asked, holding out a fifty-foot tape.
Tom shook his head. “It’s nothing.” Like he was going to admit to seeing a mermaid in Lake Erie. Not the kind of reputation he was going for. He glanced up at Stinson to take the tape. The man had added a ski cap and gloves. “You don’t have to stay out here.”
“Fabrini said to make sure you have everything you need.”
“I’ll read all of the witness reports, then I’d like to talk to them personally. I need more detail about what they saw, heard, and felt. Any chance it was caught on video?”
“Not that I know of. It hasn’t surfaced on YouTube yet.”
He looked out where the head of the crane most likely sat. “The crane operator. They couldn’t pull him out?”
Stinson shook his head. “He wasn’t in it. I heard the windows were shattered, and the cab was empty.”
“See if you can find the contact information for the OSHA lead. Is there a phone in there I can use?”
Stinson nodded. “There’s one in the conference room.”
Tom hadn’t kept track of time, but his stomach did. When he finished his first once over of the crane and the building frame, most people were at lunch, but his stomach was not the priority. The catastrophe was. He needed some help if he was going to get anywhere fast.
Sunday, April 9 four p.m.
In her overstuffed bedroom, Peach bent over the small dressing table and adjusted the blond wig. Her own mass of dark waves was snuggly wound around her head with no stragglers poking out. The look was out of Miami Beach. Bleach-blond hair. Rich, sun-kissed skin. Sea foam green eyes. Pouty pink lipstick.
And let’s not forget the fuck-me little black dress.
She touched the gloss to her lip again. Dr. Thomas Riley preferred blondes. If a big-titted blonde was what he was buying, then that was what she was selling. Because for her, the end game was information. She had every confidence that the product of his long day’s work was in that notebook, the cameras, and the computer he undoubtedly carried.
The designer handbag had been purchased by her former employer, a D.C area law firm. Peach was part of their private investigation division, specializing in recovery. Information or otherwise. It was the perfect job for a person of her unique background and skills. One that she would pick up again, once she decided where to settle. It would be easy to go to Virginia, where her license was valid, but she wasn’t feeling it. She was ready for her next adventure, and if she had to re-establish her credentials, so be it. First things first: Rico. She opened the bag and stuffed it with her wallet, phone, mini-digital camera, a portable hard drive, a thumb drive with her favorite programs, and a baggie of Poppy’s sleeping pills. Not being licensed in Ohio wasn’t going to stop her from using her knowledge or resources.
Tonight her goal was information—enough to hang that bastard Fabrini. “This is for Poppy and Rico.”
“Peach? Where are you?”
“I’m in my room, Poppy. Be right there.” With a final spin in front of the mirror, she turned off the lights and closed the door behind her.
Poppy’s eyes might be failing, but his nose smelled the expensive fragrance. “You are going back out?”
“I told you, Poppy, I’m going to meet the man who is investigating the accident.” Not a lie.
“What is his name?”
“Thomas Riley. He is a structural engineer. His company is working for Fabrini.” The first part came from the internet. The second was obvious.
“Does he think Rico caused this?” The old man’s voice broke as he asked the question.
She wrapped her arms around her grandfather. “No. No. Of course not.” Because if he did, she would strangle the good-looking, smug bastard.
“I can’t even plan his funeral. Without his…without him.”
“I know. I’m going to look for him in the morning. I saw the Coast Guard back out today. Everyone is looking for Tío. We will find him. I promise.”
Poppy felt the hair that wasn’t her own. “You are going out to cause trouble.”
What did she say to that one? “I wouldn’t say cause.”
“I have bail money if you need it.”
“Oh, Poppy—” But even as she wanted to assure him she wasn’t looking for that kind of trouble, she knew the truth. “Thank you, Poppy. I love you.”
She checked her makeup and wig one last time in the mirror by the door. With a twisted smile, she slid into the accented English of her alias. “Tonight, Thomas Riley, Catalina Barco is going to learn all of your secrets.”
Sunday, April 9 six p.m.
Tom stumbled into the lobby of the hotel. His eyes were crossed and no doubt bloodshot. His back hurt. Oh yeah, and he had forgotten to eat, surviving the day on coffee, coffee, and then more coffee. He looked down at the floor, trying to work the knot out of his neck. Without warning, something warm and fragrant collided with him.
His hands shot out and locked onto a small waist to keep the woman he had just run into from falling.
“Aye, Dios mio,” the woman cried mournfully. She looked down at the white Styrofoam container that moments ago held her dinner.
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically. “I didn’t see you. Are you hurt?”
“Just my stomach as it is empty and that was to be my dinner.”
He steadied the woman before withdrawing his hands. Okay, maybe he held on a little longer. She smelled fresh and sweet, and he found he wanted to stay close to that delicious scent. She came up to his chin in her spiked heels, the kind he liked with the strap around the ankle. The little black dress hugged more curves than a Formula 1 race car. Her hair was a mass of thick blond curls that went wherever the hell they wanted. But it was her eyes that got him. They were a light green, the color of new leaves in spring, and they just reached out and grabbed him by the balls.
“You have to let me make this up to you. Come out to dinner with me.” Minutes before, all he wanted was a hot shower and room service. Those eyes of hers changed everything.
The woman stooped to pick up the container and see what could be salvaged. “You don’t need to do that. It was an accident. I’m sure I can salvage…enough.”
He took the woman by the shoulders until she stood, and then he stepped well and thoroughly on the spilled dinner. She looked up at him and shook her head, laughing.
“Come to dinner with me. There is a nice steakhouse just across the square. I’m Dr. Thomas Riley,” he said, extending his hand.
“Catalina Barco. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
He took her elbow and led her to a plush chair. “I’m sure the pleasure is all mine, but I’ll make it up to you. Let me just run up to my room and drop off these bags. It will just take a minute. Don’t leave.”
Catalina rewarded him with a smile that could power a small city. “I promise,” she said as she sat demurely.
In just under five minutes, he washed and changed into a clean set of clothes and the jacket he had worn the night before. He sent a short email to Fabrini confirming a brunch meeting and straightened up his room.
Just in case.
Catalina sat in the chair where he had left her, watching a wedding party spilling out into the foyer. She had a far-off look in her beautiful eyes.
“Do you like weddings?” he asked.
She jumped at the sound of his voice but relaxed quickly into a smile. “Oh, sí. So much happiness, so much joy. What is there not to like?”
He offered his hand for her to stand. “The tuxedos, the waiting, women with too much perfume, the hangovers.” When she stood, he slid out of his coat, draped it over her shoulders, and then tucked her hand into the nook of his elbow.
“There is nothing I enjoy more than taking a well-fitted tuxedo off a man, and as for the waiting…” She looked directly into his eyes. “One can pass the time in some very interesting ways. I have found that there can be too much of a good thing when it comes to perfume and that premium vodka will never leave you regretting the morning after. Well, at least not because of an ache in your head.”
His arm around her shoulder kept the coat in place as they hurried along the sidewalk. The wind came straight out of the north and was enough to take his breath away. He held the door for Catalina, and they walked into the same dark bar where he had met Fabrini the night before. Micro-skirt stood at the hostess podium, this time in five-alarm red. Her eyes flashed when she placed Tom and then narrowed at his companion. She quickly replaced the glare with a welcoming smile. Hostess professionalism at its best. “Welcome back. Are you going to the bar again?”
He shook his head. “A table, please. A quiet one.”
“Ooo, Tomas. Are you going to tell me all of your secrets?” Catalina crooned. “I can’t resist a good, juicy secret.”
“If that’s the case, I’m going to tell you all of mine and everyone else’s I know.”
Catalina bit her lip and pressed in close. “Tell me one. Right now.”
He dropped his head, his lips dangerously close to hers. “I’m really glad I ran into you.”
…
There was a satisfaction in coming back to the restaurant she’d been thrown out of just twenty-four hours before. Peach saw everything. It was one reason she was so good at what she did. She saw the cutting scowl of the hostess, vicious when she didn’t have a chance with the educated man. She saw the confidence in Tom, certain he was setting the rules for the game, but she also saw the weariness in him, the need to share. He wanted to tell her his secrets, and she’d make certain he’d get what he wanted.
“Have you been here before?” she asked in Catalina’s accented English as he pulled her chair out. Her arms were wound tightly around her waist, holding the coat closed.
“Just once. You’re still cold.” He towered over her, rubbing his hands up and down her arms to create heat. “We should have gotten your coat. I didn’t think it would be this bad going across the square. Do you want to keep my coat?”
“I am not so used to these temperatures. Maybe I will keep it just a little longer. It is nice and warm.” She inhaled deeply. “And it smells so good.” She froze as the unscripted thought escaped. He was supposed to be enraptured by her, not the other way around.
He smiled broadly as he took the chair next to her, his knee bumping hers. “I’m sorry. It seems like I can’t stop running into you.” He adjusted his angle to find room for his legs, his body coming nearer to her. “I love your accent. Listening to you is like listening to music on a summer’s night, with a warm breeze in your face and a bright moon above. Where are you from?”
“Guatemala but I have traveled my whole life. I am not certain where my accent is from anymore. I return home, and they complain they cannot understand me. They do not think my speech is good music, maybe like…punk rock. Loud and, um, harsh. Is that the right word?”
“No. Not as far as I’m concerned,” he said, scowling as though he’d been insulted.
The waiter appeared at the table, accompanied by a young man with a pitcher of water. Peach welcomed the interruption to get a handle on her loose tongue. She had planned to say she was from Spain but spouted out her paternal country of origin. He was an attentive man, already making her feel like she was the only woman in the restaurant. She tucked her chin and looked at Tom, very much liking what she saw. He was uncommonly handsome, smug smirk or not.
He looked at her then, chocolate brown eyes worth melting for. “Does that sound good to you?”
Busted. She had no idea what he was talking about. Decision time: confess or lie. “You distracted me, Tomas, with your chocolate eyes. I do not know the answer.”
Surprise lit his face and then satisfaction. “They have a dinner for two special. I thought it would be fun to share.”
She put her elbow on the table, her chin on her palm, and leaned toward him. “I think it would be fun…to share.” He leaned in, and the rest of the restaurant fell away. It was his eyes. They mesmerized her. That was dangerous. She straightened up again. “You look tired. Are you sure you want to be here?”
“I’m sure.” He turned to the waiter. “We will take the dinner for two. The porterhouse and the lobster tail, the asparagus and the cheese potatoes, and what do you think for appetizers?” He said the last as he turned to her.
“Soup. Hot soup.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The waiter offered three choices. They selected two. “Would you care for anything to drink besides the water?”
Tom quickly opened the wine menu, flipped past several pages, and selected a bottle of white.
The selection impressed her as it paired well with both the red meat and the lobster. She’d learned a thing or two to keep up with Anderson’s crowd. “Where did you learn so much about wine? Do you work in the field?” As an entrance, it wasn’t her best, but it did the job of getting the conversation where she wanted it.
“I’m an engineer. I developed my interest in wine from cooking shows. One show in particular dedicated a segment to wines, and I was hooked. I subscribed to a magazine or three, began to sample, taste, and buy. Do you enjoy wine, or are you a committed vodka woman?”
She would need to keep her wits to keep up with the wordplay that referenced back to the hotel. The wine didn’t worry her. Her last job required she maintain a certain tolerance. “I select my drinks as I do my jewelry, based on the occasion and the company.” She toyed with the pendant that was featured at the top of her décolletage. He withdrew as though she had slapped him, and she wondered where she had mis-stepped. “That is the way it should be done. No?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean…you didn’t put that dress on to eat takeout in your room, did you?”
She looked down where the dress hugged her breasts and held them out for attention. “I planned to take it off before I ate.” Threading her arms through the sleeves, she pulled the jacket closed. “My plans fell through, as they say. I do not think I know any engineers. Do you drive a train?”
His face erupted into a fun-filled grin, and it made him beautiful. “I’m a structural engineer, working with buildings, bridges, etc. It’s not driving a train, but I think it’s fun.”
She captured his chin between her fingers and leaned in again. His grin faded, and he tried to hide from her gaze. In that instant, she saw the remorse behind the fatigue. “Structural Engineering…it tires you? Makes you sad?”
He took her hand in his, stroked small circles over the back of her hand. “Today it did. It didn’t help that I forgot to eat. It was just—”
“Sir?” The waiter had reappeared tableside with the selected bottle. He took his time with the ceremony, the opening, the tasting, the pouring.
“Why does engineering—”
“Try it. Please,” he said. “It’s Spanish. They didn’t have a selection from Guatemala, but this one seemed made just for tonight.”
She turned the bottle and translated the label. “Sunkissed?” A giggle bubbled out. “Tomas, windburned would be for tonight’s weather. What is sunkissed?”
“Your skin. Your accent. You. Sunkissed. It’s perfect.”
Her mask fell, and for a moment, Peach wished she was really sitting here, on a spontaneous date with Tom Riley. “Will you excuse me a moment?” She hurried to the ladies’ room, where she paced back and forth in front of the mirrors. She paused in front of a mirror. “You are losing it.” After walking to the end of the sinks, she turned on her heel and returned. “Get it together. This man could decide if Rico died a hero or a villain.” Her reflection paled. She said what she couldn’t admit. Rico was dead. The odds of his being alive dwindled to snowflake’s-chance-in-hell last night. She planted her hands on the counter, her head hanging heavy. “What am I doing?”
She lifted her head, her eyes clear, her resolve back in place. “You are taking care of family.”