Page 29 of On Fire

I dig hands into pockets. “No. I was here, in town.”

A beat pounds by and then Finn decides to drop it. “Never mind. I—"

I can’t drop it. “I was at Keller’s—I crashed there.”

He unlocks the door with a card key and steps inside. A bank of five computers spans the room.

It’s as if he hasn’t heard me. “I’ve got some really bad news, Nic.”

Nic.

He doesn’t use my name all that often or all that much.

“Henry Holt’s body was found floating in the Boston Harbor this morning, about an hour ago.”

It takes a moment for the news to sink in. Only a moment though. This is about process. I stand very still for a moment.

“It looks like possible suicide.”

“I’d say the possibility of suicide is minimal.”

Finn nods. Placing one hand on my shoulder he leans over and taps the keyboard. “You ready for this?”

“Of course.” I am in work mode. My mind is racing. It must have happened early this morning. Very early.

Images of Henry’s body taken from different angles fill the screen. Feeling his hand still on my shoulder, I too lean over, pinch the screen, then expand the view. “Rope around the legs—but look, the knots face the wrong direction—someone else tied these.” I couldn’t manage to say, “his legs.”

“Has Stephan been notified?”

Finn nodded again. “That’s happening right now.”

“What about protection for the other two owners of the bars in Portland?”

Finn winces. “FBI is considering, but Carlson says he thinks they will find not enough cause to warrant protection.”

Not enough cause. What more do they need? I must have said this out loud when Finn pulls up a chair.

“We are having a remote meeting right now. We need to push back on that decision. We need that cool head of yours.”

In a minute, the digital meeting is on. One of the feds is the guy from the TTX training, the other is a woman who I’ve not met before.

After some prelims regarding basic facts about when the body was found, the state of the victim, possible leads—which there are none—the agents move to sign off. That’s the cue.

Finn starts the ball rolling. “I must respectfully press the point that we give the other owners of the bars in Portland safe haven. Protection.”

The woman, Pamela Frazier, mutes her mic and turns to her partner, a thick necked white guy with shaved sideburns named Sessions, for a moment before pressing the mic back on.

“Until we have determined that Henry Holt’s murder was part of a larger hate-crimes effort, we are working on the premise there was a personal motive.”

“I’m sorry, can you repeat?” This buys me time to read their body language.

She does, nearly verbatim.

“Am I to understand that you believe this murder is totally separate from the bombings?”

“Well, no,” she falters here, throwing an infinitesimal glance to her partner again for support. “But because Mr. Holt was singled out and the only victim attacked in this manner, it is reasonable to assume that his death was the result of a targeted effort.”

I can’t help the eyebrow lifting. Usually, I’m in better control.