Chapter 2 #2
I pull up Shaw Riley's public records again.
Property ownership, vehicle registration, licenses, certifications.
He owns a house on the north end of town, modest by coastal standards.
Drives a custom Harley. Holds certifications in fire investigation, arson investigation, hazardous materials response.
Clean record. No criminal history, no civil judgments.
Of course not. The smart criminals never get caught until they do.
On paper, Riley looks like exactly what he claims to be—decorated veteran turned firefighter and investigator.
But the official record doesn't capture the controlled violence I saw in him at that fire scene.
Doesn't explain the way other firefighters deferred to him without question, the way he moved through the chaos like he owned it.
Doesn't show the warning in his eyes when he told me Mike Barrows was innocent.
He believes it. Or he's pretending to believe it. Either way, he's protecting his club, and that makes him part of the problem.
I close the laptop with more force than necessary.
Shaw Riley is attractive in a way that annoys me. The leather vest shouldn't appeal to me—I don't do criminals. The motorcycle club patches should trigger professional caution, not curiosity. But something about the absolute confidence, the controlled power, pulls at me in ways I don't appreciate.
Probably some primal instinct responding to dangerous men. Evolutionary biology I should be smart enough to override.
I push the thought away. Riley is a subject in my investigation. Whatever attraction I feel is irrelevant and potentially compromising. Personal interest cannot interfere with my ability to assess evidence objectively.
Besides, once I prove he's involved in the fraud, any attraction will disappear fast enough.
Ironside Customs opens midmorning, according to their website. Harbor Street, near the waterfront. In a town this small, the entire Brotherhood probably knows by now that an insurance investigator is asking questions about Mike Barrows and looking at the pattern of fires.
Good. Let them know I'm coming. Let them scramble to cover their tracks. Desperate people make mistakes, and I'm very good at catching mistakes.
If they're running protection racket fraud, there will be evidence. Financial records showing payments between members. Communication patterns suggesting coordination. Someone will crack under pressure—they always do.
And if Shaw Riley is the arsonist, I'll prove that too.
People's lives and livelihoods hang in the balance.
The company is counting on me to determine whether we're paying legitimate claims or being defrauded.
But more than that, I'm good at this work.
Finding the patterns no one else sees, following the evidence to its logical conclusion, catching criminals who think they're too smart to get caught.
This is what I do, and I'm going to do it well.
I organize my files into neat stacks on the desk. Document everything. Build the case systematically. Follow the evidence to conviction.
Tomorrow, I visit Ironside Customs. Tomorrow, I start gathering proof of what I already know. Tomorrow, I determine exactly how Shaw Riley fits into the Brotherhood's fraud operation.
Tonight I need sleep, even if my mind refuses to quiet.
I set my alarm for early morning and turn off the lights. The darkness of the hotel room presses in, broken only by the faint glow of streetlights through the curtains.
Sleep comes eventually, and when it does, I dream of fire scenes and leather vests and eyes that promised violence if I pushed too hard.
Morning arrives too soon. I wake to pale light filtering through the curtains and the sound of gulls crying over the harbor. My phone alarm hasn't gone off yet, but my body is ready.
Coffee first. Then armor—business casual clothes that say "professional investigator who cannot be intimidated." Minimal makeup, hair pulled back, everything designed to project competence and authority.
I gather my files and laptop into my bag before heading downstairs to the small breakfast area.
The coffee from the pod maker is terrible, but it's caffeinated.
I grab a blueberry muffin that's probably from a local bakery and eat it without tasting it, my mind already running through the interview strategy for today.
Back in my room, I pull up the map on my phone one more time. Ironside Customs. Harbor Street. Close enough to walk if I wanted to, but I'll drive. Maintain the professional distance, keep the car available in case I need to leave quickly.
The sun rises over Anchor Bay, casting golden light across the harbor. The town looks peaceful from up here, picturesque and innocent. The kind of small coastal community where everyone knows everyone and nothing terrible ever happens.
But terrible things always hide behind peaceful facades. I've learned that the hard way.
I check my reflection one last time. Professional. Confident. Ready to take down a fraud ring run by a motorcycle club that thinks they're untouchable.
Shaw Riley and his brothers are either victims or criminals.
And based on everything I've seen, they're criminals.