My coffee has gone cold in its paper cup, but I take a sip anyway and grimace at the bitter taste. The Anchor Bay Inn is small but comfortable, with pale blue walls and local watercolor prints of the harbor. The kind of place where the owner probably knows every guest by name. I've been in Anchor Bay for less than a day. I arrived yesterday afternoon, checked into the hotel, and went straight to The Anchor fire scene where I met Shaw Riley for the first time. Now, the morning after that fourth fire, I can already feel the case coming together.
I pull up the first file on my laptop. Storage facility on the edge of town, owned by Pete Garrett. Former Marine, Brotherhood member, financially struggling. The fire started in the early hours of the morning, origin point in the office area where accelerant had been poured in a deliberate pattern.
Professional work. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
The structure burned completely before fire crews could contain it. Total loss. Garrett's insurance policy had been increased just weeks before the fire—the oldest red flag in the book. Now he's collecting a substantial payout and relocating to a bigger facility with better equipment.
Convenient.
The second fire hit Ink and Iron, a tattoo parlor owned by Beth Crawford. Same methodology as the storage facility—accelerant pour patterns, multiple origin points, controlled burn that destroyed the business but left the apartments above mostly intact. Crawford had been drowning in debt before the fire. Late rent, supplier invoices months overdue, the kind of financial pressure that makes insurance fraud look like the only way out.
Now she's got a new shop in a better location with state-of-the-art equipment, all courtesy of her insurance payout.
Pattern recognition is my specialty. By the third fire—Danny Anderson's machine shop—I was already convinced. Anderson had just invested heavily in equipment he couldn't afford, stretching himself dangerously thin. Then his shop burns to the ground with the same professional execution, and suddenly he's flush with insurance money.
And now The Anchor. Mike Barrows, former Marine Recon, Brotherhood member, planning an expansion he couldn't finance. The fire follows the exact same pattern.
Four fires. Four Brotherhood members in financial trouble. Insurance payouts that solve all their problems.
This isn't coincidence. This is organized fraud, and I'm going to prove it.
I study the map on my laptop screen. Each fire marked with a red pin, the geographic pattern spreading across Brotherhood territory. Someone is working their way through the membership systematically, probably taking a cut of each payout in exchange for the arson service.
The timeline confirms it. The interval keeps shortening—they're coming faster, which might mean the arsonist is escalating, getting greedy, making mistakes.
That's when I catch them.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Text from Roger Webb, even though it's past midnight. He never sleeps when we have an active investigation, and this one has the board's attention.
Need preliminary assessment by end of business tomorrow. Board is asking questions about pattern.
I type back quickly.
Pattern confirmed. Multiple fraud indicators. Will have full report by deadline.
The response comes immediately.
These claims are significant. Company wants answers. Are we paying out fraud or legitimate claims?
Fraud.
I send it without hesitation.
All fires Brotherhood-connected. Too methodical to be coincidence. Building the case now.
I set the phone aside and pull up the Iron Brotherhood's website. They maintain a surprisingly professional online presence for a criminal enterprise. Ironside Customs showcases their custom bike shop, with photos of expensive motorcycles and testimonials from satisfied customers. The Ironside Bar has its own page with menu, hours, and upcoming events.
They even host charity rides for veterans and toy drives for local kids. Classic cover operation—hide criminal activity behind legitimate business and community involvement. I've seen it a dozen times. The best fraudsters always look like upstanding citizens.
I click through to the member photos section. Group shots at bike rallies, individual portraits with custom motorcycles. The men in these photos look exactly like what they're pretending to be: veterans and first responders who found brotherhood through motorcycles.
Then I find Shaw Riley's photo, and something shifts in my chest that I immediately resent.
The image shows him standing next to a custom Harley, arms crossed, wearing his leather vest with the club patches clearly visible. His expression is serious, almost aggressive—the look of a man who doesn't apologize for what he is.
Sergeant-at-Arms. Fire investigator. Former Marine Recon.
Perfect cover for an arsonist. He'd know exactly how to set fires that look professional, how to destroy evidence, how to make it look like anything except what it is. And as the official investigator on these cases, he controls the narrative. Determines what gets reported and what gets buried.
