I study his face in the photo, comparing it to the man I met at the fire scene. Same intensity, same controlled stillness. The kind of control that comes from violence held in check. I've interviewed enough criminals to recognize the type—men who've been trained to hurt people and never quite learned to turn it off.
The photo doesn't capture the breadth of his shoulders or the way he moved through the fire scene with absolute authority. Doesn't show the warning in his voice when he told me to keep my fraud theories to myself.
Doesn't explain why some stupid, self-destructive part of me found that attractive.
I force myself to click away from his photo. Shaw Riley is a subject in my investigation. The fact that he's compelling in person is irrelevant and potentially compromising. I've dealt with charming criminals before—the charm is part of the con.
Besides, I don't do dangerous men. I don't do motorcycle clubs. I especially don't do men who might be running insurance fraud schemes that could cost my company millions.
Professional distance. Evidence-based conclusions. Follow the money.
I open a new document and start building detailed profiles on each victim. Pete Garrett volunteers with veterans' organizations—good cover for recruiting struggling vets into the fraud scheme. Beth Crawford teaches art classes at the community center—establishes her as a pillar of the community so no one suspects fraud. Danny Anderson coaches youth sports. Mike Barrows donates to the food bank.
All of them creating the appearance of legitimacy while running their scam.
My phone rings. Roger's name on the display. I answer immediately.
"Webb."
"Vaughn. Tell me you have something concrete." Stress edges every word. "The board is breathing down my neck about these claims. Four fires over the past several months, two of them our policies, that will all result in substantial payouts."
I pull my laptop closer. "The pattern is undeniable. All four businesses have Brotherhood connections. All four fires show professional methodology. All four owners had financial stress before the fires. All four stand to profit significantly from the insurance payouts."
"Enough to deny the claims?"
"Not yet. But I will." I click through my files while we talk. "I'm meeting with the fire investigator tomorrow to review the scene. Shaw Riley—he's also the Brotherhood's Sergeant-at-Arms, which creates a massive conflict of interest. He's probably involved in the fraud, possibly the one setting the fires. I need to gather enough evidence to prove it."
"That's a serious accusation, Vaughn. If you're wrong?—"
"I'm not wrong." I keep my voice level, confident. "The pattern is too clear. Brotherhood members in financial trouble, professional fires that destroy evidence, controlled burns that maximize payout while minimizing collateral damage. Someone with firefighting expertise is running this operation, and Riley is the obvious candidate."
Roger is quiet for a moment. "You're sure about this? Because if you accuse a fire investigator of arson fraud and you're wrong, the blowback will be substantial."
"I'm sure." And I am. The evidence points in one direction, and I trust my instincts. "I'll build an airtight case before we deny the claims. But we're looking at organized fraud, not random fires."
"Keep me updated. And Vaughn? Be careful. Motorcycle clubs can be dangerous when someone threatens their operation."
The call ends, and I sit in the too-quiet hotel room with adrenaline humming through my veins. This is the part I love—the moment when the case crystallizes, when I know I'm right and it's just a matter of proving it.
I've taken down bigger fraud rings than this. The Brotherhood members think they're clever, but they're not clever enough.
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.
