Chapter 16: The Pineapple Precedent — Part 2
The Baxter Development building was all glass and steel, the kind of architecture that said "money" in letters tall enough to read from the freeway. I stood in the lobby waiting for the elevator while Gus checked his hair in the reflective surfaces.
"You look fine."
"I look like a man who hasn't slept well because his best friend dragged him into an arson investigation." He straightened his tie anyway. "Remind me why we're meeting with the guy whose properties are being burned?"
"Because he might know who's angry enough to burn them." The elevator arrived with a soft chime. "And because sometimes the victim knows more than they're telling."
The executive floor was everything the lobby had promised — thick carpet, tasteful art, the particular hush of money insulating itself from the rest of the world. Sarah Chen, the assistant who'd called yesterday, met us at the reception desk and led us down a hallway lined with development renderings.
"Mr. Baxter has fifteen minutes," she said without looking back. "He has a lunch meeting with the mayor's office."
"We'll be quick."
Garrett Baxter's office occupied a corner of the building, floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of Santa Barbara that regular people didn't get to see. The man himself rose from behind a desk the size of a small boat and extended his hand with the practiced warmth of someone who shook a lot of hands and meant none of them.
"Mr. Spencer. Thank you for coming."
[SHAWN VISION ACTIVATING — MANUAL TRIGGER]
Three highlights. His watch — a Patek Philippe that cost more than Shawn's apartment, worn with the casual disregard of someone who owned several. Scratch marks on the desk surface near his right hand, fresh ones, the kind made by nervous fingers during tense phone calls. And a framed photograph on the credenza: Baxter shaking hands with a man I recognized from city council meetings, both smiling like they'd just closed a deal that benefited everyone except the people who weren't in the picture.
"Mr. Baxter." I took his hand. Cold grip. Firm but performative. "I appreciate you making time. I know how busy destroying small businesses must keep you."
The words came out before I could stop them. Beside me, Gus made a small choking sound.
Baxter's smile didn't waver, but something behind his eyes went flat. "I'm a developer, Mr. Spencer. I revitalize properties. Create jobs. Improve neighborhoods."
"And the seven businesses that received pineapple arrangements? The ones your holding companies acquired through methods that made the original owners feel... what's the word... displaced?"
"Those acquisitions were legal." His voice stayed pleasant, but the temperature in the room dropped. "Fully documented. If the previous owners couldn't compete in the market—"
"Someone burned one of your properties last week. Someone burned another one three days ago." I leaned forward slightly, touching my temple. "I'm getting an impression, Mr. Baxter. A strong one. You're scared of whoever's doing this — but you're more scared of the police finding out why they're targeting you specifically."
The scratch marks on his desk. The expensive watch worn like armor. The photograph with the councilman, positioned where visitors would see it.
Baxter's smile finally cracked. Just a fraction. "I hired you to find the arsonist, not to analyze my business practices."
"You didn't hire me. You invited me for a conversation." I stood. "There's a difference."
Gus's phone buzzed. He checked it, and his expression shifted from uncomfortable to alarmed.
"Shawn. Buzz just texted. There's been another fire."
The restaurant was still smoking when we arrived.
Fire trucks blocked the street. Paramedics were loading someone into an ambulance — a young man in kitchen whites, his forearms wrapped in white gauze that was already spotting red. Lassiter stood near the crime scene tape, barking orders at uniformed officers.
"This property," Gus said, checking his phone. "It was acquired by Coastal Properties LLC six weeks ago."
"Baxter's holding company."
"Same one. The original owner was a guy named Marco Reyes. His family ran this place for forty years."
I watched the ambulance pull away, sirens starting. The kitchen worker's face through the window — young, scared, in pain.
"Who was inside?"
"Just the morning prep crew. One of them was in the back when the fire started. He got out through the delivery entrance."
Juliet appeared at our side, notebook in hand. "Mr. Spencer. I didn't expect to see you here."
"We were meeting with Garrett Baxter when we got the call." I nodded toward the burned restaurant. "This is the third property connected to his development company that's been targeted."
"I'm aware." She flipped to a page in her notebook. "I've been tracking the Baxter connections since you mentioned the name at the haunted house case. You were right — it's not a coincidence."
[BCM UPDATE: 40/100. +1 FROM SHARED INVESTIGATION THREAD.]
"The kitchen worker," I said. "The one in the ambulance. Did he see anything?"
"He said the fire started near the back entrance. Deliberate placement — whoever did this knew the building layout." She paused. "He also said the previous owner 'lost everything to those corporate people.' His words."
The restaurant's sign was still readable through the smoke damage: "Reyes Family Kitchen — Serving Santa Barbara Since 1966." Forty years. Three generations. Gone in the time it took flames to consume a building.
"Spencer." Lassiter had spotted us and was approaching with his usual enthusiasm. "This is my crime scene."
"I'm not here to step on your scene. I'm here because whoever's doing this isn't going to stop at property damage."
"How do you know that?"
"Because the fires are getting bigger." I gestured at the ruins. "First one was small. Controlled. A warning. The second one was larger — serious property damage. This one had someone inside."
"The kitchen worker wasn't the target—"
"No. But the arsonist didn't know he'd be there. Or didn't care." I met Lassiter's eyes. "This is escalating. The next one might kill someone."
For a moment, something like grudging acknowledgment crossed Lassiter's face. He remembered the Civil War case. The way I'd stayed out of his way, let him work, provided just enough help to close it.
"What do you know about the original owner?"
"Marco Reyes. Lost the business six months ago to a hostile acquisition." Gus stepped forward with his phone. "My contacts in the pharmaceutical distribution network traced his current address. He's been making large cash purchases at hardware stores — fire starter, accelerants, bulk pineapples."
"Bulk pineapples?"
"It's his signature. He's been leaving them at every targeted business." I touched my temple, performing for Lassiter's benefit. "I'm seeing a man who lost something irreplaceable. A legacy. He's not trying to destroy Baxter's properties — he's trying to make Baxter feel what he felt. The helplessness of watching something you built disappear."
[BCM UPDATE: 41/100. THRESHOLD CROSSED.][BRO-CHEMISTRY METER: BROS. BASIC DUO ABILITIES ACTIVATED.][UNLOCKED: GOOD COP/CRAZY COP ENERGY — +2 SE DURING JOINT INTERROGATIONS.][UNLOCKED: BLUEBERRY CODENAME DATABASE — LOGGING ACTIVE.]
The notifications scrolled across my peripheral vision. Bros. Gus and I had officially crossed into the territory where the system recognized us as a functioning unit.
"We have an address?" Lassiter asked.
Gus nodded. "7142 Maple Street. About fifteen minutes from here."
"Then let's go."
I caught Gus's arm as Lassiter headed toward his car. "The kitchen worker. The one with the burns."
"What about him?"
"His forearms. He kept apologizing for not saving the fryer." I looked back at the ambulance's fading lights. "He lost his job today. His livelihood. And he was apologizing to us."
"Shawn—"
"I know. We catch the arsonist. That's the job." I started toward the Blueberry. "But this case stopped being funny when that kid got burned."
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