Chapter 4 - Ashb Auto Burned Three Nights After I Said No, but Howerin Did Not Get the Notebook.
The call came at 2:41 in the morning.
Marin knew before she answered.
Some part of her had been waiting since Howerin said the word fire.
“Ms. Ashb?”
A man’s voice.
“Providence Fire Department.”
There.
She sat up.
Tobin’s bedroom door opened across the hall.
He had heard the phone through the vibration alert connected to his hearing aid charger.
“What?”
he asked.
Marin held up one hand.
The firefighter continued.
“There is an active fire at Ashb Auto. Do not come inside the perimeter. An officer can meet you at—”
Marin was already pulling on jeans.
“I’m coming.”
“Ms. Ashb.”
“I heard you.”
Good.
She did not drive too fast.
That surprised her.
Maybe terror becomes useful when there is somewhere specific to put it.
By the time she reached Olneyville, orange light filled the sky above the block.
Ashb Auto was gone.
Not technically.
The brick side walls still stood.
The rolling door had collapsed inward.
The roof over Bay 1 was open to the night.
Flames moved beneath the black skeleton of rafters.
Water ran across the street carrying oil rainbow and ash.
Marin stopped behind the police tape.
For several seconds, she could not understand scale.
Her father’s workbench.
The pegboard.
Ruthie’s plastic chair.
The old compressor.
Tobin’s unfinished project car.
Bay 2.
Adrian Santoro’s sedan.
All inside.
All burning.
Tobin came up beside her.
He had followed with Ruthie because Marin refused to let him drive alone while shaking.
He did not speak.
Marin looked at him.
His face had gone completely blank.
Then:
“The car.”
His project car.
Under tarp.
Two years of slow work.
Ward’s old chassis.
He had rebuilt the rear suspension himself.
Marin put her arm around him.
He let her.
One second.
Then stepped away.
Good.
He was nineteen.
Not a child.
Ruthie stood on Marin’s other side.
No coffee this time.
Only a winter coat thrown over pajamas.
“Oh, honey.”
Marin closed eyes.
A fire investigator approached.
Not Caleb Morse.
A woman named Captain Denise Cole.
“Ms. Ashb?”
“Yes.”
“Any reason to believe this was intentional?”
Marin laughed once.
Not because funny.
Then gave Howerin’s name.
The threat.
The police report.
The visit that afternoon.
Detective Ortiz.
Cole’s expression sharpened.
“Ortiz is on her way.”
Good.
Then:
“Were there any hazardous materials beyond ordinary automotive inventory?”
Marin answered.
Fuel quantities.
Solvents.
Compressed gas cylinders.
Paint products.
Battery storage.
Everything according to shop records.
No drama.
The garage had passed inspection eight months earlier.
Good.
“What about cameras?”
“One over front door.”
“Cloud backup?”
“No.”
There.
Cheap system.
Recorder inside.
Probably gone.
Then Tobin said:
“The Bellwether car.”
Everyone looked.
“What?”
He pointed toward Bay 2.
“Black sedan had parking cameras.”
There.
Marin stared.
Adrian’s car.
New enough.
Some luxury sedans recorded motion around vehicle while parked.
Maybe.
She called Detective Ortiz.
Ortiz arrived six minutes later.
Marin told her.
Ortiz looked at burning Bay 2.
“If storage module survived, maybe.”
Good.
No promise.
Then another black vehicle stopped at far barricade.
Marin’s body tightened.
Adrian stepped out.
Alone except driver.
No men spreading through street.
No guns visible.
He spoke to uniformed officer first.
Waited.
Good.
The officer asked Marin whether she wanted him allowed closer.
That mattered.
She looked at Adrian.
His face was unreadable.
Then at the burning shop.
“Yes.”
There.
He crossed tape only after officer lifted it.
Stopped several feet from Marin.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked at him.
“For your car?”
“For your shop.”
Good.
“The car is insured.”
“So was the shop.”
Maybe.
Coverage did not rebuild history.
Adrian knew.
He looked toward flames.
“Was anyone inside?”
“No.”
His shoulders dropped slightly.
Good.
Then:
“Tobin?”
“Here.”
Adrian looked toward him.
Tobin stared back.
No handshake.
No thanks.
Fine.
Adrian said:
“The sedan records exterior motion when parked.”
“We know.”
Marin’s voice came sharper than intended.
He nodded.
“Bellwether can authorize police access immediately.”
Good.
“No lawyers first?”
“Our lawyers can preserve a copy without delaying police.”
Good.
Ortiz heard.
“Have counsel send consent in writing.”
Adrian took phone out.
Did it.
No secret transfer.
Then he looked at Marin.
“Do you need somewhere to store customer vehicles?”
She stared.
“The building is still burning.”
“Yes.”
Too soon.
He realized.
“Sorry.”
Good.
He stopped solving.
That mattered.
Fire crews worked until dawn.
By six, only steam and smoke remained.
Captain Cole allowed Marin to view from curb.
The pegboard wall had partly survived.
Smoke stain gone under new black.
The highest hook?
Gone.
But Ward’s wrench was already in police evidence.
The notebook too.
The watch too.
Howerin had destroyed a building three days too late.
If Howerin did it.
Evidence first.
Marin hated that phrase now.
Still necessary.
At seven-thirty, Adrian’s vehicle was pulled from Bay 2.
The roof had crushed rear half.
Front burned.
Data recorder might survive in protected module.
A specialist collected.
By afternoon, they had something.
Thirty-eight seconds of video.
Not clear faces.
A white commercial van stopping behind garage at 2:09.
Two figures.
One moving toward rear service door.
Another toward electrical panel.
No procedural detail.
Then at 2:18 the video jolted.
Smoke.
At 2:20, black.
But one frame captured van plate.
Partial.
Enough.
Ortiz ran.
The van belonged to a shell company tied to Breck Howerin’s nephew.
There.
Howerin had been released after questioning the previous evening pending prosecutor review.
No detention basis then.
At 1:52 a.m., his phone connected to a tower near his home.
That did not clear him.
Did not prove he was at fire.
His nephew’s van mattered.
Police obtained warrant.
Found clothing smelling of smoke? Better avoid unreliable. They found a fuel receipt? Could be operational. Simpler: van had fresh scrape matching rear gate and residue consistent with garage paint; plus GPS log placed it. Good.
Two men arrested.
Neither Howerin yet.
One refused.
One talked.
His name was Joel Keane.
Thirty-four.
He said Howerin told them:
“Make the girl understand no.”
There.
Not kill her.
They believed shop empty.
That did not make fire harmless.
Keane admitted they had watched Marin leave.
There.
They knew no one inside.
Intent to destroy property and intimidate.
Still serious.
Then Keane said:
“Howerin said her father needed same lesson.”
There.
Ortiz stopped him.
“What does that mean?”
Keane looked down.
“I don’t know. He bragged he had burned the old man once.”
There.
Hearsay.
A lead.
Not proof.
But Marin heard it in recorded interview later through victim liaison.
Her stomach turned.
Ward’s old fire.
The same threat.
Same man.
The current fire changed insurance too.
Intentional criminal act by third parties covered under policy, subject to limits.
Marin’s building replacement value had not been updated in six years.
Bad.
Coverage would not restore fully.
Tools scheduled separately?
Some.
Not all.
The project car?
Barely.
Because Marin had kept valuing it as unfinished.
Tobin laughed when adjuster explained.
“Of course.”
Then walked away.
No billionaire check.
Good.
Ruthie organized a meeting at neighborhood business association.
Not fundraiser.
Resources.
Temporary bays.
Tool loans.
Small-business disaster bridge loan.
Legal aid.
Insurance advocate.
One shop owner offered Marin one bay for four weeks.
Another offered lift access evenings.
Not charity exactly.
Mutual aid.
Mechanics understood fire.
Good.
Adrian attended none.
Also good.
Bellwether’s fleet manager called.
“We have six scheduled vehicles.”
“Cancel.”
Marin said.
“We can wait.”
“No.”
There.
She had no shop.
“We can route elsewhere until you reopen.”
Good.
Then:
“Mr. Santoro asked me to tell you the account remains available if you want it later.”
Marin closed eyes.
“He shouldn’t ask through you.”
Silence.
The fleet manager panicked.
“No—he said only if you want—”
“I know.”
Marin breathed.
“Sorry. That wasn’t fair to you.”
Good.
Then:
“Send me final paperwork on destroyed sedan. My insurer needs customer property claim.”
Professional.
“Yes.”
Perfect.
That evening Adrian called directly.
“Rosa—”
Wrong name? Marin. Need fix. He said "Marin." Good.
“Marin.”
“Yes.”
“I heard what fleet manager said.”
“She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
Pause.
“I did.”
There.
“Small mistake.”
“Still.”
Good.
He continued:
“I want to offer protection.”
Marin almost laughed.
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re persistent.”
“No men without permission.”
Good.
“What exactly?”
“Information.”
There.
“Bellwether drivers and Santoro businesses hear things police may not.”
There.
“If we hear a threat involving you, Tobin, Ruthie, or temporary workspace, we send it to Ortiz.”
Good.
“Not to me first?”
“To Ortiz first unless immediate danger.”
There.
“And no one follows me?”
“No.”
“No one sits outside my apartment?”
“No.”
“No one contacts Tobin?”
“No.”
Good.
“That I accept.”
There.
Protection as information.
Not ownership.
Adrian said:
“Also, Howerin’s people believe you are under my protection already.”
Marin’s jaw tightened.
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
“Then correct them.”
Adrian took time.
“If I announce you are not, it may increase risk.”
There.
Annoying.
True maybe.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing public.”
Good.
“Let them be uncertain.”
Marin disliked it.
But uncertainty was not a command.
She said:
“Do not threaten anyone in my name.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not collect a debt for my father.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not call Howerin.”
“I won’t.”
Good.
Then Adrian said:
“Marin.”
“What?”
“The old debt he mentioned.”
There.
“Tell him I said the old debt is paid.”
“Yes.”
“I think he meant me.”
She waited.
“Your father helped Vincent disappear from Howerin for one night.”
There.
“I sent Bellwether work because I owed Ward.”
There.
“Howerin knows.”
Marin’s throat tightened.
“So he thinks you bought three years of repairs and now your debt is done.”
“Probably.”
She stared at burned garage through apartment window? Not visible. Fine.
“That is not his debt to calculate.”
“No.”
Good.
“Is it yours?”
Adrian took longer.
“I thought it was.”
There.
“And now?”
“Now I think Ward asked for work, not ownership over you.”
There.
Good.
“So Bellwether’s account is a contract.”
“Yes.”
“And your brother’s watch is evidence.”
“Yes.”
“And my father’s death is police business.”
“Yes.”
“And Howerin?”
“Police.”
There.
She exhaled.
“Good.”
Then:
“Anything else?”
Adrian’s voice softened.
“I’m sorry your garage is gone.”
Marin looked at her hands.
Grease still under nails from yesterday.
“Me too.”
She ended call.
The next morning she went back to the site.
Fire tape.
Wet ash.
Bent metal.
Captain Cole allowed her to stand at edge with helmet.
Marin looked at where Ward’s wrench had hung.
Empty.
Then at Bay 2.
Empty.
At the workbench.
Gone.
Tobin stood beside her.
“What now?”
Marin answered without knowing how.
“We rebuild.”
He looked at the ruin.
“With what?”
She thought of insurance shortfall.
Loans.
Borrowed bay.
Customers long gone.
Howerin.
Santoro.
Ward’s notebook.
The answer was not inspiring.
“I don’t know yet.”
There.
Tobin nodded.
For once, the bad answer was also the honest one.
Behind them, a city truck passed.
No black cars.
No armed men.
May you like
No miracle.
Just two mechanics standing where their shop used to be, trying to decide what protection meant when the walls were already gone.
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