The $45 million in fire insurance policies felt like a punch to the gut. Nia wasn’t just destroying history; she was committing a massive, calculated fraud. My next step had to be ironclad. Marcus Dunbar was the key. His expertise would turn my circumstantial evidence into a forensic dossier.
I called Marcus, careful to use a burner phone I’d bought on the way home, leaving no digital trace. He picked up on the third ring. His voice was gruff, but I could hear the undercurrent of curiosity.
“You find what you were looking for?” he asked, without preamble.
“More than I bargained for,” I replied, my voice low. “I need your help compiling a comprehensive report. The how, the why, the payout. Everything.”
We met in a discreet coffee shop across town, far from Apex Commercial. I laid out the photocopies: the old land deed, the insurance policy details, the city records showing Hollis Holdings LLC. Marcus listened, his face impassive, occasionally grunting as I explained the mirror vision as a “structural timeline” of impending vulnerabilities.
“You’re saying this isn’t just a hunch,” he said, tapping a finger on the insurance documents. “You’re saying you know *where* they’re going to hit it.”
“Exactly where,” I confirmed, recounting the precise locations I’d seen in the mirror: the frayed electrical box in the sub-basement, the old ventilation shafts, the dry attic beams. “And I have reason to believe it’s scheduled to happen within twelve hours.”
Marcus picked up a pen and began sketching on a napkin. He drew floor plans, marking Xs and circles. “Old commercial structures,” he muttered. “They always have a ghost in the wiring. Easy to amplify.”
He outlined the technical burn signatures that would appear if my “timeline” was accurate. “If someone wants to make it look like an electrical failure,” he explained, “they’ll target the weakest points. Overload a specific circuit, maybe use a timing device, and then introduce a slow-burning accelerant nearby to ensure spread. The pattern of burn, the way the wires melt, tells the story.”
His retired investigator’s mind worked with chilling precision. He explained how accelerants could be masked, disguised as cleaning supplies or forgotten maintenance fluids. He talked about “spiderweb cracking” in glass and “alligatoring” on wood, tell-tale signs of accelerated fire.
“This isn’t just an electrical short,” he stated, looking up from his sketch. “This is a setup. And if your timeline is right, they’ll be placing the last pieces very soon.”
He went over the list of known, accessible vulnerabilities in the historic building, cross-referencing them with my “timeline.” He pinpointed the exact locations where incendiary devices were *scheduled* to be placed, confirming the deliberate nature and the imminent danger.
“They’ll target the main circuit breaker in the sub-basement,” he concluded, pointing to his sketch. “It’s isolated, usually locked, and often has old, brittle wiring behind it. Perfect for concealing a slow burn.”
My pulse hammered. Marcus had validated not just the method, but the precise physical mechanisms and locations. The vision had given me the roadmap. Marcus had given me the forensic details. The fuse was indeed about to blow.
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