The way Crowley’s jaw tightened swept heat into her eyes, cotton into her throat.
“You think he’s dead.”
“Martin did wet work for the agency,” Crowley said simply.
She looked out the window. They were pulling up at the corner again.
“This is where your investigation ends, Miss Marshall. You’re in over your head and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
She’d heard that before. She reached for the handle.
Felt a hand on her arm.
Looked at Crowley.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly. “We had our differences, and he had his faults, but at his heart, York was a patriot.”
She swallowed, nodded. “Sorry for your loss too.”
He blinked, as if the words hit him.
She got out, and the limousine pulled away.
Down the street and across from her condo building, a van also left the curb.
Her Marine neighbor was standing on his doorstep, watching. She lifted a hand in greeting as she ran back to her condo, up the stairs of her building.
She shut the door behind her, her heart pounding.
The place hadn’t been completely destroyed, but the sofa cushions were askew, a kitchen drawer opened.
She walked into her family room and sat on the sofa. Picked up the remote.
Voices. Just something to tell her she wasn’t alone.
That this wasn’t over.
It couldn’t be over.
This is where your investigation ends, Miss Marshall.
She flopped back, barely listening to the CNN reporter list off her two minute around-the-nation report.
Who cared who turned 101? And yes, the mudslide in California was tragic, but no one had died. And she tuned out the blurb about the lifesaving actions of a man who saved a Medal of Honor winner. She leaned up and pulled off her shoes—and caught the shot of the man on the screen, just coming out of a hospital.
Wide shoulders, blond hair, blue eyes. And sure, he was covered in soot and smoke and wore the shag of a tangled, dirty beard, but…
Her heart stopped.
York.
“Mr. Jones, can you tell us how it feels to know you saved the life of a Medal of Honor recipient?”
Mr. Jones?
“I…I’m just glad I was there. Right place, right time.”
The voice slid under her skin. Right place. Right time.
Yep, that was York all right.
Oh, she knew it. She knew it!
RJ pulled her pillow to her face and let herself weep.
It was a slow, dismal rain, the kind that poured darkness into his spirit as Tate pulled into a parking garage opposite the sleek black-and-gray brick building of the Seattle Police Department, West Precinct.
He just needed answers.
Needed to know what to look for.
Needed to make sure no one got ambushed by a serial killer or long-range sniper on his watch as lead security for Gloria Jackson, daughter of VP candidate Senator Reba Jackson.
Because, frankly, last time had been way, way too close.
Tate squeezed his Ford Taurus rental into a space, got out, and ran up the ramp to the sidewalk, holding a magazine over his head as he dashed across the street through the drizzle to the lobby.
The lobby was sparse, with white marble and tall, clear pillars showcasing historical artifacts from the SPD’s history. Tate easily spotted his target.
Detective Vicktor Shubnikov. Military-short dark hair, the stance of a cop, and he wore the expression of a man who knew how to size up trouble as he stood near one of the pillars, arms folded, waiting.
He didn’t blink at Tate. But then again, he already knew Tate’s story, had already fielded his plethora of phone calls.
Already knew that Tate wanted to put his fist into the stone wall he was getting from the Feds in the investigation of the assassination attempt on Senator Jackson—the second attempt.
No, the second attempt that Tate hadn’t seen coming, hadn’t caught until it was nearly too late.
He didn’t want to be blindsided by a third.
“Hey, Vicktor,” Tate said as he met his hand. Vicktor stood the same height as Tate, but had a few years on him.
“Sorry to drag you into the station,” Vicktor said, only a hint of Russian accent burring his voice. “But I thought it would help for you to see the evidence board. The SPD is working with the FBI on the investigation, but you should know, we’re getting the same cold shoulder.”
“Thanks. I’m not sure how the secret service expects me to protect Glo without all the information.” He followed Vicktor down the corridor to the stairs.
Vicktor swiped his pass, and the doors unlocked. Tate followed him up the flights to the second floor.
“How is your fiancée?” Vicktor asked.
Vicktor had met Glo Jackson, country music singer, a month ago after the shooting on the pier during one of Jackson’s rallies.
“She’s fine. Just came off a month of gigs for NBR-X, the professional bull-riding event she and the Yankee Belles play for. They have a break now until the NBR-X national finals in November.”
The stairwell door opened to a hub of quiet activity, workstations equipped with computers, junior detectives on the phone, a few sharing conversation as they drank coffee. Tate followed Vicktor down the hall to his office.
“I’m surprised you left her alone,” Vicktor said as he opened his door and gestured Tate inside.
“She’s at a private house in Cannon Beach this week, holed up with her bandmates, writing songs. And the place is heavily guarded. My man Swamp is on it.”
Vicktor’s office window overlooked a sleek skyscraper that housed on its ground floor a Starbucks and a soup-and-sandwich place. The other three walls were filled with massive whiteboards littered with written notes as well as photographs of people, maps, buildings, and a timeline.
Vicktor offered him a chair.
“That’s okay. I think better when I pace,” Tate said.
“So, where do you want to start? The shooting or your missing—or dead—friend?”
Oh, York. His sister’s missing or dead friend. But because she was obsessed with the idea that her boyfriend-slash-action hero was still alive, that made it Tate’s problem too.
“Is RJ in contact with you about her search for York?” Tate asked.
“And her dead boss, Sophia Randall,” Vicktor said.
Tate didn’t know much about the case—admittedly he’d been too wrapped up in protecting Glo. But he had been alert enough to pick up Wyatt’s call last night about RJ getting in over her head. He’d texted Ford, who happened to be, providentially, nearby.
Saved him from getting on a plane. Or better, calling Knox to get on a plane. Since his big brother had taken over the gig as director of livestock for NBR-X, he had left the ranching in Reuben’s hands, and frankly, stayed clear of most of the drama happening with RJ and Ford and Wyatt.
But if Knox knew RJ was in trouble…yeah, it was probably better Ford was in town to intercept his twin. Which, according to Ford, was all about said dead boss.
“Do you think Randall was involved in the potential assassination of the VP candidate?” Tate asked.
“Are you sure the VP candidate was the target?” Vicktor walked over to an aerial map of Piers 62 and 63, just a couple blocks from Pike Place Market on the harbor.