Tate joined him, seeing that day in his mind. The pier had been sectioned off for the event and a giant battleship brought in for backdrop. A banner of presidential candidate Isaac White and VP candidate Reba Jackson flanked the side of the ship, the words For a Safe Tomorrow written below their faces.
Tate could still smell the brine mixed with oil that lifted from the water, feel the chill of the day on his legs as he’d watched Glo get ready for her warm-up song—she had taken to singing “God Bless America” before all her mother’s events.
“We had extra security that day. They were lined up along the street, everyone was being checked. And still, Kobie got in,” Tate said, referring to the bomber who’d used the fame of Tate’s NHL hockey-star brother to wheedle his way into the event.
“The bomber used your brother to get him onstage, right?”
“Yeah. Wyatt showed up behind the screen and told me that if he didn’t tell the world that Reba Jackson was some kind of Russian spy or traitor or something along those lines, that Coco would be killed. Wyatt was supposed to read a statement, but before he could, shots were fired.” He ran his finger along the long pier to the buildings along Alaskan Way. “Maybe from here.”
Vicktor was nodding. “That’s a long, long shot.”
“With wind. So it would take someone with skill. Which is why York thought it might be a Russian assassin by the name of Damien Gustov. York was pretty sure he was working for the Bratva—the Russian mob.”
“I know who they are,” Vicktor said, and of course he would. Because Vicktor had spent fifteen years working with the FSB before he immigrated.
“Were you able to get surveillance video from any of these buildings?”
“Unfortunately, those are all high-end condos. And we’re not even sure if the shots came from there,” Vicktor said.
“Did you get ballistics from Kobie’s body? York thought he’d shot him, but he couldn’t get an angle.”
Kobie had been shot while trying to flee the chaos.
“York surrendered his weapon to the FBI. We haven’t been privy to their results.”
Which left Tate right back at nada. No leads, no hint of who might have killed Kobie and nearly his brother.
Had tried to take down the VP candidate.
Tate took a breath, shook his head. “So we have no idea who, really, was shooting that day.”
“Or their intended target.”
He hated this with every cell in his body.
“Sorry,” Vicktor said, clearly reading him.
“So, any news on York’s death?”
“Just the preliminary forensics report.” He walked over to his desk, sat down, and pulled up something on his computer. “According to the autopsy—which, by the way, was inconclusive on the DNA evidence of your friend—there were three bodies, all male, burned in the crash.”
Tate walked over to the window. Watched a bicycler wearing a rainsuit ride up to the Starbucks in the rain. “According to RJ, the CIA has no record of anyone from their office arresting him.”
“We have another lead, or maybe just an interesting problem.”
Tate turned, leaned against the window ledge.
“There’s a tourist reported missing that same day, a college kid named Jason MacDonald. Twenty-one, about six foot, played second-string football for the Ducks, went by Mack. He was on his way to a family reunion at Stevens Pass. Never showed.”
“And?”
“His car was found at a pull-off near the Tye River hike on Highway 2. The vehicle York was traveling in was found three more miles down the road. There’s a sharp turn, and the car tore through the guardrail, and went down the mountain. It’s doubtful anyone could have survived, even before the fire.”
“You think this kid might have seen something—”
“I dunno. It just…it’s just bothering me.”
Tate got that. The same way he kept waking in the night with the sense of doom in the middle of his chest.
As if someone he loved was about to die.
“What about the semi that reported the crash?” Tate asked.
“The driver just saw them swerve and go off the road. He had to wait until he could get to a pull-in before he could stop, about fifteen miles down the road. So it was some time before the authorities arrived. And by then, it was all over.”
Tate straightened. “Well, my sister is convinced that he’s still alive, so…I don’t know.” He walked over to Vicktor’s massive board. “Is this the woman who RJ found at the hotel?”
Vicktor returned to the board. “Yeah. Sophia Randall. Age forty-six, single. She was never reported missing, technically, but RJ says she went off the grid about six weeks before her body was found. Coroner found evidence of long-term confinement—dehydration, ligature scars, and even old bruises.”
“She was beaten.”
More pictures outlined the bed where RJ had found her body, her neck slit. Even more showed an array of the room and pictures of people from what looked like surveillance camera shots.
“There was a card left on file for the hotel, but of course it was stolen, so we have no idea who really paid for the room. And no record of her checking in. There’s a supply entrance in the back of the building, and it looks like the camera was switched off. But we did manage to capture three unidentified people on a different camera who didn’t come through the lobby.”
Vicktor pointed at three pictures taped to the bottom of the board.
Tate stilled, then took a step closer. “I know this one.” He pointed to a photo of a lean, tall man with closely cropped dark hair, wearing suit pants, his white shirt rolled up beyond his elbows. He had high cheekbones and the look of higher education in his demeanor. He carried a gym bag, his face half turned away from the camera.
But it was enough. “That’s Sloan Anderson,” Tate said tightly. He took another step closer. “He worked for Reba Jackson—he was her assistant campaign manager until he was fired.”
“Why was he fired?” Vicktor asked as he untaped the picture and retaped it near the top, between the murder case and the shooting.
“Because he tried to have me beaten to death,” Tate said quietly.
Vicktor raised an eyebrow. “Oy. Why?”
“I don’t know. We never had a heart-to-heart. He took off before we could apprehend him. Clearly has some avoidance issues.”
Vicktor stared at the board for a moment, then, “You were on the pier that day, right?”
“For the campaign event? Yes, I was behind the screen for most of the time, but I helped chase down Kobie.”
Vicktor traced his finger along the pier. “How far behind him were you?”
“I don’t know, a few steps…why?”
“Have you ever stopped to consider that the target that day wasn’t the VP candidate…but maybe it was you?”
4
“If you want to be a Shellian, you have to do this, Mack.”
Raven straddled the picnic table bench, far enough away from the stage of the pavilion for him to hear her teasing voice over the music playing. The Tuesday night open mic event in Riverwalk Park was hosted by Mystical Pizza, the local gourmet joint located across the parking lot from Jethro’s.