The Art of Murder

Copyright © 2024 by A.J. Rivers

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Under the dim, flickering garage lights, he moved like a shadow, and he hoped, just as silently. His pulse was a pounding mix of adrenaline and icy control. He liked to think it had something to do with his upbringing.

The FBI agents were fast. They had tracked him up the East Coast, and even found his hiding spot inside the old, little-used parking garage deep in the heart of Chelsea, Queens, New York City.

New York was supposed to be a city where a person could go to get lost. At least for a while. But when the FBI agent in pursuit has the tenacity and stamina of a bulldog, nowhere was safe.

He had faced danger before, and he had always thrived on it. But something was different about it this time. Maybe it was the lead agent. She wasn’t just smart; she seemed to be able to tune into him. Into his kind, perhaps was a better assessment.

Each step was calculated, each breath measured, as he weighed possible escape options. They were pitifully few and out of reach. The agents had come into the garage too quickly for him to get out, and now he was stuck. His only hope… what was his only hope? Did he even have any hope?

Hiding behind an older model black sedan two floors from the top, he crouched in deep shadows where there were no working fluorescents overhead. The agents’ footsteps echoed against the concrete floor even though they were moving lightly. They were methodical and professional, and he could admire that about them. If not admire, he could at least respect it.

As the agents fanned out to search the labyrinthine layout, he looked to a side door. One of the agents had left it slightly ajar. The sirens a block away made his stomach knot. They would be outside. NYPD. You didn’t screw around with them; they’d shoot if they thought it necessary. He needed to get out of the garage before the agents found him, and out of the vicinity before NYPD arrived and surrounded the place.

The agents moved maddeningly slowly. He needed them to hurry and get out of his way so he could rush out that door and down the steps, but the agents moved like molasses on a cold morning.

He needed a distraction. He picked up a squashed soda can and flung it toward the back of the room. The clatter sent the agents in that direction, their guns drawn and pointing toward the noise.

All of them but two. Two agents he didn’t see until he had shrugged off the cover of shadows and started toward the door. It was too late to do anything else. He raised his gun and started firing.

Then it was chaos as he took cover from return fire. The odds of him getting out alive were slimming fast.

Ava stepped backward into a corner of the alcove shielded by a five-foot bulletin board pinned with departmental announcements. She pressed her back to the wall and waited for the smart clicking of shoes to pass her by before she let out a breath. Stepping back around the bulletin board, she bumped into Metford. He startled at the impact and dropped the donut he’d been eating. Hot coffee sloshed from his cup and over his hand.

“Shoot, sorry, Metford,” Ava said in a rush as she bent to retrieve the napkin and donut from the floor.

Metford switched the cup to his other hand and shook the hot liquid from the burned one. “Jeez, what were you doing back there, waiting to ambush me?”

She looked guiltily down the hall toward the bank of elevators and shook her head, hoping he wouldn’t say her name aloud.

His gaze followed hers and he grinned. “You were hiding from Dr. Bran?”

She held a finger to her lips, shushing him.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Ava held her breath as Dr. Bran walked to the open elevator and stepped inside. Maybe the doctor wouldn’t see her. She could hope anyway.

“Seriously?” Metford asked much louder than he should have.

“Agent James?” Dr. Bran called from the elevator.

Ava glared at Metford still wearing his stupid boyish grin.

He raised a hand to Dr. Bran. “Hey, Doc. How’s it going?”

“Hello, Agent Metford. Ava? We need to talk. Do you have a few minutes? You missed our appointment this morning.”

The click-clack of her dress shoes against the tile set Ava’s nerves on edge. Why did that sound bother her so much?

Metford lowered his voice and widened his eyes as he looked at Ava. “You were avoiding your appointment? Again?”

Ava shoved the donut and napkin forward. Metford took a compensatory step back, but it was too late to avoid getting glaze on his shirt and tie. Ava smiled wickedly as the coffee spilled over his other hand. “Serves you right,” she said before turning to face the doctor.

“Dr. Bran, you know, I really don’t,” Ava said, immediately leading the doctor away from Metford whom she was craning her neck to see. “Oh, don’t worry about Agent Metford, he just spilled a little coffee. You know, about that appointment—”

“Yes, this is the third one you’ve missed in a row. I can’t help you if you don’t come to the appointments.”

Ava led her back to the elevators and pressed the call button, nodding deeply. “I do know that, but the funny thing is, I’ve been really busy with a case. I can’t just drop an investigation to come to an appointment. I promise I’ll make it up as soon as the cases are caught up.”

Dr. Bran frowned and gave her a dubious look. “You and I both know the cases are never caught up. There’s always going to be a case. I need to see you by the end of the week, or I’ll be forced to report that you’ve missed the appointments.”

“And I’ll call as soon as I have time to come see you.” The elevator opened and Ava flourished her hand to it. “And your chariot has arrived. I’ll see you soon. I promise.” She stepped back.

“My ‘chariot’ was already here.” She stepped inside. “I expect that visit this week, Ava.” She followed that with a stern look.

The doors slid shut and Ava walked away. What was it with Dr. Bran? Why couldn't she leave it alone until Ava felt it was the right time to talk to her? Why was she always so insistent with appointments? How come she could always make people feel like the misbehaving kid in class who got caught? It had to be a thing with shrinks.

In the office, with her door shut, Ava pulled the paperwork from the last case and began reading over it to make sure it was correct before filing it. Dr. Bran didn’t need to know the case had been finished, or that Ava’s day was going to be free after lunch. She had already made plans to have lunch with her best friend. She and Molly had been trying to make plans for an afternoon together for weeks, and every time, Ava’s work squashed the plans. This time, she wouldn’t let that happen.

Sal opened the door and walked in with a file in her hand and a pensive expression.

“Sal,” Ava said, looking up in surprise.

“Lucia Garcia Martinez,” Sal said, holding out the file.

Ava’s chest tightened. She didn’t reach for the folder right away, but eyed it in shock. “She’s dead?”

Sal nodded. “You and Metford spoke with her during the Teagan Reese case, didn’t you?”

“Yes. She gave us information about a suspected drug and human-trafficking ring linked to the Aldridge artist sponsorship programs. Why do we have the case file? Did she die here in Maryland?”

“No, she was murdered in New York City. Astoria, Queens as a matter of fact. Detective Paul Reinhold requested that we step in because of the… nature of her death.”

Ava took the folder.

“You leave immediately. The crime scene is still active. Take the team. Your flight leaves in an hour. Detective Reinhold said he would hold the scene intact until you get there.”

Ava opened the folder. “Where are the crime scene photos?”

“He said you needed to see it in person. Better get moving.”

She closed the folder and stood. “Go-bags?”

“Just in case. You might be there a day or two. Keep me updated.” Sal left.

In the bullpen, Metford and Ashton sat at their desks working. “Where are Dane and Santos?” she asked, walking to the center of the room.

“Dane had to appear in court,” Ashton said, looking at his watch. “Should be out in the next few minutes, unless it’s running long.”

“When do court proceedings ever run long?” Metford asked with a large dose of sarcasm.

Ava shot a text to Dane instructing her to leave immediately and meet them at the airport in forty-five minutes. “What about Santos?”

“She’s in the field following up with the jewelry store about the shooting last week,” Metford replied.

“What’s going on?” Ashton asked, swiveling his chair to face her.

She held up the folder. “We’re going to Astoria, Queens. Flight leaves in an hour. We need to hustle.”

“Taking go-bags?” Metford asked.

“Yes. Ashton, take everything you need to process a crime scene.”

“Do we know who the victim is?” Ashton asked.

Ava looked pointedly at Metford. “Lucia Garcia Martinez.”

He hung his head for a moment and put a hand on his hip. “That explains why we’re going to New York. She lived here in Fairhaven, right?”

“Most of the time, yes,” Ava answered.

“How was she killed?”

“All I know is that she was found in an abandoned apartment building in a studio apartment. Not sure of the cause of death, but Detective Reinhold suspects strangulation. There are ligature marks on her neck, but that’s all I’ve got. He says we need to see the crime scene for ourselves.” She called Santos and gave her the same instructions as she had given Dane.

Good to his word, Detective Reinhold had held the crime scene until Ava and the team arrived some three hours later.

“Jesus,” he exclaimed when he saw them. “I thought I was going to have to sit on this body.” He motioned for them to hurry. “I’ve got the chief on my ass over this, so you’ll have to look quick when we get up there.”

Ava followed him up the chipped and worn steps of the abandoned apartment building. Three flights up, she asked, “Which floor is she on?”

“Fifth. This sick bastard was creative; I’ll give him that much.”

“You’re thinking the perpetrator is male?” Ashton asked.

Reinhold shrugged. “My guess. In my experience, women don’t murder by strangulation. They prefer poisons, or other, quieter methods than male killers.”

“This place stinks,” Santos said. “How long’s it been abandoned?”

“About ten years. We used to have squatters who stayed here. They’d get fired up on their drug of choice, piss and puke all over the place. City didn’t clean up when they ran them out and boarded up the place. We called it Cocaine Castle back in the day because that’s what almost every tenant here was on.” He turned right on the fifth-floor landing. “Place was falling apart a long time before it was shut down by the owners. In the early nineties, the alley out there was nicknamed Cocaine Alley.” He stopped just shy of an open doorway. “She’s in there. I don’t think she needs much of an introduction.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Ava said, moving past him and into the open studio apartment.

“I guess this is what he meant by ‘artistic,’” Metford said, stepping up beside Ava to look at the scene.

Lucia, covered with a shift of black lace, lay face-up on a six-foot square of canvas. Around her on the floor were sculptures and more paintings. Ava squatted to look at three large monkeys. One with his paws over his ears, the second with paws over his eyes, and the third with paws over his mouth. They were crudely sculpted and painted. The front panel of each base bore the familiar sayings associated with them: ‘Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil.’

The paintings were obviously new and each was painted in monochrome colors with brooding atmospheres of doom. They were also crudely created. Not masterpieces by any standard. One, Ava recognized as Ares, the Greek god of war driving his chariot. There were two more paintings of a female, each denoting her anger through her expression, raised arms, and hands curled as if attacking an unseen subject.

“Someone trying to send a message?” Santos asked, wrinkling her nose at the monkeys.

“Sure seems that way,” Ava said.

“That’s the Greek god of war, Ares,” Ashton said, pointing to the painting. “Maybe the killer is sending the message that he’s waging a war of some kind.” He pointed to the other two paintings. “I think those are a lesser goddess of the Greek pantheon. Lyssa, the goddess of mad rage, and even rabies in animals.”

“But this wasn’t a killing done in a mad rage,” Dane said. “It was cold. Calculated. Premeditated, even.” She bent and touched the paint on the canvas underneath Lucia’s body. “It’s completely dry. Do we have a time of death yet?”

“Not until you’re done analyzing the scene and the body gets back to autopsy,” Reinhold said.

“Let’s get that lace off her,” Ava said.

“We had the lace off so forensics could get photos and process everything, but I thought you should see it as it was—an art piece,” Reinhold said.

Ava and the team all looked at Reinhold with mixed emotions. Sure, there was art involved, but Ava wouldn’t have called it an art piece.

“Lucia is not a piece of art,” she said sharply. “She is a person.”

“A person who was murdered and turned into a work of art,” Reinhold said, defending his choice of phrasing. He moved closer, hands shoved into his pockets, and looked down at the scene. “Anyway, I thought it was important for you to see the scene since you and your other agent there are the ones who questioned her, and that case was based in the New York City art world.”

“Thank you,” Ava said. “Yes, it is important to be able to see the scene.”

Reinhold moved to the other side of the canvas and lifted the lace by a corner. Ava did the same on her side and they lifted it off Lucia’s body.

The paint on her body was part of the scene on the canvas. “I thought the killer put her on the canvas after she was dead and painted the whole thing right over top of her,” Reinhold said. He took a knee and lifted Lucia’s hip. “See how the paint goes right from her skin all the way to the canvas? But there’s no paint under her.”

Dane bent and touched the paint on the other canvases one at a time. “They’re all very dry and set. Thick paint like what’s in the layering here would take several days to dry like this. It was done with a palette knife.”

“Are you a closet artist, Dane?” Metford asked.

Dane chuckled but shook her head. “No, but I worked here in the city for a lot of years. I’ve picked up a few things along the way.”

“Like culture,” Santos quipped at him. “Something you have none of.”

“What is the scene painted over and around Lucia? I don’t recognize it,” Ava said.

Everyone gathered around and studied the painting for several seconds.

“Looks like a boat being navigated over a river of bodies to me,” Metford said. “Maybe the war will end with only two men and their captain unscathed as they float toward…” He shrugged. “Whatever is beyond the border of the canvas?”

It was worth considering. All theories were worth considering at that point.

“Okay, can we get this wrapped up soon? The ME wants the body and says he won’t wait another hour,” Reinhold said.

“You got it,” Ava said. She nodded for Ashton to begin his analysis.

“What are you thinking?” Metford asked Ava.

“That Lucia was killed because she talked to us,” Ava said flatly. “We’ll find whoever did this. We’ll find him and make him pay. This kind of retaliation is exactly why everyone else was afraid to say anything to us.”

Righteous anger boiled her blood as she stared at the vibrant and talented Lucia. The waste of life was unforgivable. No one should live in fear, and Lucia had embodied the idea of that notion even if she couldn’t truly live it.

“I wish we could have found a hotel with more than two stars,” Metford complained as he unwrapped the muffin from the vending machine. He sniffed it. “Says blueberry; smells like apples and mildew.”

“Then don’t eat…” Santos shook her head and groaned as Metford popped the whole thing in his mouth and started chewing. “Dude, you’re sick.”

“And you’ll really be sick if there was something wrong with that thing,” Dane said, snatching the wrapper and inspecting it for a date. “Best by, oh, three months ago.” She dropped the wrapper into the trashcan.

“I’ve tasted worse,” Metford said with his mouth still full.

“The pizza is on its way,” Ava said, flipping another printed photo from earlier. She laid them out on the table to make a miniature replica of the actual scene, and then stood. “Any other theories about what the paintings and sculptures might mean?”

They all shook their heads.

Ava sighed and stared harder at the photos, willing some detail to stand out that would at least give her a direction to go in. They had zero leads at the moment.

“The underlying theme was anger,” Dane said.

“Anger and war,” Santos said. “Don’t forget the Greek god guy there in the golden chariot.”

“Ares,” Ashton said from his computer at the end of the long table. “His name is Ares.” He didn’t look up but continued to scour over pages on the screen, eyes in constant motion, fingers moving seemingly without any help from him.

“What about that painting over her?” Santos asked. “Anything on that yet?”

Ava looked to the zoomed printouts of that. “Looks vaguely familiar like I might have seen it somewhere a long time ago, but I don’t know where or when.”

“I’ve got it,” Ashton said. “It’s a crude likeness of a scene from Dante’s Inferno.”

“The video game?” Metford asked, looking shocked.

“No, the book.” Ashton stood and carried the laptop to them. “It’s an epic poem, actually.”

Metford laughed and then tried to stifle it. “Epic poem? Why doesn’t it surprise me that you read epic poetry?”

Santos wore a wide grin. She cleared her throat and covered her mouth briefly.

“All right, could we just all get the laughs over with?” Ashton shot. “This is relevant, and I, for one, am glad I happen to read all sorts of books. If not, you wouldn’t have this.” He turned the screen to face them and set the laptop on the table near the spread of photos.

Ava, Metford, Dane, and Santos crowded around and leaned in to look at the picture filling the screen.

After a moment, Ava stood straight and turned to Ashton. “Okay, I see the obvious similarity between what’s on the screen and what was painted over and around Lucia, but—”

“What the heck is it?” Metford finished.

“Exactly,” Ava said. “What is it? Who painted it?”

“Oh,” Ashton said, picking up the computer. “Here.” He clicked a couple of keys and set the thing back down. “The painting is of Phlegyas ferrying Dante and Virgil over the river Styx.”

“You say that like it explains everything,” Metford said.

“Yeah, I still don’t understand what we’re supposed to be seeing in this,” Santos agreed.

“Me neither,” Ava said.

“Right. Virgil and Dante are visiting the nine circles of hell and seeing how each category of sin is punished. The scene in question is the fifth circle of hell, where people who were wrathful in life, or sullen, are punished. The bodies on the surface of the water are fighting with each other—”

“Looks like the scene from Titanic where all the people were trying to scramble into boats or onto anything that floated to keep from dying,” Santos said.

“Except these people aren’t really trying to get into the boat. They are fighting with each other. The people under the surface represent people, who in life, were sullen. They’re doomed to gurgle under the water in the Styx forever.”

“But Lucia wasn’t fighting with anyone,” Santos said.

“And she didn’t drown,” Dane said.

“And she certainly wasn’t on a boat,” Metford added.

“But she was angry when she spoke to us,” Ava said, looking at Metford. “She was plenty angry, maybe even wrathful.”

“And those other pictures go along with that,” Santos said. She pointed to Ashton. “He said they were gods and goddesses of anger, right?”

“To put it simply, yes,” Ashton agreed. He picked up the paintings of Lyssa. “She is the same goddess, and she was a minor player in Greek mythology. Not like Ares, who was a main character.”

“I don’t know anything about all this except it’s making my head hurt,” Metford said. “Minor player, main character…”

“In terms you might understand, Ares would be like Arnold Schwarzenegger. He’s an instantly recognizable main character in any film. Lyssa would be like Amy Yasbeck.”

“Who’s that?”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, so what are Phlegm, Virgil, and this Dante dude? Main characters or nobodies?” Metford challenged.

“It’s Phlegyas, and they aren’t players in Greek mythology. Dante was a real man. A writer.”

“Of epic poetry,” Dane said. “When?”

Ashton cleared his throat. “Thirteenth century.”

“You mean, like twelve-hundreds?” Santos asked.

He nodded. “That thirteenth century. He was Italian and he was influenced by some of the greatest writers of even more ancient times.”

“Whoa, pump the brakes,” Ava said. “We’re getting off track here. If it doesn’t tie in with Lucia’s death, we don’t need it.”

“Right, this is a lot,” Santos said.

“Do you have a theory about her death?” Metford asked.

“I do, but we need to have a larger printout of the crime scene painting.”

“How large?” Ava asked.

“Size of a posterboard. I need to be able to see the smaller details before settling on my theory.”

“Wasn’t there a FedEx on this street?” Santos asked.

“There’s one a block over,” Dane said. “I can go do that. It’ll be quicker than waiting for any delivery service around here.”

“Yeah, the pizza still isn’t here,” Metford complained. “You did order four, right?”

“Four larges and two salads,” Dane confirmed. “If they’re not here in the next ten minutes, they’re free. Ashton, send the picture to my phone.”

“I’ll go with you,” Santos said.

Once Dane and Santos returned with the poster, Ashton scrutinized it for several minutes. “I have a theory now.”

Ava sat beside him. “Hit me.”

He put the end of his finger on a face under the boat. “See her? That’s Lucia, or a good likeness of her. She was one of the eternally punished angry people.”

Ava saw it. “Do the men in the boat have any significance?”

“Maybe. The two poets in the original picture, Dante and Virgil, are not the men pictured here. Neither is the ferryman Phlegyas. The three men could look much different because of the untalented artist who painted them, or it could be on purpose. These might be three men who killed Lucia and are moving on to row over others like her, sending them to their just punishments.”

“You mean you think there could be more deaths like Lucia’s?” Dane asked.

“I don’t know, but it’s a theory.”

“Are there more faces in the water?” Ava asked.

“I didn’t see any with distinguishable features; only the one that looks a lot like Lucia.”

“Now that we have an idea about the setup of the scene, what about the most important question: Who killed Lucia?” Ava asked.

“Someone in the art world,” Metford said. “That’s a given. She heard, saw, and spoke to us, and that someone killed her for it.”

“We’re going to have to go back and look through the Teagan Reese case,” Ava said. “Get any names or places she mentioned, and find out who would have stood to lose the most by her talking to us about a possible multi-purpose trafficking ring in the city.”

Some cases close quietly and without a hitch. Once the file is closed, it’s never re-opened again. Then there are cases like the Teagan Reese case that didn’t stay closed very well or for very long.

Ava had a sinking feeling that she was going to have to keep this case file open for a long, long time.

The next morning, Ava set up a crude version of an evidence board in her hotel room. Reinhold had offered to give them a room to work from at the station, but Ava declined, knowing how overcrowded the place was. Displacing cops so she could have a room for a couple of days wasn’t worth the hassle that would come with it. The hotel didn’t have a conference room; it didn’t even have suites. There were crappy rooms and crappier rooms that were so small that there was only one bed, one nightstand, and no room for anything else. But it would have to do.

At seven, the team assembled to go over evidence.

“What have we got as far as evidence goes?” Ava asked.

“We had three sets of fingerprints, vomit, two pieces of piano wire, and an artist’s name,” Ashton reported.

“Don’t forget the artist signature on the bottom of the smaller paintings,” Dane said.

“Who do the fingerprints belong to? Any hits?” Ava asked.

“One set belongs to the first cop on the scene,” Ashton said. “The vomit is his, too.”

“Wow, must be a rookie to puke at that scene,” Metford remarked.

“He’s got about two years on the force, but this was his first staged death scene,” Dane said.

“He’ll toughen up after a few more,” Santos said. “I did.”

“Didn’t we all?” Metford asked.

“Were all three sets of prints his?” Ava asked.

“No. One set was from the kid who was exploring the place. He’s got a YouTube channel dedicated to exploring abandoned buildings.”

“Does this kid have a name?” Metford asked.

“Drake Munroe. Twenty-two. Lives not far away right here in Astoria.”

“Text me the address,” Ava said. “The other set?”

“It’s not a full print; only a partial, and it was found on Lucia’s upper arm. It’s from an unknown subject. No hits at all. I ran it through school systems, public systems, government office records, and our systems. Whoever it belonged to has never been in any trouble, never attended a school after the fingerprinting mandate passed, and has not worked for the government in any capacity.”

“Well, that’s just a boatload of helpful,” Ava said. “Whose name did you get and how?”

Dane stepped up. “Dusty Martin. He’s a sculptor, painter, musician, you name it. If it’s art-related, he probably does it. Pretty well-known on the internet, too. He’s the guy who sculpted the three monkey statues at the scene.”

“He signed work that appeared at a murder scene?” Ava asked.

“They’re probably older pieces. He makes certain recognizable sculptures and paintings in big batches, paints them individually, and sells them all over the place.”

“On the internet, in other words,” Metford said.

“And at conventions, galleries, flea markets, just wherever he decides to put up a booth.”

“Can we trace who bought those monkeys?” Santos asked.

“I tried, but there are no batch or serial numbers to track, and I seriously doubt he keeps records that are so detailed.”

“But he might. You said he sold his work all over the place. Wouldn’t he have to have a way of keeping up with his inventory?” Ava asked.

“You’re right,” Dane said. “I’ll look into it and see what I can find out.”

“There was a signature of sorts on the smaller paintings,” Ashton said, pulling up a picture for them to see. “CoCaAl.”

“Whose signature is it?” Metford asked.

“That, I am trying to find out now.”

“If I had to guess, I would say it’s something like Cocaine Al, Allen, Always.” Santos snapped her fingers. “Cocaine Alley. Remember when Reinhold said that’s what they used to call that place?”

“Yeah, he said the building was Cocaine Castle, and the alleyway got nicknamed Cocaine Alley in the early ‘90s,” Ava said. “Good work, everybody.”

Ashton nodded. “Let’s run that moniker through the system just to make sure we’re not reading it wrong. Some artists have a weird signature, and I don’t want to miss anything here. There’s not much to go on to start with.”

“I’ll run it,” Dane said.

“I say we put Dusty Martin on the person of interest list,” Ava said.

“I second that,” Metford said.

Within the hour, and before Ava had finished updating Sal about the case, Dane came back over.

“What’s up? You get something?” Ava asked.

“I did. That signature? CoCaAl? It’s an artist’s signature; not a shortened version of the alley’s nickname.”

“Which artist?”

“You’re not going to believe this.”

She turned her phone screen to Ava and Ava’s mouth dropped open.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she exclaimed. “Those are his paintings?”

Dane nodded. “Told you that you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Who was it?” Metford asked as he and Santos walked over to join them.

“Connor Calvin Aldridge,” Dane announced.

Ashton jerked around in his seat. “Are you sure? Is it the same Connor Aldridge that lives in Fairhaven?”

“The very one,” Dane confirmed.

“The one whose wife and brother-in-law are sitting in prison right now in Fairhaven because they murdered Connor’s mistress,” Santos said.

“He wasn’t guilty in that case,” Metford said.

“He might be in this one,” Ava countered. “If he knows about the trafficking, or makes money from it, or just turns a blind eye every now and then, he stood to get into a lot of trouble if Lucia ever said enough to the right people and got an investigation started.”

“Sounds like a solid motive to me,” Santos said.

Ava thought about it a while longer. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered if the paintings had been planted to make Connor look guilty. Someone who was angry that Connor didn’t get into trouble at all in the Teagan Reese case. The only problem with that was that Teagan Reese and her family lived in Fairhaven. Their lives were there, not in New York City where Lucia was murdered. Who would kill an artist in New York hoping it would get a man from Fairhaven in trouble? Who would even want revenge that badly against him, and for what? From what Ava had learned, his worst crime was that of having an affair with a married woman and leading her to believe he really would help her get back into the art world in the big city. He was a jerk, but people usually didn’t frame jerks for murders just because they were jerks.

She sighed and laid the papers down. Hadn’t she seen weirder and worse? The reasons why someone would kill was limited only by the machinations of the killer’s brain, thought processes, and their perceptions. People were twisted, and because of that, she couldn’t rule out that someone was trying to frame Connor because of a grudge held over from the last case.

“That puts Connor Aldridge on the person of interest list,” Ava said.

“As much drama that has revolved around him over the last month or so, I say we put him on the suspect list, too,” Santos said.

Ashton agreed.

“Do we think Dusty Martin is a suspect just because his signature is on a sculpture at the crime scene?” Metford asked.

“No, we just went over that,” Ava said.

“Well, this is the same. Just because Connor Aldridge’s signature is on the smaller paintings doesn’t automatically make him a suspect, either.”

“He’s right,” Dane said. “Someone might have planted the sculpture and the paintings to throw us off the trail of the real killer.”

“And no one signed the main painting,” Metford said.

“That would make it too easy,” Ava said. “Dusty Martin, Drake Munroe, and Connor Aldridge all need to be on the suspect list. We have practically nothing to go on, and they are the only ones tied to the scene by anything physical.”

Dane, Santos, and Ashton split up outside Cocaine Castle to canvass the block.

Santos looked up the street and then down it. People walked up and down the sidewalks in large groups. It was herd mentality. It was also something she had never understood. There was the old saying, ‘there’s safety in numbers,’ but she always felt the least safe in large crowds.

She had questioned several people in the skiff of greenery on the left side of the building and it was not surprising that no one saw or heard anything. It was the answers that made her want to take people by the shoulders and shake them until they had whiplash. At least two of the women she had spoken to had lied about what they had, or rather had not, seen at the apartment building over the last week. It was always the instant look that crossed their faces that gave it away. And it never failed that they thought they were being slick when they overcorrected the expression to something so unconcerned and disinterested that it screamed they had seen or heard something. Something significant.

But throttling people during canvassing was unacceptable. Sometimes, she wished it were otherwise. Taking a breather, she looked up at the front of the building to the fifth-floor window, and then she looked across the street. There was a small cellphone and computer repair shop there. Above that, boarded windows. The building on the right side of Cocaine Castle used to be an adult entertainment store, and some of the faded signage remained on the bricks; ghostly signposts to decades past.

“Too bad the place didn’t clean up much since then,” she grumbled under her breath. The Big Apple was supposed to be ritzy, glitzy, and glamorous; a sight to strike awe into a person, inspire them, but that wasn’t what she was seeing. How had Dane worked in the New York City field office for so many years without losing her mind or becoming jaded?

The alley between the abandoned apartment building and the old triple-X store smelled like rotten fruit, puke, and years’ worth of body odor. A woman with a tangled blonde wig sat about halfway down the alley. She was physically there, but mentally, she was out somewhere around Neptune.

“Hey,” Santos said, standing directly in front of the woman.

The woman moved her hands in the air as if writing something. She laughed, shook her head, and said, “No, I didn’t take your stupid muffins.”

“Excuse me,” Santos tried again. She waved a hand in front of the woman’s face as she tried to see if perhaps she had earbuds in. Maybe she was taking a call.

The woman’s bloodshot eyes rolled like those of a dazed cow. Her expression changed into one of deep sadness, and she began to cry, covering her face and rocking.

Santos walked past her, not knowing if she should feel sorry for her or be angry that she had chosen to wreck her brain with drugs. The track marks on her arms had been clear after Santos had tried to get her attention the last time.

Farther down the alley, a dumpster had been turned sideways. A shadow danced against one wall just beyond the ancient green wheelie bin. A man with unruly gray hair down to the center of his back, danced and frolicked drunkenly by himself, arms raised, and laughing.

“Hey, buddy,” Santos called, stepping around the edge of the trash bin.

The man kept dancing but turned to see who was calling. His gray and red beard had beads and charms at the end of several long braids that hung to his stomach. He stopped dancing and lowered his arms. “Whatcha want, pretty lady? I ain’t got no drugs anymore.” He threw his arms up and whooped happily. “I’m a changed, reformed man.”

“Oh, really,” Santos said, cocking her head to the side. He weighed a buck-twenty at most and looked to be seventy years old. “I just need to know if you’re here a lot. In this alley, around this building.” She chucked her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the apartment building.

“You’re not even curious?” His eyes flew wide. “Not even a teensy little bit?” He held his forefinger and thumb almost together and peered at her through the slight gap.

“If you’re around here much? Yeah, that’s what I just asked.” God, how much longer was she going to have to deal with New York City? It was almost enough to make her wish she were back in her old hometown in Arizona.

“No, no, pretty little lady.” He held his arms out and turned in a complete circle.

“First, it’s Special Agent Santos; second, I’m asking you a question in an official capacity.”

“Fine,” he huffed, dropping his arms and his smile. “Yeah, I’m here a lot. Every day. I sleep over there.” He pointed to a bench in another green area that couldn’t quite be called a park. “Now, want me to tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Her reserve of patience was nearly empty.

“Why I don’t have no drugs anymore.” His arms moved upward again. There seemed to be invisible strings attached to the corners of his mouth and his hands. The higher his hands went, the bigger his smile became.

“Fine, tell me.” Whatever it took to get some kind of intelligible answers.

“Because I saw Jesus.” One hand went to his heart, the other pointed to the strip of sky overhead, and he knelt dramatically. “The Lord Almighty Jesus.”

Hands on hips, Santos nodded. “Really? You saw Jesus, huh?” At least the old man was entertaining.

“I did.” He struggled to his feet and rushed toward her with a wide grin and an elated expression.

“Hey, whoa,” she said, holding out both hands.

He stopped. “I saw Him,” he whispered as he pointed up. “He had the bluest eyes I have ever seen. It was almost like being hypnotized. I couldn’t look away from them; from Him.”

“And how wasted did you say you were?”

“No, no, no, no,” he said in agitation. “I mean, well, I was on…” He looked at her, down at her gun and badge on her side, and then grinned mutely before shaking his head.

“So, you hallucinated a blue-eyed Jesus? That’s special. I bet you’re the only person ever to hallucinate—”

“That was no hallucination,” he said forcefully. His expression turned more sober than he had been in a long while. “He flew down from right there.”

Santos looked where he was pointing at the apartment building. “He flew down from where exactly? The roof?”

“The second-floor window. It’s right there. I’m pointing right at it.” He scoffed. “He flew down here and said He was the spirit of vengeance handing out the rewards of wickedness to the unjust.” His expression of animated fear was almost comical. “He said He was handing out salvation in all its forms. Then He asked if I wanted to be forgiven of my sins so my soul could live forever in paradise. I said, hell, yeah. All I needed to do was confess all my sins.”

“And, what did you do?” She eyed the drop from the second floor. It was possible that someone jumped from there, landed on the wheelie bin, and then leaped to the pavement. But why would someone do that when they could come and go through the first floor?

“I fell to my knees and confessed. I told him I was a thief, a drunkard, and junkie for any drug I could get. He put a hand on my head and said I was forgiven.”

“Seems like maybe you’re gonna have to confess all over again next time you see Him.” She nodded toward the liquor bottles propped against a backpack. “That yours?”

He nodded. “You think He’ll be back?” he asked hopefully.

“I’m not sure. Which way did He go when He left you? Maybe me and my friends can find Him for you.”

“You’d do that?”

“Yeah. That’s our job.” A slight jab of guilt shot through her, but it wasn’t enough to sway her decision to outright lie to a drunk junkie who may have hallucinated seeing Jesus, or he may have seen a real person and just thought he was Jesus.

“He went that way and took a right at the stop sign.” He pointed out his end of the alley.

Across the green, not-really-a-park, Santos spotted the stop sign. She clapped the old-timer on the shoulder. “What’s your name, sir? So, we can tell Jesus who’s looking for Him.”

His chest puffed out and he straightened his shoulders. “Name’s Bill Hicks. Tell Him I’m working on myself every day, just like He said to do.” He cupped a hand to his mouth and whispered, “Never hurts to have somebody else put in a good word for you, does it?” He winked and started laughing again.

It wasn’t much, but she had gathered no other leads at all. If people had seen or heard anything, they were too scared to talk to her, Dane, or Ashton, or they simply didn’t care enough to speak to them.

“I talked to about twenty-five people and got nothing,” Ashton said.

“Thirty-two for me,” Dane said. “From what I gather, the people who aren’t using the alley there to buy, sell, or trade drugs and sex, try to ignore the place altogether. Like they’re afraid of the building.”

“Is that something you get a lot of here in the city?” Santos asked.

Dane shrugged. “No more than in any other big city. People mind their own. Even when they don’t, they won’t tell what they know.”

“I don’t understand people,” Santos said. “It’s a sad statement about humanity when no one but the hallucinating old man is the only one who would say anything about what they saw.”

“If he saw a flesh-and-blood man jump from the second-floor window, someone else could have seen the same thing,” Ashton said.

“But why would someone jump out a window instead of using the first-floor doors or windows that have been broken into over the years?” Dane asked. “I don’t see how the killer could have taken Lucia into the building through the second floor anywhere because the fire escapes have been removed.”

They continued to brainstorm as they headed back to the hotel to add Santos’ information to the board.

Drake Munroe lived less than a mile from the murder scene in a small apartment that seemed to be about average for middle-earners in The Big Apple. As they stood in the hallway waiting for him to answer the door, Metford craned his neck to look at every detail.

“What are you doing, deciding whether to rent a unit here?” Ava asked.

“No. Just wondering if being a YouTuber really pays enough for him to afford this place. It’s not bad, and you know rent in the city is outrageous. Maybe he’s doing a little—”

The door opened and Drake peered out at them suspiciously between two of the four chains still engaged.

“Drake Munroe?” Ava asked.

His dark eyes moved to her and then to the badge she held out. “Yeah.”

“We’re Special Agents James and Metford. We need to ask you about the scene you ran into over in the abandoned apartment building.”

“Which one?”

“You run across many scenes that would warrant a visit from the FBI, Mr. Munroe?” Metford asked.

Munroe didn’t bother dignifying that with an answer. He pushed the door closed, disengaged all the chain locks, and then opened it fully. “Come in.”

“Thank you,” Ava said, stepping past him into the dimly lit apartment.

“In there,” Munroe said, motioning to Ava’s left.

The living room looked normal. A partially full bowl of popcorn perched precariously on the arm of a slightly worn, small sofa, the TV remote lay on the cushion with a cellphone, a pen, and a notebook. A YouTube channel dedicated to urban exploring played on mute. A single chair stood in the corner by the TV. There was nowhere for Ava and Metford to sit comfortably.

“I told the cops everything.”

“We understand that,” Ava said. “We just need to hear it from you for our investigation. Can you take us through it from the beginning? What were you doing at Stanford Apartments?”

“I have a YouTube channel, Drake Explores. I was there to explore the apartment building because it’s been abandoned for so long. I like the decay, and my audience loves to see how architecture was back in the day, and how it looks when it starts to crumble.” He shrugged and scrubbed at the back of his head with one hand. “I don’t know, I just thought they would like to see the place.”

“The history of Stanford Apartments didn’t have anything to do with why you made that choice?” Metford asked. “The Cocaine Castle? Cocaine Alley?”

“Of course. My audience likes to watch videos about places that have certain… reputations. I mean, it would be boring to just go film a location with no history, no intrigue, just a boring old rundown building. I’d never get my views up that way.”

“Does being a YouTuber pay good?” Metford asked, looking around.

“Sometimes. It’s hit or miss. When views are up, pay’s not bad. Why?”

“This isn’t exactly a dump, Mr. Munroe,” Metford said. “Just didn’t know if you worked a regular job and did the channel as a hobby.”

“Nah. I stopped working for the man a year after I started the channel.” He puffed up proudly.

“So, you traded working for ‘the man’ for working for ‘the masses’?”

Munroe’s eyes darkened, and Ava thought he would have become combative, defensive, if not for the underlying fear that seemed to be eating him up inside.

“Mr. Munroe, Detective Reinhold with NYPD told us that you had filmed the building and the scene. Is that true?”

Munroe’s eyes shot wide and he took a half-step back. “I did, but I already told him, it was purely by accident. I wasn’t expecting to find some dead chick in that building, and by the time I stepped into that room and figured out what I was looking at through the viewfinder, it was too late; she was already recorded. I’m not going to post it to the internet or anything. I’ll record over it next time I go exploring.”

“So, you still have the recording?” Metford asked.

“Yeah. It’s on the camera’s card just like my other videos.”

“We’re going to need to see the camera,” Ava said.

“I swear, I had no plans to post it. If you take my camera, I won’t be able to work. It’s not like I can afford to buy another one, and if I don’t work, I… I… I don’t eat.”

“The camera, Mr. Munroe,” Ava said. “This is a federal investigation. You don’t want to be found guilty of interfering with it, do you?”

Munroe stared at her. His lips moved, but no words came out as he struggled with the decision.

“At least you wouldn’t have to worry about not having three meals a day in prison,” Metford said.

“Okay,” Munroe said, squeezing his eyes and fists closed momentarily. “Okay.” He pointed to the end table by the sofa. “That’s it. That’s the camera.”

Ava picked it up and reviewed the recording stored on the card. It was only the one. Metford stepped close to see it. She flipped the camera over and removed the card.

“This is all we need. Do you have any copies of it?”

“No,” Munroe said in an offended tone. “One was enough. Why would I make more?”

Ava handed the card to Metford and he put it in a baggie before slipping it into his jacket pocket. “Had to ask.”

“Mr. Munroe, did you know Lucia Martinez?” Metford asked.

“No. God, no. And I’m glad I didn’t know her. That would be…” He ran a hand through his hair and glanced toward the hallway. “Awful.”

“Yes, it would have been. Did you see anyone leaving the building when you were going in?”

“No. I was alone, and you really shouldn’t explore alone, but I was. I got comfortable doing that around here even though I know I shouldn’t go solo even that close to home. It’s not safe. But if I had seen someone around the place, I would not have continued with the explore.”

Ava and Metford exchanged a look. She didn’t trust Drake. Something about the way his eyes kept darting all over the place and his constant movement made her think he was hiding something.

“I think we’re almost done here,” Ava said. “My partner has a few more standard questions for you, but that should be all we need.”

“Great,” Munroe said, running a hand through his hair again with a relieved expression.

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom while he finishes up?” She smiled.

“I guess. I mean, yeah, that’s fine. It’s down there.” He pointed down the short hall. “Only door on the left.”

She thanked him and made her way to the bathroom. She listened for Metford to start asking questions, and when Munroe answered the first one, Ava stepped to the kitchen doorway and looked inside. Typical bachelor’s kitchen with pizza boxes and empty beer bottles on the kitchen table, a few dirty dishes in the sink, and the drainer full of clean ones that he hadn’t bothered putting away. She walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and flushed the toilet. After a few seconds, she turned on the water to cover the sound of opening the medicine cabinet. Completely normal and legal items sat on the skinny shelves. She shut off the water and opened the door.

Walking back toward the living room, she passed an open door across the hall from the bathroom and looked in. A laptop computer sat on a cheap dorm desk under the window, and on the screen, a video had been paused inside an editing program. It was the video of Lucia’s murder scene.

Munroe had lied. Just as she had expected.

“Mr. Munroe, would you come here, please.” She stood beside the computer.

Metford and Munroe appeared in the doorway, and the look on his face told her all she needed to know. She pointed to the screen. The color drained from his face and, just as suddenly, his cheeks flared red as he began shaking his head and walking toward the desk.

“I wasn’t going to upload it, I swear.” He reached for the laptop.

Ava threw her hand out in front of his. “Please, don’t touch that.”

“He’s still editing, looks like,” Metford said, guiding Munroe back away from the desk. “Maybe it hasn’t been uploaded anywhere yet.”

Ava closed the laptop. “It’ll be interesting to find out what soundtrack he was putting with it.”

“I swear to God, I wasn’t going to upload it.”

Metford’s glared as he loomed over Munroe. “What’s it for, then? Files for the old spank-bank? Are you some kind of sick—”

“No,” Munroe wailed. “It was just… I…” he floundered.

“I think we should arrest him.” Metford turned to Ava.

“But photojournalists take pictures and videos of dead bodies all the time. That’s what I am.”

Ava picked up the laptop. “This goes with us, Mr. Munroe, and I hope for your sake these images don’t turn up online. This is an active murder investigation. You don’t want to land on the suspect list, do you?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No.”

Metford scoffed and pushed past him.

“If we need anything else from you, we know where to find you,” Ava said.

Ava hung up the phone again. It was the fourth time she had called Connor Aldridge’s cellphone. “He’s not answering. Wherever he is, he doesn’t want to talk.”

“Did you leave a message at either number?” Metford asked.

“Voicemail at his home number.”

“Is the cell going straight to voicemail?”

“No, it rings. It’s on. He’s just ignoring it because my number is in his directory.”

She looked out the window and drummed her fingers on the armrest of the door. It was a break having Metford drive, but her grandmother would have gone faster. She wouldn’t tell him that, though. His arm hadn’t healed well from their last crash back in Fairhaven, and she thought he was skittish because of that wreck. It couldn’t be called an accident because Grady Arwood had purposefully pushed them into the ditch.

“Let’s go to his main apartment in Manhattan. He’s probably just sitting in there having a drink and laughing every time I call.” She couldn’t get the image out of her head. “He thinks because he was found innocent in the last case, there’s no way we’ll suspect him this time.”

“I don’t know about that. Why would he leave a signed painting at the murder scene? That would be kinda dumb for anybody. Even Connor.”

“He’s not dumb. Matter of fact, he’s pretty smart.” Making a conscious effort, she stopped drumming her fingers. It reminded her of a teacher she’d had in elementary school that no one liked.

“Exactly. Then why leave the painting?”

“That’s something I intend on asking him in person.”

Metford parked at the curb. Ava craned to look up at the impressive eighty-story building. Even though the structure towered over them, many of the nearby buildings soared even higher.

Ava held out her badge to the doorman, who opened the door for them without a word. A guard, who had been seated, stood and moved toward them.

“Help you?” he asked, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops.

They showed their badges.

“We need to speak with Connor Aldridge in the penthouse,” Ava said.

The guard shook his head. “Not here. Left days ago and hasn’t returned.”

“Where did he go?” Metford asked.

The guard shrugged. “I’m not his manager or his travel agent. The Aldridges come and go as they please.” He grinned sheepishly. “I guess just Mr. Aldridge comes and goes as he pleases now. After…” He looked to Metford and cocked an eyebrow. “You know, after Mrs. Aldridge got arrested and all.”

“Mr. Aldridge didn’t say anything about where he was going?” Ava asked.

“No. It’s not like we’re friends.” He looked incredulous.

“How many days ago did he leave?” Ava asked.

“I’ll have to look to be sure.” He went back behind the desk, flipped pages in a large ledger-type book and then pulled up something on the computer. A moment later, he returned. “Four days ago. Left at five in the morning.”

“And he hasn’t returned?” Metford asked. “Is that normal?”

“Hey, sometimes they’re… he is gone for weeks at a time. Men like Aldridge have enough money to have homes in every town between here and Florida.”

“Thank you.” Ava left a card with instructions to give it to Aldridge upon his return.

“Where to now?” Metford asked.

“The apartment that was in Margueritte’s name. It’s only a block or two away.”

Metford parked again minutes later. “I don’t understand how they could have enough money to afford apartments in both of these buildings. Blows my mind.”

“They own most of their apartments and gallery buildings and the scholarship units, too.”

“That’s what I call a stupid amount of wealth. Just numbers on the screen to them.”

Ava couldn’t agree more. It had to be like playing Monopoly.

The guard let them up to the apartment. The yellow police tape was still over the doorway, and the seal was unbroken.

“He’s not even been here since she was arrested,” Metford said.

“It was in her name. Maybe he feels no responsibility for it.”

“Can’t say I blame him, but I would want my stuff from in there.”

She chuckled. “He has enough money to replace anything he might have left in there.”

“You’re right. I vote we hit the galleries next. Maybe he’s keeping busy to keep his mind off the fact that he was married to a murderer.”

“Or to keep it off how he might go to prison, too.”

As they drew closer to the car, Metford called to her. When she looked in his direction, he tossed the keys. “Your turn.”

She almost caught the keys. They hit the palm of her hand, bounced off, hit the hood of the SUV, and slid to the edge before she slammed her hand on them.

“Wow, that was bad. Maybe I should drive if you’re that off your game.”

Without missing a beat, she tossed the keys back to him. “I think you’re right.” Grinning, she got into the passenger side before he could argue.

He drove them to the first gallery on the list—The Vibrant Vault on West 24th Street near 11th Avenue in Chelsea. It was the newest gallery opened by Aldridge, and it was the most likely place for him to be.

They parked and got out. The streets were busy with cars, and the sidewalks crowded with people. It was a different crowd than the New Yorkers in Manhattan. The people in Chelsea dressed differently, and they didn’t seem to be in as much of a hurry. If they made eye contact, most of them smiled or nodded. In Manhattan, passing pedestrians didn’t.

“Can’t wait to get back to Fairhaven,” Metford grumbled.

“You loved San Francisco and you hate New York,” Ava said. “I don’t understand.”

“San Fran was awesome. The people, the sunshine, the ocean. Not to mention, they had great food and bars. New York is just crowded with one-percenters and criminals.”

Ava laughed. “Seriously? And San Francisco was so much better? I think you had a heat stroke out there. Both places are crowded, smelly, loud, and criminal-ridden. The only difference is that you could have fun in the sun out there, and not so much here.”

“Then, I guess that’s enough of a difference for me to dislike New York.”

The gallery wasn’t open yet, but workers moved around inside. Ava knocked on the glass door and held up her badge. A woman walked over but didn’t open the door. She motioned for Ava to put the badge back up, and then she eyed it carefully before turning the lock and pulling the door open.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“FBI. We’re here to speak with Connor Aldridge,” Ava said.

“He’s not here.” She stepped back and pushed the door.

Ava put her hand against it. “Do you know where he is?”

“No, I just work part-time here.”

“Who is it, Brittany?” a man asked from the side.

“FBI. They want to talk to Mr. Aldridge.” Brittany stepped away from the door and the man appeared.

“Ah,” he said. “I remember you two.”

Karl Harmon smiled at them.

“Mr. Harmon,” Ava said. “We remember you, too.”

“What can I help you with, Agents?”

“We’re looking for Connor Aldridge. We need to speak with him.”

“He’s not here.”

“Yeah, that’s what Brittany said,” Ava said.

“Is it still the Teagan Reese case? I thought that had been put to bed.”

“No, not the Reese case. Where is Mr. Aldridge?”

“Last I heard, he was going out on his yacht from Fairhaven and he expected to be on the water for a couple of weeks.”

“When did he do that?” Metford asked.

Harmon thought for a moment. “I think it was four days ago now.”

“Why did he go out on his yacht? Was he alone, with someone, what?” Ava asked.

“He’s been going out alone and staying for a few days to a week at a time since his wife and brother were convicted in the Reese case. It’s his way of coping.”

“He left from here four days ago and he was heading to Fairhaven to go out on his yacht?” Ava asked.

“Yes, that’s what I just said.” Karl tried to hold a smile, but couldn’t quite keep it in place. “What’s going on? Is he in trouble for something?”

“Has he called you since then?”

“No. Is he missing?” His expression turned to worry.

“Mr. Harmon, what are you doing here at Mr. Aldridge’s gallery when he isn’t here?” Ava asked.

“I’m tending to the new display for next week’s event. I told Connor I would do it while he went away.”

“Is that something you do much?”

“Not really, but I have done it a few times over the years. I have stakes in this gallery, as I do in most of them. Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?” He stepped out and let the door shut.

“We’re investigating a murder, Mr. Harmon, and we need to speak with Mr. Aldridge as soon as possible.” Ava handed him a card. “If you see him before we do, would you give him that and tell him to give me a call?”

“A murder? Who?” He glanced at the card and held it between his fingers like a cigarette. Ava pegged him for an ex-smoker.

“An artist, is all I can tell you.” She tapped the card with one finger. “You’ll tell him?”

“Yeah, yes. I’ll tell him as soon as I see him.”

“Or if he calls you, or vice versa.”

“Right. Of course. Yes, I’ll let him know.” He pushed the card into his pants pocket.

“Thank you,” Ava said.

She and Metford left. They met up with the rest of the team at the hotel.

“We’re wrapping up here today and heading back to Fairhaven in the morning,” Ava said. “That’s where Connor Aldridge was headed, and maybe we can catch up with him there. If not, he usually brings the yacht back there after his little get-aways. We can get in touch with him when he returns.”

The next morning couldn’t come quick enough.

Ava worked with Ashton to check that the recording of Lucia’s murder scene had not been posted online while Metford made calls to check when Connor had left the marina on the yacht, or if he had at all.

Sal walked into the bullpen. “It’s good to see all of you back here. The place was really…” she let the words trail off as if trying to think of the right word to use.

“Lonely,” Metford said, covering the phone with his hand.

“Empty,” Santos said.

“Dull,” Dane said.

“No. None of those words are quite what I was looking for.”

“Boring,” Ava said, getting in on the game.

Sal shook her head.

“Boring is technically the same as dull,” Ashton said, not taking his gaze from the computer screen.

“Vocabulary lesson in the corner,” Metford said, covering the phone again.

“You could use a few of those lessons,” Santos said.

“Quiet,” Sal said. “That’s the word I was looking for. It sure was quiet around here with all of you gone.” She gave them an expression that said she might be missing the quiet. She walked to Ava.

“Something up?” Ava asked.

“I just thought it would interest you to know that Solomon Furlong was appointed to the librarian position at Fairhaven Library and Center for Art Culture.”

“Really? When?”

“While you were away in New York.” She held out the newspaper. “It’s in this morning’s paper.”

Ava took the paper. Solomon’s smiling face was plastered in the center of the article. “Am I wrong or is that the smuggest smile you’ve ever seen?”

“One of the smuggest, I would say. Anyway, it’s neither here nor there. I just thought it would be of interest because the Teagan Reese case was so big for the team.”

Ava gave her back the paper. “Yeah, gives me another reason not to like that man.”

“But you don’t like anybody, do you?” Metford asked.

An image of Jason Ellis instantly popped into her mind and her body reacted. Her hand clenched into a fist, her jaw clamped tight, and it felt like the air was thick as she pulled in a breath.

“She might if so many people weren’t like you,” Santos quipped. Her gaze darted to Ava as if saying that she knew what Ava was thinking and it was okay.

Sal held up her hands in protest. “Hey, I’m the most likable person around here.”

Everyone laughed.

“How’s this case going?”

“Not great. For all the items left at the scene, there is hardly any evidence. We’re making sure the recording didn’t get uploaded all over the internet. Metford and I are going to find Connor Aldridge and talk to him. He wasn’t at any of his or Margueritte’s properties in New York. The last anyone up there talked to him, he was headed here to take out the yacht.”

“When was that?”

“That’s what Metford’s trying to find out now. He’s on with the marina, and I guess they’re checking. Aldridge supposedly left the city five days ago now.”

“Do you think he had something to do with the murder?”

“Too soon to tell, but there was a painting with his signature at the scene, so I can’t rule him out without talking to him.”

Sal pointed to the other corner and they walked over to the spot that offered a little more privacy. “Are you still seeing Dr. Bran?”

Ava sighed heavily and crossed her arms.

“I’m not nagging, but you know I have to ask.”

“You get the reports, Sal. They should tell you whether I am or not.”

“You’re right, but I only get one report every few weeks. And let’s face it, some of them are not real great.”

“I’ve been going. I only missed a couple this month. I had to leave for the case. I’ll make them up. I don’t know why I’m still going anyway. It’s like I’m being punished, and trust me, I don’t need anyone else punishing me for my stupidity. I punish myself plenty.”

“No one is punishing you, Ava, and you wouldn’t still be going if you had kept your appointments at the beginning of this. And if you hadn’t become so combative with Dr. Bran after missing so many appointments. She's good at her job, and, believe it or not, she’s on your side and she will help, but you have to let her. You have to do your part, too.”

“I’m doing it.”

“And is it helping?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s helping,” she lied. She couldn’t tell that it had improved her mental state at all. She still had nightmares about killing Jason or being killed by him. She was constantly worried that he would escape prison and come after her or send someone after her.

“Right. Well, I would suggest keeping all future appointments so you can be done with the whole thing. If you keep resisting, she’ll continue giving reports that are less than shining so that you have to keep seeing her.”

“But I’m fine. I got the stupid plant like she said. What the hell is a plant going to do to keep me from worrying? To keep me from beating myself up? Is it going to magically make me be a better judge of character somehow?” Taking a deep breath, she dropped her arms to her sides and looked at the floor. Why was it so hard to even talk about the situation? Why did she still get so angry?

“I don’t know, but if she said it would be a help, it is. In some way. Maybe not the way you’re thinking, but in some way.”

“It’s a nuisance is what it is. A green plant should not be so hard to keep alive.” It was in fact, her third green plant. The lady at the garden center had assured her it was low maintenance and anyone should be able to keep it alive with minimal effort. But maybe she didn’t want to keep it alive as a constant and growing reminder of her need for ongoing therapy because of Jason Ellis. No, because of her own ineptitude. Her own lack of ability.

Her own failure.

“Maybe she’s waiting for you to be ready to stop going to appointments,” Sal said with a raised eyebrow and an air of confidentiality.

“But I am, and I’ve told her so several times.”

“You haven’t convinced her yet. She has to see that you’re on the mend, that your emotions are leveled out again, and that you can handle the guilt of the situation. Not take the blame and wallow in it, but accept that it happened and deal with it.”

“But I am to blame. For all those women he killed after I met him and—”

“No, you’re not. Deep down, you know that already. But you have to take all those feelings out, lay them in front of you, and deal with them, or they’ll never leave you any peace. They’ll eat you alive. I’ve seen it happen to agents before. Not pretty, I’ll tell you that. And both of them were just like you—workaholic, persistent to a fault, and always willing to take the blame when something went wrong. Then they wallowed in guilt and blame until it broke them. Don’t be like them. Prove me right. Prove you’re the agent I always went to bat for, the one I always believed was different. The one I believe in. The Bureau needs you to be that person. And so do all the victims and families you help.” Sal smiled. It was small but genuine. She walked away with the day’s newspaper in one hand.

Even though it was hard to admit, Sal was right. Ava had been wallowing in the shame, guilt, and blame ever since the night Jason attacked her. She was also right about it not being Ava’s fault. She hadn’t killed any of those women, and she hadn’t known her love interest was a stone-cold serial killer. If she had known, she would have stopped him at any cost.

But that didn’t make the reality any easier to deal with.

Dane knocked at Ava’s office door an hour later. Paperwork lay scattered across the desk, the computer had about a zillion tabs open, and papers lay printed in a thick stack on the printer. Again, she was behind on the paperwork, and again, there was no one to do it except Ava. She wasn’t lamenting her position, but she would always hate the paperwork, and she was pretty sure she would always procrastinate about it. She took a deep breath and sat back.

“Come in,” she called to Dane.

Ashton followed Dane into the office.

“What’s going on?” Ava asked, seeing both of them.

Dane held up two sheets of paper. “We found out some things about Dusty Martin.”

“Hit me.” She eyed the mess on the desk. “I need something to distract me right now.”

“Looks like you’re behind on pushing the pencil,” Ashton said.

“You’ll file a missing person report on me one day only to find me buried underneath a mountain of paperwork. I’m sure of it.”

“So, what I’m hearing is that if you go missing, check in here first?” Dane asked.

“Exactly,” Ava said. She tilted her head toward the papers. “Fill me in.”

“Right. Dusty Martin has an address in New York City. He lives and works in Greenwich.”

“How close is that to where Lucia was murdered?” Ava asked.

“It’s about thirty-five miles from Astoria,” Ashton said. “But he has other addresses, too.”

“And a page full of phone numbers.” Dane flipped the paper around for Ava to see. “Twenty-seven in all.”

“Who has twenty-seven phone numbers?”

“Dusty Martin, I guess.” Dane lifted the other paper to the top. “And he has addresses in Gate City, Virginia, Decatur, Georgia, and Outer Banks, North Carolina.”

“Four addresses in four different states and twenty-seven phone numbers,” Ava said, her mind reeling. “That’s worse than some career criminals we’ve hunted.”

“You should see the list of previous employment, if you think that’s bad,” Ashton said.

“No, thanks. I thought he made a living from his artwork. What is the most recent employment listed on his tax returns?”

“Self-employed artist,” Dane announced. “That’s the only thing listed for the last five years.”

“Before that, it was always listed as secondary income,” Ashton said.

“Okay, great. That gets us no closer to knowing where he is right now. At least if he was employed at, say, a construction company, we’d know where to start. Let me think for a minute.” She looked at the paperwork still scattered around and sighed. She wanted to take part of the lists and start helping them search, but she would have to delegate the work so she could finish her job, else Dr. Bran might add that severe procrastination was a result of Ava’s unresolved emotions stemming from the Ellis incident. “Okay, just start calling the numbers and marking them off the list. Call until you find him, or at least until you get hold of someone who knows him.”

“On it,” Dane said. She turned on her heel and walked out behind Ashton.

Of course, she was on it. Dane was methodical. Almost like a machine. No wonder she and Ashton worked so well together. He understood her, and vice versa. They were both precise, persistent, and rarely showed any emotions.

Two hours later, Ava had cleared most of the papers from her desk and stood to stretch. If she could train herself to take a seat and stay there for even an hour or two a day, she wouldn’t get so far behind. Making a silent vow to buckle down and do better, she opened the door and headed for the breakroom and the coffee before checking in with the team about progress on Lucia’s case.

Dane was pouring a cup of fresh coffee when Ava entered.

“That smells better than usual,” Ava commented, retrieving a large paper cup and heat sleeve.

“It should. I paid almost twenty bucks for that bag,” Dane said.

“Oh, you bought it?”

“Yeah. Two days ago. At that new Farm Fresh Market in town. Pricey stuff, but this coffee was worth it, in my opinion.”

Ava waited to see if Dane was going to put the rest of the brewed coffee into a thermos. She added too much sugar to her cup and got the liquid creamer from the small fridge, and Dane still had not taken the carafe from the warmer. “Are you going to put the rest of it in something?” She didn’t want to wait any longer for her own caffeine and sugar overload.

Looking confused, Dane shook her head. “No, I just wanted a cup. It’s not called Death Brew for nothing. One cup has all the caffeine you need, plus some.”

“Oh, you brought it here for everyone?”

Dane laughed. “Well, yeah, unless nobody likes it but me.”

Ava poured her cup and then inhaled the steam. “It smells like paradise.”

“And tastes better, but if you pair it with one of these bear claws, it’s divine.”

Taking the offered pastry, Ava sipped the coffee. It tasted as good as it smelled. “Any luck with those phone numbers yet?”

“Yes. We actually got hold of Dusty Martin’s mother via one number, and his stepbrother by another.”

“And what did they say about him?”

“At this point, I don’t think they know any more than we do. Neither is sure which address he would be at if he isn’t in New York. His mother did say, however, that it was likely that he would be at the Gate City, Virginia address because she had spoken to him only a couple of weeks ago and he was in Greenwich.”

“Why would she assume he’d be in Virginia if he was in New York a couple of weeks ago?”

“Apparently, he moves up and down through the states in order. After he finishes a project or event in New York, he goes to Virginia for a couple weeks, then he moves on to North Carolina, and then Georgia. He works his way back up to New York the same way most of the time, she says.”

“Awfully organized for an artist, don’t you think?”

Dane shrugged. “She says he’s a good businessman, too, and to look at his past employment, I would never have guessed that. How’s the coffee treating you?”

“It’s great. What did you call the brand again?”

“Death Brew. It’s called Death Brew Bold Reaper.”

Ava chuckled. “What a name. Makes you wonder why anyone would drink it.”

“I’m a sucker for advertising that goes in the darker direction, so I can’t say anything about anyone else. And remember, you’re drinking it, and bragging on it.”

“You’re not wrong. I wouldn’t have figured you for having an interest in anything dark.”

“Ha. You think I’m all rainbows and unicorns?”

“Not really that extremely vanilla, but—”

“Hey, I only put on that act at work.”

“Right, you’re a real medieval executioner underneath all this caring and sharing.”

“Eh, more of a paranormal-slash-occult enthusiast, but I like the sound of medieval executioner. I wonder how I could work that into my mystical aesthetic at home?” Dane refreshed her cup of coffee.

“Now I know you’re lying.”

“Am I?” She grinned mysteriously and walked out the opposite door.

Everyone on the team seemed to have a hobby that they threw themselves into. If Dane was telling the truth, she was into the supernatural, though it was hard to see her communing with spirits or poring over an old grimoire by candlelight. Ashton, of course, had his computers and his new tech. Always and forever, he was either reading about it, taking a class about it, or mastering some new aspect or product. Metford had beer, fast food, and the gym. It was probably a good thing he was so obsessed with working out, too. If not, his obsession with being a fast-food and beer connoisseur would have killed him a long time ago. And Santos had many hobbies. She practiced several forms of martial arts, volunteered at a homeless shelter, and loved deep-sea fishing.

They all said the same thing about their hobbies—that’s how they decompressed from the job. It’s what kept them sane.

Ava walked out of the breakroom and looked toward her office. She liked working cases, hunting bad guys, catching killers, but none of those could be considered a hobby since they were her job.

Maybe that’s why Dr. Bran suggested getting a plant. She needed an official hobby, and seeing as how she didn’t have one, the doctor was trying to push her in a direction that seemed to fit her personality: contemplative and persistent.

Ava laughed. People could almost convince themselves of anything if they tried hard enough. But she didn’t believe that for a minute. At least she didn’t think she believed it.

“Hey, everybody. Updates on the case?” she asked as she entered the bullpen.

After listening to the woefully underwhelming progress, she set down the cup. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Dane, you and Ashton go over that list of numbers again. Find anyone willing to talk about Dusty. Find out all you can about him.

“Santos, I need you to call all the Aldridge numbers again. If you somehow get hold of him, let me know right away.”

“What about me?” Metford asked.

“We need to go by the Aldridge estate and see if he’s there and ignoring our calls. I want to talk to him and get it over with already. We might not even need to go speak to anyone else, if we can pressure him enough.” She motioned for him to follow her.

“But I called Lucia’s parents and set up a meeting with them already.” He grabbed his jacket and followed.

“Then why did you ask what to do?”

“I was going to tell you so you could go do it alone if you needed me to do something else.”

“No, we’ll go. They live to the southwest and just outside Fairhaven limits, right?”

“That is correct. We will still have time to come back by the Aldridge place.”

“Good because I want a shot at him. Just because he got away with it once doesn’t mean he gets a free pass this time.”

“What? You still think he had something to do with the Reese case?”

“I do. I can’t help it. How can you not?”

“Because he was cleared. He was innocent, Ava.”

“Maybe he didn’t actually do any of the killing, but he was plenty guilty, in my honest opinion. He was cheating on his wife with a married woman. A married woman who was blackmailing him to get back into the New York City art world. How much more of a motive is necessary? Men like Connor Aldridge can’t be blackmailed for long. They retaliate.”

“But he didn’t kill Teagan or her husband or anyone else.” Metford chortled incredulously and buckled his seatbelt. “What will it take for you to let that go?”

“I think he manipulated the situation knowing that Margueritte would take matters into her own hands. I will never let it go. Not until something convinces me beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s innocent. Same goes for Lucia’s death. I think he had the most reason to shut her up. He stood to lose more than anyone else as far as I can tell.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”

She gripped the wheel tighter. Yes, it was supposed to be that way, but Connor was involved. She knew that, and it was infuriating that Metford and the others couldn’t see it. But if she could find definitive proof…

“Unless you’re the judge, jury, and executioner now.”

“I’m not,” she said, making an effort. “And everyone is innocent until proven guilty. Some people are just smooth manipulators making everyone and every situation around them dance to their tune, and I hate that. I hate that others can’t see what I see.”

“Oh,” he said, elongating the sound.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think I understand now.”

“Well, please enlighten me because I’m lost here.”

“You have it out for Connor Aldridge because you see him as a manipulator. Don’t you see how that ties directly into your situation with Jason—”

“Don’t even say it,” she snapped. “I mean it, Metford. Don’t even say it.”

“I don’t think I have to, do I?”

She clamped her mouth shut hard enough to make the muscles in her jaws burn after only a minute, but she didn’t care. Better to be in pain than to let her words fly. There was no need to lash out at Metford. He was only trying to enlighten her, right? And she had asked him to do it, after all. That didn’t make it any easier to take, though. No easier at all to realize she was projecting her own special brand of shit onto people involved in her cases.

The Martinez home was a small bungalow just south of Fairhaven proper. The white walls had been freshly painted, and the faux green shutters stood out pristinely against the light backdrop. Mrs. Martinez apparently had a thing for flowerboxes, and flowers in general. Every visible window sported its own flowerbox, and a flowerbed outlined the house and porch with the only clear space being the cobblestone walkway that led from the parking area to the front porch.

“Everything is so neat and well-kept,” Metford commented.

“And precisely placed. I bet weeds are afraid to grow here.”

“Damn shame about their daughter. She was their only one, too.” Sighing, he opened the door and stepped out. He surveyed the property with appreciation.

“See yourself in a nice, neat little forever-home like this one day?”

One shoulder moved up barely enough to see. “Eh, you know.”

“No, that’s why I asked. Because that look is either nostalgia or daydreaming.”

“Well, I can tell you for sure it’s not nostalgia. I should show you the only picture I have of the place I grew up.” He scoffed, straightened his tie, and walked ahead a few paces.

Metford didn’t have many touchy subjects, and if he did, he kept them hidden well, but Ava was pretty sure she had just found one. He waited at the side of the front door for her. She knocked.

Mrs. Martinez opened the door. Her red-rimmed, puffy eyes bore testament to the heartbreak she had been suffering since learning of her daughter’s brutal death. Ava’s heart shuddered at the sight of the diminutive woman. It was obvious where Lucia’s delicate beauty had come from.

Holding up her badge, Ava said, “Mrs. Martinez, we’re from the FBI.”

Her gaze went to Metford. “Are you the Special Agent Metford I spoke to on the phone earlier?”

He held his badge out farther. “Yes, ma’am. We’re so sorry to have to do this so soon after…” He let the words trail.

Mrs. Martinez shook her head and motioned them inside. “We’ll help any way we can to bring our baby’s murderer to justice.”

“Bastard should be peeled like an apple in the town square, if you ask me,” Mr. Martinez said loudly, coming into the living room from the kitchen with two cups of coffee.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Martinez said. “You should not take anything he says like that too literal.”

“The hell they shouldn’t.” He offered the coffees to Ava and Metford. “Consider that a warning of what I will do if I find him before you do.”

Ava and Metford took the coffee and thanked him.

“Mr. Martinez, I can understand why you feel that way, but—”

“Good, then you know there’s no but necessary. Nothing you can say will change how I feel.”

“And you have the right to feel that way,” Metford assured him.

“Come sit, and let’s not talk of this revenge anymore,” Mrs. Martinez said, gripping her husband’s arm hard and giving him a warning look.

“Yeah, what the hell ever. Come on in and sit. We’ll talk all nice and civilized so you don’t throw me in prison for making threats.” He looked to his wife. “There. Satisfied? I listened to your advice.”

Mrs. Martinez sat heavily on the loveseat, leaning her elbows on her knees and covering her face with both hands.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Martinez,” Ava said as she took the seat closest to the woman. “We understand that emotions are raw right now, and like Agent Metford said earlier, we’re sorry to be doing this so soon, but it really is important.”

Sniffling, Mrs. Martinez nodded and wiped her eyes as she sat straighter. The effort to pull herself together was painfully obvious. As soon as they were gone, she would fall apart all over again, and Mr. Martinez would likely still be ranting about all the horror he wanted to rain down on the murderer. If the heart-wrenching tears could be avoided, Ava thought she might be able to make it through the interview without wanting to run out the nearest exit.

“What do you need to know?” she asked with a trembling voice and quivering chin. “And please, call me Carmen; and this is Jorge.”

“Thank you, Carmen,” Ava said. “First, let me say that we are very sorry for your loss. I can’t even imagine how hard this is for you.”

“You don’t have children, do you?” Jorge asked. His voice had gone soft.

“No,” Ava said.

“Then you will never understand the anger, loss, and helplessness you feel when you find out some piece of shit killed your only child.” His voice broke. He cleared his throat and reached for his own coffee.

“You’re right,” Ava said. “And I won’t say I do. Ever.” She let both parents calm down for a moment and then scooted forward a little. “I need you to think about this question before you answer. Everyone’s initial instinct is to say no to it, but really think about it first.”

They waited, not flinching a bit.

“Did Lucia have any enemies? Anyone who might have been angry with her, jealous of her, or who had threatened her in the past? An ex-boyfriend, ex-employer, other artists. In short, anyone who might have had a grudge against her. We need their names, if so.”

Shockingly, it took them about three minutes to answer, and only after they had put their heads together about it.

Carmen turned to Ava. “We can think of nobody who would want to hurt our Lucia. Everybody really liked her. She was just that kind of person. People gravitated to her.”

Jorge touched her leg and nodded for her to continue. “Tell them, or I will.”

“Carmen?” Ava asked. “It’s okay. We need to know whatever it is.”

“The only enemies we could come up with after we found out about our baby was the Aldridges. Connor and Margueritte.” She practically spat the first names and her mouth turned down deeply at the corners.

“We heard about all the trouble after the librarian—” He snapped his fingers and scrunched up his eyes.

“Teagan Reese,” Carmen supplied.

“Right. After Teagan Reese was found murdered a few months back. I believe Connor had something to do with all that mess, and he used his money and power to stay out of prison. That’s what I believe. Snake in the grass. Wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

Ava fought the urge to toss a smug glance at Metford. Someone else didn’t believe Connor was so sparkling and good. “Had either of the Aldridges threatened Lucia?”

“We worried about her even though they were always nice to her,” Carmen said. “But we kept talking to her, gauging her interactions with them, and it was too much. We didn’t think she was being smart or safe. New York City is so far away from us if she needed help.”

“She told us about her suspicions, too. She said she suspected Connor was into some shady shit up there in the city.”

“She said she thought it was very possible that drugs had been smuggled into the city by Connor Aldridge and his associates. That’s what she said,” Carmen corrected. “She also said she thought some of the artists who disappeared up there on a regular basis hadn’t just disappeared. She thought they might have been sold to sex traffickers who took them away from New York City and maybe even out of the country.”

Metford sat forward. “She had good reason to believe there was a sex trafficking ring at work in New York City?”

Jorge nodded furiously. “My baby wouldn’t make up conspiracies without good reason. Especially not about Connor Aldridge. He helped her a lot in the beginning, and she held respect for him because of that.”

“But she broke ties with them after Margueritte went to prison for the murder of Teagan Reese. We were glad of that, and we thought she would be safe af…after…” The rest of the sentence was lost in sobs, and Carmen folded forward at the waist, burying her face in her hands again.

Jorge stroked her back and struggled to keep from crying. “If it was Connor Aldridge, it won’t matter if he uses his money and power to get off free again.” He punched his thumb into his chest several times. “I’m not the law. I’m not the courts. I’m Lucia’s father, and I will see that justice is done for my baby girl.”

“Do you have the names of any of the associates Lucia mentioned when she was telling you about all this?” Metford asked.

Under a thin veil of control, Carmen raised her head. “No. She never mentioned any names except Aldridge. Said it wasn’t safe for us to know their names and that they could come after us, hurt us, or worse if anything ever went sideways about it.”

“Did Aldridge know that’s what Lucia thought?” Metford asked.

“I don’t think so. She never would have told him.”

“Unless they were arguing or she was at the wrong place at the wrong time,” Jorge said. “She was a tiny thing, but she wouldn’t back down if she thought she was right.”

“What about the names of any of the artists she thought had been trafficked?” Ava asked.

“No. No names at all. If she had mentioned any, we would tell you.”

Ava and Metford thanked them and left.

The Aldridge Estate never ceased to amaze. With its sprawling house, which was large enough for ten or twelve people to live in comfortably, and the gently rolling property dotted with just the right amount of décor, trees, and flowers to be gorgeous, the place inspired awe.

“After seeing the size of their New York penthouses, it’s no wonder they stayed here so much,” Metford said.

“I can’t get over the fact that it was just the two of them living here. Look at the size of that house.” Ava scoffed. “Seems like such a waste now that it’s just him. No kids, no relatives, just him knocking around in there.”

“Won’t take long for the cobwebs and dust to take over, and it’ll look more like something from The Addams Family.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Even Morticia would be hard-pressed to convert this place into one of her dark delights.”

“Yeah, but the Addamses are filthy rich. They could hire it done for them.”

“The same way the Aldridges do things,” Ava said as she parked close to the front door.

They walked past the tall white columns and to the door.

“Makes you feel like you’re walking up to the entrance of some grand federal building.” Metford looked at the columns and let his gaze follow them up to the clean lines of the roof.

“Not much for making a person feel at home, is it?”

He shook his head as she pressed the doorbell and then lifted the heavy brass ring to knock. The door jerked inward, ripping the ring from her fingers. She gasped in shock and jumped back a bit, seeing a similarly startled Metford in her periphery.

An older man stood eyeing them with a sour downturn to his mouth. His thick brows nearly met over the bridge of his nose due to the deep scowl. He wore a black suit and tie with shiny black shoes.

“Who are you?” he asked as his gaze dropped to Ava’s gun.

She relaxed a bit and forced a small smile. Taking out her badge, she nodded for Metford to do the same. “FBI, sir. We’re here on official business.”

The man scoffed. “What’s that to do with me?”

“We need to speak with Mr. Aldridge. Is he—”

“He’s away for the week. And I don’t appreciate all the interruptions while I’m trying to finish the morning’s work. Check back next week or over the weekend. Preferably when there are more staff members available to pander to you.”

“So, you’re a staff member?” Metford asked.

“No, young man, I’m keeping things in order here because I don’t have anything better to do with my time.” His frown and scowl deepened. “Of course, I’m staff. I’m head of house staff.”

“I think we got off on the wrong foot here,” Ava said. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Robert Tamblin.”

“Mr. Tamblin, we’re investigating a homicide and it’s imperative that we speak with Mr. Aldridge today.”

“He left two days ago.”

“Do you know where he was headed?”

“He’s my employer. I work for him. My position doesn’t allow for me to ask personal questions of him or… well, of him since Mrs. Aldridge…” Flustered, he sighed deeply. His expression changed and his light blue eyes were full of worry. “Since Mrs. Aldridge went away,” he finished lamely. “All he said was that he was going to be away on the yacht for a week.”

“You’re sure he said a week? As in seven days exactly?” Metford asked.

The scowl came back at half the severity. “That’s what Mr. Aldridge told me. He also told me that he had relieved the other staff members of their duties for the duration of that time. I’m the only one working, and he was counting on me to keep things in order here. That’s all I know, Detective.”

“It’s Special Agent Metford, actually,” Metford corrected.

“My apologies, Special Agent. I don’t know anything else except that I am expected to keep things running smoothly in this house until he returns, and I have much work I need to get done today if that is to be accomplished. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Ava and Metford exchanged a glance and then she asked, “Which marina was he going to, Mr. Tamblin?”

“Fairbay, as far as I know. That’s where he keeps his favorite yacht. Slip one-thirty-three.”

“Which is?”

“The Vitamin Sea. S-E-A,” he spelled out. “Awful name, but to each his own, I suppose.”

Metford grinned.

Ava thanked Tamblin and he shut the door quickly without another word.

“Vitamin Sea,” Metford said. “I like it. Creative.” He got into the passenger side.

“Clever play on words, but I’m with Tamblin on that one.”

“And what wondrously creative name would you have given it?” he asked, bordering on a sarcastic tone. “The Ballerina of the High Seas, Freedom, For God and Country?” He chuckled as he put on the seatbelt.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into naming a boat you don’t own, haven’t you? Is that what you daydream about? Owning a yacht?”

“A fishing boat, but not a yacht. And a yacht isn’t a boat.”

“Okay, then, a ship. Better?”

“Not really. It’s a yacht. They have a more sophisticated design than boats or ships, and they are designed specifically for recreation.”

Ava laughed. “I’m not even going there. Just know that I know a lot more about Metford the man now.”

Normally, Fairbay Marina was a twenty-minute drive from the Aldridge Estate, but traffic was a mess due to a nasty wreck on the main road. Almost an hour later, Ava parked at Fairbay and uncurled her fingers from the steering wheel. The knuckles burned and ached from the tight grip she’d kept on the wheel while maneuvering through the jams and detour routes that took them through neighborhoods with one-way, narrow streets that twisted and turned in every direction.

“We’re taking the long way back to the office,” she said, opening the door and getting out.

“I’m fine with that. Do you really think Aldridge killed Lucia? You talked with the guy more than any of the rest of us did, but I didn’t get the cold-blooded killer vibe from him at all.”

Ava headed for the end of the parking area. “I don’t know, okay? I just have this feeling in my gut that he had something more to do with Teagan’s murder than we found out. I don’t think it was all his wife and brother-in-law.”

“I definitely don’t think they would have taken the fall for him.”

“Maybe he only manipulated them, like I said before. Maybe he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. Literally. That was a messy murder, and so were the others in that case, but Lucia’s death? It wasn’t as messy. And it was obviously done by an artist. Not just any ordinary killer could have included her body into the painting that way.”

“Take a left up there.” He pointed ahead. “An artist who strangles someone to death with piano wire is going to have marks on their hands even if they wore gloves. Unless they were thick like welding gloves.”

“What makes you say it that way? That an artist who does this will have marks on their hands?”

“Because every one of them I’ve met have hands that look as if they’ve never seen a hard day’s work. They have soft hands, and I’m guessing it’s pretty necessary to keep them in good shape for their work. Kind of like a surgeon.”

“Drake Munroe’s hands looked fine. Not that he is an artist, but his hands were fine, and I didn’t see any welding gloves laying around, did you?”

“No. I didn’t see any artwork at all in his place, either. Unlikely that he’s even a fan of art. Not real art anyway.”

Ava gave him a sideways glance. “Real art? Who are you and what have you done with Metford? Since when do you know anything about real art?”

“I don’t know much, but I’m learning.”

“By choice?”

“Ha. Funny. Hey, looks like Vitamin Sea is still here.”

Ava followed his gaze. The yacht bobbed gently in the water. The name, written in black, stood out plainly against its side. “Uh-oh, looks like your Mr. Innocent told a fib. Maybe more than one, because Harmon said he was going to be gone for two weeks. Mr. Tamblin said he was told only one week. Could Mr. Aldridge be trying to muddy the waters and confuse his own timeline for us?”

“Or maybe he just wanted an extra week away from his responsibilities in the city, and that’s why he told Harmon two weeks. Unless Harmon is guilty of something, and he lied to us on purpose.”

“Want to flip a quarter about who lied to who?”

After announcing themselves, Ava and Metford boarded The Vitamin Sea. A sudden hard blast of wind hit them as if an invisible hand was urging them forward. Something metal clinked loudly on the bridge deck above them. Shading her eyes from the sun, Ava craned to see up there but could only see the end of the exposed part of the deck.

“Hello? FBI. Mr. Aldridge? We need to speak to you,” she called, but the only answer was an almost continuous squeaking. The sound came in time with the rocking of the yacht in the water.

“Sounds like rope squeaking around something metal,” Metford said. “I’m going up.”

Ava followed him inside and up to the bridge deck. He stopped as soon as he lifted his eyes.

“Mr. Aldridge,” Ava called, putting her hand on Metford’s shoulder and pushing so she could see around him.

She sucked in air and stood staring at the scene.

“Mr. Aldridge won’t be answering any questions today,” Metford said.

Connor was naked except for a leather groin cloth. Leather straps ran from the covering and wrapped several times around his arms, neck, and feet, and then all leads were tied off behind his back. A large swath of worn sailcloth cinched tightly in the leather strapping around his neck hung down his back. The flagpole from the sun deck had been fastened to the counter, wedged and held in place by the silver retainer bar that encircled it. Whoever had killed him had trussed him high enough on the pole that his head nearly touched the ceiling.

Each time the breeze came through, Connor’s body swung in accordance with the stiffness of the wind and Ava’s stomach tightened a notch.

“What about that painting?” Santos asked, pointing to the wall beyond Aldridge. “It’s an angel, right?” She tilted her head toward her right shoulder and eyed the painting with confusion.

“That’s what it looks like,” Metford agreed.

“So, the killer did that to him, and then painted an angel on the wall to guide him into the afterlife?” Santos asked, doubt rippling over her features. “That doesn’t quite fit, does it? Maybe she’s an avenging angel.”

“What was the killer trying to say with all this?” Ava asked, disgusted by yet another chaotic murder scene that made no sense. “Why did he kill Connor? Why did he wrap his… his… yeah, anyway. Why did he put a loincloth on him and run leather straps from that to his arms, legs, and neck? Why’s he hung up on the flagpole? And why paint anything here at all?” She put a hand to her forehead and pressed. A migraine was waking up in there, and she dreaded it. The new scene boggled her brain and made her angry. Not because she cared so much for Connor, but because someone had the nerve to come to Fairhaven and do something so horrible right under their noses and then walk around town undetected. “Somebody had to hear something or see something. Santos, you and Dane start canvassing,” she snapped. “Where’s Ashton?” she asked loudly in the confined space.

The entire forensic team turned to her with wide eyes. Metford stepped close.

“He went to the sun deck,” Metford said.

“Why? Isn’t the scene right here?” She held out a hand indicating Aldridge still hanging in front of them.

“I’m here,” Ashton said, entering carefully around the forensic techs kneeling to gather evidence from the floor near the entrance. “What did you need?” he asked Ava.

Flustered, she motioned toward the room. “Do you have any ideas about this? We’ve been brainstorming down here while you were getting some sun up there.”

“I wasn’t getting sun up there. I was looking around to see how many other boats might have been close enough to see or hear anyone over here.”

“And?” She should probably apologize, but the pain behind her eyes made her too grumpy to do it.

“And, it depends on how much of a fight Mr. Aldridge put up. Maybe no one if it was late in the evening or early in the morning.”

“Great. More waiting. Has the ME arrived yet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Couldn’t see that far from up there?”

“I’m sorry, did I do something to make you upset with me?”

“I’m upset because of this murder. Why all this elaborate stage dressing? If someone had a grudge, why not just outright kill the man with a knife or a gun?”

“For one, they make messes and leave traceable evidence no matter how stringent the killer is with them. For two, this was done as a message, and I think someone has an obsession with Dante Alighieri’s work because this reminds me of the second circle of hell from the Divine Comedy just like Lucia’s murder scene looked similar to something from the fifth circle.”

Metford snorted under his breath and clapped Ashton on the back. “Come on, man. Dumb it down for the ones who didn’t get a master’s degree in nerd books.”

“The fifth circle was painted right over Lucia’s body making it hard to dismiss the meaning. Angry people were punished in the fifth circle.” He chucked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m seeing the second circle here. Lust. The lustful are punished in the second circle. A hard wind blows them back and forth and there’s nothing they can do about it. The wind prevents them from ever finding peace. It represents the lust that drives them in life, never allowing them to truly have peace and contentment.”

“Because they’re never being fulfilled,” Ava said.

“Right,” Ashton agreed.

“How do you come up with all this?” Metford asked.

“The sailcloth attached to him, the loincloth that draws attention to the genitalia, the straps that run from it and bind the limbs and his neck. He was tethered by his own lust, which controlled his life.” Seeing the astounded gazes of everyone, he held up both hands in front of him, palms-out. “That’s the symbolism here. Killer’s statement about Mr. Aldridge; not mine.”

Ava and Metford stared at the scene from one angle while Ashton, Dane, and Santos looked at it from another.

“Did someone dole out this punishment for him because of him and Teagan Reese?” Santos asked. “That whole affair thing came out, remember.”

“Yeah, he let lust rule his life,” Dane said.

“Well, you can’t argue with that,” Metford said. He tilted his head toward the wall-sized painting. “And what about that?”

“If the killer doled out punishment from hell, why paint an angel to stand watch over it?” Ava asked. “Aren’t angels supposed to guide the dead home to heaven? I mean, if they deserve to go there.”

Ashton scrutinized the painting for a moment and then walked to the outer deck where his laptop case sat with his other equipment. “I’ll get back to you on that,” he said.

“Avenging angel?” Santos suggested. “And maybe it had nothing to do with Teagan. Maybe he really was in cahoots with human traffickers and this was symbolic of punishment for that.”

“Or it’s an angel of death,” Dane said, backing up a few steps to take in more of the painting.

“Wouldn’t an angel of death and an avenging angel amount to the same thing?” Metford asked.

Ava walked to Ashton’s spot on the outer deck. “What are you looking up?”

“That painting. I don’t think it’s just any angel.” His finger flew over the keys, interrupted by brief interludes in which he would speed-read something.

“Think it’s an archangel or some special order of angels?”

He glanced up. “I’m impressed. Didn’t think you were interested in theology, philosophy, or angelology. And no, I don’t think it’s representative of a special order of angel. I think maybe it doesn’t represent an angel at all.”

“But it has wings,” she countered.

“And that’s where being impressed ends.” He flashed a quick grin at her.

She returned the grin, confused. “Okay. Why?”

“Just a pet peeve. Angels and wings and… It doesn’t matter. Here it is.” He turned the laptop to her. “He copied that image of Nemesis. She’s the Greek goddess of retribution. She personified retribution for the sin of hubris.” He stood. “Arrogance before the gods.”

Ava walked to the front of the bullpen and called for everybody’s attention. “Okay, we’ve all either seen the crime scenes firsthand or pictures of them. Whoever is doing this is not only sick, they are twisted in ways we don’t understand, and they are smart. He’s not leaving us clues we can use to actually track him down.”

“Clean, smart, and psycho is a really bad combination,” Metford remarked.

“It absolutely is, and it’s up to us to figure out how to find this guy. Ashton has provided us with some diagrams so we can better understand the crime scenes and what they represent. It’s also allowing us a glimpse into how this killer processes events in his life and how he plans these murders out.”

“We didn’t think they were spontaneous killings. It was obvious with Lucia that the killer had thought about how he would commit the crime,” Dane pointed out.

“That’s right, and now, we get a little more insight into how long he might have been planning these crimes. To get away with them, the killer had to be prepared with the piano wire, we’re assuming he wore gloves, the paints, canvases, and all the other things needed to create the scenes he left for us. Most of the necessary items are going to be everyday items to artists. We need to get a list of painters who paint in the style of…” She looked at her notes. “Pierre Blanchard. We need to look at artists who have made a point of studying Dante’s works, too. Look for enrollment in classes online and in physical venues because I’m sure the guy we’re looking for probably took classes not only in art, art appreciation, and classical literature, he also makes a living by painting. Perhaps other forms of artistic expression, as well.”

“Yeah, like murder by numbers,” Santos quipped.

“No, murder by circles,” Metford said.

“Okay, okay, enough. This is not the time,” Ava said, bringing the laughing to an abrupt end.

“You keep saying ‘he.’ Do we know it’s a man?” Santos asked.

“Did you see how large a man Mr. Aldridge was?” Ava asked. “Assuming the killer worked alone, he would have to be strong.”

Ashton cleared his throat. “Or knows how to use leverage to his advantage. If you know enough about physics—”

“Stop, Ashton,” Santos said. “We all know you’re like a super-smart genius, but we’re talking about a killer here. I don’t think he has a propensity for physics.”

“He has a propensity for killing,” Metford said.

“But he’s right,” Dane said. “If he knows enough about physics, he could have lifted Mr. Aldridge.”

“I think he tied him to it on the floor and lifted the whole thing with a simple rope and pulley system,” Metford said.

“And that’s something he would have to transport to and from the crime scene,” Ava interjected. “Did he put it all in a shopping cart and go wheeling it down to the yacht without drawing any attention at all?”

“That’s an idea to look into,” Metford said.

“Yeah,” Santos agreed. “He could have done that under the premise of being a homeless person, and Mr. Aldridge might have let him aboard to offer food or something.”

Ava hadn’t thought of that scenario, but thanks to Santos and Metford, now she had to think about it even though she didn’t believe that was a viable avenue of investigation. “A homeless man at the marina wouldn’t have been allowed down to the docks.”

She put an image on the screen. “This is Pierre Blanchard’s rendering of Nemesis. She is a winged woman holding three snakes and a torch. A wheel and rudder are propped on the rocks just below her.” She clicked on the next image. “This is the painting at the Aldridge scene.” She clicked the button again and the images appeared side by side on the screen. “Do you see what’s missing from the image on the wall of Aldridge’s yacht?”

“The wheel isn’t in the painting we saw on the yacht,” Santos said.

“That’s right. In the original painting, the wheel and rudder were meant to symbolize that she would pursue her victims anywhere—over land and through the water. But our killer wasn’t willing to pursue Mr. Aldridge over land, apparently.”

“Or, he just thought it was funny because he didn’t have to,” Metford said. “The pursuit ended on the yacht.”

“But he had to follow behind Aldridge across land to get there,” Dane said.

“I think it meant that if Aldridge had gone out to sea, the killer meant to pursue him there,” Ashton said. “He had already chased him over the land and he knew Aldridge wouldn’t make it back to land, so there was no need for the wheel; only the rudder.”

“Now that we’re all up to speed on the symbology at play here, I need to put in orders for forensics to check the leather from that scene. Maybe we can trace it to an artist who uses it in his or her trade, or at least to a specific shop where it’s sold. Get started on the lists of artists here and in New York that need to be questioned.”

“All artists or just the ones with ties to the Aldridges?” Dane asked.

“Start closer to home; only the ones with clear ties to Aldridge here and the city, and those who have shown work that is similar in style to that of Blanchard.”

By the end of the day, the team had come up with five artists who were up-and-comers in the New York City art world, and all of them had been through Connor Aldridge’s programs at some point in their pasts.

“Let’s narrow the list,” Ava said. “These artists are scattered all over the place. Show me samples of their work similar to the Blanchard style we’re looking for.”

Ashton took the front of the room and put samples of each artist on the big screen. Immediately, one work stood out as being a nearly perfect match for some of Blanchard’s works. Ava pointed to the one in the middle.

“That one. Whose work is that?” she asked.

Ashton referenced the printouts in his hand. “That would be the work of Larry Christie, twenty-eight, troubled youth, parents knew Connor Aldridge, and he went through his first Aldridge sponsorship program more than a decade ago. It wasn’t even an official program back then; more like Aldridge took a promising artist under his wing, moved him or her into one of his three New York apartments, and worked with them until their work was unique and stood out from the rest.”

“You said he went through his first program more than a decade ago?” Santos asked.

“Yes. Looks like he’s been through three of them in total. All of them before age twenty-two.”

“Why so many?” Ava asked.

“Slept through classes and failed twice?” Metford joked.

“I don’t know, but my information says he was a troubled youth and in trouble a lot. Maybe he went into the programs to keep himself busy and out of trouble,” Ashton replied.

“His parents might have insisted on him going through the programs because of some trouble he’d gotten into,” Dane said. “New York is a bad place for teens and preteens with predispositions for heading down the wrong path. There are wrong paths everywhere in the city. Did Aldridge work with any of the juvenile outreach programs that help troubled kids?”

Ashton flipped through the papers quickly and then shook his head. “Nope. If he did, it’s not listed anywhere in my research.”

“Okay, we’ll put all five of the artists on the ‘need to talk to’ list for now, and mark Larry Christie as the first person on that list who should be interviewed,” Ava said.

The next morning, Ava was in the office extra early to hit the paperwork before the day hit high gear. The plan she’d made to stay on top of it was only as good as her execution of it.

Metford stuck his head in and greeted her as he went toward the bullpen. Ava breathed a sigh of relief, saved her progress on the computer, and closed the files on her desk. The pile that still needed attention held only two folders. She had finished paperwork for four other cases, and her day had not technically started yet.

The phone rang and she answered. She listened intently as the ME gave her information about the current case and the two victims. Pulling up the email on the computer, she was able to go over the autopsy reports for Lucia and Connor in further detail.

The team waited in the bullpen for the morning briefing. “I have news about Connor and Lucia,” she said. “Not good at all.”

“What is it? What happened?” Santos asked.

“It’s their times of death,” Ava said, holding up the printed autopsy reports. “They were both killed within the same two-hour window of time.”

“What?” Metford exclaimed.

“There’s no way,” Dane said.

“That’s what the ME found when he determined times of death. There were a lot of factors to consider, but he hasn’t been wrong yet.”

“Are we looking for multiple killers with the same proficiency with paint?” Ashton asked.

“That’s the way it seems,” Ava said.

“As if this case wasn’t wack-o to start with,” Santos grumbled. “Now we have to find at least two killers for two murders in two states.” Her brow furrowed with concentration.

“How can the two murders be so similar if it’s two different killers?” Metford asked.

“That is a good question,” Ava said. “I’d like to know the answer to it myself. We definitely need to regroup and come up with a different strategy here.”

Dane and Ashton went to work with the geek squad to get more information via the good old internet. Ava wished them luck and then took a seat at Dane’s desk to start brainstorming ideas with Santos and Metford.

“Maybe it’s a team of killers,” Metford suggested. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve heard of something like that.”

“Yeah, but how many of them had nearly identical kills?” Santos asked.

Metford bobbed a shoulder and then shrugged. “It’s the only thing I got. Both scenes would have taken hours to stage, if not a couple of days. Especially the paintings. So, there’s no way it could be the same killer. Two hours isn’t even enough time to drive from the city to here. It has to be a team of killers working together.”

“We just know that there is more than one, and we need to widen the net. It’s likely that Connor’s killer is here, and Lucia’s is in New York,” Ava said.

“Are we getting help to investigate?” Metford asked.

“We can split up, if we need to. The Bureau won’t approve bringing in other agents. Every department is strapped here, and in New York, it’s even worse. For the time, we’re on our own.”

“Sounds about right.” He turned his attention to the folder in front of him.

Dane came through the door in a rush. “I just found out about more deaths.”

The collective groan caused her to hold up her hands. “No, not with this case. It’s not ours this time, but I think they’re related.” She went to the front and hooked up the laptop she’d taken with her earlier and put the information on the screen for everyone to see.

“Four more artists?” Ava asked, astounded.

“Yes, and one of them is well known. Carlotta Love. She signs her work Lotta Love. She has a whole brand; a whole line of work that is especially popular with teenage girls. Sylvester Stratford, Gabby Sloan, and Lila Briggs are the other victims. All artists. With the exception of Carlotta, they were all making their way through one of Connor Aldridge’s sponsorship programs at the time of their deaths.”

“Wait a minute,” Metford said. “That says they were all found in a room of an abandoned warehouse in New York.”

“That’s right.”

“They were all killed together?” Santos asked.

“Right again. Killed at the same time, and it’s gruesome. One girl was murdered with a chainsaw, according to Detective Reinhold’s report.”

“That’s six people linked to those programs who are now dead,” Santos said, looking to Ava.

“Five artists and the founder of the programs,” Ava said. “Five people tied to Connor Aldridge, and all six with deep ties to New York City.”

“This makes zero sense,” Metford said.

“And that’s about how many clues we have to work with, too,” Santos said.

“Was there a painting at the site? Like with our two?” Ava asked.

“None mentioned in the report. Not unless you count fingerpainting with the blood.”

“Okay, so that means those deaths are related to ours only because of Connor Aldridge and his programs,” she stated matter-of-factly. That wasn’t much of a relief, though. Not considering there were four more dead young artists.

“What’s really going on in the Aldridge programs?” Metford asked. “Is someone retaliating because of some illegal deal that went sideways, you think?”

Ava took out her phone. “I don’t know what to think. All I know is that Lucia told us and her parents what she thought was really going on. Who knows? Maybe she was right.”

She stood and walked to the opposite end of the room and out to her office while dialing Detective Reinhold’s cell number.

He answered, sounding distracted and uninterested. “Reinhold.”

“Detective, it’s Special Agent Ava James from the—”

“FBI. Sure, I remember you. Besides, your name came up on the screen. I just checked. I never look at it before I answer. How can I help you? Something go wrong with that Martinez case in the city?”

“No. Well, I don’t know. As of right now, we have it under control. I was calling because Agent Dane just told me about the four dead artists.”

“Yeah, we finished with the scene about an hour ago. Been at it since last night. Never seen anything like it before. Chief said it was mandatory for everyone who responded and worked the scene to see the shrink for evals.”

“Do you have a working theory about what happened yet?”

“No. Quite frankly, there wasn’t much to go on except blood and body parts. We know one victim was killed with a chainsaw and another with an axe. The male had burns all over his body except his face, and he was in twelve pieces. Hell, it took all night to separate all the pieces into victims. Are you coming in on the case or something?”

“No, but I need to ask a favor. That case might tie into mine. We found Connor Aldridge murdered on his yacht. I understand that all four of your victims were in his sponsorship programs.”

“So was the Martinez girl.”

“Five artists and the sponsor dead. And two of them are from Fairhaven.”

“It’s looking like a cartel might be involved, unless I miss my initial hunch.”

“What about a drug and human trafficking ring? Ever seen anything like this from one of them?”

“I’ve seen a lot. I’ve seen things I’ll never forget; things that will haunt me forever, but this level of violence perpetrated against four people at the same time? Nah. This looks like a group of people walked into that room with their weapons and went into a blood frenzy. Cartels execute to make examples; as warnings. Whoever did this even took the time to fingerpaint on the walls with the blood. It scares me, Agent James. These killers took pleasure in the killing and the aftermath of it. They spent time in there, wading in a quarter-inch of blood and painted on the walls with it.”

“Shoeprints? Fingerprints?”

“Looks like they were wearing wading boots and thick vinyl gloves like people use to wash dishes. Maybe not the exact gloves, but something similar. We found a piece of one. It’s being analyzed.”

“How could they have traveled to and from the scene without being seen by people or cameras? I’ve been to New York. The cameras are everywhere.”

“The warehouse was out by the water. The whole place has been abandoned for years. There aren’t any cameras out there, and the ones that serve the main road pick up traffic from the surrounding neighborhoods, businesses, employees of the shipping yard beside it, you name it. Hold on a sec.”

“Sure,” Ava said. She could hear Reinhold speaking with another man but not what they were saying.

Reinhold returned “Gotta go, Agent James. What did you need from me?”

“I need pictures of your crime scene.”

“I’ll send them with the caveat that I’m not paying for anybody’s therapy.”

“Deal. Thank you.”

They hung up, and Ava waited for the photos to arrive via email.

After seeing Reinhold’s crime scene photos, it was impossible to think about anything else. He had been right to warn her about them. Even in all the serial killer and trafficking ring cases, she had never seen such a level of violence and disdain for human life. Dead was usually good enough, and in some cases, a statement was being made, or a warning, but nothing at the level of these new killings.

It was unlikely that a cartel had anything to do with the murders. They weren’t known for staging murder scenes that looked like classical paintings of classical literature, or for fingerpainting with the blood of their victims.

But she had seen some things in the past, the recent past, that gave her pause. Sick people streamed beatings, murders, and rapes over the Dark Web. Could that be what happened with Reinhold’s victims? Had their deaths and ensuing mutilations been part of some deranged kill room on the Dark Web? Had people paid money to watch it happen?

Feeling sick to her stomach, she dropped her things in her office and went to Sal’s. She knocked on the door. It was still early, and she might not appreciate what Ava was about to dump in her lap, but if she didn’t get it off her chest, it would drive her crazy the rest of the day. Only Ashton and Dane were in the office. It was early even for them.

The door opened and Sal motioned her inside. “Here early again, Ava?”

“Seems so.” She took a seat.

“Starting to be a pattern with you, isn’t it? Working late, showing up early.”

“Dane and Ashton are here, too,” Ava countered. “And so are you.”

Sal blew out a deep breath. She looked as if she’d aged ten years in the last two. “Yeah, it’s the nature of the beast.”

Ava nodded.

“So, what brings you to my door so early in the morning? I couldn’t help but notice you weren’t carrying offerings of caffeine and sugar.”

“Not this time. I left my own coffee on the counter at home. It’s this case. It’s got me twisted and I wanted to run my theory by you.”

“I heard you got crime scene photos from Reinhold yesterday. Did you really need them?”

Defensively, Ava scoffed and nodded. “Yes. It bears on our cases, I think. I needed to see them; to look them over for anything that ties them with ours.”

“Did you find anything like that?”

Ava looked at her hands, reminded herself to be confident, and looked up again. “They are all artists, and they were all in Connor Aldridge’s programs. Now they’re dead in horrific ways, and so is he. I think that pretty much ties them together on some level.”

“I’m listening.”

“If Aldridge was working with smugglers and traffickers, you know yourself that those kinds of people can be the worst of the worst for revenge killings and for making a statement with each murder, but these deaths? These are far beyond even that. We might not be dealing with just a couple of killers here. If there are two killers, you understand the implications; how bad this could really be. But what if it’s a group? A group of deranged killers working together for a common cause. Who knows where it could lead?”

“True psychopaths rarely work in groups. It’s in their nature to not play well with others. You know that.”

“I do know that, but that doesn’t mean it never happens. If they do work with someone else, it’s usually only one person they can control easily. If not, then it’s someone they can kill off without drawing too much attention to themselves. I’ve read the literature, and nowhere in it does it state that it never happens. Maybe we’re not dealing with true psychopaths here. They could be organized, like a cartel or a trafficking ring. We’ve seen how they all work together.”

“Let’s assume the killers are working together and that all the victims are linked. Why are Lucia and Connor’s murders so different from the one Reinhold is working? If it was the same group killing for the same reason, wouldn’t all the murders be similar?”

Flustered, Ava floundered for a convincing argument, but it was the dissimilarity that had also stymied her.

“Wouldn’t it be more logical to say that two killers were involved in Lucia and Connor’s murders for a single reason, and that the victims in Reinhold’s case were killed by another person or persons for different reasons, and that his case and yours are unrelated?”

“It would if all the victims hadn’t been tied directly to Aldridge through his programs. It would make more sense if he hadn’t become a victim, also, but he did. And his murder scene fit perfectly with Lucia’s. We were working under the assumption that it was Aldridge who probably killed Lucia because she talked to us and told us her theory about the missing and dead artists that she knew about. She even thought there was a trafficking ring working through and with the Aldridges.”

“You remember how your theory about the bicoastal serial killer was rejected, right?”

Ava sat back in her seat with a thump. There it was. Jason Ellis. That was going to be the thing that haunted her all the way to her grave, it seemed. “Of course, I remember. Kinda hard to forget, considering.”

“Then know I’m recommending that you hold off on saying anything publicly about this new theory for that very reason. I remember how passionate you were about the bicoastal serial killer. You knew it in your bones, in your soul, that it was true, but you couldn’t show me or anyone else a thing that made us believe it right along with you.”

“This is the same way, Sal. I feel it in my bones that I’m right. The Aldridges were working with traffickers, and probably big leagues, not just a flunky troupe of criminals from the neighborhood.”

“Again, please keep it to yourself until you’re a hundred-percent sure about it. I just don’t want you going through it again when people don’t believe you. I don’t think you’re in a good enough place to go through the criticism again.”

“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, Sal.” She stood. “I thought you’d understand. Since when does seeking the truth need to take a back seat to what everyone thinks and sees? Why should I always be the one keeping quiet and working harder just so I don’t rock the boat? I listen to everybody’s theories and I never judge them, I never criticize them, and I never ask them to keep theories to themselves to appease everybody else.”

“I do understand. I understand how passionate you get about these cases. That’s why I didn’t tell you to back off completely and just work the murders. I’ve never told you to stop thinking outside the box, and I’ve never told you not to chase a lead wherever it takes you. I’m not worried about you rocking the boat or upsetting anyone, Ava. I like that about you, or I would never have recommended you for advancement. You do the things the rest of us are too burned-out and jaded to do. And that listening that you do? That’s really important for the time when you’ll be sitting here.” She tapped her desk with one finger. “But when you’re in this seat, you have to know what’s best for the agent in front of you, for the case, for the team, and for the department. Right now, I’m saying that keeping quiet about this theory is for the best all around. Others can’t focus on what’s right in front of them if they’re thinking they might be on the wrong track or a lesser track with the case. Do you understand?”

The anger damped from a raging thing threatening to spew to a smoldering pit in her stomach. Part of her knew that Sal was right. She had her point of view and Ava had hers. They wouldn’t always align and that was okay. Having to work yet another theory without telling anyone was not okay. She was tired of her ideas and theories being pushed aside only for her to later prove she was right. But what was she supposed to do? Sal was her boss and she had given a recommendation. If Ava pushed, Sal could and would issue that recommendation as an order.

“I understand,” Ava said. Her throat was tight and her voice shallow. “I’ll keep it to myself until I have more to back up my theory.”

“Thank you. And don’t forget you promised to go to your appointments with Dr. Bran. I need those reports from her to sparkle before the suits push me to put you on leave or tie you down to a desk for weeks.”

“I will and they will. You have my word. Dr. Bran is just one more stress that I don’t need to deal with right now.” She turned the door handle.

“Ava,” Sal said.

She turned. “Yes?”

“I don’t disbelieve your theory.”

“But you don’t really believe it, either.”

“Then prove it to me. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. If anyone can, it’s you.”

Leaving the room, Ava turned right and went back into her office. It was great that Sal showed such confidence in her, but the gag order didn’t make it any easier to work with the team.

Before Ava could get comfortable, Ashton came to the door. “Found Dusty Martin. He’s in Gate City on a farm.”

“A farm or his farm?” Ava stood.

“It seems to belong to a lot of people, but it started out as just his. Inherited it from a family member when he was still a teenager.”

“Did you talk to him or someone else?”

“One of those phone numbers was a hit. Woman answered and said she was his old manager-slash-agent. She said he was at, get this… Barefoot Bliss Collective, a forty-acre farm that doubles as a hippie commune.”

“Is that what she called it? A hippie commune?”

“No, but she recited their mission statement, I guess it is: Where shoes are optional and kindness is mandatory. Where ancient oaks whisper secrets, and the kitchen serves lentil soup made with love, and the moon hums lullabies. Let your hopes and dreams take root alongside the wildflowers and join us at Barefoot Bliss.”

Ava laughed. “Are you kidding me?”

Ashton shook his head. “Afraid not.”

“I’ll get Metford and we’ll fly out to speak with Mr. Martin.”

Metford laughed when he heard the mission statement. Ava was sure she had messed it up, but he got the idea nonetheless.

“Sounds like they might be eating too many ’shrooms out there.”

“Yeah, well, don’t drink the tea.”

He laughed again. “Nice. That was kind of dark but good. At least your sense of humor is still intact.”

“I’m a firm believer in ‘each to his own.’ I just can’t say I completely agree with the whole pacifism thing.”

“If you did, you’d likely have been a nun instead of a lead agent in the FBI. You think Dusty is really one of the peace-loving pacifists?”

“I don’t know. Could be a cover. Lots of killers have a cover-life that is on the opposite end of the spectrum from their true nature. And he’s had tons of jobs and contact numbers over the last few years.”

“Almost like he’s trying to hide, bury his real info, or on the run from something.”

“That’s my initial thought. Guess we’ll know soon enough.”

They reached the airport in DC. The flight to Bristol, Virginia would take about three hours.

“I guess this beats driving for six or seven hours,” Metford said, taking his seat in front of Ava.

“The plane’s not crowded. That’s a plus.”

“Too bad we couldn’t just use one of the Bureau’s jets.” He struggled to get comfortable in the seat.

“They wouldn’t even approve hang-gliders for us to go talk to a suspect. Not with the evidence we have.”

“Hang-gliders would have been way more fun.”

“And wouldn’t have gotten us that far, either.”

“With the right pilot, they could. Ever been?”

“Absolutely not. And I don’t plan on it. Unprotected, thousands of feet above the ground, and all it takes to take you down is a stray bird or a gust of wind in the wrong direction.”

“So, you prefer not to be able to see the ground rushing up at you when you fall from the sky.”

A woman turned from across the aisle, her eyes wide and frightened. “What? What did you say about falling from the sky? Was that a threat?” She stood and waved her hand in the air at the attendant up front. “Miss, he threatened the flight!” she yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Metford.

“No, ma’am, I didn’t threaten anything.”

The woman sidled down the aisle, frightened eyes never leaving Metford. The attendant called for security.

“Great going,” Ava muttered, standing and pulling out her badge. “We’re FBI. He did not threaten anything, people. We were talking about a case. Just relax.”

Metford stood and showed his badge. Several people gasped and ducked when he reached for it.

Security ran onto the plane and started trying to get everyone off while moving in on Metford. “Hands up, sir!” the leader yelled. “Let me see your hands!” he screamed.

Metford held up his hands, showing his badge as he explained the situation. “Now, you wanna take it down a notch and put away the gun before you find yourself in a load of trouble?” Metford asked, visibly angry.

Security checked Metford and Ava’s story, but the flight had been delayed by an hour by the time they were cleared again.

Three hours later, they deboarded in Bristol. “Can’t take you anywhere,” Ava said as they walked toward the rental car.

Metford laughed. “That was crazy, huh?”

“It’s not funny, Metford. You nearly got us tossed off the plane.”

“He had a gun pointed at me. What was I supposed to do, just roll over and let him keep pointing it at me?”

“You were too aggressive. All you had to do was explain the situation calmly.”

“Not easy to do when some idiot has a gun aimed at your head.” He laughed again as he tossed his bag into the backseat of the rental. “But it was funny.”

“And you said my sense of humor was dark. Here.” She tossed the keys at him. “Since you’re so full of energy, you can drive us to Barefoot Bliss Collective. You should come with a warning label.”

Enjoying the moment too much, he rattled off several warning label suggestions, each cornier than the last. It made the drive seem shorter than the GPS estimate of forty minutes. It took another twenty-five minutes of driving the twisting two-lane that led to Barefoot Bliss Collective.

“There’s no mistaking what the place is,” Metford said as they crested a hill and looked over Barefoot to the left.

The barn’s roof had been painted with psychedelic swirls of colors, some of which sparkled like glitter under the sunlight. The bus parked near the main house must have had the same artist for its paint job. Tents and teepees dotted the land in front of the big barn, and shacks made of reclaimed materials outlined the expanse of fields.

“How many people live there?” Ava wondered aloud.

“If they’re here, they’re not out being violent criminals,” he said. “However many it is, it’s that many we don’t have to worry about.” He turned and drove between the long row of oaks and elms.

It was a stately way to arrive at the un-stately destination. The farmhouse was large enough for two families, its walls blazed white in the bright sun, and only the peace sign had been painted on it. The rest remained untouched.

Ava got out and they walked toward the open barn. The first outbuilding they passed held all the trappings of a tie-dye shirt factory. The second seemed to house the raw materials for soap making or candle making, she wasn’t sure which.

A man with long, messy brown hair stepped out of the barn wiping his hands on a strip of flannel surely reclaimed from a worn-out shirt. His smile was fast and he was handsome in his blue jeans, boots, and sleeveless Creedence Clearwater Revival T-shirt.

“Hiya,” he said, sticking a paintbrush in his back pocket and the flannel strip in the other. He stuck out his hand. “Welcome to Barefoot Bliss. Are you looking for information about joining the collective or just curious?”

“Dusty Martin?” Ava asked, retrieving her badge.

“That’s me, but how do you—” He stopped suddenly as his gaze fell on the badge. He whistled low. “FBI? Hey, now the community isn’t breaking any laws. This is—”

“We’re not here about the…” Metford waved his hand toward the tents and shacks. “…collective. We’re here to talk to you, Mr. Martin.”

“Okay.” The high, ruddy color fell from his face. “What’s this about?”

“We’re investigating a homicide,” Ava said. “Is there somewhere we can speak in private?” She glanced toward a group of people walking by in tie-dye.

He nodded and motioned for them to follow him into the barn. “We’re not secretive around here, but I understand if you don’t want others hearing about an ongoing investigation. This is where I work.” He pointed to one side of the barn that had been semi-sectioned off from the other.

“This works,” Ava said. She pulled up a picture of the monkeys on her phone. “Do you recognize these sculptures?”

“Yeah, you got a picture of the signature on the bottoms of them. They’re mine. Why do you have a picture of them?”

“Because they were found at a staged murder scene in New York.”

Martin took a step back, his mouth opening as if he were about to say something, but instead, he blinked several times rapidly.

“Mr. Martin, do you know a Lucia Garcia Martinez?” Metford asked, while the man was still stunned.

“Lucia who?” Confusion twisted his features and he looked back at the photo on Ava’s phone.

“Lucia Garcia Martinez,” Metford repeated more slowly.

“No. Should I know her?”

“We just want to know.”

Ava pulled up a photo of Lucia and showed it to Martin. “That’s Lucia. Bright, talented, lives in New York not far from where you have a place.”

“I don’t know her, and I have a lot of places. I’ve been here for ten days. I was in New York before that for about a month, but I never stay anywhere very long.”

Ava put the phone away. “Yeah, we’ve noticed that, Mr. Martin. And you never keep one job very long, one phone number very long. It’s almost like you’re trying to not be easy to locate.”

“Why do you move around so much, Mr. Martin?” Metford asked.

“And how, exactly, can you afford to?” Ava asked. “I’m not insulting your work, but an artist? Really? And you have enough money to afford all these different places to live and to travel between them constantly.”

“The gas money alone must be almost enough to bankrupt you,” Metford said.

They threw questions and observations at him rapid-fire for nearly five minutes, not giving him time to think how to formulate an answer.

“Now, why is it that you’re trying to be difficult to locate?” Ava asked.

“I’m not. I don’t know why you’re asking me all this. I had nothing to do with any murder. You really think I’d sign a murder scene with big clunky sculptures like that? You see that a lot in your line of work?”

He was upset. That was good. Upset people tended to make mistakes, reveal their guilt.

“Did you kill Lucia Garcia Martinez and then beat it out of New York down here to Hippie Town, Virginia?” Metford asked.

“It’s a collective. You know, a collective of like-minded people who actually give a shit about the planet, future generations, and even what they put into their own bodies. Look around, this is healthier than any city life, and you know it just as well as we do.”

Metford scoffed. “Looks to me like a place to trip on ’shrooms and float around on a cloud of Mary Jane smoke. I only see one actual house on the property, and how many people live here? In those shanty shacks made of junk?”

Ava shot him a look. He was going a little overboard with the aggression, and she had dealt with enough fallout from that to last a while.

“Whatever, man. We aren’t hurting anyone, and we’re making the world a better place, healing the Earth a little at a time.”

The smell of warm bread wafted to Ava’s nose and her belly grumbled. She sniffed the fragrant aroma. “Is that—”

“Blueberry-lemon cake and homemade bread—all made from scratch. We bake desserts and fresh bread twice a week on the other side of the barn. And don’t worry, it’s been converted and it’s up to code. Come back tomorrow and we’ll show you how to make your own soap, shampoo, body wash, and if we have time, some healing balms.”

Metford chuckled dryly. “You have a medicine man giving out snake oil remedies? Or, is it balm for the weary soul and mind?”

“No, it’s balms for bee stings, insect bites, poison ivy, burns, cuts, and headaches. We make most of our own stuff right here with the things we grow on the farm. I don’t know why you’re so down on our way of life.”

“It’s fine,” Ava said, stepping between Metford and Martin. “You’re telling us that you did make the monkey sculptures, right? You admit to being the creator?”

“Yes.” Martin went to a bookshelf behind a desk in the corner and took out a large photo album. “These are pictures of my works. I take pics of everything I make in case I ever want to make it again in the future.” He flipped to a page about a quarter of the way through the album. “There they are.”

Ava looked at the photo. The date on it was five years earlier. “How did they end up in New York at a murder scene?”

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, they sold at a convention there not long after I finished them. I have nothing to hide at all. You can search anything of mine that you want to search. I sold those to a guy whose grandmother was in a nursing home. He said she used to have a small set on her mantel at home, and he thought these might bring back some memories and maybe help with her Alzheimer’s a little. At the very least, he said they would bring a smile to her face.”

“That’s a lot of detail to remember about a customer from five years ago,” Metford pointed out. “You remember all your customers so vividly?”

“Nope. But that guy stuck out because he told me half his life story and all about his grandmother who was his hero. He was heartbroken that she was a shell of her former self, and he was desperate to bring back even the slightest gleam of the way she used to be. Hell, I’m sure she’s passed away already, and those sculptures have probably been sold at fifty junk sales by now. They’re not exactly the kind of things you leave to someone in your will.”

“All right, Mr. Martin,” Ava said. “Thank you for talking with us. And good luck with…” She motioned to the other side of the barn.

“You want to try some of the cake? It’s the best you’ll ever taste. I promise.” He smiled and his eyes glistened with excitement.

Was it the possibility of changing their minds about his lifestyle? Did he think there was a possibility of converting one or both of them?

Her belly rumbled loudly.

“Don’t drink the tea,” Metford reminded her.

“It’s not tea,” she said. “It’s cake.”

“We have herbal tea, if you want something to drink. Sorry, but it’s just that or water.”

“No, but I don’t think I can turn down a taste test of that cake,” Ava said.

“Awesome. Follow me.” Martin lit up like a kid on Christmas morning as he showed them into the kitchen area and introduced them around to the workers.

Ava left with a whole loaf of bread and half a blueberry-lemon cake. She grinned as she got into the passenger seat.

“You’re so proud of yourself,” Metford said grumpily.

“Hey, you can’t beat this. The cake is delicious, and this bread, don’t even get me started how good it is. We accused him of murder, and he gave us gifts of sustenance and good tiding,” she said, laughing.

“That sounds so bad coming out of your mouth. Please don’t start talking like them or I’ll ask to be moved out of the department.” He laughed with Ava.

“There was nothing tying him to the crime, Metford. No evidence of any wrongdoing there at all that I saw, so you can stop being little Debbie Downer about him and the commune or collective, whatever they call themselves. They seem pretty harmless, just like you said.”

“It’s not them or him. It’s the lifestyle that irks me. And I don’t want to talk about it. As for the case, we’re batting zeros here. Connor didn’t kill Lucia, and after checking Dusty’s timeline, he wasn’t in New York when she was killed, so it wasn’t him. Snake eyes again.”

“We’ll figure it out. I’m frustrated, too, but it’s nothing new. Let’s just get back home and regroup with the others.”

“You going to take that to the office to share with everyone?”

“I don’t think it’s going to last that long, do you?”

He grinned. “It does smell good, and I’m hungry. I never eat right when I’m working with you.”

She tore off a chunk of cake and handed it to him. It was going to be okay. They would solve the case. They would find Lucia’s killer. But there was no need to deny themselves the basics of life in the process. Especially not when those basics were in the car and smelled so divine.

The next morning, Ava’s first call was from the medical examiner’s office.

“There was hair and blood from the Lucia Martinez murder that came back as belonging to Connor Aldridge,” he said.

“Are you sure? Because Aldridge is dead. He was murdered in Fairhaven within two hours of Lucia’s murder in New York City, and it’s been confirmed that he was here a few days before she was killed, too.”

“Hey, I’m just telling you what the test results show. I can’t conjecture as to how or why Aldridge’s blood and hair were at the Martinez murder site, but they were.”

“They weren’t pulled from that painting with his signature, were they?”

“Let me… Nope. The hair was pulled from the lace over top of the body, and the blood was under her right middle fingernail and on the floor beside her hand.”

“That’s just not possible,” Ava said, confounded.

“Sorry to say that it is, Agent. Soon as I have anything else, I’ll give you another call. I’m sending this report to you as we speak.”

“Thank you.”

She dialed the Fairhaven ME. He answered on the first ring sounding angry.

“Connor Aldridge…” His voice trailed off, and the rustling of papers, clacking of a keyboard, and a string of half-whispered curses filled the air on the other end of the line. “Okay. Got it all together. What did you need to know about him?”

“Did he have any scratch marks on his body? Anything that could have been made by a fingernail?”

He harrumphed. “No. He had plenty of abrasions from the ropes and straps, but nothing that was made by a fingernail. I could have told you that off top of my head.”

“What about any trace evidence on the leather?”

“Everything belonged to Mr. Aldridge.”

“Has the time of death changed since your initial examination?”

“No. Time of death remains the same.”

Ava thanked him and hung up. It was impossible that Aldridge had killed Lucia unless someone had mistaken one of the times of death. Either Lucia had died much, much earlier than estimated, or Connor had died much, much later. And there was no way that two different medical examiners could have made such mistakes after multiple tests.

Both examiners sent the reports to her computer, and she printed them out to take to the bullpen. The team wouldn’t be happy about the turn in the case.

They brainstormed for over an hour to figure out how Aldridge’s hair and blood ended up where it had, and the only plausible explanation was that it had been planted by the true killer.

Ava called the Fairhaven ME again to ask if he had found any puncture marks on the body where someone might have drawn blood and he had not found any such marks.

“Though, if someone wanted blood, they could have collected traces from the abrasions on his wrists or the back of his legs. They were deep enough to bleed, but not much.”

“Enough to transport, put under someone’s fingernail, and leave a drop on the floor big enough to be collected?”

“That depends on how patient the killer was and how determined he was to get the blood. Are you talking about the case you’re working in New York? The one with the Martinez girl?”

“Yes. She had Aldridge’s blood under a fingernail, and his hair was found on the lace shroud covering her body.”

“But I thought they died within two hours of each other. How would the killer have collected Mr. Aldridge’s hair and blood at his murder scene and then transported it all the way back to New York in time for it to be planted like that?”

“You’re right. That got by me. Thank you.”

“Agent?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe step back and take a break from the case for a few hours. Hell, maybe even a day or two. Sounds like you’re too focused on it and important things are starting to get a little blurry.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine. Have a good day.”

“As good as it gets when your only company all day is dead bodies. Ta-ta.” He hung up.

Before she got back to the team, her phone rang. Thinking it was the ME, who perhaps forgot to tell her something, she answered without checking the caller ID. “Did you figure out dead bodies are good company, after all?” She chuckled.

“Uhm… no. And if I ever decide that, it’s time to check me into a padded cell and throw away the key,” Detective Reinhold said.

Her cheeks burned as she put a hand over her mouth. So much for getting a step ahead of Fairhaven’s curmudgeonly medical examiner. “Detective, sorry about that. I thought you were someone else.”

“I never would have guessed. And don’t tell me who you thought I was; I don’t think I want to know.”

“The medical examiner. I was just on the phone with him—”

“It’s totally your business, Agent James. I was calling to update you on those four artists we found here.”

All the humor and light embarrassment dissipated. “What update?”

“My guys found something I think will interest you greatly. Some of the blood found on a knife belonged to one of your residents: Connor Aldridge.”

“What?” Ava asked indignantly. “That’s impossible, Detective. Aldridge is dead. He was in Fairhaven for days before he was murdered here. He was here when those artists were killed. This is crazy.”

“Whoa,” he exclaimed. “Don’t kill the messenger. I’m just telling you what was found. I didn’t say it was possible that he was involved; just that his blood was definitely there.”

She told him what she had learned about Aldridge’s blood and hair being at Lucia’s murder scene.

After a half-hour of back-and-forth about the possibilities, they concluded unanimously that someone planted the evidence at both scenes, and the person who collected the hair and blood must have done it well ahead of schedule.

“That’s a lot of planning,” Ava said.

“And?”

“And, it just seems like a lot of planning for a killer, or in this case, perhaps killers. Plural. I don’t think one person pulled this off. Not with Aldridge and Martinez being killed within two hours of each other.”

“Yeah, me neither. But that’s the only way it could have gone down. Someone collected the necessary trace evidence from him without him knowing, and then the killers split it so they could plant it.”

“How would they have gotten the blood without his knowledge?”

“That, Agent, is the sixty-four-million-dollar question. It was in liquid form when it was put on the knife. That’s all I know.”

“If it was liquid, it must have been more than what could have been collected from just a scratch. Maybe someone drew blood…a doctor. Or someone planning all this when he was last drunk and passed out.”

Reinhold scoffed. “Agent James, it is going to be hard as hell to figure out who that could have been. Have you noticed that Aldridge is kind of famous and he is surrounded by people all the time?”

“Not here in Fairhaven. He’s got celebrity status, but people leave him alone for the most part. Before he was famous, he was just another local.”

“You have a point, but how are you going to find out who was around him every day for the last several days while he was there and before he was killed?”

“Robert Tamblin. Head of the Aldridge house staff. He’s the only one who was there, I think.”

“When you’re done there, you could join me in another down and dirty forensic sweep of Lucia’s murder scene; see what we can find.”

“Since all these cases seemed to be linked somehow, I’ll join you if you will take me to the warehouse where the artists were found.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” he teased. “But I think I can handle that request.”

“And we share information without all the bureaucracy and red tape?”

“I don’t know about that. I’m sure you’ve noticed how much I love that red tape and all the halting progress in a case.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll be up there in the morning with Special Agent Metford.”

“Call when you get here and I’ll meet you at the Cocaine Castle.”

Ava hung up and smiled. Reinhold was one of the good ones. She had supposed they still existed but had started to think they were going extinct.

“What are you smiling about?” Metford asked, walking into the hallway from the bullpen.

She dropped the smile and cleared her throat as she slid the phone back into her pocket. “Nothing. I just got off the phone with Detective Reinhold. We’re going back to the city in the morning. Lucia’s wasn’t the only murder Aldridge’s DNA was found at.”

“Where else was it found?”

“Those four artists that Dane told us about? His blood was on one of the knives recovered from the scene. And we know he was in Fairhaven when they were killed.”

“And so the plot thickens,” Sal said from behind them.

Ava told her the plan to go back to the city the next day. “But today, we need to go to Lucia’s house here in Fairhaven to see what we can turn up because talking to her family did nothing. They thought Aldridge had something to do with it, but now we know that’s not true.”

“Somebody wanted it to look like he was a stone-cold serial killer.” She held up a folder. “I just got the reports.”

“I’m going to talk to Robert Tamblin again and find out who was at the Fairhaven estate over the last week. Maybe someone got Aldridge drunk enough to pass out and then drew blood. That or a doctor somewhere is in on the killings.”

Sal blew out a sigh and put a hand on her hip. “Let’s hope not, but follow the evidence.” She raised the folder and then let it fall to her side again. “No matter where it leads.” She turned and went back into her office.

Ava and Metford went into the bullpen. She updated the team.

“I want to go back to the city with you,” Santos said.

“It’s not a field trip,” Metford said.

“And I’m not a teenager; unlike you.” She turned to Ava. “I wanted to work on finding out who that homeless man saw that he said was Jesus.”

“You mean the drunk in the alley?” Metford asked.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Do you even know for sure he saw a man?” Ava asked. “You even said he was extremely drunk. Maybe even on drugs. He might have hallucinated the whole thing.”

“No. I don’t think so. What else do we have to go on right now, anyway? The traditional depictions of Jesus show him with brown eyes and hair, not blue eyes. I think the old dude saw someone made of flesh and blood. And when that kid, Drake Munroe, went in the first floor, maybe the blue-eyed man was heading out, panicked, didn’t want to be seen, and he went out the window on the second floor. If he did, someone else might have seen him.”

“The old man did tell you which way Jesus went when he left,” Ava noted.

“He did,” Santos replied with a hopeful tone. “Come on, it’s the only solid lead we’ve got.”

“You’re right,” Ava agreed. “The only other people conclusively linked to the scene are Drake Munroe, who I don’t think could kill anything bigger than a gnat, and Dusty Martin.”

“He could bore someone to death with all that ‘linked to Earth’ and ‘we don’t put that poison food from the stores in our body’ talk,” Metford said.

“I didn’t hear you complaining when you were scarfing down that blueberry-lemon cake.”

“Hey, I’m glad somebody wants to make things like that from scratch, but me? I’ll just continue buying the poison from the stores, I guess.”

“And the fast-food restaurants,” Ava added. “All right, Santos. You’re going with us. We’ll be leaving in the morning. I’ll get us on the earliest flight possible. I’ll let you know what time to meet us.”

“Great. I’ll be ready.”

“Dane, what are you working on tomorrow?” Ava asked.

“I’m working on Aldridge’s death. I thought I would canvass the area around his yacht again. I’ll see if I can find out who was there over the last few days, go talk with them, and find out if anyone saw or heard anything suspicious.”

“Take Ashton, if you think you’ll need him.”

“I was going to stay here and run the blue-eyed Jesus description through the databases to see if there are any hits,” Ashton said.

“I don’t think Jesus will be in the system, buddy,” Metford said.

“The description,” Ashton said as if speaking to a child. “His build, hair color, and other attributes, but mostly the bright blue eyes. If something about a prisoner stands out, it’s noted.”

“And that’s something the old man was adamant about—the man’s bright blue eyes. Not just blue, but bright blue,” Santos said. She put two traditional pictures of Jesus on Ashton’s desk. “These are for reference about build, skin tone, hair color and length.”

“It sounds like you’ve all got your jobs cut out for you,” Ava said. “I appreciate the diligence, and I’m sure our victims do, too.”

Her team had grown in many ways, and the pride was difficult to suppress. She felt like a mother who just watched her child walk across the stage and receive a degree. And they were her team. No matter what they thought or what anyone else thought, they were hers. She couldn’t imagine working with another team, and she was honored to be in a position to watch their growth.

“When are we going to Lucia’s house?” Metford asked, interrupting her moment of reflection.

“Right now, if you’re ready.”

“I’m always ready.”

Lucia’s house was small but tidy both inside and out. The yard was so small, it was almost non-existent. But being able to own a home in the current market was a testament to her dedication to building her life right.

“You notice how all these artists seem to be doing so well for themselves?” Metford asked as they walked to the front door.

“And they told us in school that art wouldn’t pay the bills.” Ava unlocked the door and went inside.

“I think someone had the wrong information.”

“Look how neat and clean everything is. I was under the impression that artists were messy and disorganized.”

“Have yet to see that with any of the artists we’ve encountered lately. Maybe that’s the difference—artists who are organized and have a strong work ethic?”

“I don’t know, but it has changed my opinions about artists.”

“Okay, the place is small, but everything seems to be in place,” Metford said. “You hit the kitchen, I’ll take the bedroom and bathroom.” He pointed to the room just off the side of the living room.

Ava walked into the kitchen. “Grab any electronics you find. We’ll take them back to Ashton.”

“Got it. I found a journal with a bunch of pages torn out.”

“Bag it.”

“Done.”

A kitchen knife lay in the drainer. Only that. There were no dirty dishes at all. Just that one, clean knife in the drainer. The magnetic rod over the stove held all the other knives in the set and they were arranged in ascending order from smallest to largest. Why would Lucia leave only that one lying in the drainer?

Metford walked in and set the evidence bag on the small, round table with a tablet and charger. “That’s all I found in those rooms. She was on birth control pills and had a ton of headache medication in the medicine cabinet. She must have suffered with them a lot to have all those bottles of aspirin, acetaminophen, and ibuprofen. There are some Goody’s Hangover powders in there, too. So, maybe she liked to drink a little too much sometimes.”

“And sometimes just a glass with dinner will give people a headache the next morning.”

He looked doubtful but shrugged. “Why are you just staring at that knife?” He walked over and reached for it.

Ava grabbed his arm. “No, don’t touch it.”

He looked at her and then back at the knife. “Why not? I have on gloves.” He wiggled his fingers.

“Just don’t. I think we should use Luminol. Something isn’t right here. Look how organized all this is. Everything is in place except the knife. There are no dirty dishes, but there’s also no hand towel or wash cloth anywhere. The trash is empty, and that’s a clean bag.” She opened a cabinet over the counter. “Every glass is in place, except a wine glass, which I can’t seem to locate.”

“Okay, so she did the dishes, dried them, put them away, put the towel and cloth in the wash, changed the trash, and then left for New York. Makes sense to me.” He stopped and held up a finger toward the bedroom. “There was a man’s shirt hanging in the closet. I thought she lived alone.”

“She did. I asked her parents to be sure. Bag the shirt and take the evidence to the car. When you come back, bring in the Luminol kit.”

“For the knife?”

“For the whole kitchen. I’m telling you, it’s not right.” She opened the kitchen door.

“Where are you going?”

“To check the trash. Maybe the glass and the towel are in it.”

“Have fun dumpster diving.” He hurried in the other direction.

Not finding a broken glass or the kitchen towels, she stepped back inside. Metford handed her the Luminol kit.

“Maybe this will ease your mind. Lucia was killed in New York.”

“Don’t you ever have a gut feeling about anything?”

“Yeah. I always have an empty feeling right in the pit of my stomach when we work together, but I kinda thought that was because you live mostly on air and different ways to twist a case on its head.”

“Shut up and close the curtains, would you?”

He did.

She sprayed the floor in front of the sink and stove, but nothing lit up. She sprayed the cabinet doors under the sink. Nothing.

“See? I told you, you’re making too much of a lone knife lying in a drainer.”

“It’s not just the knife, Metford.” She sprayed the knife.

Light blue illumination marked a spot where the handle and the blade met.

“I told you.” She picked the knife up and dropped it into an evidence bag.

“Maybe she cut her finger when she was chopping vegetables. That blood could have been there for years.”

“Years? Are you listening to yourself? Everything in this place screams meticulous, stringent, organized—”

“OCD,” he interjected.

“Exactly. If Lucia had washed this knife, there would likely not be any blood on it to find. I would almost bet it’s her blood on here.”

“Would you like to place a wager on how it got there? I say she cut her finger, and the autopsy report might even show that she had a cut on her finger. It proves nothing. There is no other blood to be found anywhere in the kitchen.”

“You’re right. You are absolutely right. Let’s check the other rooms. Just to be sure. You’re a genius, Metford.” She stepped around him and went to the bedroom first.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Of course. I’d never say you were a genius otherwise.”

“That stung. I meant are you joking about spraying the rest of the rooms.”

“Oh, yeah. See? That’s what I just did.”

He huffed. “This is a waste of time. Let’s just get this stuff back to the office. Maybe Ashton can pull something useful from the tablet or that journal.”

She stood straight, anger building in her chest. “No. I’m still lead, and I am not finished checking this house. You’ll know when I’m done because I’ll say so. Until then, go search outside for any evidence.”

“What was that about?”

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of all my theories being shot down, my suspicions and gut feelings being laughed out of the investigation. Maybe I’m damn sick of all the doubt you and everyone else throws at me on the daily when, in the end, how many times have I proven myself right?”

“I’m not shooting down all your theories or laughing at anything you—”

“I thought you had my back, Metford. I thought you were supposed to be there for me when no one else was.” She turned her back and sprayed the Luminol on the side of the bed covers.

“I am here for you, Ava. I’m sorry if it seemed like I wasn’t. I’ve always got your back. You should know that by now.”

“It doesn’t seem like you do.”

“It’s not you against the world, you know.”

“Yeah, I’m not playing the victim card here. I am no victim. I just like to know who I can count on.”

“Me. You can count on me. I’ll stop giving you a hard time about the Luminol. It’s good that you’re willing to go the extra mile. I know it’s because you want to give the victim every chance to have justice in these cases, but you get too close. It’s not healthy. It will eat away at your soul if you keep doing it.”

As she brushed past him to go into the bathroom, she said, “At least I still have a soul for it to eat away at.”

She finished checking the house with the Luminol in silence. Metford didn’t try to talk to her after that, but she didn’t give him much of a reason. Feeling like an ass for saying those things to him did not change that it was really how she felt inside.

“Come on,” she said after putting away the kit. “Let’s get this stuff back.”

The ride was quiet and a little uncomfortable, but it gave Ava time to think on her own. She suspected that had she voiced her thoughts, Metford would have answered only with head movements and the occasional grunt. She had hurt his feelings and probably made him angry, but if she backed out of what she had said, it would continue to happen.

She couldn’t help but wonder if Lucia had been killed in Fairhaven. That would be a twist none of the others had seen coming. If someone had killed her in Fairhaven, someone hauled her corpse all the way to New York just to stage the scene the way it was found. Unlikely, but not impossible. She had seen stranger things over the last few years.

After turning in all the evidence, Ava saw that it was only a little past one. “There’s a plane leaving at four. I can get three seats. Do you two want to go on up to the city this evening?”

Metford nodded and kept his gaze on Santos. “I’m okay with it, if you are. My go-bag is always ready.”

“The wife and kids won’t miss you?” Santos asked. She wrinkled her nose and patted his shoulder. “Oh, yeah, you’re single just like the rest of us. Sorry. I forgot.” She grinned and punched his shoulder. “My go-bag is under my desk.” She pointed it out for Ava.

“All right, let’s head out in thirty minutes. I’m going to update Sal.”

Ava told Sal what was going on, and, in the middle of their chat, Ava’s phone rang. It was forensics.

“Did they find anything of use?” Sal asked after Ava hung up.

“You could say that. The men’s shirt we took from Lucia’s house had Connor Aldridge’s DNA all over it. They said that amount could’ve only gotten there if he had worn it.”

“That was fast. How can they be certain? It’s only been an hour.”

“I told them to make that top priority, but there was blood and hair on the shirt, too. They matched that with the samples that we already know belong to him. They’re working on the journal now, and Ashton is working with the tablet. I still don’t know who would have known she talked to us, though.”

Sal considered it. “If she was seeing Aldridge, maybe she told him.”

“Seeing him? No. She wasn’t seeing him. She despised him.”

“His shirt being there says otherwise.”

“It’s a plant, just like the blood and hair.”

“What about the blood on the knife?”

“It’s the same type as Lucia’s, but they will run a DNA test to make sure it’s hers. We’re heading up to the city in…” She checked her watch. “…ten minutes. I got seats on the four o’clock flight. We need to check her places there and go over the crime scene again. There has to be some evidence, not just what was planted. Unless he was a ghost, the killer had to leave something behind.”

“Go on and catch your flight. Just remember, Ava, Santos and Metford aren’t you. They are determined, but they don’t have the stamina that you have. Don’t burn them out, eh?”

“I don’t plan on it. And Santos asked to go.”

“Keep me updated.”

As promised, Ava called Reinhold as soon as they arrived in the city. She gave him the rundown on what she had learned since speaking with him last time and they agreed to meet at Lucia’s apartment first.

The apartment was like the house—small, tidy, organized. With the exception of her bedroom being turned into an art studio, Lucia had been every bit as precise with her belongings in New York as she had been in Fairhaven.

A green and yellow uniform for Muy Caliente was on a hanger in the bathroom.

“She had planned on reporting to her work,” Ava said.

“Just proves you never know which day is your last,” Metford said, walking out of the small room.

“It’s the small things like that that always get to me,” Santos said. “The dead bodies, the shootouts, chasing criminals wherever they run, that stuff doesn’t much get to me, but that gets to me.” She nodded to the uniform.

“Let’s use the Luminol,” Ava said.

“Good idea,” Reinhold agreed. “I’ll get the kit. Be right back.”

After Reinhold left the apartment, Metford shook his head.

“What?” Ava snapped.

He looked sideways at her and pointed quickly toward the door. “At least he’ll stay in your good graces. Smart man. Does he have an opinion of his own or does he just follow whatever anyone else throws out to him?”

Santos walked quickly into the kitchen.

“If you don’t want to be here, tough. We’re here, and as long as we are, you are going to do your part for this investigation. If you don’t like how I’m handling it, take it up with Sal. I’m going to do exactly what I think should be done because we have nothing to go on here. Unless you know something and just haven’t shared with the rest of us.”

“No, all I have are my own opinions, which this time seem to be warranted,” he snarked.

Santos returned. “Hey, stop it, you two. I don’t know what’s going on, and quite frankly, I don’t want to know.”

Metford blurted what Ava had told him in Fairhaven.

“So you got your feelings hurt. So what? It’s a mean old world, Mettie, and sometimes, people don’t agree with you. And sometimes, you go overboard with your whole macho attitude and make people mad. Get over it. Ava’s lead. Means she’s boss. You’re lucky I’m not.”

“What is this, the women ganging up on the man? Women sticking together to the end? If she had said that to you, you’d be pissed, and don’t try to deny it.”

“You think she’s never put me in my place? You think I never got my feelings hurt?” Santos leaned forward. “Newsflash, Mettie, that’s her job. And she’s been right every time she said something I didn’t want to hear. Put those big ole man feelings in your pocket where they belong because they don’t belong on the job.”

“All right, that’s enough. Both of you,” Ava said. The fire and bite had gone from her. With the revelations by Santos, she was left stunned. Had she been right every time? How often had she put Santos in her place? Was it a habit? Was she too self-absorbed to notice she was being a tyrant?

The door flew open, and Metford spun with his hand going to his gun. “Jeez, Reinhold,” he exclaimed. “Little warning next time.”

Chuckling, he pushed the door shut and held out the kit. “Jumpy, Agent?”

Metford grabbed the kit and exhaled. He extended it to Ava, but when she reached for it, he pulled it back. “I’ll do it, if you want. You can go check the rest of the place.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but let her hand drop slowly.

“I’ll help Metford,” Santos offered, motioning for him to follow her. “Let’s do the bathroom first since it’s the farthest room.”

“You thinking she might have been killed here?” Reinhold asked.

“Just checking off those boxes.”

“You sure like those boxes of yours, don’t you?”

“My way of forcing order onto a disordered world, I suppose.” She headed to a room they hadn’t checked yet.

It was used for storage, and Lucia had stored a plethora of items for her artwork. Many of her paintings sat leaned against the far wall. Each row had a minimum of six canvases stretched over wooden frames.

“What’s under that dustcloth?” Ava asked.

Reinhold pulled the cover off and then tossed it aside to be able to pull the large easel from its resting place by the window. It was still partially wrapped in a blue mover’s blanket tied with jute twine. He cut the twine and gently unwrapped the easel to inspect it closely. Ava stood beside him eyeing the old wooden thing.

“Not as nice as her others,” she said.

“No, it’s much nicer, in fact.”

“It’s old.”

“It’s a Mabef.”

“A what?”

“Mabef. That’s the brand. Very expensive, and if I don’t miss my guess, this one is vintage, rare, and worth a lot of money.”

“How much are we talking? A hundred, two-hundred bucks?” She couldn’t see the worth in the ratty old thing.

“More. It’s unique enough that I believe I could trace it to the person who bought it.”

“That expensive?”

He nodded and kept turning it to get more details.

“Where would Lucia have gotten the money for something like that? She was paying for an apartment in New York, paying to set up at conventions here, paying for a house in Fairhaven… Where was the money coming from? I know Muy Caliente doesn’t pay that well, and surely the tips aren’t that great, either.”

“New Yorkers tip right and generous.” He looked offended.

“But do they tip well enough for all that and the Mabel easel?”

“Mabef. It’s a Mabef. It’s Italian. One of the best easel makers. This one probably cost around a thousand dollars. Maybe more. Depends on how she acquired it.”

“Okay, I definitely wonder where she got the money for it now.”

“I’ll make a few calls. Send a few pictures. We should know something soon enough.”

Ava went to check on the Luminol testing. She found Metford and Santos in the kitchen.

“Anything?” she asked from the doorway.

“Nothing yet. We still need to finish in here, do the living room, and that room you were in,” Santos said.

“We found an easel,” Ava said with a hint of humor.

Metford chuckled. “In an artist’s home? Imagine that.”

“I know, right? But Reinhold thinks this one is special. Vintage, rare, expensive. He’s making calls and sending pictures to see if someone can trace it back to the buyer.”

Ava went room to room with them as they tested, but she didn’t intervene despite wanting to. She hated not being actively involved, but she understood better now that the team needed space to do things on their own. She didn’t want to ever be accused of micromanaging so ferociously that it halted the investigation.

Back in the kitchen, she idly opened cabinets and drawers. They had been searched already, but doing so gave her a chance to get a glimpse into Lucia’s mindset. She liked things a certain way as evidenced in her need to organize things by size in ascending order from left to right. She didn’t leave dirty dishes, which meant she must have cleaned up immediately after every meal. The sinks didn’t even have watermarks in them or on the faucets. Her purse hung from a hook beside a neatly placed green jacket. It was the same shade green as the uniform. It was safe to assume the light jacket was for work.

In the bathroom, her hair elastics were small, sleek, black, and they were lined up evenly on a paper towel tube that she had placed longways in a drawer. Her hairbrush was clean, the toothpaste tube was rolled from the bottom, and again, there wasn’t a toothpaste splatter or water spot to be found on the sink or faucet.

Thinking back to her own house, Ava wondered how Lucia had time to keep everything so pristine with working at the restaurant, painting so voraciously, and setting up at conventions so often.

She flipped open the medicine cabinet. There were four bottles of headache medicine, just like in Fairhaven, but unlike the medicine in Fairhaven, there was a prescription for alprazolam. Lucia was on medication for anxiety. The prescription was out of date by a year, and only one pill rattled around inside.

That might explain the OCD-like neatness. Lucia was probably an insomniac, or she had learned to cope with her anxiety by forcing order onto her surroundings.

Ava scoffed and replaced the pill bottle. The insight hit a little too close to home for her liking.

“We found zilch,” Santos said at the doorway.

Ava closed the medicine cabinet. “All right. Thanks for testing anyway.”

“Sure. Gotta make sure we don’t miss anything.”

“Let’s go to the crime scene and see what we can find there.”

“We’re not going to Luminol that, are we?” she asked with a slight upturn to her top lip as if she’d smelled something nasty.

“Absolutely not. We’re going to do another sweep of the place for evidence that might have been overlooked, though.”

“Good.”

They followed Reinhold to the abandoned apartment building that he referred to as Cocaine Castle. The place looked as dilapidated and sad as it had before. Maybe more so since Ava knew what had been done to Lucia in there.

The sun went down while they were in the room, and they had found exactly nothing new.

Outside, a man stood against the corner of the building across the street. His back was pressed to the bricks, and one foot rested flat against the wall a few inches from the ground. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. The pack rested on his shoulder under the strap of his wifebeater.

“See that?” Reinhold asked, indicating the man. “He’s a lookout for the thugs down the street selling dope and the pimps with women working down that way.” He indicated the direction with the lift of his chin.

“Wait, how do you know that?” Santos asked.

“Because we arrest people all the time on those charges: pimps, hookers, dopers, plugs. Some of them are more than willing to give us information so they don’t get locked up.”

“How many lookouts work around here?”

“Three or four. Not many. They don’t want to be obvious, but that guy? I’ve arrested him myself back in the day for selling crack and marijuana right here on this block. He’s like the Cocaine Castle here, this is his home turf, and he ain’t going anywhere anytime soon. Lives one street that way in a crappy roach motel of an apartment building. It’s income based, and you better believe he doesn’t turn in any of the cash he makes out here.”

Santos turned to Ava. “What if one of the lookouts saw the blue-eyed Jesus?”

“It’s worth a shot,” Ava answered.

“Are you swearing or something? Blue-eyed Jesus?”

Santos explained the situation to him.

“That would be old Bill. Bill Hicks. He’s been arrested more times than I can count. You can’t put much faith in anything he says. You do realize he’s loaded to the gills most of the time, don’t you?”

“He saw someone jump from the second story around the time that Drake kid was going in to start filming.”

“If someone jumped from the second story, they’d be in some serious pain. That’s a long drop.” He stepped to look down the dark alley.

“Not if he jumped onto the dumpster that was there when I talked to Mr. Hicks,” Santos countered.

“Yeah, I guess that would cut four-and-a-half or five feet off the drop.”

“And if he let himself down by hanging from the sill, that’s another what, six, six-and-a-half feet at least.”

“The second story is about fourteen or fifteen feet off the ground. Add another foot-and-a-half to reach the sill and you got at least fourteen-and-a-half feet to the ground, so you’re spot on. A drop of five feet like that wouldn’t put much strain on anyone. But I still wouldn’t put too much faith in what Bill told you. Coulda been that he was hallucinating from the toxic mix of drugs in his system. He’ll be the only thing left standing after a nuclear blast. Him and the cockroaches.”

Reinhold’s phone trilled. He walked to his car. A few moments later, he returned. “Got a hit on the easel. My guy traced it. It was purchased online by an anonymous buyer in an auction on eBay. Even though it’s been several months, the seller had the addresses. It was shipped to Gamle Oslo, Norway.”

Ava frowned. “How did it get here, then?”

“He also told me where it was billed to, and you’re not going to believe it.”

“Who?” Ava asked.

“Headquarters for Aldridge Galleries right here in the city.” His eyebrows shot straight up. He pointed finger guns at Ava. “Bingo, winner, winner.”

“Why are we still here, then?” she asked, catching his excitement.

“Because HQ for Aldridge Galleries is closed until seven in the morning. If you got a flight to catch back, I can handle—”

“No, we don’t have a return flight yet. I’ll get one when we’re finished up here. I want to go see the warehouse. Can we do that tonight or do we have to wait until tomorrow?”

“There’s no electricity, and it’s dark. Not going to see much with flashlights, but you can get an idea how bad the scene was.”

“We’ll wait.”

“I can pull some strings and get you rooms for the night that are closer to the gallery HQ.”

“That would be great.”

Metford stepped toward Reinhold and leaned in confidentially. “And what about a good place to eat that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg? And quick. I don’t want to go in and sit down for an hour to wait.”

Ava cleared her throat lightly. “Fast-food,” she said, barely disguising it in a cough.

Santos followed suit, cupped her hand to her mouth, and coughed, “Wendy’s.”

Reinhold peered around Metford and winked. “I got you. Get in and follow me.”

They followed him to a hotel that was a plain chain situation, but it was clean and affordable. And Reinhold got them in even though the sign said there was no vacancy. “Agent Metford, you seem like a man after my own heart,” he said after they had checked in. “What do you say we go by that Wendy’s and grab some dinner?”

Santos invited herself to the conversation that seemed to be just for the boys. She clapped Metford on the shoulder. “I think that would be an awesome idea. We’ll grab something a little less heart attack-y.”

“In your line of work, you’re worried about fast-food killing you?” Reinhold asked with a grin.

“I like to pick my battles, and high cholesterol, clogged arteries, obesity, diabetes—”

“Pfft.” Reinhold waved off the litany. “Come on, Agent. Let’s get something to eat. My gut is rumbling.”

“Right behind you, Detective.” Metford tossed a wave over his shoulder as he went out the door.

The next morning, Ava was ready at five before seven. Metford and Santos met her in the hallway at twenty after as she was calling Reinhold’s number for the third time. She had already left a message and hung up when he didn’t answer again.

“Who was that?” Metford asked.

“I was trying to get Reinhold to tell him we’re ready. I don’t know if he was coming by here or meeting us at the gallery HQ.”

“He said he’d be here at seven. Maybe he’s driving.” Metford stretched.

“We’ll just go meet him in the lobby.”

They arrived in the lobby and Reinhold was standing at a window with his phone to his ear.

They stood behind him until he hung up.

“No wonder I couldn’t get an answer,” Ava said.

“Hey. I was about to give up on you. I thought you stood me up.” He put his phone in his pocket. “That was Aldridge Galleries Headquarters. Said they would be more than happy to help us if it meant finding out who killed their upstanding leader. I swear, I think she was crying a little.”

“On the surface, Aldridge seemed like an upstanding citizen who was just paying it forward,” Ava said.

“And we don’t know that he wasn’t,” Metford said.

Her first instinct was to snap at him, but she caught the sharp reply in time to stifle it.

They arrived at HQ fifteen minutes later, and Ava remembered why she hated the city. The traffic was brutal any time of day or night, but it was excruciating in the morning rush. Reinhold waited for them on the sidewalk looking nonplussed as ever as he twirled his keys around one finger and stared up at the neon purple lights in the window that announced the location.

“Remind me again why anyone drives anywhere in New York City?” she asked as they met up.

“I thought you had your city wheels by now,” Reinhold quipped.

“Next time, we’re not going anywhere during rush hours. Before or after, but not during.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Metford said.

“We could have walked here faster. It’s two streets, Metford. Two.” She held up two fingers for emphasis.

Reinhold opened the door and held it until everyone had filed inside. The instant the door shut, it was quiet, cool, and dim. The precisely placed pan and track lights drew her eyes exactly where the owners had intended. To the center of the space where a tree had been planted and had grown twenty feet high. It was surrounded by large, river-smoothed rocks. Some of the rocks bore a fine coat of deep green moss, grass grew in the sandy soil that someone had meticulously formed into a gentle hill, and water trickled between and under and over the rocks at the right side of the tree to form a shallow reflecting pond.

Ava stepped to the side and looked for the mechanics that made the scene possible, but they were well hidden.

A woman approached with a small, measured smile. “Welcome to the offices of Aldridge Galleries. I’m Gina. I believe I spoke with one of you gentlemen on the phone earlier.”

“That would be me,” Reinhold announced. He proceeded to introduce the team.

Gina motioned to the tree. “I see our centerpiece caught your attention.”

Ava shrugged. “Just wondering how you got that tree to grow in here.”

Gina tinkled light laughter. “It’s not a real tree, hon. It’s all sculpted. None of it is natural except a few stones and the water.”

Jerking her head around to look up at the tree, Ava blinked. “That’s not real?”

“No. The work of a very talented artisan. Dusty Martin out of Virginia. Normally, the whole Appalachian, woodsy themes go unnoticed here in the city, but not his works. This is a testament to his talent.”

“Funny. He never mentioned that he’d sold Aldridge Galleries anything like this. I was under the impression that most of his work was sold through conventions or online.”

“That is a popular way for artists to get their work out there, to get some mass notoriety, but when it comes to the top tier of the art world, well, they’re mostly all right here in New York City, and that’s where Mr. Martin has showcased and sold much of his work.”

“That’s… nice,” Ava finished. Why had he neglected to mention that when they were at Barefoot Bliss? “We needed to ask you about an easel that was ordered here a few months ago.”

Gina brightened. “Oh, you must be talking about the vintage Mabef.”

“That’s right.”

“Of course. It was entered on the log and inventory when it was brought here. Follow me and I’ll find out where it’s stored. It was going to be part of a display to hold a piece of vintage Italian art.”

“Stored?” Ava asked. “We know where it is; we need to know when it was taken from here and by whom.”

Gina stopped in her tracks, her back stiffening. “Excuse me? No one was authorized to remove that piece. You must be mistaken.” She trilled nervous laughter.

“Afraid not,” Reinhold said. “Found it in a dead girl’s apartment.”

“Woman,” Santos corrected.

“Artist,” Ava said. “Lucia was an artist, and the easel was found in her apartment in the city.”

Gina blanched. “That’s not possible. Only three people have access to that storage room.”

“Do you know who those three people are?” Ava prompted after a long silence.

“Of course. Mr. Aldridge, Mrs. Aldridge, and the deliveryman they trusted. Thom Axel. No one else even has the access code to unlock the door, and I suppose you can guess what a nightmare it’s going to be to get it. Mrs. Aldridge won’t take calls from anyone, and Thom only comes around when Mr. Aldridge has ordered something be taken out, or if there’s a purchase to be stored.”

“Do you have Thom’s contact information, by chance?” Ava asked.

“I don’t, but I can get it. Mr. Aldridge kept a book for such things. He didn’t know that I found out where he kept it.” She started walking in another direction. Ava and the others followed her.

She opened a door that let in on a grand office. Not what Ava expected as the office of a gallery owner. She didn’t expect all the Old-World opulence, but there it was. Connor Aldridge had been living it up in New York, it seemed.

Reinhold whistled low. “And they always said art wasn’t a career.” His chuckle was humorless.

Ava and Metford exchanged a look and nodded.

“We had that conversation not long ago,” he said to Reinhold.

Gina walked behind the desk and opened a drawer. She reached in up to her elbow and there was a tiny click. She pulled out a false back in the drawer. Reinhold rushed over and prevented her from reaching inside again.

“I got it,” he said. He picked up the small book by the corner and dropped it on the desk. “Don’t touch anything else. We might need it for evidence in his death.”

“We’ve all been in here since learning about his death.” Gina’s voice cracked the slightest bit and she looked down. “He was such a wonderful man.”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Reinhold said. He motioned for Ava to get the information from the book while he looked around the room. “Was there anything else in that drawer?”

“No, just what’s in there, and that book hidden in the back. I think he hid it because he kept information on his rich clients. They like to remain anonymous.”

Ava got the information. “Santos, I need you to secure the room and do a thorough search. Look for anything that might help us know who Aldridge was dealing with recently, who he might have been friendly with, friendly enough to invite to his place or out to drinks. Anything that will help the investigation.”

“You got it. When I’m done, if it’s okay, I’ll catch a cab back to the Cocaine Castle and do that canvassing that I’d planned on doing.”

“And miss going to the warehouse crime scene?” Ava asked. “It could teach all of us a lot about these sorts of criminals.”

“If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll pass. Not in the mood for the smell of days-old blood.”

Gina made a sound of indignation, put a hand to her mouth, and lost the already-pale color in her face.

Ava held up the piece of paper she had written Thom Axel’s information on and smiled. “We got what we need. Special Agent Santos is going to seal off this room; please tell everyone to stay clear of it until we’ve released it.”

Gina blinked at her and continued to look faint.

“Can you do that for us, Gina? For Connor?”

That got her moving. She dropped her hand, straightened her slim-fitting skirt, and pushed her chin out. “I can. I’d do anything for Con—uhm, Mr. Aldridge.” She turned and walked briskly out with the light staccato of her heels echoing through the cavernous room.

“Someone had a crush,” Metford said.

“Seems so,” Ava said. “Come on. Let’s go talk to Mr. Axel.”

As they walked out, a man in a suit approached them with his hand out. “I’ve just spoken to Gina. I wish she had called for me. I’m Mr. Cairn. I run the place for Mr. Aldridge. Or, I used to run it for him. I suppose Mrs. Aldridge is the new boss, and I’m not sure how that’s going to work seeing as how she’s in prison.” He beamed falsely and clasped his hands in front of him. “We’ll figure it out. Now, did you get what you needed?”

“Yes,” Ava said, flipping the paper around. “We just needed his contact information.”

“Thom, yes, he’s a strange and mysterious man. From Iceland or Finland. I’m not sure which. You left an agent to search Mr. Aldridge’s office, correct?”

“Yes. See that no one goes in there while she’s working. If she needs something, she’ll ask.”

“Absolutely. I’ll make sure I’m available for anything she might need. Poor Gina seems to be in a state.”

“We’ll be in contact.”

Ava and the others left the building, and upon exiting, the blatting of car horns, people yelling, the stink of exhaust and hot engines hit her in the face hard enough to make her recoil a little.

“You get used to it,” Reinhold said.

“To what?” Ava asked.

“The noise and the smell. After a lifetime here, going on vacation out of the city freaks me out. Can’t stand the quiet. My last wife used to threaten to divorce me if I didn’t turn off the radio and TV when we were away.”

“You said your last wife?” Metford asked over his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“Did you turn off the noise?”

“No, that’s why she was my last wife. She made good on the threat. The quiet makes me paranoid as hell. Can’t do it.”

Ava’s phone rang. It was Sal. She finished speaking with her while Metford and Reinhold walked ahead still discussing the pros and cons of listening to one’s wife on certain matters.

“Hey, hold up!” she yelled to them after hanging up. She trotted to where they stood. “That was Sal. Grady Arrowood was found dead in his cell.”

“How?” Metford asked.

“She said on the surface, it looks like suicide. He used a broken plastic spoon to cut his own wrists, but when she suggested that we take a look into it, the warden and guards cut her short and said it was nothing for the FBI to get involved with. They say suicides just happen when people are facing life in prison without the possibility of parole.”

“Suicides just happen, huh?” Reinhold asked, narrowing his eyes.

“And Grady just happens to be the one who killed Teagan Reese,” Metford said.

“And he is Margueritte Aldridge’s brother,” Ava added.

“Well, now, that’s interesting,” Reinhold said and scrubbed at his cheek with one palm. “Lots of corpses piling up in connection with the Aldridges. More than I would consider mere coincidence.”

“Me, too,” Ava agreed.

“Does she want us to go back and look into it?” Metford asked.

“As soon as we’re finished here, she wants us back. Let’s go help Santos and get this done.” She pulled the paper from her pocket with Thom Axel’s address and phone number. She held it out to Reinhold. “Want to write that down?”

He held his phone over the paper and snapped a shot of it. “Who needs pen and paper?” He grinned sheepishly.

“Really? You used the phone?” she asked, shocked.

“We all gotta catch up to the times sometime. Or, at least ride through on the tailwind so we don’t look so much like Luddites.”

“He’s not wrong. Wouldn’t hurt you to start taking some notes,” Metford said.

“I would, but I don’t have my notepad, and I’m not typing it out on my phone.” She motioned for him to go to the car.

The buzzer blared overhead, and the metal bars slid to the side. The husky guard looked down at Ava with cold eyes. “She’s restrained. You know the rules. No pens, pencils, paperclips, nothing she can use as a weapon.”

“I’m aware of the rules, thank you.”

“When you’re finished, hit the buzzer, and someone will open the door for you.” He turned away from her, his expression never changing.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t acknowledge Ava, and she stepped into the short corridor that led to the room where Margueritte waited.

“Margueritte,” Ava said as she took a seat.

“Mm.” Margueritte glanced up at her and then back to the small, high window as if uninterested in her presence.

“You heard about Grady, right?”

The woman pulled her gaze away, and by the set of her mouth, she was irritated that she was being bothered. “Yeah, he got life without parole. What do you want, Agent James?”

“To tell you that your brother is dead.”

Margueritte’s eyebrows rose and her lip twitched the tiniest bit at the corner. “Dead?”

“They’re saying it’s suicide.”

A smirk blossomed on her face and a wicked twinkle sparked in her eyes. She shrugged. “Got what he deserved.”

“Is that all you have to say about the death of your own brother?”

“What would you have me do, feign all sorts of emotions that are untrue? Death’s coming for all of us in the end. Even me, Agent. But at least I’ll die knowing that low-life pig scum got what he deserved.”

“That’s… harsh. Even for someone as cold-blooded as you, Margueritte. I expected more. Maybe a little twinge of regret, grief, heck, even a sad look would have done.”

She inhaled and pulled her shoulders back as she crossed her legs primly. “Sorry to disappoint, but we didn’t have that kind of relationship.”

“But you would hide him away in a secret apartment, and he would kill at your request, and then you’d both try to cover it up. Seems like you two were at least civil to one another.”

“Not really. You just think you know so much, don’t you? So young, pretty, and smart. Chasing that brass ring up the ladder of success to where, Agent? Do you think they’ll really let you reach the top? And twenty years down the road, when you realize you hit the glass ceiling ten years before and you’re not advancing any further; what then? Will you pine for the husband you never had time to find? The children? Will it crush you and turn you into one of the TV stereotypes of grumpy, lonely, cynical agents who have a life of tortured memories but they’re too old to do anything other than be an agent? Is that what you see in your future or do you still lie to yourself every morning when you get ready for work and tidy your hair, scrub your face, and don your cheap power suits?”

Ava swallowed. Her throat made a clicking sound and her mouth had gone dry as bone dust. “Now who thinks she’s so smart?”

“I’m smart enough to still be alive in this hellhole.”

“Are you smart enough to know that you won’t even see the possibility of release until you’re in your late seventies?”

A flicker of hatred ran through her eyes. “What do you want, Agent James? Last time I checked, they didn’t send FBI agents to inform inmates that their brother committed suicide.”

“What about your husband, Mrs. Aldridge?”

After a hesitation, she made eye contact with Ava. “What about Connor?” Her voice thinned and rose an octave even though the volume dipped significantly.

“I take it you have been informed of his death?”

“You mean his murder?” Hatred swam deep in her eyes and contorted her features for several seconds.

“Yes, his murder. Did they tell you how it happened?”

“No. Only that he was found on his yacht. That stupid yacht. The Vitamin Sea.” Her eyes snapped back to Ava’s. “He’s another one who always thought he was so clever, and now look at him.” Her chin quivered and she rubbed it with her thumb to hide the involuntary movement.

Ava gave her the summary of how Connor had died. “Do you know anyone who hated him bad enough to do that to him?”

“No. The problem was never anyone hating Connor. The problem was that most people loved him too much.” Her voice broke and a single tear slid down her face. She held out a hand in a stop gesture and then held up one finger. Wait a minute, that finger pleaded. After several sharp inhalations, she held her breath, wiped the tear streak away, and nodded.

“Well, that was at least enough emotion to let me know you’re human. I know you loved Connor in your own way.”

“Please, shut up about that cheating wretch before you make me sick.” Her voice was strong and her emotions completely in check again.

“Mrs. Aldridge, why is it so hard for you to show emotions about the people you obviously care about?”

“You’re wrong about Grady. I had grown to hate him.” She glanced at the door and then at the camera. “I can’t show weakness in here or the others would eat me alive. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen so much already. I had nothing to do with Grady’s death, though I teeter on the verge of wishing I had. I didn’t have anything to do with Connor’s, either.” She sat forward suddenly and hissed, “Now, why are you bothering me? I’m paying for what I did. Why don’t you just totter off and leave me alone?”

“Because it seems to me that everyone involved in the Teagan Reese case, or with you and your late husband, are ending up with a bad case of dead. I just thought you might be a little worried for your own safety, Margueritte. And for the sake of argument, let me ask a hypothetical question.”

Margueritte slowly recoiled back into her seat and trained her icy gaze on Ava. “Will you leave if I give you a hypothetical answer to your hypothetical question?”

“If not, it’s a good start to getting me out of here. If you don’t answer, I’ll make it a point to come by once a week just so the other inmates think you’re helping me; that you’re a snitch. How’s that?”

She crossed her arms. “Ask.” Her voice was as dead as her expression had become.

“If you were worried about your safety, who would you think was coming after you?”

Margueritte visibly flinched. There was no subtlety to it; she flinched hard, and her mouth opened as if she was getting ready to say something. She caught herself just in time to clamp her mouth shut and look away.

“Not even a single name comes to mind?”

Nothing. No flinch, either.

“An artist? A collector? Someone you owed money to?” she persisted. And she continued for the next few minutes.

“No name comes to mind. Your question was frivolous and it’s wasting my time.”

“Right. I hope that makes you feel safe when you go to sleep tonight. They got to your brother; they can get to you.”

“That was a suicide.”

“Was it?”

Margueritte shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. “Is there anything else, Agent?”

“There is, actually. Do you know anything about a Mabef easel that your husband was storing in the galleries’ main office building?”

“Yes. Rare, expensive, just like everything my husband had a taste for. What about it?”

“It’s been stolen. Do you know who might have done that?”

Margueritte’s eyes darted and she shifted in her seat again. Her hands fluttered from her lap to the table and back to her lap. She cleared her throat. “No. I don’t know who could have stolen it.”

“That’s strange because I heard that only three people had the access code to that particular storage room. One of those people is dead, another is in prison, and the third, whom I plan on visiting soon. Should I tell Thom Axel that you send your regards from prison?”

“Absolutely not.” Fear etched worry lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and her brow furrowed deeply, drawing her eyebrows up at the corners. Getting her emotions under control took a little longer, but she accomplished it. “I’m done talking now, Agent James. You might as well leave. I want to go back to my cell,” she said, directing the last sentence to the camera high in the corner. “I’m done talking.” She enunciated each word forcefully as she stared into the camera.

Ava left. There was no use wasting all her time with Margueritte. The woman was afraid of someone, but if she didn’t give up a name, Ava couldn’t do anything. As she got into her car, she felt almost certain that Thom Axel was the name Margueritte had almost said. Was he the person she was afraid would come after her? Was he the one responsible for Grady’s death?

Sal came out of the office on the top floor. Her smile was tight, and her posture rigid. “Deputy Director Marks has granted us the opportunity to investigate Grady Arrowood’s death.”

Ava exhaled with relief and started to congratulate Sal, but Sal stopped her.

“Don’t get too excited. Especially not up here. They can see us.” She indicated the office she’d just left. The blinds were open again.

“Right. When do we get to go?”

“First things first. I have the highest respect for our forensic team. I really do, but for this, Director Marks gave me a few stipulations. One of them being that we call in top tier experts. His words, not mine.”

“Who is a top tier expert for this?”

“Marks put in the call already. To his number one suggestion, of course.”

“We should be able to—”

“Not now. You have to learn to play their game. What’s it hurt to let him call the shots that should be ours? It doesn’t. Not when it gets us the top forensic pathologist on the East Coast. Dr. Thomas Colinger. He’s going to meet you at the medical examiner’s office in a few hours. He’ll call when he’s ready for you.”

“My phone?”

“Yes. Have it handy, and whatever you do, don’t make him wait. He officially retired a few years back, but he is a professor, he consults, and he doesn’t like waiting. We want Marks to get back a good report about Colinger’s experience with the department.”

“You mean with me.”

“Yes, with you. They’ve got their eyes on you, Ava. You’re a shooting star right now and we don’t want anything to tarnish your shine.”

“Oh, like the situation with Jason Ellis? Don’t condescend. Don’t sugarcoat this. They’re watching me because they’re waiting for me to stumble, to fall on my face, for me to crack under the pressure after Ellis.”

Sal grabbed Ava’s arm and rushed her into the elevator. She slammed her finger into the button for the first floor and glared at Ava. “What is wrong with you? No one is being condescending, Ava. They’re watching you for promotion. I’m sure of it. I’ve told you before, you can climb the ladder only as high as you’re willing to go.”

Ava shut her mouth. Sal might be her friend, but she was also her boss. And as a boss, she had to be somewhat in league with the top brass. Was that glass ceiling waiting for her? Would she crush her own skull on it trying to break through, trying to prove to herself and everybody around her that she had finally made it? That the big boys decided she was good enough to play on their field?

Or had Margueritte gotten to her? Under her skin. Needling her, wrecking her mind from afar. Creating doubts and worry that had no right to exist.

The doors opened and Ava stepped out before Sal. “I’m going to let the team know.”

“Ava,” Sal said sternly.

Not wanting to, Ava turned to face her.

“You did good up there. Well, right up until the outburst in the hall. But in the office, when it counted most, you did good.”

“Thank you. And thank you for standing by me and going to bat for this.”

“You bet.”

Ava turned and went to tell the team what was going on. It was met with mixed feelings. Like Ava, the team thought it should have been handled by their internal forensic team or their medical examiner. The more she tried to explain it to them, the more she understood why Marks had wanted an outside source with the highest rating to do the exam.

Colinger would have no biases and he would have no time for conjecture. He wouldn’t have time to finagle the evidence to fit a predetermined idea.

Having to admit that she had acted rashly about Marks’ decision was a hard pill to swallow seeing as how she had long prided herself on being level-headed and wise.

When Colinger rang her phone, she was more than ready to be out of the office.

The medical examiner’s office was empty and dim except for a bright light trained on Grady’s body and one over the nearby desk.

“Special Agent James, I’m Dr. Colinger. Do you mind if we hurry the pleasantries and thanks. You’re welcome, my delight, blah-blah-blah. There, all done.” He turned away as she stuck out her hand to shake.

Blah-blah-blah wasn’t exactly the vocabulary she had expected from the man; from Marks’ pick.

“The report is here.” He handed her the papers. “Signed, sealed, delivered. Now, if you’ll turn your attention to the deceased, please and thank you. I’ve gone over the body thoroughly. There are subtle restraint marks here and here on the arms that make me think someone might have held his arms behind his body, as such.” He moved swiftly behind, taking Ava by surprise, and grabbed her arms just above the elbows to pull them back.

She yanked free and spun on him. “Dr. Colinger, don’t put your hands on me again.”

“It wasn’t sexual harassment, Agent, I was merely demonstrating the—”

“I don’t care. Next time, ask before you do anything like that.”

“Fine, but I don’t have time for games.”

“Nor do I.”

His mouth curved up at the left corner and his eyes twinkled. He pointed a finger at her. “I think I might like you.”

“That’s gracious of you.”

He tittered lightly and moved back to the corpse. “See the cut on each wrist?”

She did.

“They’re too deep for Mr. Arrowood to have accomplished on his own. Especially with a broken plastic spoon.” He pulled one of the cuts open wide. “If you look right here, you’ll see that the tendons were badly damaged in this wrist.”

Ava’s gut clenched, but she saw.

“You’re going pale. Don’t faint on me. I don’t have time to nurse you.”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine,” she corrected.

“Good. I was saying that with those injuries to the tendons, Mr. Arrowood would not have been able to hold that broken spoon to cut the other wrist. He couldn’t have done it even with a knife, a razor, or a scalpel. Do you understand?”

“I do, but what if he cut the other wrist first and then cut this one? Maybe that’s why—”

“Ah, very astute of you, Agent, but the other wrist is damaged just as badly. And there’s one more thing. The angles are off just a bit. I don’t believe Mr. Arrowood did this.” He flipped the other arm so the cut showed. “Look at the angles closely.”

She did but saw nothing useful about them.

“Now, raise your left wrist and pretend you’re cutting it with your right hand.”

A lightbulb went on. She understood that the cut should have angled down, even if just slightly, toward the bottom of her arm. Grady’s slanted upward at the end of the cut. “It’s like his arms were behind him and someone was cutting him from the wrist up to make it appear as if he did it.”

“And there you have it. Homicide. Someone else murdered this man.” He picked up his case, put on his hat, tipped it, and headed for the door.

“Wait, that’s it?”

“Yes, unless you have questions, which after the demonstration and seeing the cuts for yourself, I don’t see how you could have questions.”

“No, I don’t. I just thought—”

“I would spend more time with you than I spent with the corpse?” He shook his head. “I’m a very busy man, Agent James, and the corpse was the reason I came; not to chit-chat with the living. Oh, you can tell the others that I’m finished in here. They can enter again.” With that, he was out the door.

Back at the office, Ava gave Sal the report and sat quietly while she read over it.

“How was he? Colinger, I mean.”

“Strange, overbearing, crass. Or, maybe he just lives inside his own little bubble and doesn’t realize he’s coming off that way to others.”

“Seems to be a lot of people with that problem these days.” She kept her eyes on the report.

“Was that a jab at me? I don’t live in a bubble.”

“Hmm.” It was the sound of no commitment one way or the other.

“I need to see surveillance footage of Grady’s cellblock,” Ava said, changing the subject. “That and logs of all the visitors he had.”

She finished reading the report and laid it aside. “Give them a call. This is your baby; rock it how you feel fit. Just be careful. The warden is already pissed over this. You don’t want to make an enemy if it’s unwarranted.”

“It’s not my policy to go around making enemies.” She bit back the anger. Maybe she did still need to see Dr. Bran because, lately, it felt as if the entire department was either placating her, treating her like she was so fragile she might break if they looked at her wrong, or they were against everything she did and said. Were they afraid her judgment wasn’t so good after the mess with Ellis? Would that incident ever be history, something that was truly in the past?

“Then go make your call and do what you have to do.”

Ava went to her car and called the prison as she was on her way. The warden was more than a little upset and he made it clear. He knew he had no choice but to cooperate with her and that made him even angrier.

A guard escorted her to the security office. He didn’t speak. Officer Turley pointed to a seat in front of the consoles.

“I’m afraid you came out here for not much of anything. Warden said you wanted to see all the surveillance footage from Arrowood’s cellblock for the twenty-four hours prior to his suicide?”

“His murder. It was ruled a homicide today.”

Chagrined, he pulled up footage and hit the play button. Snow played on the screen. He hit fast-forward and the snow remained for the entirety of the recording.

“Told you it wasn’t much. It’s still on the fritz today. Been that way for two weeks now.”

“Not much? That was nothing. There’s a difference. Why hasn’t the camera been fixed? Why was it allowed to be out for so long?”

“It’s scheduled to be repaired tomorrow afternoon; when the inmates on that block go to the yard.”

Ava stood. “Send over a copy of all the visitor logs for the past week.”

“Arrowood’s visitors?”

“All of them.”

“For the entire prison?” he asked incredulously.

“Yep. The entire prison. It’s digital. It can’t be that hard to do.” She stalked to the door. “I expect them to be at the office by the time I get back there.” She opened the door and walked out.

How was that for not making enemies? she thought angrily as she got in the car. Another monumental waste of time. She called Ashton and told him to start cross-referencing the visitor logs as soon as they came through. He would have programs to speed through the task faster than she was speeding through the traffic.

The speeding relieved her tension, though by its very nature demanded high tension. She walked back into the office feeling refreshed and ready to take on the rest of the day. As long as it wasn’t as bad as the past few had been. If it turned out that way, she didn’t know how she would handle it.

An hour later, Ashton came to her door.

“I found something when I was cross-checking the visitor logs with names in the database and I came across Tomas Asketill. It pinged in the system. He was cited two years ago for speeding, failing to yield right of way, and no proof of insurance.”

“That doesn’t sound like our kind of criminal, Ashton. Please, don’t tell me that’s all you got from the whole visitor log.”

“No. Tomas Asketill was driving a car registered to Findlay Thomasson Axel and both names were listed as AKA of each other.”

Dane walked up behind Ashton and he showed her the paper.

“Axel is a form of Asketill in Scandinavia. It means something like god of the kettle or kettle god.” She whipped out her phone while Ashton handed the report to Ava and pointed out the names. “It means ‘sacrificial cauldron.’”

“Mr. Cairn said Axel was from Finland or Iceland, he wasn’t sure which,” Ava said. She walked toward the bullpen; Ashton and Dane followed.

“That would qualify as Scandinavian countries,” Ashton said.

“Do you think Tomas Asketill, Findlay Thomasson Axel, and Thom Axel are the same man?” Dane asked.

“What happened with Thom Axel?” Metford asked.

Ava showed him and Santos the report.

“Dane says the last names are different forms but the same name in Scandinavia,” Ava said.

“Iceland and Finland are both Scandinavian,” Santos said.

“It’s definitely something to keep in mind,” Ava said, noting the names. “I’ll be sure to ask him when I go speak with him.”

Before Ava could finish updating Reinhold over the phone, Sal came to inform her that Thom Axel was there to see her. Ava nearly hung up on Reinhold, realized what she was doing, put the phone back to her ear, and rushed through an explanation before really hitting the disconnect button.

“Where is he?” Ava asked.

“I had an agent put him in the interview room. Number one. Go speak to him. We’ll watch the monitor. I don’t trust him.”

“I agree with you on that.” Ava steadied herself and went to the interview room. She waited outside until Metford and Sal were in front of the monitor and gave her the go-ahead.

She opened the door and walked in. Thom was sitting in a chair, relaxed. He stood when she entered and extended his hand.

“You must be Special Agent James. I’m Thom Axel.”

He was tall, broad at the shoulders, handsome, and had thick, blond hair. If they had met on the street, she would have considered him sexy in his well-made clothes flashing that charming smile.

And his eyes. They were the iciest blue she’d ever seen, enchanting even though she knew he might well be a dangerous criminal. Was it in her to be drawn to the worst men?

“What brings you all the way down to Fairhaven, Maryland, Mr. Axel?”

He sat. “Thom, please.”

His accent was even alluring. “All right, Thom, what brings you here?”

“I heard what happened to Connor Aldridge, and I was going to attend his funeral and a memorial that’s being planned on the beach in his honor. Mr. Cairn told me that you needed to speak with me, and so, here I am to help in any way I can.”

“I must admit that this is a bit of a shock. Usually, I have to chase down people to talk to them and they aren’t as willing to help as you seem to be.”

“I don’t just seem; I am willing. Connor was a good man, and he had already been through so much with his wife and brother-in-law being put in prison.”

“And don’t forget his mistress. Teagan Reese. She was brutally murdered because of her affair with him. Oh, and her husband. He was killed, too. Now, her two children are orphans,” Ava said sharply.

“Surely, you don’t blame that on Connor.”

“If you didn’t sound so doubtful about it, I would think you were kidding. Who do you blame? Teagan, perhaps?”

“No, I blame the killer. Grady Arrowood. Margueritte played a part in it as well, but it was Grady who killed that woman and her husband.”

“And now Grady’s dead, too.”

“Well, I would say he deserved it.”

“Murdered in his cell.”

“And a fitting end, in my opinion.” He sat back in his chair, and the top of a scar peeked up from under the collar of his button-down shirt. He pulled to loosen the tie a bit and more of the scar showed.

She pointed to his neck. “That looks like it was a nasty gash. How’d that happen?”

“Fishing accident when I was thirteen and working with my father back in Norway. He fished and sold at the market in town. It was a simple life, but not without its hazards.” He traced the scar with one finger with a look of nostalgia.

“How well did you know Connor Aldridge?”

“I like to think, quite well, but how well do we ever really know anyone? Even the spouse that shares your life?”

“Did you know him well enough that you saw or spoke with him often?”

“What is your definition of often? We spoke on the phone a few times a month and usually saw each other six or seven times. It depended on whether he had deliveries for me to make or if he was having a special function that I would sometimes help set up.” He flexed his arms. “He often required me for the heavy lifting. Seems that artists aren’t known for their physical strength.” He laughed softly.

And there was that charming smile, the slight tilt of his head, and those piercing blue eyes. His hands were strong but well-manicured and there were no noticeable calluses or abrasions.

“Mr. Axel, where were you during the time of Mr. Aldridge’s murder?”

His eyes widened and he half-laughed as he pointed at himself. “Me?”

She nodded.

“You think I had something to do with his death?”

“I’m just asking questions, Mr. Axel. Where were you?”

“Thom, please. Mr. Axel was my father. And my grandfather, and my uncles. You wouldn’t believe how many Mr. Axels there are in my family.”

“Where were you?”

“I was at home. In New York, Agent. You can check my phone records, if you like. I hear you can track where I’ve been by the phone.” He slid it across the table to her.

“Did you and Mr. Aldridge get along? Was there any bad blood between you two?”

“We got along great. I considered him a good friend.”

“No arguments?”

He shook his head.

“Is that lately or ever?”

“Ja, there were a few arguments after he first hired me, but they were mostly misunderstandings.”

“Usually?”

“Yes, over late deliveries or delivery to the wrong address. Mrs. Aldridge sometimes gave me orders, and a few times, she told me wrong places. He understood and we worked it out. He told me to only listen to him. After I agreed to that, there were no more problems.”

“Do you know anyone who would have a grudge against him for any reason? No matter how small or trivial you might think it is.”

He thought for a moment, or at least pretended to. “No. I can think of no one who ever argued with him or had bad feelings toward him except his wife, Margueritte. They argued sometimes, and she seemed angry with him often, but I don’t suppose that matters because she is in prison, right?”

“Yes, that’s right. She isn’t the killer.”

She continued to swing back and forth between questions that didn’t even pertain to the case and accusatory questions about his relationship with Connor, Margueritte, and Grady. He remained calm and cool, answering every question.

“You mentioned that you worked with your father in Norway. What was Norway like?”

“Yes. I haven’t lived there in many years. I miss it very much. It’s beautiful, and the air is so clean.” He inhaled deeply as if remembering the smell. “Not like in the city, and not even like here. I miss being out on the water. And the people there are friendly. Most know each other where I lived. Didn’t matter that it was a city. People help each other and care about each other. If you ever get the chance, you should visit. You might never come back.”

Something in his eyes made that last statement feel a bit like a threat. Given her penchant for overreaction lately, she pushed it aside. “If you love it so much, why are you here instead of there? Why haven’t you gone back?”

“Because I found something here, in the United States, that I love just a little more. It’s my true calling. As much as I miss my home, my family, my friends, and the fishing, I know that’s not where I truly belong. My true calling is to be involved in the art world. Something my hard-working father did not like.”

“Oh, you’re an artist?”

“Not so much. I tried painting, then sculpting, and even acting. When I failed at all those little ventures, Connor gave me a job that kept me close to the art world I love and admire so much. That is one reason I considered Connor such a good friend. I was the muscle, not the talent, but he never reminded me of it. Never rubbed my nose in it.”

“Being a well-liked and well-respected deliveryman is a far cry from being a real part of the art world. I would think it would be like adding insult to injury every time you reported to work. Like the servant who could never afford to own a grand mansion of her own, but she has to work in someone else’s dream home.”

“That’s a very vivid and simultaneously dreary way to put it. But you are right. I am just a glorified deliveryman.”

“Speaking of deliveries, where did you take that expensive Mabef easel that belonged to Connor Aldridge?”

“He had me put it in storage at the main office building. You were there. They told you where I put it.”

“But only three people had access codes to get into that room. You’re one of them. Mrs. Aldridge is in prison, and Mr. Aldridge, well, we know he didn’t go in there recently.”

“Maybe one of them sent it to someone before. If it was in one of my deliveries to another gallery, I wasn’t made aware of it. Of course, I don’t always know what is sealed in the wooden crates I deliver. I drop them when and where I’m told, get the signatures, and tip my hat.”

“Do you make deliveries to artists, Thom?”

“No. I don’t make personal deliveries. I only take things to other galleries, shows, and approved events that Connor and Mrs. Aldridge attended. Nowhere else.”

“Does the name Lucia Garcia Martinez ring a bell?”

He considered the name, repeated it, and shook his head. “No, I can’t say it does. Have I met her? Should I know her?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

“I don’t know her. But I don’t know many of the artists who are at the galleries and shows.”

“What about the ones in the Aldridge sponsorship programs?”

“Not that I am aware, no.”

“What about Sharelle Kim? Know that name?”

“Ja. I heard the news about her nearly being killed while she was working as an artist at an open-air art celebration in Chelsea several years ago. News of that spread like fire in a cane field and shocked everyone in the art world. For weeks, I heard employees talking about it when I made deliveries. Even Connor and Margueritte spoke of it. She’s lucky to be alive.”

“Yes, she is. Did you know her on a personal level, though?”

“No. As I stated, I don’t know many of the artists. She was basically headline news; that’s the only reason I recognize the name.”

“What about Margueritte? How well did you know her? As well as you knew Connor?”

“Oh, no. Nowhere near it. She was stand-offish with me. I think maybe she didn’t like me because Connor befriended me and he trusted me. But mostly, it was because he talked and laughed with me, and he didn’t do that with her. Not in public much. I don’t know for sure how he was at home with her, but they seemed distant to me.”

“What about her brother, Grady?”

“I wasn’t even aware that she had a brother until after her arrest in the Reese case.”

She opened a folder that contained a piece of paper with his contact information on it. Along with his New York address, there was another. “Is this your address in Norway, Thom?”

He looked like someone had gut-punched him, but he was good, and he was fast. He recovered and beamed that hundred mega-watt smile at her. “Yes, it is. How did you know?”

“Mm. Care to tell me why that Mabef easel was delivered to your address in Gamle Oslo when it was purchased months ago?”

“I don’t know why it was delivered there.”

“Did Connor have your address there?”

“Yes, I’m sure I gave it to him, but we were drinking and talking about my childhood there. Do you think he bought the easel and had it sent there for some reason before bringing it to New York?”

“Again, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“I don't have any idea why he would do such a thing, or if he even did.”

“Who lives at that address now?”

“In Gamle Oslo?”

“Yes, Thom, in Gamle Oslo. Who lives in the house where you used to live?”

“How would I know that? I don’t know who lives there. It was a rental. Anyone could live there.” The color rose a degree in his cheeks.

“Do the names Tomas Asketill or Findlay Thomasson Axel sound familiar? They’re Norwegian surnames, right?”

“They are, but I don’t know those names. Do they live at my old address? Is that why you’re asking?” The color in his face went up another degree and the icy blue of his eyes darkened a fraction.

“I don’t know. I just wondered if maybe they were related because of the similarity in the names. That’s all.”

“Not that I am aware of, but I do have many cousins. Big family. But I never heard those names.”

Ava concluded their interview unsure whether she had gained useful insights or not.

Ava sat at her desk preparing the notes on Thom Axel’s interview while simultaneously evaluating the best and quickest plan to get the information she needed about him, his Norway address, his family, and about the Mabef easel that was delivered to his previous Norway address. He could have been lying about everything. That was always a possibility, but with no way of knowing, she had to jump through the hoops to get the information that would prove it one way or the other.

A message came through while she was working. She opened the file and read the DNA reports for the blood taken from the knife in Lucia’s Fairhaven home, as well as the DNA taken from under her fingernails.

After reading the second report three times, her heart thundered and her mind reeled, leaving her in a state of disbelief and complete shock.

She printed the reports, barely able to contain herself long enough for the printer to spit out the paper. After grabbing the papers, she nearly sprinted to the bullpen where she burst through the doorway. The noisy entry drew everyone’s attention. She held the papers tightly and thrust them out in front of her.

“The DNA under her nails,” she announced as adrenaline pumped.

Metford took the papers and started reading them.

“There was a hit?” Dane asked.

“Who was it?” Ashton asked from behind his computer screens.

Metford let his hand drop and looked up. “Solomon Furlong?” he asked in confusion. “Solomon Furlong?” The disbelief dripped from his words.

“Solomon Furlong,” Ava repeated with surety. “The new librarian-slash-curator at Fairhaven Library and Center for Art Culture.” A dry laugh escaped, sounding almost like a bark.

Dane, Ashton, and Santos stared at her with wide eyes and unhinged jaws. Nobody could believe it. A man they had never thought of was involved with Lucia’s death.

Agent Weston stood on the threshold of the doorway, his foot propping the door open. “Remind me to never get mixed up in the art world,” he said.

“No worries about that. You can’t draw a stick-man, Weston,” a man commented as he walked past.

“Yeah, well, even that could sell for a million if I labeled it as abstract or some crap.” Weston held up a paper. “Guess you already got the report?” he asked Ava.

“I did. Thank you,” she answered.

Weston stepped back and let the door swing shut.

“Is there any way it could be a mistake?” Metford asked.

“Maybe they were lovers,” Santos suggested. “That would explain his DNA under her nails.” She shrugged.

“No,” Metford said definitively. “He’s not Lucia’s type. She wouldn’t go for someone like him. He’s too…too…”

“Too rigid, too overbearing, too entitled,” Ava finished for him.

“Exactly.”

“Opposites attract, though, right?” Santos continued.

“I don’t think that applies to this situation,” Dane said. “There’s something else going on besides the art world being the art world, and more than lovers hooking up, too.”

“Like what? What’s your theory?” Ava asked.

“I don’t know. It’s completely baffling; confusing.”

“I’m going to the library to arrest Furlong,” Ava said. She gave them tasks to work on while she was gone. She needed that information to back up or contradict Thom Axel’s story. “Metford?” she asked, heading for the door.

“Right behind you.”

It was a business-as-usual kind of day in the library. There were nine library patrons at tables, five tediously searching through the aisles for something to read, and twelve in the art display side of the building.

Suri Nyquist was working the front desk. She brightened up as they entered.

“Agents! May I help—”

Ava and Metford showed their badges as they walked past the counter without stopping. “Here to see Furlong,” Metford tossed as he put away the badge.

“He’s in a meeting with…” Her voice faded and she didn’t bother finishing her sentence.

It didn’t matter who he was in a meeting with. Said meeting was about to be interrupted. Ava knocked once on the closed door to Furlong’s office before opening it and walking in with her badge still out.

Rita Mae Leonard, the director of the library and cultural center, was the other person in that closed-door meeting. There were papers in one of her hands, and when she saw Ava’s badge, her fist clenched, rumpling the papers.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded as she shot up from her seat to face them.

They ignored Ms. Leonard.

“Solomon Furlong, please stand up,” Ava said, retrieving her cuffs and letting them dangle in front of her.

Furlong shook his head, his mouth agape, eyes wide. “What? Why? What’s going on?” He placed his hands flat on the desktop. His fingers curled as if he were trying to grip the flat surface with them.

“Mr. Furlong, if you don’t stand up of your own volition, I will make you stand up,” Ava said.

“I don’t understand—”

“Why are you arresting him?” Ms. Leonard demanded loudly.

“What’s the charge? I’ve done nothing,” Furlong said, raising one hand to motion toward Ms. Leonard.

Ava grabbed his wrist, Metford stepped behind his chair, and he was hauled from his seat roughly. Metford pushed the chair out of the way with his foot, and Solomon jerked his arm from Ava’s grasp as Ms. Leonard began to scream at them to stop. When Ava reached out to take Furlong’s arm again, he stepped backward and hit Metford in the chest. Metford moved with the speed that only comes with training and then field implementation over several years. Solomon Furlong was in cuffs before he could properly rebound from hitting Metford.

“You are under arrest for the murder of Lucia Garcia Martinez,” Ava said loudly.

Furlong stopped struggling and his eyes bulged.

Ms. Leonard thumped into her seat with an expression of disbelief.

After a pause of about three seconds, the chaos ramped up again, and with more frantic struggling from Furlong.

In the fracas, the desk was nearly cleared of everything sitting on it, and Metford was knocked into a tall filing cabinet that busted the drywall. Furlong rushed Ava with his hands cuffed behind his back. She dropped her hands from her defensive position, took a half-step to the side so he would miss her, and stuck out her foot. Furlong twisted to the side as he fell.

Ava stood over him. “Would you like to add assaulting a federal agent to your charges?”

“I didn’t assault anyone! And I didn’t kill anyone!” he screamed.

“We have proof to the contrary, Mr. Furlong,” Metford said, gaining his feet again. He helped pull Furlong from the floor.

As soon as his feet were firmly on the floor, Furlong bolted for the door. Ava and Metford had to chase him partway down the hall to catch him.

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” he yelled with the side of his face pressed to the wall. “I don’t even know Lucia Garcia whatever her name was,” he continued.

A small, wide-eyed crowd had gathered at the end of the hallway. Furlong took them to be his target audience and began professing his innocence. “And look how they’re treating me,” he wailed. “I think they broke my arm.”

“You got him?” Metford asked.

Ava nodded. “Yeah. Take care of them. He’s not going anywhere this time.”

Ms. Leonard appeared at Ava’s side. “This must be a mistake. An egregious one, at that. Solomon Furlong is innocent.” Her voice had that old commanding tone back, and her posture was rigid once more.

“Why would you profess his innocence, Ms. Leonard? Did you kill Lucia Garcia Martinez? Is that how you’re so sure of Mr. Furlong’s innocence?”

“How dare you even suggest such a vile thing,” Ms. Leonard exclaimed. Color rose to her cheeks. “Of course I didn’t kill anyone, but neither did Solomon. He’s quiet, keeps to himself. He is hardworking. His work ethic is the finest I’ve seen. The level of professionalism he brings to this job is astoundingly high.” She rushed through a litany of character attributes, singing Furlong’s praises while he struggled to free himself from Ava.

“I tell you what, you can be a character witness at his trial. Right now, I have to get him to the station so he can be charged.” She stepped back and yanked Furlong along in front of her.

The crowd mumbled as she walked out with Furlong. Some of them even snapped pictures with their phones. If she didn’t miss her guess, there were at least two of them recording videos of Furlong being perp-walked out of the library.

Through the entire ride back to the station, Furlong see-sawed from proclaiming his innocence to threatening them with lawsuits that would leave them destitute.

Walking into the federal building had a quieting effect on him that Ava was glad of. She put him in an interview room and stepped out.

After a half-hour, she went back in. That was enough time for him to realize he was not calling any shots and he was in serious trouble.

“I didn’t kill that girl,” he said as soon as Ava stepped through the door. “I don’t know why you think I did, but it’s a mistake.”

“Mr. Furlong, we have your DNA under a dead woman’s fingernails. How do you explain that?”

“How did my DNA get under anyone’s fingernails?”

At first, he was shocked, but then his expression shifted and the tiniest smirk played at his mouth. It never truly formed, but mixed with the cold, predatory look in his eyes, Ava knew he was barely keeping it at bay.

“That’s the very thing we’d like to know. You say you didn’t know her, correct?”

“I did not. That is correct.” A smug smile curled one corner of his mouth. “Are these really necessary?” He held up his hands to indicate the cuffs.

“Afraid so. You were quite resistant before. Violent, even. My partner took a nasty hit when you knocked him into that filing cabinet.”

“You wouldn’t fight back if two thugs came in here and just began attacking you with no explanation?”

“There was an explanation. We didn’t attack you, and we are certainly not thugs. You’re not helping your case, Mr. Furlong.”

“There is no case to help or hurt, the way I see it, Agent James.”

And there it was. The smirk as he crossed his legs and sat back in his seat as if he were holding court and having high tea instead of defending himself from murder charges.

“But there is. Your DNA—”

“Which could have gotten under her fingernails in any number of ways. Really, Agent.” He chuckled and clicked his tongue. “Shall I count the ways for you? Do your job for you?”

Ava stared at him for a moment keeping her expression neutral. Furlong wasn’t an easy man to like. He was vain, self-centered, and acted shifty as a mudslide. “You know what? Sure. Please, count the ways your DNA could have ended up under Miss Martinez’s fingernails. Please, educate me, Mr. Furlong.”

It was his turn to stare at her in silence, assessing what she might be up to with the new tactic.

“Very well,” he said, looking a bit uncomfortable, but covering it well. “Did you ever think that perhaps she and I were lovers?”

“But you said you didn’t know her.”

“Ahem. Sometimes men… hook up… with women they do not know.” Both eyebrows raised and then lowered.

“So, you’re trying to tell me that you picked up Miss Martinez? You caught her eye at the bar or something? Took her back to your place, no names exchanged?”

The smug smile returned as he sat back and laced his fingers in his lap again.

“Is this how you and Miss Martinez got together or not?” Her patience was thinner than tissue paper, and she was itching to lash out at him; wipe that smugness right off his face.

“Well, I would know better if I knew who your victim was. I told you that anonymity remains intact in those scenarios. She wouldn’t know my real name, just like I wouldn’t know hers.”

Ava opened the folder, found a picture of Lucia, but didn’t immediately show it to him. “When was the last time you picked up a woman?”

His shoulders bobbed. “It’s not like I mark the dates in my planner, Agent James.”

“One day, two? A week? Three? You must have some idea how long it’s been since you got—”

“Two weeks, or thereabouts. But we really should stop with the charade, Agent. Show me a photo of this mysterious woman, and I’ll tell you if I know her. Not that it matters.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was at an art curator convention for my position at Fairhaven’s library during the timeframe you gave me for her death. In Chelsea. Official business. Cameras everywhere and witnesses who can verify where I was, for how long, and with whom.”

“An art curator convention in Chelsea? She was found in New York City. Convenient that you were in the city but attending a convention, don’t you think?”

He shrugged and sat forward. “I can give you all the details you want. Check them for yourself.”

He gave her the details.

Ava stood and walked to the door.

“What about me?” Furlong asked.

“You’re staying for a while, Mr. Furlong. Get comfortable. This might take a while.” She left the room.

Even though there was no other evidence to tie him to Lucia’s death, the DNA under her fingernails was enough to arrest him on murder charges even if it wasn’t enough to reach trial.

Ava wasn’t at the end of her rope with the twists in the case, but the frayed and tattered end loomed very near.

Sal’s door was closed. Ava raised her hand to knock, looked at the reports in her hand, and didn’t. Instead, she went to the bullpen to update the team.

“What happened with Furlong?” Santos asked immediately.

“He’s in holding,” Ava said, putting the papers on the table. “We’ve got a problem, though.”

“That’s just great,” Metford said. “What now?”

“It’s Furlong. He was really in the city and at a convention for the whole three days that he said he was.” She pushed the papers away from her. “It’s all in there, and I watched the footage for myself. He was there, and there were no times when he wasn’t on the premises of the hotel and convention. It’s almost like he made a point of being there in front of the cameras.”

“So, maybe he is working with the killer,” Dane offered. “He’s the distraction to keep us looking in the wrong direction.”

“I like the way you think. Thing is, I don’t know which direction to look now. There’s no evidence to point toward anyone else. Aldridge, the YouTube kid, and Furlong. That’s it.” She tossed up her hands in frustration.

“And the blue-eyed Jesus,” Santos reminded them.

“Right. How could I forget him?”

“Says here that George Bosworth III sponsored the art curator event at one of his high-end hotels in Chelsea,” Metford said. “He’s another one from the Reese case. What’s with that?”

“I don’t know what to make of it yet,” Ava admitted. “Maybe there was more to that last case than was uncovered. If there wasn’t, all these people from that case wouldn’t keep popping up in this case.”

“Have you talked to Sal? She might have a theory,” Ashton suggested.

“No, her door was closed.” Ava picked up the papers.

“And since when did that stop you?” Metford asked.

“I have my own theory.”

“So, now you don’t need or want anyone else’s? What’s your theory?” He pulled out a chair and sat, motioning toward one close by for her.

“I told you. I think Aldridge was into human trafficking and drugs. Probably for a while.”

“Yeah, and I thought that, too. But if he’s been in the thick of it for a while, then why all this trouble just recently? He was never suspected before. His sponsorship programs were never questioned. At least, not publicly. There was no noise around him or his associates or his peers. Only praises. So, what’s changed?”

Dane cleared her throat. “His wife and brother-in-law got put in prison for murdering his mistress and several other people. That’s one thing. A big one. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but I don’t see how it could be causing all these same people to keep appearing in relation to this new murder case,” Metford said.

Ava stood. “I’m going to talk with Sal. This isn’t getting us any closer to who might have killed Lucia or Aldridge.” She stalked to Sal’s door and knocked.

“Come in,” Sal called.

Ava stepped into the office.

“Uh-oh. I know that look. What happened?” She removed her glasses and dropped them on the desk.

“It’s Furlong. His alibi checks out.” She indicated the papers she’d carried in. “It’s all in here, and I watched the video footage.”

“And?”

She didn’t want to run her theory by Sal, but she knew she’d better. Sal was removed from the cases just enough that, sometimes, she had a vantage point allowing her to see things Ava and the others missed.

“And, I think there’s more going on than meets the eye here.”

“Sherlock Holmes moment?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, there’s always more going on than meets the eye in our cases. That’s the nature of this job—to find out what it is that’s not being seen.”

“That’s not what I meant. There’s more going on that’s left over from the Reese case. These cases have to be related. The people from the Reese case must be involved with whatever bigger picture there is. The Aldridges were into something massive and they were running it through their art connections. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“No. You’re not going there, Ava. You have nothing concrete. This is just a wild speculation, and it’s one that could rain hell down on me, on you, on all of us in this department if it is untrue and unfounded.” Sal pushed away from the desk, her brow furrowed.

“How can you even think it would be untrue or unfounded? It has to be true. I’ve twisted this case like a pretzel and that’s the only thing that makes sense. The Aldridges were into trafficking, and they were using their art world connections as a front. There’s no telling how many others are involved in this thing, but we’ll never find out unless we investigate it.”

“I won’t have you dragging Connor Aldridge through the mud. He was a celebrity in this town, and he was very influential in New York City. He came away from the Reese case with the sympathy of nearly everyone in Fairhaven. He looked like a victim then, and now? He definitely looks like a victim—he’s dead,” she said loudly. “So, no. You won’t mention this theory to anyone until you can bring enough concrete evidence to convince me. If you can’t do that, you will investigate his murder and the murder of Lucia Garcia Martinez, and you will leave it at that. Do we understand each other, Ava?”

“But—”

“No,” Sal cut her off. “There are no ‘buts’ in this. It’s an order. Tell me you understand. I don’t want to remove you from the case, but if you don’t give me a choice, I will.”

Her expression gave no hint that she would consider any other action just because she and Ava were friends.

“Fine.”

Sal cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes, I understand.”

“Okay.” Her phone rang.

Ava took that as her cue to exit.

She wasn’t as angry as she would have been before. Instead of going straight to anger, her mind raced with the ways she could possibly uncover Aldridge’s nefarious deeds while keeping her focus on solving his murder. Where there was a will…

She stepped into her office and shut the door, needing a few moments of silence to think and plan, but before she made it to her seat, Sal opened the door with only a perfunctory knock first.

“Ava, I want you to go and release Furlong immediately.”

“What? I need to—”

“No, you don’t. I just got off the phone with his lawyer. He’s going to be here any minute. Seems that, somehow, he got ahold of the test results before we did.”

“What test results? I have all the results from Lucia’s testing, and from the scene. There were no other tests being done that I was made aware of.”

“It seems that he had some tests run on the evidence from Lucia’s murder case. There were trace amounts of plastic under Lucia’s fingernails, and Furlong’s lawyer is arguing that since his client’s alibi checked out, the DNA must have been planted.”

“When did he have this testing done? Why didn’t anyone inform me, or one of the team?”

Sal shook her head. “I don’t know all the details, but this lawyer is one of the best. He has a ridiculous win-rate, and a reputation for tearing apart cases. He can use the smallest, most minute piece of evidence and make the entire FBI look like bumbling idiots in the courtroom.”

Ava and Sal turned to the door as someone knocked.

“I got it,” Sal said, moving toward the door. She peered through the glass at the side of the door. “God, it’s him.” After letting out a long breath, she pasted on a smile and opened the door.

A tall man with short, black hair and rimless glasses walked into the room without waiting to be invited. His angular features made him look like a bird.

A vulture, Ava thought. “Not much for social cues, I see.” She caught Sal’s scowl. “Come in. I’m—”

“I’m aware of who you are, Special Agent Aviva James. I am Hugh Camden. Solomon Furlong’s lawyer.” He placed his attaché case atop the papers on Ava’s desk, simultaneously shoving her nameplate, penholder, and stapler to the side in a noisy clatter of metal and wood.

“Excuse me,” Ava said, grabbing the stapler so it wouldn’t topple to the floor. “Mr. Camden—”

“Sorry, but I am in a bit of a hurry. It seems that you have held my client unjustly for far too long.” He produced the test results. “You will find here that trace amounts of plastic were found underneath the victim’s fingernails along with my client’s DNA.”

Ava looked at the paper. Sal moved to her side and read over them as well. “And what do you think this changes?” Ava asked.

“It is my belief, my very strong belief, that my client’s DNA was planted under the victim’s fingernails.”

Ava looked at the test results again, and then at Sal.

Sal clasped her hands in front and kept her pasted-on smile. “How does this indicate planted DNA? All I’m seeing is that Miss Martinez also had plastic under her nails.”

“In the past, in two of my countless cases, it was proven that DNA can be collected from a person—in this case, Mr. Furlong—and kept in the plastic. This could be skin cells and hair from a brush, DNA from a toothbrush, or even something as simple as a discarded napkin he used to wipe his hands on. The DNA can then be placed wherever the criminal wants to place it. In this case, underneath the victim’s fingernails. To do that, the criminal would push the plastic under the fingernails and use an implement—think toothpick or metal fingernail file—to then push the DNA onto the skin under the victim’s fingernail, thus leaving trace amounts of the plastic to be found along with the DNA of the innocent person. In this case—”

“Yeah, Mr. Furlong. We get it,” Ava said, tossing the paper toward the open case. “And you know, it might be halfway believable if your client was a little less sketchy. When Teagan Reese was brutally murdered, he disappeared for a—”

“Agent James,” Sal said sternly. “That will be all for now. Go release Mr. Furlong.”

Ava looked from her to Camden, thought about finishing her statement, and then bit her tongue. It was best not to let the likes of Camden see that Sal had an argumentative agent who didn’t always follow orders.

Bristling, Ava stalked out of her own office to get Furlong.

Furlong left with a smug look of superiority and triumph on his face that left Ava reeling. How could anyone be so crass? If he wasn’t guilty, that expression sure made it seem otherwise. Succeeding in biting her tongue when Sal called her out in front of Camden had been hard, but not flying off on Furlong had been unbearable. Until he was out the door and heading toward Camden’s car, Ava fumed.

“Hey, you okay?” Metford asked from behind her.

Turning from the door, she faced him but looked toward the bullpen. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just freaking peachy.” She went to her office with Metford following.

“At least he wasn’t on trial and then got off on a technicality.”

“Is that your idea of a pep talk?” She shot him a withering look.

“I guess not since it didn’t seem to work.”

“His alibi checked out. They were right. We had no choice but to let him go. It was the smug way he acted that burns my—”

“That burns your what?” Sal asked from the doorway where she was blocked by Metford. He stepped aside, and she entered.

Ava clamped her mouth shut and braced a hand against her desk. “So, he’s gone. Now what?”

“Well, I don’t know. What’s next on your list? You’re lead on both these cases. Get your head in the game. We need you to be able to work this out, think around it, twist the twists until you come up with a lead.”

“I’ve twisted the twists and turns, but this case keeps taking left turns quicker than I can think around them.”

“Something will come to you. It always does.” Sal turned to leave. “Metford, it’s lunch time. Maybe you two should go somewhere to get lunch and talk this thing out.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered.

Sal stopped on the other side of the doorway. “Just not the breakroom. I don’t want everyone hearing whatever you two hash out.” She looked pointedly at Ava.

“Well, we could go grab a bite to eat. It’s already past lunch. I’m convinced you can survive on air most of the time. You’ll have to let me in on your secret one day.”

Ava laughed. “You of all people should know better than that. You’ve seen my appetite a few times.”

“How long had you been going and not eating before those few times when you ate as much as I did?”

She shrugged. “That’s not important.”

They started toward the door, and Ava kept thinking about the look on Furlong’s face as he walked out that way moments earlier.

“So what are you thinking?” Metford asked as they stepped outside.

“Something I’ve already mentioned. Aldridge, trafficking, art world as a cover.” She sighed and unlocked her car door. “Sal doesn’t want me ruffling any feathers since he was such a good guy,” Ava related sarcastically.

“He was really good for the charities and the community. Can’t argue with that,” Metford countered.

Ava stopped. “He’s a piece of crap, Metford. Did you forget that?”

“We don’t know that, Ava. All we have are the few people who had some suspicions about him. There’s no proof—”

“That’s right. I forgot you’re on Sal’s side with this. You never thought Aldridge was guilty of anything.”

“Ava, you know I’m just—”

“It’s okay. Every criminal has that one person who thinks they’re innocent, no matter what. Just like Ms. Leonard is with Furlong.” She opened the door and got in.

Metford got in. “Yeah, but she didn’t always think so highly of him. I’m not wishy-washy, at least.” He buckled his seatbelt. “Where are we going to eat? I’m starved.”

“You’re always starved.” Ava started the car. “You’re right. She didn’t have faith in him after Teagan’s murder.”

“No, she didn’t. What about Wendy’s?”

“Why would she change her mind so suddenly?”

“I don’t know. I could go for a double—”

“Come to think of it, why did she give him that position at all? She had reservations about him before, and that’s why Teagan got that job instead of him.”

“Does this mean we’re not going to Wendy’s?”

“I have to go talk to Ms. Leonard first.” She headed in that direction.

“I was afraid of that.”

“Want me to drop you off somewhere so you can eat?” she snapped.

“Of course not. I’m just giving you a hard time. Lighten up some.”

“I would if I could. Lucia’s case is falling apart all around us. We aren’t even sure if she was killed here or if she was killed in New York. Then there is Connor’s case, and we both know that’s going nowhere fast. Now, I have to come up with a viable lead before both cases are dead in the water.”

“Dead in the water? Seriously? Bit soon to be making jokes, isn’t it?”

“Metford, you are impossible. You know I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t make jokes about murders. Especially not about the victims.”

“But you can think the victims are ruthless animals all day long, right?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think about the victim. It’s my job to solve the murder, and that’s what I plan to do. If I uncover evidence of activity that proves one of the victims was a sadistic monster, so be it.”

At the library, Metford accompanied Ava inside. There were few patrons in either side of the building, but a young artist event was in full swing in the smaller building.

Rita Leonard was in her office with the phone to her ear when Ava walked in unannounced. The startled look on her face spoke volumes. She cut the conversation off, telling the other party she would have to call them back. She hung up.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this spontaneous little visit, Special Agent James? Have you come to wrongly arrest me as well?”

“No, but I could change my mind rather quickly, so why don’t you drop the high and mighty attitude and just answer some questions for me?”

“Very well. I’ll do my best.” Ms. Leonard laid the phone on her desk, giving it a look of distaste. “Whenever you’re ready, Agent. If we could please move this along. I do have business to attend to.”

“I have two murders to solve, Ms. Leonard. Until I do, there is a killer running around unchecked. If you don’t get to your business, the worst that happens is someone’s artwork doesn’t get the praise it deserves, or the next best-selling novel is late being ordered. Perspective.”

“If you only knew how wrong your assumptions are about what I do here; about what the Center does for this town.”

“I’m sure I’ve heard. I’m not here to discuss all your contributions to the community. All I really want to know is what changed your mind about Solomon Furlong over such a short period of time.”

Looking flustered, Rita sat straighter in her seat—a feat which Ava had thought for sure couldn’t happen. “I don’t understand what you mean?” She chortled and looked everywhere but at Ava.

“Your opinion of Mr. Furlong. It changed. Drastically, since the last time we spoke. You remember that, don’t you? Your librarian and curator at the time was found brutally murdered in this very building.”

Rita held up a hand in a please-stop gesture. “Please, Agent. There’s no need to drag up the ghastly details. Yes, I remember. I also recall that I was in a highly emotional state when we spoke.”

“Really? Because you seemed quite the opposite. You also seemed sure that Furlong could have been involved. As I recall, you had very little good to say about him. Are we remembering the same event?”

“He’s proven that he isn’t a bad person over the last months. I was wrong in my assessment.”

“You were wrong in your assessment?”

“Yes. I’m sure you’ve been wrong before, as well. Just look at the mess you created when you wrongly arrested Mr. Furlong earlier. Everyone has the potential to be wrong. Sometimes.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

“How wrong were you? Just a little? Or completely?”

Rita’s eyes darted and color rose to her cheeks. “Very wrong. Solomon isn’t volatile, hotheaded, or anything else I might have said after Teagan’s death. He has shown that he is quite level-headed and compassionate. And I would be remiss if I failed to mention that he is better at the job than I ever imagined he could be. Better even than Teagan.” She gave a curt nod for emphasis.

“Why wasn’t he appointed to the position in the first place then? I wouldn’t think it’s a position you hand out just to see if that person is the right one for the job; just to see if they know what they’re doing. Were there no other candidates?”

After several seconds of floundering—something Rita Mae Leonard wasn’t suited to doing—she shrugged. An action that was out of character for her. She was suited to shrugging like she was suited to floundering.

Ava imitated the shrug. “What does that mean? You don’t know?”

Rita glared at her.

“Or you don’t want to say?”

Rita looked away. It was brief, but it was enough to give Ava her answer.

“Why wouldn’t you want to tell me why you chose to give the position to Furlong?”

Rita held her silence uncomfortably.

Ava’s mind raced and reached for possible answers. “Is it because he wasn’t your choice? So, who wanted him in that position?”

“He does a good job. Can’t you leave it at that?”

“No, actually, I can’t. Look at you. You got all edgy and silent when I asked. Who wanted him as the librarian-slash-curator for Fairhaven, Ms. Leonard? Why didn’t you find someone else, like the temp you had in here right after Teagan’s death?”

“Because the donors wanted him to be in that position,” she blurted loudly. “That’s why,” she added in a low voice with her eyes averted.

“Which donors?”

“Do you ever just get an answer and go away?”

“Rarely, though it has been known to happen, but only when I get the answer I’m looking for.”

“Which is?”

“Which donors wanted Furlong in his current position?”

“I can’t disclose that type of information.”

“Yes, you can. This is a murder investigation, Ms. Leonard.”

“It would cause an uproar among the community. And the donors.” She looked at Ava. “And in the art world, I suppose, as well.”

“I need that list, and if you’ve learned anything about me, it’s that I won’t stop until I get it. The only question is: How far are you willing to let me go to get it? I can get it now, quietly, just between the two of us, or I can make all kinds of noise and make your life difficult.”

“Stop. Just stop.” Rita moved the office chair closer to the desk and pulled up a screen on the computer. After opening several protected and hidden files, she hit the print button and closed everything down.

The printer behind Ava whirred to life and spit out three pages.

“Take it. That’s what you wanted,” Rita said, motioning to the printer. “Please, take it and leave.”

“Thank you. I’ll do that.” She stood and took the papers. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Rita clicked her tongue, her mouth twisting to the side in distaste. “Please leave my office, Agent. You’ve caused me enough strife for one day. Good day, and I hope you get the answers you’re looking for.” She put on her glasses and started working at the computer again.

Ava left. Metford was in the corridor that connected the library wing to the art wing. He tilted his head to one side and then far to the other as he examined an abstract, life-size sculpture. It was an exaggerated move that made him look goofy.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Let’s go.”

“What is this thing?” He pointed to the sculpture.

“It’s a sculpture. Let’s go. I have an updated list of donors.”

“Do they have it upside-down?” He tilted his head again.

“No, Metford, I don’t think so.” She headed for the door and glanced at the list as she walked. Just outside the door, she stopped and read the first two names again.

Karl Harmon. George Bosworth III.

Metford came out still debating whether the sculpture was upside-down. Ava held up the paper.

“We have another lead,” she announced over top of his words.

He stopped and read over the first paper. “What’s the lead? Looks like the same list we got during the Reese case.”

“It is. Kind of.” She got in the car and he followed.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that since Teagan’s murder, Karl Harmon and George Bosworth III have nearly doubled their already overly-generous donations to Fairhaven Library and Center for Art Culture.”

“Maybe they’re just trying to make up for what the center lost when Aldridge was killed.”

“No. This list was compiled ten days ago.” She handed him the list and pointed out the date.

“What do you think it means? These people don’t always give the same amount when they contribute, do they?”

“Rita Leonard said the only reason she gave Furlong his position was because the donors wanted him in that position.”

“Not because she wanted him there?”

“Right. She wasn’t happy about giving me the information, which makes me believe her.”

“But I don’t understand how this is a lead.”

“Why did Harmon and Bosworth want Furlong to have that job so badly? Were the doubled donation amounts some sort of bribe to ensure that Leonard would not give them any trouble about it?”

“That line of thinking opens up a whole new can of worms.”

She smiled. “Indeed, it does.”

When the tox screens came back for Lucia and Connor, even though the cases weren’t related according to Sal and the suits upstairs, Ava wasn’t shocked to discover that both victims had been drugged before their deaths. She took the news to Sal.

“Okay, so they were both drugged before they were killed,” Sal said. “That doesn’t make the cases related. Not in the way you’re heading, anyway. Killers often drug their victims so they don’t have to worry about the struggle and the noise alerting others.”

“They were both drugged with Rohypnol.”

“The date-rape drug?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought it wasn’t legal to manufacture or use in the United States.”

“It’s not legal to manufacture, use, or sell here, but it is widely available in other countries.” Ava hoped the message came across without her having to spell it out.

Sal tapped her finger against the desktop. The wheels were grinding.

“It’s still found to be a problem here, as I think about it. Whoever really wanted to buy some could get it, I’m sure. Law enforcement does still get cases to handle in the eighteen-to-thirty-year-old group. Mostly bars and around colleges. But who does that give us for suspects now? Someone had connections with the kind of people who could get that drug.”

“And the killer would have to get it from someone who wouldn’t think too much about him buying such a drug. He wouldn’t want to raise any eyebrows, so he would have to be someone who fit in with that crowd.”

“That doesn’t narrow the focus much.”

“No, and our killer isn’t some junkie off the street. He’s also not someone who would leave loose ends by buying Rohypnol off the streets. He’s a lot of things, but dumb, strung-out, and careless are not on that list.”

Sal’s finger went still. “You’re thinking he had a direct source for it, aren’t you?”

Ava took a deep breath.

“No, don’t. I know where this is going. Don’t twist the facts in the cases to fit your theory. Just don’t do that. Follow them where they lead, but don’t twist them to fit. We’re going to move on without another word on this. The drugging would explain why the victims didn’t have defensive wounds.”

“But that also leads me to another big question,” Ava said.

“What question?”

“The DNA under Lucia’s fingernails. How’d it get there if it wasn’t from scratching her attacker?”

“I hate to say it, but maybe Furlong’s story wasn’t so farfetched. Maybe they did hook up, as much as that makes me cringe to even think about.”

“I’m not buying that,” Ava said. “There was no sign of sexual activity recently, and there would have been evidence. I had the lab run the test again just to be sure. No signs of sexual activity. So, why was his DNA under her nails?”

“Could she have unknowingly handled something that Furlong had touched recently? Touch-transfer DNA?”

“No. There was too much for that. There was enough that it looked as if she might have scratched him. Touch DNA is only trace amounts. I think it’s possible that Camden was right.”

“Really? You think someone planted Furlong’s DNA under Lucia’s fingernails?”

“You told me to follow the facts and not twist them. That’s the conclusion I come to when I follow those facts. The next question is who had the knowledge to use Rohypnol and plant DNA? Then you have to consider who had access to Furlong’s DNA to be able to obtain it. Now I’m wondering what all was planted and staged at the scenes by the same person. How smart is this killer?”

“In one way, killers aren’t smart at all. In the wrong ways, they’re flipping geniuses.” She grinned. “That’s why I have you, though. You have the uncanny ability, or gift, to be able to get into their mindset and see things from their perspectives. Do that with these cases and figure out the answers to all those questions. I’ve no doubt you can do it.”

Ava talked to Sal about the cases for a few more minutes, and every time the subject even remotely looked as if it would take a turn and lead to trafficking and the art world, Sal shut it down.

In the bullpen, Ava walked to the evidence boards. “Where’s the suspect list? It was right here.” She put her finger on the board and turned to the team.

“It’s written in dry erase at the top left, boss,” Santos said without looking up from her work. She was bent to the task of entering a report, and she squinted at the paper as her fingers moved methodically over the keyboard.

“I need the paper copy. I put it here with a—”

“You put it in the folder,” Metford said.

Ava looked at the folders on the table to her side. “Which folder’s the question.”

“The Martinez folder,” he replied. “Do we have another suspect to add to it?”

“No.” She pulled the paper from the folder and read it over and over.

Metford met her as she walked toward the door. “Taking Furlong off it because of his lawyer?”

“No.” She opened the door and headed for her office.

“He’s staying on the list, then?”

“For now,” she said.

Metford stepped into the office behind Ava. “Want to talk about it?”

She sat at the desk. “The tox screen results are back for both cases.” She handed him the results.

“Rohypnol. That’s an old one. And they both had the same thing in their systems.”

“They did.” She looked over the suspect list.

“What’s with the suspect list?”

“I’m just letting it sink in that we really don’t have one. Dusty doesn’t fit, and there was no physical evidence linking him to either death other than a set of sculpted monkeys he sold years ago. Furlong’s DNA was under Lucia’s fingernails, but that was likely planted, and nothing was found tying him to Aldridge’s murder. And then, there’s Thom Axel.”

“He came in without even being asked,” Metford pointed out.

“I know.” She pushed the paper away and sighed. “Which, after interviewing him, I should mark him off the list, too, but something about all the convoluted coincidences gives me pause. Too many similar names, and that he used to live in Gamle Oslo. I don’t know. Something just feels off about it all.” She covered her face with both hands and leaned her head back.

“If something about him is bothering you so much, you should—”

She sat forward, uncovering her face. “Investigate him until the feeling goes away.” She stood.

“Or until you uncover the reason for the feeling.” He stood and followed her out of the room and into the bullpen.

“Ashton,” she called.

Ashton poked his head up from behind a bank of monitors at the other end of the room. “Here. What’s up?”

She made a beeline to him. “I need you to look up all the property holdings listed under the name Thom Axel.”

“You got it.” He set to work immediately.

“How long?”

“Few minutes.” He kept working, never missing a keystroke.

She paced to the evidence boards. The picture of the expensive easel that was shipped to Thom’s old Norway address hung between the autopsy photos of Lucia and Connor. The easel had been found in Lucia’s apartment, but it had been ordered by Connor. There had to be more to the story behind it than what Thom Axel had told her.

“Got a hit,” Ashton said.

“What?” Ava walked back to him.

“Got an apartment in New York City.”

“That’s it? There’s nothing in Norway? Any other country?”

“I can try to dig further into it, but don’t be surprised if it comes back as only that apartment. Not the easiest thing to get international records like that.”

“If you can’t find any properties in his name in Norway, then find out all you can about him and his life there. Anything and everything you can dig up.” She patted his shoulder. “If the information’s out there, I know you can find it.”

“Give me an hour or two, and I’ll have his life history, or what there is of it on the internet.”

“Call me when you have something.”

“Will do.”

Pages were already opening on the monitors, and Ava was tempted to stand there reading over them, but she had other work to concentrate on.

In her office, she went over all the interviews she had conducted in both cases, paying special attention to Thom’s. Again, the feeling of something being off about his stories washed over her, and again, she was sure there was more to his tale than he wanted them to find out.

Ashton knocked at the door. Ninety minutes had gone by in a flash. He entered holding several sheets of paper.

“Is that all about Thom Axel?” Ava asked, holding out her hand for the pages.

“It is. I knew you’d want them printed even though I compiled the pertinent information into a single file and sent it to your email.”

“Thank you.” She took the papers.

“The digi-file will make it easier to fill out the reports, anyway.”

“Tell me what you found,” she said, even as her eyes roamed over the pages, plucking information about her newest obsession.

“Four years ago, Axel’s wife disappeared in Oslo. He dropped off the radar for three years after that, and then reappeared in New York City with a fully realized life that included his apartment and his job with Aldridge. What it didn’t include was any mention of how investigators in Oslo had pegged him as the prime suspect in his wife’s disappearance. He was forty-one when she disappeared. He’s forty-five now. Beyond that, there is little about his past.”

“He said he had failed at being an artist, actor, and sculptor, what about that? Anything?”

“There was no record of him ever being on the scene in any of those capacities. No records of him ever auditioning for any acting roles from stage to screen, no record of him ever being an extra, or even a crewmember. Nothing about any of his artwork in any medium.”

“What about in Norway? Any records there?”

“Nope. I ran checks all over Europe and in the United States. Nothing. It’s as if he stepped out of his old life in Norway and into the US as a deliveryman for the Aldridges.”

“Did he live off-grid during the three missing years?”

“There’s no way to be sure, but that’s what I suspect because even if he had changed his name, I believe I would have gotten a hit, or some indication of it.”

“Thank you, Ashton. You really are the best.” She laid the reports on her desk and began reading them. It was a force of habit. She had to read it for herself although she was certain Ashton had told her the most important details.

Aldridge Headquarters wasn’t thrilled to be sending Ava the requested information about Thom Axel’s deliveries over the past two weeks, and the receptionist had refused to talk to her about it.

After another fifteen minutes of speaking to Gina’s bosses, twisting some arms, Ava received a file via email. She opened it, thinking that Ashton would have smiled if he had seen her using the digi-file instead of demanding a paper copy.

Thom Axel had made a delivery to a small gallery in Chelsea two evenings before Lucia’s body was found. Ava went to see Ashton again.

“I need you to pull footage from the traffic cameras two days before Lucia was found.”

Ashton rolled his chair to another set of monitors. “Two days before. What’s the location?”

Ava gave him the address to the gallery in Chelsea.

“That’s close to where Furlong attended the convention.”

“It isn’t far from the hotel, and I’m thinking that, possibly, the delivery I’m looking for had something to do with that very convention.”

Ashton glanced up at her.

“Or, maybe it doesn’t. Either I’ll get to mark it off the list and move on, or I’ll have to look into it further.”

“I’m looking for Thom Axel?”

“Yes. He was supposed to have made a delivery to the gallery. I want to see what it was, or at the very least, who signed for it.”

“I’ve got the perfect angle right here.” He maneuvered through pages and commands so fast that his fingers were a blur. “What time do you need it to start?”

Ava consulted her notes. “It says the delivery was at eight that evening. Let’s start there.”

The footage rolled at twice its normal speed. After a few minutes, Ashton sped it up again. After three more minutes of inconsequential traffic, a delivery van pulled into view and a man got out.

“There,” Ava said. “Slow it to normal speed.”

The driver appeared at the back of the van and opened the doors. Several seconds passed after he climbed inside. A man came out of the alley by the gallery, crossed the street, and waited at the back of the van by the open doors. He seemed to be speaking to the driver at one point. He kept looking up and down the street until the driver hopped to the pavement, motioned toward the open doors, and then went back to the driver’s door and got in.

The other man pulled a manually operated lift as he walked backward. The crate was on the lift when it came into sight. The wooden crate was large, and if the movement of the lift was an indication, the package inside was heavy.

The man took the crate across the street, into the alley beside the gallery, and out of sight. The same place he had come from.

“Where the…” Ava moved closer to the screen and squinted. “Can you brighten that area? I can’t see him anymore.”

“It’s as bright as it gets. It’s too dark for the camera to pick up where he stopped. I didn’t see a light, so wherever he went, there weren’t any lights.”

“There could be a dumpster or something there blocking your view,” Metford said from behind Ava.

“I’ve seen that alley,” Ava said. “There is a side door to the gallery a little way down, but I can’t tell if that’s where he went.”

The van drove off into traffic.

“He didn’t even get his lift back,” Metford said around a mouthful of sandwich.

Ava looked at him and wrinkled her nose at the sandwich. “Maybe he didn’t need it anymore. Like you don’t need any more of those gut grenades from the vending machine.”

“It’s bologna and cheese. Bologna doesn’t go bad, does it?” He eyed the quarter that was left in his hand dubiously.

“Any food can go bad,” Ashton said.

“Honey doesn’t,” Santos corrected.

“And technically, neither—”

“Okay, I don’t want to get a whole cooking show episode going here. I just want to know who that man was and what was in that crate,” Ava said, cutting Dane’s words off. She turned to Metford. “You think we can do that? Or should we go to the doctor for your impending gut rot?”

Grinning, Metford folded what was left of the sandwich in half and stuck it in his mouth. “I’ll be fine.” He dusted breadcrumbs off his hands. “Let’s find out what was in that crate.”

“The driver was Thom Axel,” Ashton said. “I captured a picture of him in the driver’s seat and standing outside the driver’s door when he was under the light of both streetlamps.” He pointed in the direction of the printer and it started printing. “The images are printing now.”

“Thanks,” Ava said, heading to the printer.

“What do you want me to do?” Metford asked.

“Right now, I want you to stay away from the vending machine and help the others. Talk to Lucia’s friends, acquaintances, or Connor’s friends, peers, employees, or sponsor program enrollees. I have a call to make before we go back in the field.”

In her office, Ava dialed Thom Axel’s number.

“Agent James, how may I be of assistance today?” Axel asked as his way of answering the phone call.

“Glad to know you have my name saved in your phone, Mr. Axel.”

“Thom. Please, call me Thom. Would this be a social call, Agent?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I was calling to ask about a delivery you had last week.”

“I had a few. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“It was around eight in the evening to a small art gallery in Chelsea.”

“I see you have my delivery list from HQ.”

“I do, Mr. Axel.”

“Specifically, what did you need to know about that delivery?”

“What was the delivery? Was it a sculpture, a painting, what?”

He chuckled. “How would I know that? If you recall, I already explained that I don’t always know what’s in the deliveries, and I am not in the habit of opening crates that I deliver. I just drop them off wherever and whenever I’m told to. The curators or one of the Aldridges always took care of whatever came afterward. Delivering undamaged packages on time and to the proper address is my business. I’m afraid snooping through packages isn’t part of my routine.”

“I understand, and I had forgotten that you said that, actually.”

A short, dry laugh was his initial response. “I highly doubt a detective as astute as you forgot that important of a detail, but I digress. Who am I to say what you remember and what you don’t?”

“Who took that delivery?” she asked, ignoring his response.

“No one.”

“No one? Someone had to take possession of it, didn’t they? You didn’t just drop it on the sidewalk and leave it, did you?”

“No, of course not. I took it into the building where there is a secure area for drop-offs. I can give you the combination to the lock, if you want it.”

“You’re saying that no one signed for the delivery, no one took possession of it, and that you never saw anyone else during that delivery?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying, Agent James. I took it inside and put it in the secure drop location, and I locked the door as I left.”

Ava thanked him and got off the phone. Now, she had two definite suspects. Thom Axel, and the man who took the crate from him and disappeared into the alley.

She opened the office door, and Metford was coming across the hall from the bullpen. She motioned him over.

“Done with your phone call?” he asked.

“I am. We have two suspects now. Thom Axel, and the man who took the crate.”

“You got that from the phone call? Did you get the other guy’s name?”

“No, but Thom Axel’s story doesn’t line up,” she said with a little smile. “He’s either confused or he’s lying. Not sure which, and he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy that gets easily confused.”

“What do you think was in the delivery that he would lie to the FBI about?”

She walked behind her desk and looked out the window. “I’m not sure, but I can’t help but wonder if it was Lucia.”

Metford laughed and quickly covered it with a cough as Ava turned to glare at him. He held up a hand as if in surrender. “You think it might have been Lucia in that wooden crate?”

He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, drop the grin that said he thought she was half crazy for even considering the idea. And there it was again, even from the one person on the team who said they had her back, and that he would support her when she needed it. Maybe she was half crazy, but it wasn’t for thinking Lucia could have been in that crate, it was for actually starting to think she really had support for her theories.

“What’s so out-there about that? Do we know for sure if Lucia was murdered in Astoria?”

The grin dropped a fraction as he shook his head. “No, I guess we don’t.”

“Do we know if she was killed in her Fairhaven home?”

The grin disappeared completely. Metford cleared his throat and shook his head again. “No, we don’t. Okay, if it was her, and I’m not saying I think it was, in that crate, then how did she get from the gallery to Cocaine Castle where she was found?”

He might have said he didn’t quite believe her theory, but she had planted the seed, and he would have no choice but to think about it.

“The man who took the crate had a large enough vehicle to transport her. I know there’s no concrete proof of what was in that delivery, and this isn’t a theory I’m willing to bring to anyone else until there is proof. It stays between us, right?”

“Sure. Lips zipped on this one.”

“I’m going to see if I can find out what was in that delivery,” she said, sitting at her desk. “That means I need to call Aldridge Headquarters again.” She exhaled deeply. “Unless you want to make the call this time.”

“No, thank you.” Metford stood so fast it was startling. He spun toward the door. “Got… stuff to do. Good luck.” He was out the door before she could say anything else.

Almost a half-hour later, she hung up the phone and bit back a loud groan. No one at the Aldridge HQ could find anything about the contents of the crate. There was no record of where it originated from, either. How could a successful business not have those records?

As frustrating as it was, Ava believed it gave more credence to her theory. Of course, there would be no information about it if it was Lucia’s body.

“A corpse or drugs,” she said in a low voice. “Naturally, the records would have been altered, or parts of them left out.”

She went to the bullpen and stood in front of the evidence board staring at Connor Aldridge’s photo. “What were you up to?” she asked aloud without thinking about it.

“Almost six feet, according to the records,” Metford said.

“Had to be something that pissed off a lot of people,” Dane said.

“Something that pissed off the wrong people,” Santos said as she walked by on her way to her desk.

Ava left them to their debate and went to Ashton at the back of the room, where, as usual, he was hunkered over a keyboard and surrounded by computer monitors.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked only glancing in her direction.

“I need you to grab more footage for me.”

He cleared two of the monitors and stopped typing. “From where, and for what times?”

“I need footage from any cameras that show all the Aldridge properties, including galleries, in New York City. See if that van or Thom Axel picks up any deliveries from any of those places within the twenty-four hours prior to Lucia’s body being discovered.”

An hour later, she checked back with Ashton, and he had found nothing. Not one single package being picked up at any of Aldridge’s properties in the city.

“I even went back further. Forty-eight hours prior. Nothing,” he said.

“Did you look at footage from every property already?”

“I did. Well, I had a little help, too. The Geek Squad helped me scrub through the footage. They’ve got a really fantastic AI program that…” He saw the look on her face and stopped. “Anyway, it’s a useful tool,” he finished lamely.

“I need you to pull more footage.”

“Sure.”

“I need a twenty-four-hour period prior to the time the van was spotted at the gallery in Chelsea.”

“Twenty-four. Prior,” he said, noting it on a pad by the keyboard. “Somewhere else in New York?”

“No.” Ava looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was paying attention to her conversation. “Here.”

Ashton’s pen moved above the paper but didn’t touch it. He blinked several times, and Ava could almost see the spinning buffering wheel that appeared on computer screens when a page loaded slowly.

He looked up at her, bewildered. “Here? The federal building? Why?”

“No. Not here, here, but in Fairhaven.”

“Right.” He touched the pen to the paper, but it was as if his hand refused to write anything. He looked at her again. “Address. Or street.”

He was back online. Quick recovery, and still no questions even though he was obviously confused.

“The road from Lucia’s house.”

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

He scribbled one word: All. “That’s going to take considerably longer to pull.”

“I got faith in you, Ash. Call me when you’re done.”

“One more question. What exactly am I looking for this time?”

“The delivery van from the other footage. But keep an eye out for any box trucks, moving vans, or any vehicle large enough to handle that size crate easily.”

He nodded once and went straight to work.

She liked that about Ashton. He didn’t question her ten ways from Sunday. He only wanted details of whichever task he needed to complete. Then, he accomplished the task and delivered the results. No fuss, no muss, and no judgmental quips or grins.

After a quick foray into Lucia’s hardcopy file on the evidence table, Ava walked to where Metford and Santos were discussing the pros and cons of wearing seatbelts while on the job.

“Hey, you two, we have more work to do,” she said, motioning them to her.

“That looks a lot like a list of phone numbers,” Metford said, eyeing the list in her hand.

“That’s because it is. Lucia’s friends and acquaintances. Couple of coworkers, too. You’re both going to help me call them.”

“But we already called all of them,” Santos said. “Just finished the last calls a little while ago.”

“Like you told us to do,” Metford added.

“And now, we’re going to call them again. Find out if she was supposed to meet anyone on the day she was killed. Was she in New York City or Fairhaven? Did any of them see her in either place that day, or did they just speak to her on the phone? If that’s the case, she could have said she was in either place. That’s not what we need. We need someone who saw her physically in one place or the other on that day. Find out if she ever mentioned Solomon Furlong or Thom Axel. If she did, in what context were they mentioned?” She ripped the list into three mostly even portions and handed them each one. “Lots of questions. Anything you can think of that will help with these points. Also find out if she knew anyone with a box truck or van.”

“Why is the box truck or van important?” Santos asked.

“Just vehicles of interest that I need more information about,” Ava said quickly.

Metford gave her a small nod of the head. He understood, and he would keep silent about Ava’s reasoning for asking about the van or any vehicle big enough to haul a large wooden crate.

Ava called the third name on her part of the list.

“Is this Tabitha Jenkins?” she asked.

“Yes, are you the FBI calling again? I just talked with one of you about two hours ago.”

“Yes, ma’am, you did. That was another agent. There have been further developments in the case, and I’m calling to ask you about Lucia Garcia Martinez. You were a friend, right?”

“Yes, but I already told the other lady that.”

“Agent Santos?”

“Yeah, I think that was her name.”

“I need to know if you saw Lucia in New York City that day.”

“I did, but she wasn’t here. We talked over video chat.”

“Where was she, if she wasn’t in the city?”

“I didn’t ask where she was, but I thought she was in her apartment in the city. I recorded the call, if that would help you.”

Ava’s suspicion was immediately roused. “Why did you record the call? Was that something you normally did?”

“No, it wasn’t normal, but that day, we were collaborating. More like, bouncing ideas off each other. We were supposed to do a street art mural in Chelsea soon, and we were putting some ideas together. I didn’t want to forget what we agreed on, so I recorded the call for future reference.”

“Is there any way you could send me a copy of that?”

“I can. I will do whatever I can to help catch her killer. Our community is devastated and terrified.”

“Why are you terrified? Has someone threatened you?”

“No, nothing like that, but we are a small community of artists. Everybody knows almost everyone else. At one point or another, we have all had contact, worked on projects together, shared booth space at conventions, things like that. No matter how much you try to remain apart from it, if you’re serious about making it as an artist, you become part of that insular community.”

“Did you ever hear anyone threaten Lucia?”

“No. Everybody loved her. Well, if they didn’t love her, they admired her work and her dedication to art.”

“Not even an old boyfriend, ex-employer, another artist who might have been jealous of her success?”

“No. I heard the details of her murder, and I can tell you that none of the artists we know could have done something like that. It was the work of a madman; a psychopath.”

“I won’t argue that point. When could you get that file to me?”

“I’ll send it as soon as we’re off the phone.”

“If you hear anything or see anything suspicious, take care of yourself first, but then call or text me. And it might be safer if you didn’t work on any projects that you and Lucia were supposed to do together. At least, not until this case is solved.”

“I have to do the mural in Chelsea. I’m thinking it will be a sort of memorial to Lucia now. I already have a few ideas in mind.”

“Can you postpone until after this is settled?”

“I can’t afford to. I already postponed the start date by two weeks to give me time to find another artist because it has to be created by two artists.”

“You’re getting paid to do street art?”

“Yeah, if not for jobs like this, I wouldn’t be able to keep my apartment. Working a regular job doesn’t pay enough to live here.”

“Put the word out with your friends and other artists to watch and listen for anything suspicious, Miss Jenkins.”

“Don’t worry so much about us. Find the madman responsible for Lucia’s death.”

“That’s what I plan to do.” Ava gave her contact information to Tabitha before they hung up. Afterward, she sat staring at her phone as she waited for the file to come through.

Once it arrived, Ava went to Ashton. “Can you watch this video call on your big monitor?”

“Pfft. Does a bird fly?” He took the phone from her.

“Unless it’s an ostrich,” Metford said.

“Or a penguin,” Dane added.

“Or an emu,” Santos chimed in. “Why are we talking about birds?”

“Okay, I get it,” Ashton said. “Fortunately, this video is not a ground bird.”

They all gathered around to watch the call.

During the video playback, Ashton enlarged the screen that showed Lucia. He worked and watched. Once the playback ended, he pulled up pictures on monitors displayed side by side.

“What are we looking at, Ash?” Ava asked.

“Looks like two pictures of the same window,” Santos said.

“It’s not. Tabitha said she assumed that Lucia was in her apartment in New York, right?” Ashton said.

“Yes,” Ava confirmed. “But she didn’t ask to confirm, she only assumed her friend’s location.”

“Well, this isn’t the window in her New York apartment.” He pointed to the left-hand monitor. “This one is.” He pointed to the other one.

“What’s the difference?” Santos asked.

“Yeah, they look the same to me,” Metford said.

“The blinds are just a little different in the video than the ones in her New York apartment. See that slat?” He put his finger near a broken slat.

“It’s broken,” Ava said.

“That’s why I have blackout curtains and not blinds,” Metford said. “Before you know it, the slats are all bent, bowed, and broken, and your place looks horrible.”

“The blinds in her New York apartment were practically perfect, but the blinds over the living room window here in Fairhaven have that exact same broken slat.” He put up another picture for comparison. “It’s here in the photos that we took at her house. I zoomed in on the blind so you could see. And the color is a little off, too. The New York blinds are unbroken and a brighter white than the ones in Fairhaven.”

Ava leaned in. “Color me impressed, Ash,” she said. “Attention to detail. That’s what it’s all about.”

“So, what does it mean if she made the call from here or from the city?” Santos asked.

“The call was made on the day she was killed,” Ava said. “It gives us her location for that day.” She turned back to Ashton. “Is there any way you can tell what time it was made?”

“Already a step ahead of you. I pulled the information from the file first thing. If you compare the timestamps on the video and Lucia’s ToD on the autopsy report, you’ll see that she was possibly murdered within an hour of this call ending. Between one and three hours, to be more specific.”

“Now, that is really helpful information, Ash. Thank you. Add that to Lucia’s file, will you?” Ava nodded toward the computer to indicate all the digital information.

“On it.”

“How long?”

“Ten minutes.”

“You and Dane head to Lucia’s house here in Fairhaven when you’re finished. The rest of us are going on ahead. And what about that footage I asked for?”

“It’s still running. That was…” He looked around at the rest of the team and back to Ava.

She turned and told them to go on to the cars. “Santos, you ride with Dane. Metford, you’re with me.”

When they had gone, Ashton continued. “That was a lot of footage. Not just twenty-four hours from a single camera. We’re talking twenty-four hours from eight different cameras at eight different intersections, each leading to side roads that get within a block or two of her house. It could take another hour, maybe two, and then we have to scrub through it.”

“We? I thought you were doing this one alone, Ash.” A pang of panic stabbed through her. Other people meant other perspectives, and possibly lots of speculation about why she requested so much footage.

“I am. Well, I got access to that program I was telling you about earlier. Geek Squad got tired of me bothering them to do stuff for me, so they gave me my own access key.”

“Is this new program secure? I’ve heard just enough about AI to be distrustful.”

“On my honor, it is secure. I wouldn’t use it, if it weren’t.”

“I don’t have a choice but to trust you, but even if I did have other options, I’d stick with trusting you. You know more about computers than I’ll ever learn. You know what to do if something hits.”

“I’ll call you immediately.”

Ava hurried from the building and got into the car. She wanted to be excited about learning Lucia’s location immediately prior to her murder but she couldn’t. There was still too much wiggle room for her theory to go sideways and slip away from her.

Still, she could hope. Hope that she was on her way to figuring out what was really going on in the art world. Not just with the deaths of Lucia and Connor, but with the four artists who died brutally in New York, as well as the missing artists.

“Are we looking for anything in particular or just looking to see if something catches our attention?” Santos asked.

Ava opened the door to Lucia’s home and walked inside. “I’m not sure. Look around with the new information in mind.”

They split up and each agent took a room. Dane took the bedroom and bathroom while Ava went to the kitchen. Something about the room drew her to it like a moth to light. Santos studied the room where her paintings and accessories were stored. Metford lifted cushions and pushed furniture toward the center of the living room.

Ava opened all the overhead cabinets and stepped back to be able to see the contents. She scanned back and forth, taking in all the accoutrements of a normal life. Three sizes of plates, nicely matched drinking glasses, stemmed glasses, coffee mugs all placed neatly and according to use and size. Logical. Very logical and ordered for an artist.

The knife holder was in its place, but the knives had been removed for testing.

She opened the bottom cabinets and stood in the threshold between the living room and kitchen to see the whole picture all at once. Lucia was very organized. If the organization hadn’t been prevalent everywhere in the kitchen, Ava would have thought that someone else had cleaned the place.

“I found nothing of use in the living room,” Metford said. “What’s with the open cabinets?”

“I was just noting how particular Lucia was. See how everything is organized, neat. It’s obsessive-compulsive in nature. The glasses each have only a fraction of an inch between them. I bet if we measured, the spacing would be uniform throughout.”

Metford stepped into the kitchen, held up a finger for her to wait a minute, and then walked heavily from one side to the other as he watched the glassware. “Well, that’s not the reason. We can mark that off the list,” he announced as if he’d solved a great mystery.

“What are you talking about?”

“When I was a kid, my aunt had this little house, real crappy, and the floors were weak in her kitchen. The boards gave when you walked through the room, and everything in the cabinets rattled. She used to make sure her glassware in the top of the cabinet and the cookware in the bottom had space in between them. Said it drove her nuts to hear it rattling and clinking every time she walked in there.” He turned and moved to the side door to look out. “Personally, I always thought the drugs made her nuts but had to keep my opinion to myself.” He opened the door and shut it hard. “Not that, either. So, maybe she grew up in a house like my aunt’s. Old habits.”

“I’m sorry, did you see her parents’ house? Seemed rock-solid to me.”

“But every family has that one member. The one who doesn’t get invited to all the special occasions, and everybody just kind of doesn’t talk about it; doesn’t talk about the person. Sucks, but every family has at least one.”

Ava didn’t respond, instead, she kept her attention seemingly on the case at hand. Metford had never opened up like that about his family or his past like that, and she didn’t want to say anything that might make him regret it.

“What’s in that little pantry shelf there?” she asked.

Metford stepped toward it and opened the doors. “Plastic cups stained with…” He picked up one, rotated it in the sunlight coming through a window, and put it back. “Stained with paint. No mystery there. She was a painter. Stands to reason she’d get paint on her things.”

Dane walked in. “Nothing in my rooms.”

“Mine neither,” Santos said.

“The blood found on that knife seems all the more ominous now that we know Lucia was here right before she was murdered,” Ava said.

“But that was the only blood in the whole place,” Metford reminded her. “We checked, remember?”

“Yeah, pretty clean to be the scene of a murder,” Santos said.

“But she was drugged,” Dane said.

“You’re right,” Ava said. “She was drugged.” She pulled up the toxicology report on her phone. “It says here that there were no injection marks on the body, and that the flunitrazepam was most likely ingested. Possibly powder in a drink or in food, but there was no food in her stomach. Only wine.”

“And the roofie,” Metford said. He motioned toward the glasses in the cabinet. “Wine glasses.” He went to the fridge and opened it. On the second shelf lay three bottles of wine. “And there’s the wine.”

Ava moved toward the fridge. “Don’t touch anything. Doesn’t look like a bottle is missing. There’s exactly enough room for those three bottles to lay.” She leaned close. “They have all been opened, and half or more of each one is gone.”

“Girl liked her wine,” Santos said. “Can’t fault her for that, but damn, there’s like, no food in there. No wonder her dishes are all so perfect in the cabinets. She didn’t get them dirty very often.”

“And she lived alone,” Dane said. “She would have only used very few items. Easy to put them in their place when the rest of the stack is there already.”

“Bag these bottles,” Ava said. “I want them checked for Rohypnol.”

“The killer didn’t go to the trouble of drugging her, killing her, and cleaning the place spotless except for that one speck of blood on the knife, just to mess up and leave the bottle of wine he put the drug in,” Metford said with certainty.

“We can’t overlook anything, Metford. If there was any food in there, I’d have it bagged and tested, too.” She went to the cabinet and eyed the glasses. Using her flashlight, she looked for smudges or fingerprints on any of them but found none.

From the pantry, Dane said, “This would have been it.”

“Been what?” Santos asked from the fridge where she and Metford were removing the wine.

“The cup she used the most. The plastic wine glass with the cartoon chef on it.”

Ava walked over. “How do you know that?”

“Look at the stains on the thing. When she was working, she used this cup. Probably to keep from possibly breaking the glass ones. Or to keep from getting paint and stain on them. Artists use all sorts of paints, stains, lacquers, and removers. From the looks of the cabinets, she obviously wanted to take care of her nice things. This is the cabinet that held her everyday stuff.”

“And if she drank as much as I think she did, she used plastic to keep from drunk-toppling her glassware. Dane’s right.”

“You two sound like you know this from experience,” Metford said.

“Hey, I won’t deny it. I don’t want to break my glasses when I’m having wine alone. I have a few of the plastic ones that I use. Who cares if I’m there alone? Which is all the time nowadays.”

Santos had never bounced back to the dating scene after the mess with Michael Acosta. Ava couldn’t blame her. After her own ordeal with Jason, Ava thought it was likely she’d never bounce back to the romantic scene herself. Trust of that nature seemed like a fairytale—something pretty to fantasize about but never attainable in real life.

“Take it all. All the glasses, all the plastic cups, just get all the plastics from that pantry. I want it all tested for traces.”

The others exchanged a bewildered look as they realized how much there was to bag.

“And why can’t forensics do this?” Metford asked as he got more evidence bags.

“Because we’re here and we can have it done before forensics could even get to the mobile unit,” Dane said.

Ava smiled to herself and went to the drawers under the drainer. She made a final, thorough sweep of everything while the others were bagging the glasses and plastics. There was nothing else she thought would help. She wasn’t even sure how much it would help them further the case if they found traces of the drug on anything, but it would at least let them know that Lucia had been drugged in her Fairhaven home, and that someone had taken the time to wash and put away whatever held the drugged drink.

If that had happened, was it a stretch to think that same person had killed Lucia and then cleaned the scene?

And, of course, that opened the door to a whole new batch of questions, the first being: Why did he kill her in Fairhaven and then take her to New York City to pose her body?

And how did he do that without getting caught with a corpse in his vehicle?

The crate, she thought. That’s the only explanation.

But why take Lucia from Fairhaven to New York when only a little while later, Connor would be killed and posed an hour from where the killer had just been at Lucia’s house?

Every time she thought she had worked out a twist or a knot in the case, another appeared, and it was larger and more difficult to clear than the previous one.

When the tests came back from the lab, Ava was not surprised that the plastic wine cup tested positive for traces of the drug, which were found around the rim.

“Tests are back,” she announced to the team.

“It was on the cup I picked up, wasn’t it?” Metford asked.

“It was. The one Dane said was the most frequently used. The report says that the surface was badly worn, allowing trace amounts of the drug to remain even though someone had gone through the trouble to quickly wash it and put it back in the cabinet.”

“Do you think Lucia was killed in her own home?” Santos asked.

“That, I do not know for sure. What I know for sure is that she ingested the Rohypnol in her own home. The report says the concentration was strong enough that it is unlikely that she could have washed the glass and returned it to the cabinet before becoming so disoriented that she couldn’t function. The likely outcome would have been loss of consciousness within minutes.”

“If she was sipping on the wine, she might have thought the effects were from the alcohol at first,” Santos said.

“Disturbing to think that she kept drinking until there was too much in her system for her to do anything about,” Dane said.

“She might have been partially conscious when the killer was there,” Metford said. “She might have even seen him.” He blew out a deep breath and crossed his arms, his expression darkening. “Could have known what was coming.”

“And was helpless to even try to get help,” Dane added as her brow furrowed. “I’ve seen girls who were drugged at bars before. They’re helpless to defend themselves and were lucky that others realized what was going on in time to save them from terrible fates.”

“If Rohypnol is illegal in the US, how did our killer come by it?” Santos asked.

“That is a legitimate question,” Ava said, moving to the evidence table to place the report in Lucia’s file. “That’s what we need to find out. The most common way to acquire this particular drug is to get it in Mexico. Smugglers bring it over the border from there. Colombia is another place smugglers get it. It’s most likely to have been smuggled in from Mexico. That’s a common destination for US citizens on spring break from college, vacations, holidays, and the like.”

“What’s our next move?” Metford asked. “Should we start looking into known smugglers who cross the border? We know a couple of prostitutes who helped us before. Maybe ask them if they know if anyone in their circle is using or smuggling roofies.”

“I think we should search Connor Aldridge’s house and yacht for Rohypnol.” She gave him a knowing look, hoping he would catch on.

“Right. Because he was drugged with the same thing.”

“Are you trying to tie these two murders together?” Santos asked.

Dane nudged her elbow hard. “Only since Connor was found. Don’t you think they’re related?”

“Finding that they were both knocked out prior to their murders with Rohypnol sealed the deal for me,” Ashton said. “The artworld, the Reese case, the other artists found murdered in New York, that can’t all be coincidence, you know.”

Santos looked to Ava. “Did I miss something? I thought I was part of the team. Thought all of you weren’t holding anything against me for the Acosta situation.” Her face reddened and her eyes darkened. The tension in her face set it as a mask of anger.

“I didn’t know they knew,” Ava said. “It was just an avenue I was exploring. I wasn’t saying anything until I had evidence. And no one holds anything against you for the Acosta situation. That’s behind us. We’re a team, a unit, and if we don’t have trust, we’re not efficient, and someone could get hurt in the field. Do we need to take a step back and dump this on the table to sort through before we continue with the case?”

Santos looked down, her eyes still shooting fire.

Ashton put his hand on Santos’ shoulder. “We’re okay. I don’t know about anyone else, but I had my suspicions all along. No one told me what to think; it just seemed obvious to me.”

“Right,” Santos said tightly. “I guess it’s the same for you, Dane?”

“Actually, it is. I thought everyone else suspected the same thing, and we were putting the pieces together to be able to prove it. There’s something bigger going on in this case. Bigger than Aldridge’s murder, bigger than Lucia’s murder. The world of art and influence in New York is a dangerous, seedy place. The more influence and power there is to be had, the more dangers lurk in the shadows. Hidden, ugly deeds come to light in the strangest ways.”

Santos seemed to calm down. The high red color in her face dimmed, and the storm left her eyes. “Okay. Sorry for overreacting.”

Ava gave it a moment, and then gave out assignments. Santos and Ashton were to go to Connor’s yacht. Metford and Dane were with her in the Aldridge estate.

Two days later, the results from the searches returned a hit. Ava took the news to the team.

“There were traces of the drug on the yacht’s liquor cabinet,” she told them.

“From the bottles or glasses?” Dane asked.

“Oddly enough, neither. It was in the dried wine I found on a shelf.”

“Whoever’s doing this is using the same method of getting the drug into his victims,” Dane observed.

“Seems that way,” Ava agreed.

“Rohypnol mixed with alcohol can double or even triple the sedating effects of the drug,” Ashton said. “If enough gets into the system, it can cause death.”

“But that wasn’t ruled as the cause of death in either case,” Ava said. “There was enough to knock them out, but not enough to kill them.”

Metford scoffed. “That would have probably been an easier death than what they suffered.”

“No, it’s unlikely that either of them even woke up during the killings,” Ava said. “At least, that’s what the ME ascertained.”

Sal came to the door. “Ava, there’s a call for you. He says he has information about Connor Aldridge’s case, and he said he wanted to talk to you. Wouldn’t give me the information.” She motioned for Ava to hurry to the phone in her office.

Ava rushed to the phone. “Hello, this is Special Agent James.”

“This is Anthony Burke from the Aldridge estate. Can you come out here?”

“Mr. Burke, what happened? I was told you asked for me and that you had information about Mr. Aldridge’s case.”

“I’d really rather you come here. I don’t want to discuss this over the phone. Please, just come.” He hung up.

Ava looked at the phone, put it to her ear, heard nothing but silence. “Mr. Burke? Hello? Are you there, Mr. Burke?”

There was no answer.

“What was it? What’s going on?” Sal asked.

Ava put the phone down. “I’m not sure. He wants me to come to the estate. Said he’d rather not discuss whatever it is over the phone.” Her gut twisted as she stood. If there was one thing she didn’t trust, it was having information dangled in front of her and then having it snatched out of grasp with a cryptic invitation to a remote location where there were few-to-no people around.

“Take Metford and go,” Sal said. “Keep your head on a swivel, but go. Find out what’s so dire.”

“He hung up on me.”

“Maybe he’s scared. Maybe he found out who did this.” She moved out of the doorway and motioned again. “Take Metford. Take the whole team, but get out there and find out what’s going on.”

Ava took Metford and left.

At the estate, Ava and Metford got out of the car and stood there silently scanning the property for a full minute before walking to the main entrance.

“I don’t care for this at all,” Metford said. “If it was so important, he should’ve told you over the phone.”

“I know, right? Sal disagreed.”

“You said this guy’s name was Anthony Burke?”

“Yeah, he’s on the staff, we met him when we searched out here two days ago.”

“What happened to the grumpy old man… Tamblin?”

“Burke lives in one of the apartments on the grounds, and Tamblin apparently didn’t want to close the house by himself. He passed the task to the younger Burke.”

The door opened before they reached it, and Ava flinched. She had not realized she was so much on edge until that moment.

Anthony Burke eyed them, looked behind them at the car as if expecting other agents to be there, and then stepped outside. “Agents,” he said. “I’m glad you came.” He wrung his hands. The dark circles under his eyes and his mussed hair announced that the man had had a rough night.

“Mr. Burke,” Ava said, approaching with caution. “You hung up on me earlier. Why?”

“I knew if I didn’t, you would just ask a few questions and likely wouldn’t come out.”

“What’s so important, man?” Metford asked.

“You the only one here?” Ava asked.

“To answer the first question, I found something in Mr. Aldridge’s den. To answer the second, yes. As I told you, Mr. Tamblin passed the task to me to close down the estate. I don’t know why Tamblin is even still in service. He’s old as Methuselah. Can barely get around to do the most basic jobs. Mr. Aldridge held onto a sense of loyalty to the old man.”

“Mr. Burke,” Ava said. “What did you find that we needed to drive back out here, and why didn’t you give it to us when we were here day before yesterday?”

“Because I didn’t know about it then. Come in. I’ll show you.”

“This better be good,” Metford grumbled in a low voice as they went inside.

As he led them to the den, Burke talked.

“I know I shouldn’t have, but while I was working to close things out, I spotted a bottle of scotch in Mr. Aldridge’s den. He used to drink scotch every evening. He’s been hitting it heavily since Margueritte was arrested. There was an open bottle sitting on the little side table. You saw it, I’m sure. There was cognac in the decanter, but the scotch was still in its bottle. Since there was so much in the cabinet, I thought I would have a couple of shots just to ease my nerves. I don’t like being here alone, but no one would agree to come out and help me with this place. When you’re alone, your mind can conjure up all sorts of things in a house this big. Especially since Mr. Aldridge was murdered, you know.”

“Mr. Burke,” Ava said to get him back on track. “What happened?”

“Right, well, I took a couple of shots and went about the tasks in the kitchen. I got dizzy almost immediately. Next thing I knew, I'd woken up on the floor.” He stopped outside the den. “And it was a whole day later. As soon as I put together what likely had just happened, I called you.” He pointed into the den. “The bottle is sitting there. I put it back right where it had been.”

“Why didn’t you just take it with you?” Metford asked.

“Habit. You work a job like this long enough, and just taking those two tiny drinks without permission feels risky as hell. That’s termination if you get caught.”

Ava went to the bottle but didn’t touch it. “Is this the glass you used?”

“Yes, the only one sitting there.”

“Did you wash it?” she asked.

“No.” When Ava looked at him sideways, he shrugged. “Not like Mr. Aldridge, or anyone else for that matter, was going to drink out of it again. I thought I might want another drink in a little while, but I was wrong. I think I’ve had my fill of alcohol for a long time.”

“Metford, get the evidence bags. I want to have these tested.”

Metford turned on his heel and went back to the car.

“Mr. Burke, I want you to take a drug test immediately. We can have the doctor do a tox screen to make sure what was in the alcohol.”

Burke shook his head. “No. I don’t want a test. Whatever was in it, I’m okay now. I just want to forget it happened and never go through anything like that again.”

“Mr. Burke—”

“No, I said, I don’t want to do a drug test.”

“If you have other… substances… in your system, we’re not interested in them. All you have to do is tell the doctor what they are. We’re looking for something very specific. That’s all we’re interested in.”

“I’d never work in this industry again. No one would hire me.”

“No one will know. No one would have access to the results; just the doctor and the people working the case.”

“Things like that have a way of leaking.”

“And if you get the test, the doctor can administer treatment to stop any ill-effects the drug might have on your body.”

His eyes shot wide. “It could do something to me? Worse than making me pass out and lose a whole day?”

“That depends on what was already floating around in your system at the time, as well as how much of it you got from the scotch.”

“Damn it,” he exclaimed. “It’s karma, you know. Because I took the scotch knowing it wasn’t mine and I wasn’t supposed to do it.” He ran a hand roughly through his messy blond hair. A dry laugh escaped. He pulled his hand down. “Look at me. My hair is every which way. I didn’t even bother brushing it when I got up.” He looked at his clothes. “I must look like a homeless man. I need to change clothes and clean up a little.”

“Does that mean you’ll go with us and have the test done?”

“Since you scared the bejesus out of me about it, yeah, I guess I’m going with you.” He started for the door.

“Mr. Burke, where are you going?”

“To my apartment to change clothes. Ten minutes. I’ll meet you at the car.”

“Don’t you need to lock the doors before we leave?”

“You can’t turn the lock on your way out?”

“It’s not our responsibility. It’s yours. Liability, in case something goes wrong, you can’t blame us later.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Ten minutes and I’ll be back at the front door.”

Metford returned and bagged the bottle and glass in question. “Think there’s anything else here?”

“I doubt it. I’m wondering if this is where Aldridge got the Rohypnol in his system, or was it on his yacht?”

“I’m betting it was the yacht. That’s where the spilled wine was. The bottle was missing, just like with Lucia’s. It was on the glass she drank from, but whichever bottle had been dosed was missing.”

“Unless it wasn’t in one of her bottles. Maybe the killer sneaked it into her glass after she poured the drink?”

“I doubt it. Not unless it was someone she knew and trusted. Someone who was already in her house. If he had to hide somewhere, the risk of being seen beforehand would have been too high. Same, if he had to sneak in while the cup was unattended. Too much risk of being seen before she was drugged.”

He was right. It wouldn’t make sense to sneak into Lucia’s house while she was there. Too risky. But sneaking in while she was at work, or a convention, perhaps. That would make sense. He could slip the drug into the bottle and then just wait for her to come home and dip into it. Once she was out, he could go in and do the little bit of cleaning required, and there would be no noise to alert anyone.

“Mr. Burke,” Ava said over the phone the next afternoon. “The results are back.”

“Awesome. Can’t wait for this.” The petulant tone in his voice was not what Ava had come to think of as normal for him.

“Positive for marijuana and flunitrazepam, but the doctor says the levels of Rohypnol were small enough that your most likely side effect would be a headache and drowsiness for a couple of days, if that long. How do you feel today?”

“Just terrific.” His words slurred the slightest bit.

“Mr. Burke, are you drinking?”

“What are you now, the alcohol police?”

“I just thought you’d had your fill of alcohol for a while. It’s probably not a good idea to drink so soon after this. Give it some time to clear your system completely. With the marijuana in your system, the effects will be compounded anyway.”

“Mary Jane and Tom Collins get along just fine. Two of my besties, actually.”

Sighing, Ava decided to leave it alone. “Where did the bottle of scotch come from? Do you even know?”

“Not real sure. Mr. Aldridge only drank from that particular bottle twice before his… his… yeah. It just sat there untouched until I came along and stole two little sniffs.”

“What about Karl Harmon? Do you know him?”

“Sure do. All the staff know him. Frequent flyer at Aldridge estate during certain times of the year. Why?”

“Has Mr. Harmon visited the house recently?”

“How recently?”

“Within the past few weeks.”

“I don’t remember him being at the house in the past few weeks, not since after Mrs. Aldridge’s trial ended, but I can’t be certain that he wasn’t. I don’t stay at the house overnight. I stay in my apartment on the property, unless I stay with my girlfriend in town.”

“Would you have known if he had been there by seeing the car arrive?”

“No. I mean, if I was at home, maybe. Depends on what time he arrived, and if I was near a window that looked out toward the drive or the house.”

“And that didn’t happen? Mr. Harmon never showed up in the past two weeks after you left the estate and went to your apartment?”

“No, why do you keep asking about him? Did he do this?”

“Thank you, Mr. Burke. If you happen to recall Mr. Harmon coming to the estate in the past few weeks, give me a call. And give some serious consideration to laying off the booze and pot. At least for a while.”

“Bye, Agent James.” He hung up.

“Who needs to lay off booze and pot?” Metford asked from the doorway.

“Burke.”

“His test come back?”

“Yeah, and so did the fingerprints. He had Rohypnol and pot in his system. From the sounds of it, he had more booze and smoke in him today.” She scoffed and tossed the phone onto the desk.

“Can’t save them all. What about the fingerprints? Anything useful?”

“Definitely. There were three sets on the bottle. Aldridge, Burke, and Karl Harmon all touched that bottle, but theirs were the only prints on it.”

“That means it’s new. Or, new-ish, right?”

“Burke was adamant that Aldridge had drunk from that bottle only twice before he died.”

“That means it stands to reason that Harmon is the one who put the drug into the bottle, doesn’t it? Makes sense to me.”

“It makes sense, but why? Why would Harmon do something like that to Aldridge when they were good friends?”

“Money makes people do crazier things.”

“Yeah. I don’t know for sure what happened, but Burke doesn’t remember Harmon being at the estate in the last couple of weeks. I’m putting Harmon on the suspect list. As of now, he’s riding pretty high on that list.”

“Dane, you and Santos head to New York,” Ava said.

“New York?” they asked in unison.

“Find Karl Harmon and question him.” She moved to the evidence table to add the recent reports to Aldridge’s file. “His prints were found on the bottle of scotch that Anthony Burke drank from at the Aldridge estate.”

“The drugged bottle, right?” Santos asked.

“That’s right. The only other prints on the bottle belonged to Burke and Aldridge. I need you to find him. Find out when he was at the estate last and ask for proof. We need proof at every turn on this thing. Find out why his prints are on that bottle that was only brought out of the storage cabinet right before Aldridge was killed.”

“You know he’ll deny drugging the bottle, even if he did it,” Santos said.

“He will, but you still need to ask. Call me as soon as you finish talking with him.”

Metford grinned and waved at Santos as they left the room.

“Would you like to go with them?” Ava asked him.

His attention snapped to her. “No. I would not.”

“Then don’t make me send you.”

“You know Santos hates going to New York, right?”

“Can’t be helped. Sometimes, you have to face what you don’t like and just learn to deal with things that cause you stress. I’m almost completely desensitized by the special brand of stress you cause.” She patted her stomach. “Not a single ulcer. Yet.”

“That was funny. You should think about taking that show on the road. They’d love you in Vegas.”

“I’d love for you to help me go over some of the evidence again and maybe even put together a couple of theories about all this.”

“Over food?”

“How are you not four hundred pounds? If you keep eating like you do, you’ll never pass your next physical. They’ll kick you out of the Bureau for health reasons.”

“No, they’ll have to push me over and roll me out. I’ll be too big for them to kick. Maple Grove? They serve a mean steak and shrimp meal that I could really go for right now.”

“It’s only lunchtime,” she exclaimed.

“And by the time we get everything together, pick up the food, and get to your place, it will be three in the afternoon. Almost time for dinner,” he countered.

“You eat a big meal like that and you’ll be ready for bed before we get to go over anything. And why my place?”

He shrugged. “It’s closer than mine.”

Groaning, she started gathering files. “Let’s go. Dane and Santos will be in the city before we get anything done at this rate.”

“What about Ashton?”

“Where is he?”

“With the Geek Squad, I think.”

When she left the building, Metford and Ashton went with her, and they had decided to take over a large table in Wendy’s instead of picking up food and going back to her house. She wasn’t comfortable taking them both to her house. The coziness reminded her too much of her time with Jason Ellis, and she wasn’t ready to face that yet.

Santos knocked on Karl Harmon’s door. “How much money do you need to even live in a penthouse like this?” she whispered to Dane.

“I thought you didn’t even like New York.”

“I don’t, but if I had to live in the city, a place like this might make it at least bearable.” She was joking, of course. The city would give her an ulcer in the first month. The constant noise and never truly being able to go anywhere without a crush of people all around made her crazy.

She knocked on the door again. “Mr. Harmon, FBI. We need to speak to you.”

Dane pointed to a doorbell button beside the door. “Try that. If he’s somewhere in the depths of the place, he probably can’t even hear you knocking.”

Santos pushed the button. After a few seconds, she raised her fist to pound the door, but it opened.

Karl Harmon stood in the doorway, his gaze on her upraised fist. A derisive smile played across his face. “You can put that away, Agent. It would be considered what… police brutality, in any case.”

“Not really,” Dane said. “We’re not the police.” She returned his sardonic smile.

“We need to ask you some questions, Mr. Harmon,” Santos said, leaning to see into the huge room behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder and then put his hand high on the edge of the door as if relaxing and talking to an old friend. “Alright. About what, may I ask?”

“About your friend, or your supposed friend, Connor Aldridge,” Santos said. She nodded toward the interior of his home. “Gonna invite us in, or do you want to do this here?”

He leaned his head out, looked left and then right, and stood straight again. “I don’t have neighbors, Agent. I don’t mind either way, but if you want to come in, by all means.” He stepped aside and let them inside.

Did having the money to live in a grand penthouse give him the right to look down his nose at them? Was he being a jerk just because that was what he was used to doing? Santos stepped inside and resisted the urge to smart off to him about any of it. He was probably single because of his barely veiled nasty attitude.

He closed the door. “Now, can I offer you something to drink, Agents?” He moved to a lighted bar at the side of the room and took down three glasses while he talked.

“No,” they said in unison.

He chuckled and poured himself a drink. “Mind if I drink?”

“It’s your home, Mr. Harmon,” Dane said curtly. “If we could get down to business.”

“Absolutely. What did you want to know about Connor? Terrible. What happened to him, I mean. Especially after all he’d been through recently.”

Santos could stand no more of his airs. If that greedy, rich jerk felt terrible about anything that had happened, it was only because it caused him to lose money. She believed people like him had no real friends, only people he used and who used him in return.

“Mr. Harmon, your friend was drugged before he was killed,” she said bluntly. “Someone roofied his liquor. Scotch to be exact. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

His eyes bulged wide for a moment, the drink hovering just beyond his mouth which was already poised to take the drink. If not for her foul mood already, Santos thought she might have laughed.

“How would I? I didn’t even know he’d been drugged until this very moment.” The drink never passed his lips. He set it on a side table and looked disturbed.

“So, you don’t know how the drug ended up in the bottle of scotch in his house?” she asked, not pulling any punches and just getting straight to the heart of the matter. She needed out of there ASAP.

“No,” he exclaimed incredulously. “What is this? Why are you asking like I did something wrong?”

“Did you?” Dane asked.

“Absolutely not. Connor was my friend. Why on earth would I do anything of the sort to him?”

“That’s why we’re asking, Mr. Harmon,” Santos said. “When were you at his house last?”

He floundered for the briefest moment. “Right after Margueritte’s trial ended. A month ago or close enough. It’s been at least a month. I tried to be close for him while all that was going on. He was in a dark place, and I couldn’t blame him for that, but after the trial ended, I came back here.”

“And you haven’t been there since?” Dane asked.

“No. I’ve been busy. My life and work are here.”

“Then why are your fingerprints on the bottle of Scotch that was drugged?” Santos asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe it was a bottle I gifted to him. That’s a common gift in any of my friends’ homes. The ones who like scotch, that is, and most of them do. Connor isn’t the only one I’ve gifted bottles to over the last six months, either. I gave the same thing to several friends.”

Dane walked toward the door and motioned for Santos to follow. She whispered, “What if the other bottles are tainted?”

“You mean, like, what if the drug was already in the bottles and he’s innocent?” Santos asked, barely able to keep her voice down.

Dane nodded. “Maybe someone put it in all of them while Harmon had them in his possession.”

They walked back to him. He seemed to have recovered somewhat as he was drinking and his expression had gone back to its default setting of nonchalant neutrality.

“Mr. Harmon, do you recall who all you gifted scotch?” Dane asked.

Worry creased his forehead. “Why? Do you think something was wrong with it?”

“We don’t know, but if you could tell us their names, we could have their bottles tested before they open them, perhaps.”

“I think that’s the most absurd thing I’ve heard lately, but if you think it will help, I’ll get the list.” He walked toward another room. “I keep a gift list handy in my computer. Won’t take but a few seconds to print it out for you.”

They followed him into a large office full of sleek straight lines and minimal décor. He handed Santos the list a minute later. She glanced at it and handed it to Dane.

“Should I call them and tell them not to open their bottles if they haven’t already?”

“That’s up to you, Mr. Harmon,” Santos said. Her gaze flitted in Dane’s direction. “This is sort of a longshot, but you know, we just need to make sure we’re doing our part in this case. In the off-chance that something comes of this, do you know the name of the distributor where you bought the bottles?”

“Of course. I have bought from them for decades. Highland Legacy Whiskies. I know the owner personally,” he added with more than a hint of pride.

“And how can we get in contact with HLW?” Dane asked.

“You can’t use an acronym for such a prestigious company, Agent. Highland Legacy Whiskies is owned by Alec MacCleod, Ewan MacCleod’s son,” he said in a tone that implied the names carried some sort of weight that Dane and Santos should recognize.

Santos scoffed and immediately pasted on a smile to keep from seeming like she was as much of a look-down-her-nose jerk as he was. “I’m sorry, but not all of us are immersed in the world of high-end whiskey as you seem to be, Mr. Harmon. We don’t know these people; we just need to know how to get hold of them.”

His back stiffened. She had somehow insulted his finer sensibilities.

“They are located in Scotland, of course. I have their contact information.” He turned on his heel and opened the drawer on the right side of his desk. He returned with a business card.

“Thank you,” Dane said. “And you said that all of these people are your friends?” She held out the list.

“Yes.”

“As in, you know them personally, or they’re merely in your circle?”

“I know them personally. Unfortunately, that list is a bit shorter now. Teagan Reese, and of course, Connor.” He clamped his mouth shut and looked down at the reading chair as he cleared his throat.

“Thank you, Mr. Harmon,” Dane said. “I think that’s all we need for now.”

“You know where to find me, if you need any further assistance,” he said, his tone of superiority returning as he took the lead in walking them back to the door.

In the elevator, Dane showed Santos the list. “Did you see the names on this list?”

“No, I wasn’t that interested in finding out who his friends are.”

Dane pointed to Teagan Reese’s name and then trailed her finger down the page. Rita Mae Leonard. Solomon Furlong.

“Oh, that’s something,” Santos said. “Ava will be interested in knowing Furlong is on that list, for sure.”

“And Rita Leonard. It might explain why she seemed so defensive over Furlong when he was being arrested.”

“Maybe.”

Ava answered her phone when it rang and instantly felt guilty because she had ignored the text that had come through not five minutes prior, but she was reading through interviews again and hadn’t wanted to stop until she finished. She and Metford and Ashton had bounced ideas off each other about possible motives for hours until the seats in Wendy’s had become impossibly uncomfortable. They had disbanded over an hour earlier, deciding to pick up where they left off on the case in the morning at the office.

“Ava,” Santos said. “Did you get the picture?”

“No, what picture? Did you speak to Harmon?”

“Yes, and I just sent you a picture of his gift list. It’s a list of his friends, and each one of them received a bottle of scotch from him over the last several months. You need to look at the first picture in the series. See whose name is on that thing.”

Ava put her on speaker and opened the file. “Rita Mae Leonard and Solomon Furlong? Are you kidding me?”

“Nope. He said he buys for his friends often. Dane thinks we should probably check every bottle for the Rohypnol. What do you think?”

“I think you can hold off on that for a little while. I have to go back to the office and check something.”

At the office, Ava went to the evidence lockup and read the inventory sheet for the Reese case. Sure enough, there was an unopened bottle of scotch inventoried from the Reese home.

Sal came into the room. “What in the world are you doing back here looking like you just ran a marathon?” She stepped closer. “And what are you doing with the Reese evidence out?”

Ava held up the bottle. “This. I need someone to run a test on it. Now. Is anyone still in the lab?”

Sal looked at her watch. “Maybe for another five minutes. What test? What’s going on?”

Ava took the bottle and headed for the door. “Call the lab. Tell them to wait on me, Sal.”

“Hey, you can’t just take that out of—” the agent over the lockup yelped in a panic as he trailed behind her.

“I’ll sign when I get back!” Ava yelled over her shoulder as she rounded the corner on her way to the elevators.

After arguing with Evan in the lab, Ava finally convinced Rachel to run the tests on the fly. She was always up for a challenge, and even more up for a good laugh. Rachel said that Evan was too strict about the parameters under which he was willing to work. Ava thought he was just precise with his work, and there was a standard to which he worked. Nothing wrong with that, except that time, she needed the testing done in a rush, and he refused.

Sal was not angry, but she was upset about the way Ava had run out of evidence, leaving her holding the bag. With an explanation, she let Ava off the hook.

“Just this once. Don’t do anything like that again. You know what it means if you mess with the evidence and don’t follow the right protocols.”

“I know, and I’m really sorry, but this was…I thought this might be life or death.”

“You took a bottle of scotch from a box of evidence from a dead woman’s case, Ava. How could it be life or death?”

She explained the situation, and her fear that every bottle might have been drugged which Harmon had gifted to the people on his friend list.

“But you said there was no Rohypnol found on the Reese bottle, right?”

“No, there was no detected drugs on or inside that bottle, but Harmon’s prints were on it. Along with Teagan Reese’s, her husband Brad’s, and their son Thomas’ prints.”

“But those are all prints you’d expect to find on it.”

“Right. And now I need to go speak with Rita Leonard and find out if Harmon’s gifts are influencing her opinion about Solomon Furlong.”

“I see. I didn’t look at that angle. See, that’s why I need you around. You look at things from a different perspective; a different angle.”

“I can’t take all the credit. Dane apparently had the same thought as soon as she saw Rita’s name on the list.”

“All right. Go talk to her and get back to me when you can. If not tonight, I’ll expect a full report in the morning.”

“You got it.”

Ava drove to Rita’s house, resisting the urge to zip around the slow, clogged traffic. She wondered if it was always a temptation for others in law enforcement to use the lights and sirens for purposes other than their intended uses.

Rita opened her door and scowled at Ava. “It’s late, Special Agent James, and you didn’t even give me the common courtesy of a phone call to let me know to expect company.” She pulled her robe tighter and continued to glare at Ava.

“Yeah, sorry about that, but I needed to ask you something, and it seemed best if I dropped by and did it in person.”

“Do step inside. I don’t want everyone in the neighborhood gawking at me in my robe like I’m a sideshow attraction.”

Ava stepped inside. “Ms. Leonard, I just found out that you might be receiving gifts from Karl Harmon. Is it true?”

“And that’s the business of the FBI why?” She tugged at the silky robe again and shifted uneasily.

Ava understood that Karl might be sending Rita more than just the occasional bottle of Scotch. If so, her suspicions would double. “Ms. Leonard, your personal… affairs are not my concern, but it is my concern if he sent you an expensive bottle of scotch.”

“He did. What of it?”

“Was that before or after Teagan’s murder?”

Ms. Leonard’s face fell into a deep scowl. “After, but what does that matter? It was a gift. A way of showing his appreciation for my work at the library.”

“So, it had nothing to do with swaying your loyalties toward Mr. Furlong?”

“Ridiculous. It was to show appreciation. He was thanking me for all my long hours and tireless efforts at the art center right here in Fairhaven.”

“I thought you said it was for your work at the library.”

“One and the same, Agent. One part wouldn’t work without the other. Just like the gears of a clock, the art center and library work one because of the other.”

“Where is that bottle now?”

“Lord, that’s long gone for weeks now.” Her smile was sheepish.

Who would have guessed the perfectly poised lady was that fond of alcohol? “Of course it is.” Ava took a deep breath. “Did you know that Karl Harmon also gave Solomon Furlong a bottle of that same scotch not long ago?”

Rita continued to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes as she shook her head. “No, I wasn’t aware. Why would I be aware? It is Karl’s business who he gives gifts to, not mine. I have an early day. Please, leave now.”

Ava obliged and drove straight to Furlong’s house. Something about the way Rita acted when she mentioned that Furlong had also been gifted the Scotch sent red flags waving in her mind.

Solomon was less pleasant to deal with right off the bat. He opened the door, sucked in a sharp breath, and turned angry immediately.

“If you don’t remove your person from my stoop, I will call my lawyer and cry harassment. You’re not even supposed to call me, let alone show up at my door, Agent James. He’ll have a field day with this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cellphone.

“Mr. Furlong, I’m here to ensure your safety, not to accuse you of anything, or to talk to you about the case in any way.”

He stopped with his finger poised above the phone. “To ensure my safety?” He poked his head out the door and glanced furtively around. “From what?” He looked as if he disbelieved her, but he took a step back into the cover of the house, belying the fear he was obviously feeling.

“Did Karl Harmon send you a bottle of scotch recently?”

Stunned, Furlong nodded. “Yes. What does that have to do with my safety?”

“I have reason to believe that bottle might be drugged, Mr. Furlong.”

Stunned turned to amused, and he laughed. “I can assure you that’s not true, Agent James. I’ve been drinking out of that very bottle tonight and nothing has happened to me.” He laughed again. “Goodbye.” He shut the door.

Ava stood there for a full ten seconds before she could force herself not to pound on the door and demand that he speak with her again.

But what would she say? What would she ask?

What could she?

He was right. She wasn’t supposed to even speak to him, let alone be at his house. His lawyer would love to rip into the FBI if he got wind of her misstep. The reason she went there wouldn’t matter; only that she had.

Unlocking her side door, Ava stepped into her home and shut the door. It was silent. Too silent.

“Spike, I’m home!” she called to the stupid plant Dr. Bran had talked her into getting. Her voice was too loud in the empty, dark space, and she refrained from saying more.

Flipping on lights, she walked through the kitchen and dining area toward the living room where Spike, her third snake plant, called home. She hit the light switch and looked at the plant on its low stand.

She sighed, defeated.

What should have been a tall, proud plant with vibrant green and yellow sword-shaped leaves, was a limp and wilted sign of yet another defeat. She went to Spike and put her hands on her hips as she stared down at it. The bottom leaves were brown and shriveled. The next layer up was yellowed and puffy at the stem, and the whole thing slumped sadly to one side and hung over the rim of the container. A container which she had spent forty bucks on, thinking it would make a difference. It had not.

“What am I going to do with you?” she asked the plant half-accusingly.

She turned to go back into the kitchen, thought about it for a second, and decided to do a security check of the house before taking off her gun and shoes for the evening.

After a thorough check of the windows, doors, and each room, she went back to the kitchen to find something to eat. Before she opened the first cabinet, she saw that she had messages on the house phone. The little red light flashed, and she sighed again. She didn’t want to do anything else that night, and she didn’t want to return any calls.

She put the phone on speaker and let the messages play as she rummaged through the cabinets in search of something healthier than a can of beef stew.

Dr. Bran’s voice filled the kitchen.

“Shit,” Ava muttered, clutching the can of stew and dropping her head. She knew what the call was about before Bran finished saying who she was. Ava had forgotten yet another appointment.

Four of the seven messages were from Dr. Bran. She had apparently stopped trying to call after the fourth time of not getting an answer, but she did take the liberty of setting another appointment.

While the stew heated, Ava put the date and time in her phone calendar for the next appointment, and then she set reminders that started six hours beforehand. As she laid the phone on the counter, a notification came through and she picked it up again.

It was Dr. Bran. She sent an email to remind Ava about the breathing and relaxations methods they had discussed during the last two sessions.

I know you are very busy right now. I just hope you are making time to practice the relaxation methods we discussed. They can’t help if you don’t implement them. If you have been, congratulations! You can tell me all about how it’s helping at our next appointment.

Ava scanned the rest of the message. It was only instructions for the relaxation methods, and the date and time of the appointment. Bran was making sure there was no way Ava could say she didn’t know about it. No more excuses, the calls and email shouted.

Ava wanted to shout. Not words, and not at anyone. She just wanted to scream. It was one of those days when everything seemed to not go as expected. Not that things went completely wrong, they just seemed to skid a little to the left and not go the way she had foreseen them going.

The cases of Lucia and Connor couldn’t have been more convoluted with all their Dante symbolism and the strangeness of the scenes. Not to mention the deaths. And the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that all the deaths in the Teagan Reese case were related to Lucia’s and Connor’s deaths.

Aspects of the Reese case kept bleeding over into both of the new cases. Not just one, but both. But why? Was it all just coincidence? Was she making mountains out of mole hills? Something of nothing?

Lucia had been adamant that something more was going on with Aldridge and his peers in the art world. She didn’t trust anything to do with him or them. She had been afraid, but also angry.

Ava thought she understood that frustrating mix of emotions. She felt it, too, but from a different angle. Men like Connor Aldridge could get away with anything, it seemed. All he had to do was pad this one’s bank account a little, give that one a cut of whatever he was selling, and influence another one to make the decision that would benefit them all.

Affluence acted as a buffer between the affluent person and the consequences allotted to regular folk who might commit the same, or lesser, crimes.

She plopped stew into a bowl and spooned it up without any enjoyment. It was sustenance. It made her slow to a physical stop, and she resented it for that, as if the stew was a sentient thing intent on making her miserable for five minutes.

Her mind raced in a hundred different directions and the noise in her mind was unbearable. The cases were falling apart, slipping through her fingers, and wrecking her mind. Although she tried, she couldn’t connect any of the dots, or make anything stick no matter where she placed it.

She pushed the bowl to the side, disgusted with it for the first time ever, and began to pace.

Twenty minutes later, her mind had revved up to an even faster speed and added several more directions in which to tear itself.

Taking a deep breath, she stopped in the middle of the dining area and put both hands on her midsection. Closing her eyes, she let the breath out and inhaled again. After releasing that breath, some of the noisome chatter in her mind quieted.

Maybe it is time to give this relaxation thing a try, she thought.

Making herself comfortable in the living room, she worked her way through the breathing exercises, and then tried to get through the first relaxation method.

Fifteen minutes later, she opened her eyes, uncrossed her legs, and shoved herself up from the floor. “All righty, then. That’s enough of that crap,” she announced to the empty house.

Sitting heavily on the couch, she stared at the black screen of the television.

That was about as useful as a mesh umbrella, she thought.

Ava laughed out loud. The thought hadn’t been in her own internal voice. It had come to her in her grandmother’s voice. It was a saying that had always garnered a laugh from Ava no matter how many times she’d heard her grandmother say it.

She thought it again, and again, she chuckled out loud.

In her way, Ava’s grandma had been very intelligent. Not the dull kind of intelligence one gets from a licensed therapist, but a shrewd, sharp, intelligence that was easy to relate to. It was the kind of smarts that could impart a profound knowledge without the recipient ever realizing they were being taught something.

“It was Granny knowledge,” Ava said, remembering what her grandmother had called it. “And what would you suggest I do about these cases?” she asked the room again, not expecting an answer, but feeling somewhat easier for the asking.

Not expecting an answer and getting one anyway was sort of the way her grandmother would have handled the situation.

While she stared at the blank television, an answer came in a way that only her grandma would have given it.

“You only need to pick one thread to unravel a whole tapestry, but it must be the right thread, Ava. Elsewise, you’ll end up with a tapestry full of broken and snarled threads sticking out that looks just a mess, but it’s still hanging together, and you’ve accomplished nothing.”

They had been standing in the hallway looking up at a wall tapestry that had been woven by hand over a hundred years before. Ava, a child of five or six, had found a thread near the bottom, and she had tried to pull it out because she didn’t like how it looked. Her grandmother had stopped her and given her the answer all those years ago, and it came back, decades later, as the answer Ava needed to hear yet again.

All she had to do was focus on one thing in the cases. One thing at a time, assess which avenue of investigation and leads seem most important, and then pull that thread. Keep pulling it until the truth unfolds.

The phone trilled loudly, blasting through Ava’s nightmare and sending her out of sleep with a heart-pounding jolt. She grabbed for the noisome device, her mind still fogged with remnants of the nightmare. She poked at the button frantically to shut up the ringing, and there was a delay after it went silent and her realizing she needed to put it to her ear and find out who was calling in the middle of the night. The clock on the bedside table announced the time with its too-bright red-lighted numbers. Three in the morning.

“Hello,” she said, controlling her breathing as the last figments of the dream faded into oblivion.

“Ava, are you awake?” Ashton asked.

“I am now. What’s going on? What’s happened?” She moved to the edge of the bed and threw the covers back. Something terrible must have happened for him to call at such an hour. Cold air chilled her legs and arms. As she stood, her clothes clung to her sweat-soaked skin.

“It’s the search I was doing of the traffic cams. I saw Solomon Furlong pick up a crate that was loaded into the trunk of his car.”

“What?” she asked, not completely shocked. It was more excitement that ran through her, quickening her steps.

“A crate. Solomon Furlong had it—”

“No, I heard you. I just can’t believe we… well, you found something that we can finally follow. Something concrete. Where did he get the crate?” She grabbed fresh clothes from the closet and dresser before walking into the bathroom, where she hung them from the hook on the back of the door.

“It was in the event building at the library. He picked it up as he was headed out to go to the curator convention in New York.”

“Ashton, this is great,” she exclaimed. “I’ll be there within the hour.”

“There’s more.”

“What?” She stopped just outside the bathroom, holding her breath. Maybe it was the something that would break the case wide open.

“I found footage of Furlong stopping at Aldridge HQ in New York after dark. He stopped the car, and a man unloaded the crate. Furlong never touched it. He didn’t even speak with the man. Kept his window rolled up and just drove off after the man shut the trunk again.”

“Keep all that footage handy. I’ll be there as soon as humanly possible. I want to see it.”

There was a brief pause. “Okay. Sure. See you soon.”

She started to hang up, then slammed the phone back to her ear. “Ashton!” she called loudly in case he had taken the phone from his ear already. She didn’t want him to hang up.

“Yes?”

“If you need to go home, do that instead. Just leave the footage where I can find it.”

“You mean, like in the digital files for the cases?” He chuckled dryly.

“Yeah, exactly. And thank you. Awesome work.”

“Glad I got something.”

They hung up. Ava rushed through her shower, not even thinking about her morning workout that she was missing.

Forty minutes later, she walked to her office and unlocked the door. She had called Metford before leaving her house, and he called Santos and Dane. None of them had arrived by the time Ava got there. She went in and turned on the computer, anxious to see, with her own eyes, what Solomon Furlong had been up to.

The footage didn’t look much different than the images her mind had conjured when Ashton had described it over the phone. At Aldridge Headquarters, Furlong stopped his car facing the intersection. A man, whom Ava recognized from the gallery, walked briskly from the side of the building with an industrial rolling cart. The trunk popped open, and he hefted the crate from its shadowy depths and placed it clumsily onto the cart. He shut the trunk and walked toward a door at the side of the building. Solomon drove away without ever communicating with the man.

“And then you just went to the convention as if you were conducting business as usual, huh?” she asked the image of Solomon Furlong on the computer screen.

Metford walked in noisily announcing his arrival. “Little help here, please,” he called from the hall, his voice booming through the early morning quietude of the office.

Ava stepped out to see what he was going on about. On one arm, he balanced a drink tray with four Styrofoam coffee cups, and in that hand, he carried two brown bags with a familiar fast-food logo. In the other, he balanced a flimsy cardboard tray with four more Styrofoam coffee cups.

She took the trays. “What in the world, Metford? If I’d known you were going to cater an event, I would have come to the car to help carry.” The cups wobbled dangerously close to tipping out of the trays, and she let them rest against her stomach as she walked gently toward her office.

“Where you going?” he asked as he opened the door to the bullpen. He tilted his head toward the room beyond. “Everyone’s going to be in here.”

“I have to put one of these trays down before I end up wearing hot coffee. Why do you have eight cups, anyway?”

“So the trays were easier to balance. You ever try to carry a tray with just one or two large cups in it? No, thanks. Besides, it won’t be wasted.”

Ava put the trays on her desk, sighed with relief that she didn’t scald herself with the coffee, and picked up one tray to take to the bullpen. She gave Metford a hard time over his fast-food obsession, but she had to admit that whatever was in those bags had set her stomach rumbling.

In the bullpen, Ashton stood over an open bag with one hand digging through the goods. He looked up and smiled as she walked in. “Coffee. That will be so much better than what we have in the breakroom.” He dropped his biscuit on the table and met her.

“Don’t let Dane hear you say that,” Ava warned.

“Why?” He pulled the lid off and held the cup under his nose. Inhaling deeply, he smiled broader.

“Because she’s the one who bought it.”

“Who bought what?” Dane asked from the doorway.

Ashton took the coffee from under his nose and turned to retrieve his biscuit.

“I brought biscuits, apple pies, and coffee,” Metford said. He patted Ashton’s shoulder. “Ashton has been here all night, and I thought he could use a little pick-me-up.”

“You’re not kidding,” Ashton agreed.

“All night?” Santos asked incredulously. “Seriously? Dude, you’re not a teenager anymore. You can’t be pulling all-nighters and expect to be okay. You should go home.”

“I told him to, and he obviously didn’t listen,” Ava said. “I didn’t think to check if you were still here when I came in,” she told him.

He pointed a remote at the large screen and pushed a button. “I figured I would go ahead and get this set up so that everyone could watch the footage at the same time. Whenever you all get settled, that is.”

“How did you know everyone would be here?” Ava asked.

He shrugged. “I knew you’d call everyone in.”

Nearly an hour later, everybody had their assignments, and the other agents were beginning to file in for the day. Sal would be in soon, and Ava wanted to avoid her for the morning. Furlong’s lawyer, Mr. Camden, had warned them not to speak to Furlong; not to bother him or it would put the department under scrutiny that he was sure they did not want. If Sal came in and asked where Ava was going, she couldn’t lie to her. She would have to admit that she was headed to the library. And Sal would stop her.

She couldn’t have that. She knew the limits of what she would be able to get away with, but Sal wouldn’t be willing to take the risk.

She left the team to their tasks and she went to the library. If her timing was right, Furlong would arrive at his job about the same time Ava got there.

When she opened the door and entered, she and Furlong made eye contact across the expanse between them. He stood proudly by a work of art, until he saw her. His expression soured as she neared him. The sign under the art announced that it was done by him, and that he was considered a ‘breakout’ artist whom the community hoped to see more from in the near future.

He walked toward her.

“I see you’ve put your art on display. I recognize that scene from something I’ve seen before.”

“What are you doing here?” He guided her away from the painting and toward the exit. “I will not stand for this type of harassment again. First, you show up at my house, and now at my work.” He stopped after they had gone several strides and Ava stopped walking. His eyes went wide and he tossed his hand up in the direction of the exit. “Leave. Now,” he ordered.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Furlong, I know I am not supposed to speak to you, but it would be rude to see you and not say hello. I’m not here to question you because I know that would cause trouble. I’m just here trying to find out what was in that crate you took to New York when you went to that curators’ convention.”

He took out his phone but didn’t dial any numbers. Sweat beaded at his temple.

“The crate you took from the event building right out there.” She pointed. “I’m really interested in what it was.”

“I am not speaking to you without my lawyer present.” He started dialing.

“That’s okay.” She smiled wryly and walked back in the opposite direction several feet. “I don’t really need you to speak to me about it. Thanks, anyway.”

“Where are you going? You’re not even supposed to be here.”

She responded without turning around. “There’s no restraining order against me being near you. I just can’t question you. Good day, Mr. Furlong.”

Rita Leonard was on the phone in her office. The door was open, and Ava walked in without waiting for an invitation.

At first, Rita looked up angrily. Probably, she had been expecting one of the other employees to be standing there. Seeing that it was Ava instead, her anger waned, and she cut the phone conversation short. Her gaze flitted frantically over the papers on her desk as she addressed Ava.

“It certainly wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility that one of you agents had some manners, would it?” She flipped off the computer screen and turned to level a cold gaze on her unannounced visitor.

“Of course not, Ms. Leonard, but manners aren’t anything we’re too worried about when we’re trying to solve murders. That’s as it should be, in my opinion.”

“What do you want to know now? Is there another bottle of scotch you need to warn me about?” She chortled and tried for a superior air. It might have worked better if she had not been so visibly nervous.

“I want to know what was in the crate that Mr. Furlong took from the event building. The one he took to New York with him.”

“Why is that important to your investigation, Agent James? It was only a sculpture.”

“A sculpture?”

“Yes. Mr. Aldridge acquired it the week before at a sale.” Her hands fluttered from the top of the desk to her lap as if they weren’t sure what they were supposed to be doing.

“What kind of sculpture? And what sale? Where did it come from?”

“The crate was stored in the event building, and I didn’t have the privilege of looking inside. And before you ask, no, there is no paperwork for it since Connor lived in Fairhaven, and he trusted me implicitly with its safety until time to transport it to the city.” She pulled back her shoulders and held her head high.

Pride was a big motivator for Ms. Leonard. Ava couldn’t fault the woman for being proud of her accomplishments, or of the people she sought to surround herself with. What woman didn’t dream of hob-knobbing with the elites of society. She just happened to be in Fairhaven, Maryland, and those of Connor’s ilk were the most elite she would have contact with regularly.

But if that sense of pride had caused her to do something to contribute to anyone’s death, Ava would arrest her.

“Is it normal procedure for him to store art pieces at the library instead of at his home, in such circumstances? I would think the pieces would be safer at his home, where there is more security.”

Rita nodded and then shook her head. “Yes, at one time, it was more secure for him to hold the occasional piece of art at his house, but since the Reese case, and Mrs. Aldridge going to prison, he worried about the security at his house. He had been even more worried lately. It seemed to get worse with each passing week after she went to prison.”

“That’s understandable. Is it normal to have no paperwork on pieces he bought?”

“Not normal at all. We take great care to record all the information about pieces we are entrusted with, but this was the first time Connor had asked me for such a favor, and I felt obliged since he was such a consistent, generous donor, and he was a celebrity in town. I felt I owed him that much.” She shifted in her seat and couldn’t quite hold eye contact as she had before.

She was hiding something, but Ava didn’t know what it was.

“Is it normal practice to transport pricy pieces of art in the trunk of a car? Does that happen often? A car that belongs to an employee of the public library, and who just happened to be going to the city to attend a curators’ convention? Something about that doesn’t feel right, Ms. Leonard. Can you see it from my perspective?”

Rita spluttered, and her hands did the weird dance from desk to lap to armrests, flitting like confused little birds. “I don’t think it was standard practice for Mr. Aldridge to move pieces in that way, no. Usually, they used a private moving company that specializes in such things.”

“Do you know the name of that company?”

“Double A Movers. I think they’re out of New York.”

“You’re sure about the name of the company, though?” Ava wrote the name in her notepad.

“Yes. I had need to call them several times in the past for Connor.”

Why did she keep switching up how she referred to him? Didn’t most people refer to people either formally or informally when referencing them? At least, most of the time?

“What about the name of any drivers?”

“No, I don’t know the names of any of them right off top of my head.”

“Does the name Thom Axel ring a bell?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes brightening a bit. “Everyone in the industry knows Thom, I think.”

“Is he one of the drivers for Double A Movers?”

“I don’t believe he works with them. Thom owns his own business. That’s how I understand it. Connor was fond of him and used him many times in the past to move things for the galleries, the business, events, and for himself and Margueritte.”

“I need a list of things moved by Double A Movers, Ms. Leonard.”

“For what period of time?” She flipped the screen on again and exited the page she had open quickly.

“All of them.”

Rita looked at her, stunned. “All the records?”

“Yes. All of them.”

“I’m sure there are hundreds of records for the moving company; are you sure you want them all?” She stressed the last word.

Ava considered it a moment. “Compress the whole of it into an electronic file and send it to this address.” She handed her a business card. “And print out the last month of records for them.”

“Oh, that’s better.” She twittered high-pitched laughter again. “I was afraid we’d be here all day. Double A has been moving things to and from here for years. Nearly a decade, now that I think about it.” She balanced the business card at the top of the keyboard and entered Ava’s work email address carefully.

Ten minutes later, the printer at the back of her office spat out a single sheet of paper, and Ava’s phone rang with a notification of an email. She checked her phone and saw that it was the electronic file from Rita.

“Thank you, Ms. Leonard.” Ava took the paper when Rita handed it to her. As she glanced at the five entries on the paper, Thom Axel’s name jumped off the page at her. He was, indeed, one of the drivers for Double A Movers.

Ava called Santos and told her that she needed to find out if there were any sculptures recently delivered to the Chelsea gallery, and if so, to get a picture of them and get any pertinent paperwork.

Ashton sat at his bank of computers staring blankly above the screens as his fingers moved over the keys. They didn’t fly over the keyboard as they typically did, and his jaw was in danger of becoming slack.

“Ashton,” Ava said sharply as she approached.

He jerked straighter, his fingers jamming onto the keys all at once. He twisted his head sharply to look at the screen and muttered a curse under his breath as he used the mouse to correct the mess he’d made.

“Did you just cuss?” Metford asked from his desk.

Ava stifled a laugh. “Yeah, Ash, did you just cuss under your breath?”

Ashton breathed in deeply and yawned as he stretched. “I don’t curse. Most days. I try not to, anyway, and I apologize if I did just now. To be honest, I’m too tired to remember if I did, or not. What’s up?” He smiled wanly.

“Did you find out anything about Thom Axel’s property in Gamle Oslo?”

“Yeah, a cousin owns it.” He found the open tab and put it in the foreground for Ava to see.

“Wow. Is that just a big old coincidence about the name?”

“Lawrence Thomas Axel? Sounds a lot like Thom Axel, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. Is it just a coincidence or is this an alias?”

“I think it’s just a coincidence or maybe a family thing. There’s another cousin named Clarence Thomasson Axel. He owns a house and a little plot of land about eight miles west of Gamle Oslo in a place called Fornebu.”

“I’d get confused on who was who at family reunions. If you say Thom, ten different men and boys turn to ask what you want.” She chuckled, thankful that she didn’t have to deal with that. “What ever happened with the case that was being built against our Thom Axel? The case concerning his missing wife? Find out any more about that?”

“Nothing is going on with it. Not a single thing. There hasn’t been movement on that case since he went off the grid. It died in the water around the same time he disappeared, and it now resides in the cold cases, gathering dust, waiting to be forgotten completely.”

“That sounds to me like someone was either paid off or blackmailed to make the case go away.”

Ashton shook his head and yawned again. “I can run a limited check, if you want me to, but I think the case just went cold because there was no solid evidence and no viable leads. We know all too well about that.”

“Maybe in Norway they don’t have Ava’s tenacity and that’s why they relinquished the case to the freezer,” Metford interjected.

“Could be, but maybe it simply hit a dead end. I can still run a limited check and test the waters.”

“There was evidence. There was a lead,” she said. “Thom Axel. He was their main suspect, and they made reports about it. That’s how we found out about it in the first place.”

“Then they changed their minds. The ironic part is that Thom’s wife was an artist. Not a famous one, but well-known in their region. Her works often were influenced by epic poems and classical literature.”

He searched through the tabs to find another one.

“Wait, classical literature?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Like Dante?” Her gut tightened and her pulse sped up.

“Exactly,” Ashton said, still hovering and clicking. “In the few articles I found, she said she was influenced by works like The Iliad, The Odyssey, and Homeric Hymns. Ah, here it is.”

The screen filled with Ingrid’s paintings. A slideshow ran through three of the pictures before Ava recalled the painting Solomon Furlong had put on display at the library. She explained it to Ashton.

“That would be Dante’s Sixth Circle of Hell: Heresy. Where heretics were sent to suffer for eternity in flaming tombs, and where Dante sees notable historical figures.” He used another screen and put several images up representing the Sixth Circle according to Dante. “You said this was a painting done by Furlong?”

“Yes. It’s on display down at the library. He was standing there looking at it with his chest all puffed out.”

“Hasn’t been found at the scene of a murder, then.”

“No, it hasn’t, and that means it’s only an interesting artefact. Nothing I can use to…” She let her words die. No need to let everyone know how badly she wanted to send that man to jail.

He closed down the tab and moved back to the other screen. “What should I do with all this information?”

“Put it in a file. Print a copy for me, too, please.”

“Right.” His fingers moved nimbly across the keyboard, no longer moving sluggishly. “Got it, and done.” He flourished toward the printer. “The file will be done printing shortly.”

“Great, thanks. I want you to get Connor’s phone location for the day he was killed. I want to know the very last place he visited before he was killed.”

“On it.”

“Do the same for Lucia’s phone.”

“Will do.”

“And Ashton?”

He looked up at her. Dark circles hung below his eyes, making it seem as if he might have been on the losing end of a bar fight. “Yes?”

“Drink some coffee, would you? You look terrible.”

“Thanks.” He smirked and went back to work.

Ava walked to the printer to wait for the papers to finish spilling out. Maybe she should have told Ashton to only print the highlights.

Her phone rang and she answered. It was Santos.

“You told us to go to the Chelsea gallery,” she said. The noise of blaring car horns and revving engines filled the background.

“I did. What did you find out there?”

“Nothing. No one at the gallery was aware of any delivery, and they have no sculptures inside, only canvas and paper art installations.”

“What about in their storage room, offices, anywhere in there?”

“Nope. Nothing. We swept the place just to make sure. So, what’s next on the itinerary?”

“Find Thom Axel and the van we saw him driving in the footage. Ask him why the gallery doesn’t know about the delivery, and who the man was that took it from him.”

“We can do that. I think,” Santos said.

“Good. Ask him why he lied about it, too.”

“When he spoke with you last time?”

“Yes. He wasn’t truthful about what happened. Said he took the crate into the alley where there was a door to a secure holding area for drop-offs, remember?”

“Right. We’ll ask him, if we can find him.”

“Be alert. I don’t know how dangerous he might be, but definitely don’t underestimate him.”

“Got it.”

Ava hoped so. She really hoped they got it, got him, and got answers without getting hurt, too. She could not help but worry when she sent any of her team on assignments that she could not personally assist with.

Ever since Jason Ellis attacked and almost killed her, she couldn’t trust anyone, and she felt vulnerable around male criminals, or even suspected criminals. Knowing that she was transposing that fear onto her team members did not make her worry any less.

Ava put the stack of printed material in her office to go over at a later time. The lab called as she was walking out.

“Hey, it’s Rachel from the lab,” Rachel said.

“I know who you are, Rachel. What’s up?”

“It’s the stuff you brought from the Aldridge estate. You know, the decanter, the glass, and the other bottle of awesomely expensive imported single malt scotch, not the one Mr. Harmon gave Aldridge. Speaking of that scotch, did you know that the MacCleods have been making that same kind of—”

“Rachel,” Ava interrupted. “What about the items from Aldridge’s place?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I found a full print on the decanter. It was like full, complete. First full print I’ve seen on almost anything in either of these cases.”

“Okay, what about the print? Who does it belong to? Did you already run it for comparisons?”

“I should run it through the system?”

“Rachel, of course you should run—”

“Kidding. Of course, I ran it already or I wouldn’t be calling with results.” She laughed, but she was the only one. “Okay, not amused, I take it. Well, that print from an unknown source was also found on the bottle and the tumbler. But it was on the inside of the tumbler. That’s a weird place for a print to be, don’t you think? I mean, unless someone picked it up by pinching it—hey, that’s it. I’ve been trying to figure out why there was a fingerprint inside and directly on the outside, there was a thumbprint, but it was only a partial.”

“Rachel?”

“Right. Anyway, there were no hits on those prints, and there was no trace of drugs in the liquor from the decanter or on the decanter itself. It was a different kind of whiskey, too. Did I mention that? Does that matter?”

“I don’t think it does. It’s in your report, right?”

“It is. Oh, and the most interesting thing about the unknown print, you’re never going to guess.”

“I don’t want to guess. I want you to tell me.” It was times like that when Ava kind of missed talking with the uptight and curt Evan. He cut straight to the details. No fluff, no buildup, no straying off on tangents.

“Of course. The print matched the partial found on Lucia’s upper arm. Now, remember, that was only a partial, not really enough to make a hard identification, but it matched perfectly. What there was of it matched anyway. I’m willing to bet my career they belong to the same man.”

“That’s pretty sure. Are you sure you want to go down that path without the hard evidence to back up the claim?”

“Pfft. I’m not Evan. That man has zero intuition, in case you hadn’t noticed. Me? I’m loaded with intuition most of the time, and so far, it hasn’t led me wrong. The trick in this case is finding out who the print belongs to because it’s not in the system. Which doesn’t mean the owner is a Boy Scout who never did anything like this before.”

“No, it just means he was never caught if he did.”

“Exactamundo,” she exclaimed. “Anyhoodles, I thought you’d appreciate an update. I know you don’t like reading the electronic files, but I did already send one your way if you want to have a gander at it.”

Ava got off the phone feeling as though she had just survived a cyclone.

“You look awfully relieved to be off the phone,” Metford said. “Who was it? Suits upstairs?”

“No, Rachel in the lab, downstairs.”

“Bad news?”

“No, she just has so much energy that I think she can’t contain it and it rolls off her in waves, and if you’re in the vicinity, you walk away feeling as if you’ve survived some small natural disaster.”

“She’s fun, though.”

“Yeah, if you have the stamina to keep up, I guess.” She told him what Rachel had conveyed about the prints.

“Okay, so we know the print doesn’t belong to Connor because they obviously have his prints. Was she sure they were from a man?”

“Pretty sure. I guess she was making an educated guess because of the size, which rules out Rita Mae Leonard.”

“I didn’t know she was on the list. When did that happen?”

“No, she wasn’t. She’s just a jerk who rubs me the wrong way. Sorry.”

He laughed. “Really? You made a joke? About a case?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You tried. You tried to make a funny, and I think it’s cute. Not really how it’s done, but it’s a good effort.”

“Shut up. Back on task here. It’s not Furlong’s print, either. His are on record through the library because of the art side of the operation. All the employees have to be screened before being allowed to work with expensive art pieces.”

“So, Rita’s prints would be on file anyway,” he pointed out.

“Yes, Metford, they would. And it wouldn’t be Thom Axel’s, either.” She huffed and rested a hand on top of her head. “Just when you think you’re getting somewhere with this thing,” she said loudly.

“Thom’s prints are in the system, too. So, who does that leave?”

Ava paced the length of the office several times while Metford stood leaning in the doorway.

“Margueritte would have had access to the decanter and all that,” Metford said.

“She would have, but she was in prison long before Lucia’s murder. The matching partial is on her upper arm. Whoever touched her arm also touched the decanter, the tumbler, and the bottle of Scotch.”

“Well, that should narrow it down considerably, but it doesn’t help much at all, does it?”

“Dusty Martin. We have to consider him,” she said, ignoring that he was pointing out just how little they really had in either case.

“Did you see Rita’s prints on file from the library?”

“No, but they have to be there.”

“But did you see them?”

“No, I didn’t. She showed me that every employee was screened.”

“But she is head of operations. Was that something she implemented?”

Ava thought about it. “I don’t know if it was a protocol she put in place, or if her bosses demanded it. Even so, if she already had been working for them, they might not have enforced it with her.”

“Right, because she was already a trusted employee,” Metford added. “Her prints should be easy enough to come by. They’ve been helpful at the library so far, and we can quickly rule her out since she seems to be on friendly terms, or used to be on friendly terms, with the Aldridges.”

“I think maybe she was only friendly with Connor Aldridge. She couldn’t make up her mind if she would call him Connor or Mr. Aldridge when we spoke last. Odd for her to be wishy-washy about it, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. Remember how against Furlong she was during the Reese case? And then she suddenly was taking up for him, defending him when we went to arrest him.”

“I don’t know about her, but I will ask her about the prints. We know it wasn’t Karl Harmon’s print. His is in the system because it was on the Scotch bottle. The one he gifted Connor.” She went out the door and to the bullpen. “I need you to work on getting Dusty Martin’s prints while I go talk to Rita Leonard,” she told Metford. She leaned close. “And try to get Ashton to drink some coffee or just take off and call it a day. He won’t listen to me and he looks like crap.”

“Will do, but he won’t listen to me, either. He’s a dude. He’ll know you put me up to it.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything. Guys don’t want women to think they’re weak. Not even computer geeks like Ashton.”

Ava tossed up a hand in frustration. “Fine. I give up. Get him some coffee. I’ll be back.”

She went to the library and walked in expecting to catch crap from Furlong again, but he wasn’t there. Neither was his painting. There was an obvious bare section where it had been. The showcase lighting was still there and still turned on, but there was no placard and no painting.

Ava went to Rita’s office. The door was closed and locked. She knocked on it loudly. “Ms. Leonard, it’s Agent James again,” she said.

After a few seconds, she knocked louder and called out again.

A woman came down the hallway quickly. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

Ava showed her badge. “It’s Special Agent James, actually. I need to speak with Rita Mae Leonard. Do you know where she is?”

“Oh, yes. No. I mean, I’m not sure, but she’s probably at home. She left early complaining of feeling nauseous.”

Did her nausea and sudden absence have anything to do with Furlong and his painting being gone as well? “That’s unfortunate. Maybe you could help me?”

A nervous smile flitted over her features. “I’ll try.”

“I need to see the library’s security clearance records for all the employees.”

The woman pointed to the floor and widened her eyes. “For here?”

“Yeah, for here. The Fairhaven Library and Center for Art Culture. Everyone who works here. You had to have your background run before you could work here, right?”

“Yes. We all did.” She chuckled. “Can’t let just anyone work with priceless art.” She turned and motioned Ava to follow. She glanced back. “Or pricy art.” She laughed nervously again and kept walking until they reached the front counter.

The counter was long and curved, and five computers stood at even intervals behind it. Three of those computers were turned on, and the workers were checking books into the system via a handheld scanner hooked to the computers.

“I can’t get into the files you need. I’m sort of new. I’ve only been here a month, but maybe one of the others has access, or knows who does.”

“Great,” Ava said, fighting the urge to complain that she could have said that from the beginning. Instead, she faked a tight smile and turned to look out at the large parking area. When she looked to the left, toward the employees’ parking lot, she noted that Solomon Furlong’s car was there. She turned and scanned the library for him but didn’t see him. He had to be there somewhere.

The woman returned with an exaggerated look of sadness on her face. “I’m sorry, but it seems no one here has access to those files except Ms. Leonard.”

“Really?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Did she say she was going home or maybe to the doctor when she left?”

“Mm, she didn’t say, but I’m guessing she went home. She didn’t mention a doctor, and she didn’t look sick enough for me to worry about her. Nobody else seemed worried, either. Probably just went home and laid down. That would be my guess.”

“Was she vomiting?”

“No,” she said, looking disgusted. “Someone would have heard if she had.” She grinned, but it looked more like a revolted snarl. “I might have been worried about her then.”

“Thank you,” Ava said before leaving. As she walked out, she turned her head looking for Furlong but never saw him. That was okay. He wasn’t the one she needed anyway. Rita was.

Rita’s car was in the driveway at home. Ava walked slowly to the front door and knocked. “Ms. Leonard, it’s Agent James again. It’s important, and I know you’re in there,” she called as she continued to knock every few seconds.

The locks disengaged and the door opened.

Ava was shocked by Rita’s appearance, and didn’t know what to make of it at first. The woman was sweating heavily, breathing heavily, and her hair was smooshed to one side. “Ms. Leonard, are you okay?”

“What do you want, Special Agent James? I don’t feel like your games today. Please.” She palmed sweat from her face, smearing what little was left of her makeup.

“Uhm, I just went by the library and you weren’t there.”

“So, you came by to check on me? They should have told you I left sick.”

“They did, and I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I really need access to the employee security and background checks for the library.” As she watched, Rita’s complexion turned to a pallor and then to ashy grey as if she might pass out.

“Agent, you should come back to the library tomorrow for the records. I can’t access them from here. You should know that, and I’m not going back there today.”

“Are you sure you’re okay to be here alone?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine if I can just go lie down for a bit.”

“Do you want me to help you to the living room or call someone for you? You really look unwell.”

“How very observant, Agent, but that will not be necessary.” She glanced over her shoulder into the house. “Please, just come to the library tomorrow and I’ll see to it that you get the records you need.” She backed up and shut the door.

Ava stood there for several seconds listening. After she got back in the car, she wondered why she had stood there listening and what she had been listening for. She didn’t think anyone was in the house other than Rita, so what was it?

She backed out of the driveway. “You were listening to hear her fall,” she muttered. “Listening for the distinct sound of a body thumping lifelessly to the floor.” Whether good or bad, her job had made her act in ways and expect things that regular citizens just would not understand.

Back at the office, Metford and Ashton stood in the breakroom devouring donuts and drinking coffee.

“Want one?” Metford offered as she entered.

“Nope. Not right now, but thanks.” She looked at Ashton. Some of the blackness under his eyes had gone. “You’re looking better. A little, anyway.” She poured a coffee. “So, any luck getting Dusty’s prints and comparing them to ours?”

“Yep, and they aren’t a match, either,” Metford said. “Decatur, Georgia police sent a digital copy of the prints, so they were in the system all along.”

“And the print didn’t ping them because they aren’t a match,” she said, dropping her head.

Of course, they didn’t match. That would have made things way too easy. Her suspect list had dwindled to nothing. Seeing Rita’s prints in the library system would be the final one marked off the list. Where would they go after that to find out who had been in the Aldridge estate and had possibly drugged and killed Connor Aldridge?

First thing the next morning, Santos called to report that they had no luck locating Thom Axel in the city, but they did find someone who was willing to talk about him.

“Who was it?” Ava asked.

“A man who picked up Karl Harmon’s laundry for the dry cleaner service he uses,” Santos said.

“What information would he have access to?”

“Harmon is one of those men who apparently doesn’t think twice about talking his personal business with his house staff present, because Matty, the guy who works for Delaney Dry Cleaners, said he heard Harmon confirming departure with Thom Axel over the phone.”

“How can he know it was Axel on the phone?”

“Because Harmon had it on speaker, and Matty had seen Thom there before. He remembered the guy’s voice, and said he’d testify under oath that it was him on the phone.”

“Well, that wouldn’t be admissible, but did he get anything else like what departure?”

“Oh, yeah. Karl Harmon was leaving the country. Thom was going as his guest. They were leaving on a cruise heading to Norway and then Iceland. They won’t be back for weeks.”

“Did you get the name of the cruise line?” Ava wrote furiously on the back of a printout on her desk.

“Glacier Queen Cruise Lines,” Santos said. “What do you want us to do? We can’t exactly question Thom if he’s on a cruise ship in the middle of the ocean.”

“Canvass around Cocaine Castle one last time. Really dig in. Homeless, junkies, the works. Talk to whoever is within a two-block radius of the place and then report back. I’ll probably bring you two back so the whole team can regroup on these cases, though.”

Santos exhaled heavily. “All right, we’re heading there now. Just hope we’re almost done in the city. I hate this place. It’s too noisy, too crowded, and it stinks.”

Ava agreed. She had the same feelings when she was there, but sometimes the job called them to do things they would rather not.

She got off the phone and sat behind the computer to look up information about Glacier Queen Cruise Lines when Sal came to the door looking vexed.

“Ava,” she said, stepping inside. “Rita Leonard was found shot dead this morning in her driveway.”

“What? Are you serious? I was just there yesterday. She had left work feeling sick, and I went to see if she could access records I needed from home.”

“Could she?”

“No, she told me to come by the library today to get them.” Ava stood. “I don’t understand, her neighborhood is one of the nicer ones out there.”

“There weren’t any witnesses. None of the neighbors even heard anything, but the woman who found her did so right at dawn. She must have been shot before daylight. Get over there and find out what happened.”

“On my way.” Ava took Metford and Ashton to the scene.

Rita lay on the ground, face-up beside the driver’s door of her car. Ava scanned the scene carefully. “Something isn’t right with this scene,” she said as they walked closer.

Forensics and the ME were already on the scene, surrounding the body and collecting evidence. The camera flash went off, washing the scene in the stark white brightness, and in those flashes, images raced through Ava’s mind of her meeting with Rita the day before.

“What happened here?” she asked the medical examiner.

“She was shot in the head. Center of the forehead.” He put his finger on his own forehead. “Right there. One shot. Clean. Efficient.”

“Where was the shooter? The way she’s laying doesn’t make sense.”

“We won’t know that until the investigation is finished.”

Metford stepped closer and looked at Rita’s body. “Why doesn’t it make sense? If she got shot in the forehead, she’d be on her back, right?”

“Yeah, but she would have been facing the street when she fell.”

“And?” Metford looked at the scene again. “She was walking to her car, and the killer shot her. Bam. She fell backward.”

“She wasn’t walking to the car. She was already at the car, and likely had her hand on the door handle getting ready to open it and get in. Look. See the coffee cup on top of the car?”

“She could have set it there as she walked up.”

“No, she’s right,” Ashton said.

“She still has her purse over her right arm. I bet the keys were on the ground close to that hand, too. She was in the act of getting into the car,” Ava said.

“So, why would she turn and face this direction?” Ashton asked, turning to look over his shoulder at the street.

“Someone yelled for her,” Metford said immediately. “If I’m in a hurry trying to get in my car, the only way I’d turn completely around is if someone called my name.”

“You’re right,” Ava said. “Something had to make her turn around. Was it the killer, though? Or did something scare her and she turned to check it out?”

“I don’t know, but one of our problems has been taken care of,” Metford said.

“What’s that?” Ashton asked.

“Her prints. We have them now to run against the unknown prints back at the lab,” Metford said.

“Ashton, do you have the fingerprint scanner?” Ava asked.

“In the car. Be right back.” He turned and went back to the car. He returned and handed Ava the device. “Remember how to use it?”

“It’s not rocket science, Ash. I’m good.” She waited for forensics to clear the scene, and then she knelt to get the prints.

“You know we took her prints, right?” a woman in a white suit asked.

“How long will it take to get them back to the lab and then run them through the system?”

“Several hours, at least,” the woman said.

Ava held up the scanner. “I need them sooner than that. Just going to send them straight on to the lab.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The woman left to load her kit into the van.

“You get done, let me know,” the medical examiner said. “I need to take the body.”

Ava sent the prints and stood. “I know. You can take her now. I just needed the prints.”

“You know we already printed her, right?”

She showed him the little scanner. “Yeah. I know. This is just quicker. Any idea why she had turned to face the street before being shot?”

The examiner motioned for two men to get the body. “No, ma’am, I do not, but logic would suggest that something got her attention, or maybe she was still facing that way as she walked to her car.”

Ava explained why she thought differently, and the ME shoved his hands into his pockets as he watched Rita’s body being loaded onto the gurney. “You might be onto something, Special Agent James. You just might be onto something.” He turned to leave and stopped. “You know, if you’re right, there might be security footage of the killer from that store over there.” He pointed straight across the street. “If it’s still in business, that is. Haven’t seen anyone there this morning, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Thanks. I’ll check into that.” Did he really think she would neglect such an important thing as collecting any available footage? She went to the porch and stared out at the scene as she dialed the lab’s number.

Ashton and Metford walked slowly toward her, taking in details as they did.

Rachel answered the phone. Ava told her about the prints she had just sent.

“Got them. Running them through the system already, but don’t you know the victim in this case? I mean, her identity isn’t in question, is it?”

“No, it’s not. I want you to compare them to the unknown print found on the items from the Aldridge estate.”

“But she’s a woman. I told you that I am pretty sure the owner of that print is a male.”

“And I’m saying compare it. We don’t deal in intuitions and hunches, Rachel. We deal in hard, provable facts.” If that were only true. Ava followed her instincts and hunches all the time, but she never put those above the evidence, either.

“You got it. I guess this woman might have big fingers or whatever. If she did, I didn’t really notice when I looked at the prints you sent.”

“Rachel, just do it, please.”

“You got it. I’ll let you know what I find. Bye.” She disconnected the call.

Ten minutes later, while Ava and Metford were trying to re-enact the scene, Rachel called back.

“Okay, I know I said it was probably a man, and I’ll admit that I was wrong. Just know that it’s the very first time one of my hunches has been wrong.”

“Rachel, what are you saying?” Ava asked.

“Those prints you sent me. They match the ones pulled from the decanter, the tumbler, and the not-a-gift-from-Karl-Harmon bottle of scotch from the Aldridge estate. And do you know what that means?”

“That Rita Mae Leonard was in Connor Aldridge’s house sometime recently.”

“Yeah, but do you know what else it means?”

“Oh, my God. It means that partial print on Lucia’s arm belongs to Rita Mae Leonard. Thanks, Rachel.” Ava hung up and turned to Metford and Ashton.

They had twin expressions of shock.

“Rita Leonard’s print matched the one on Lucia’s arm?” Metford asked loudly.

Ava’s mind raced. “Yes, and that means that Lucia was likely killed, or at least drugged, right here in Fairhaven. She was then transported to Cocaine Hotel in Astoria all the way up in New York City. What the hell?” It was a rhetorical question and she didn’t expect an answer. It was a good thing, too, because neither Metford nor Ashton seemed to have one.

“Okay, let’s wrap our heads around what this means,” she said. “Rita has been to Aldridge’s house recently, and to Lucia’s. That’s the only way her prints ended up where they did. Was she the one who drugged them?”

“Did she know who killed Lucia and Connor if she wasn’t the one who drugged them?” Ashton asked.

“Or did she kill them?” Metford asked.

Ava shook her head and stepped into the small skiff of grass that passed as a yard. “Physically, Rita would have been unable to complete the scenes with the bodies. I don’t believe she could have even moved Aldridge. He was a big man. At fifty-three-years-old, and with a small stature to boot, I just don’t see Rita moving him at all. She could have drugged him, though.”

“That would mean she knew who killed him,” Metford said.

“It also means that she was the most likely one to drug Connor and Lucia,” Ashton said. “She drugged them, and whoever she was working with moved them.”

“And killed them,” Metford added. “I don’t think she would have had the strength to strangle Lucia to death.”

“I think we’re on track,” Ava said. “Next, we need to figure out what could have been her motive for helping with something so heinous. What did she stand to gain from their deaths?”

“And why was she killed?” Metford asked.

“Who killed her?” Ashton asked.

“Maybe to keep her quiet about the deaths,” Ava said. “Or maybe there was even more that she knew, and whoever she was working with wanted to make sure she never told anyone else.”

“He needed her help to drug the victims, and then she became a liability,” Ashton said.

Ava thought they were definitely on the right track.

“Now, I need to go find out about Karl Harmon and Thom Axel going on a cruise together.”

Metford and Ashton exchanged a look.

Ava filled them in on the ride back to the office.

After being passed from one phone call to another, Ava finally got the number for the captain of the cruise ship for which Harmon and Axel had purchased boarding tickets.

“Captain Nilsen speaking,” the man answered, sounding gruff and slightly annoyed.

Ava introduced herself. “Captain Nilsen, I need to confirm that Thom Axel and Karl Harmon boarded your ship this morning.”

He barked orders at his underlings without covering the phone. Ava pulled the phone away from her ear to keep from being deafened.

“Agent James?”

She put the phone cautiously back to her ear. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Do you want me to call you back with an answer or do you prefer to wait on the line?”

“That depends on how long it will take.”

“I’m looking at the passenger manifest, and I can see that both men in question did, indeed, board the ship this morning. I can also tell you that neither man has answered their cabin door or cellphone. I have sent men to look for them, but this is a large ship. We have just over two thousand passengers aboard.”

“Two thousand?” Ava felt her eyes bug out.

“Yes, ma’am. This isn’t peak season or there would likely be closer to three thousand.”

“How many men did you send to look for Harmon and Axel?”

“In total, a dozen, but they’ll enlist another dozen who are under them. It could take a while.”

“Call me back. If you’ve not called within the hour, I’ll call you.”

“Goodbye, Agent James.”

She hung up and twiddled the phone between her thumb and forefinger. She had no idea how many passengers were on cruise ships. She knew there were a lot, but it never seemed like thousands when she had gone on the two cruises she had taken as a youngster with her parents. She had been thinking more along the lines of five hundred passengers at most.

Just before the hour was up, the captain called back.

“I found Karl Harmon. He is aboard, but we have yet to locate Thom Axel. His name is on the passenger manifest. He simply was not aboard anywhere that was searched.”

“How thoroughly was the ship searched?”

“Very. We take passenger safety very seriously on Glacier Queen Cruise Lines, Agent.”

“I don’t doubt that in the slightest. I was just wondering if there was an out-of-the-way area he could have accessed that hasn’t been checked because it’s off-limits to passengers.”

“No. We checked everywhere, and it’s my belief that the man is not on the ship anywhere. There is no video footage of a man overboard, either. He is just gone.”

“What about his luggage? Is any of that on the ship?”

“Yes. All of his belongings are in his cabin. I took the liberty of opening it, and the only thing I could see that was missing was his passport. Other than that, I’m afraid the only thing missing is Mr. Axel. I asked Mr. Harmon if he had seen his friend—they were listed as travel companions. He said he didn’t know what happened. He thought Mr. Axel was mingling, and had not thought to worry about it. Said the man was new to the whole pleasure-cruise experience.”

“People don’t disappear into thin air, Captain Nilsen. There must be an explanation. If his luggage is on the ship, it stands to reason that he is, too.”

“Unless he missed the ship at the port. You could call port authority to check. But I can tell you that I have not received any notifications of a passenger left behind.”

Just what she wanted—more phone calls and being rerouted to ten different people before she found anyone who could answer her question. “Thank you, Captain Nilsen. If Thom Axel happens to show up, call me immediately, please.”

“Of course.”

She found the contact information for port authority and was relieved to only be rerouted once before getting someone at the port.

“Did both men board the ship?” she asked after explaining the situation.

“I can tell you from memory that Thom Axel missed the ship. Missed it by mere minutes, actually.”

“How can you be sure it was him?”

“Well, because he was the only passenger who showed up late and pretended to throw a fit because he missed the departure.”

“What do you mean that he pretended to throw a fit?” Ava was instantly more curious.

“Just what I said. He put on a real show when he saw the ship sailing away, but it didn’t last long. He left quick, and just to be honest, I thought he looked pleased that he’d missed it. That’s what we all thought.”

“And you are positive it was Thom Axel?”

“I am. Checked the passport myself.”

Ava thanked him and hung up.

As she walked to the bullpen, her phone rang again. She answered without looking, halfway expecting it to be the captain even though she had just found out that Axel had missed the ship—and possibly on purpose from the sound of it.

It was the medical examiner. He had figured out why the gunshot to Rita’s forehead had knocked her down instead of making her stagger back before falling.

“I didn’t even know that was in the working theories,” Ava said.

“She was shot with a rifle from an elevated angle, which explains why the exit wound was toward the bottom of the back of her skull. At first, I thought it might have been the type of bullet used—one that would hit bone and run along it, but I knew that couldn’t be right.”

“An elevated angle. How elevated are we talking?”

“Like the top of that building I pointed out when we were there.”

“Do you know what type of rifle was used?”

“Not yet, but ballistics is working on that.”

Ava went straight to Ashton and put him to work pulling surveillance and traffic camera footage around the port to try locating Thom Axel.

“What about the footage around Rita Leonard’s house?” Metford asked.

“I’m already working on that,” Ashton announced.

“See? He’s already on it,” Ava said. “Take notes. Be proactive like Ashton, eh?”

“Funny. Real funny,” Metford said as he turned back to the computer. “Not like I’m just sitting here.”

“I’ll be back in a bit. Got notes to go over and see if there’s something we’ve missed.”

She went to her office to do just that.

It only took twenty minutes before Ashton rushed into Ava’s office. “Found him,” he exclaimed. “Hurry. He’s just leaving Fairhaven now.”

Ava shot out of her seat and skidded around the desk to follow Ashton to his computers in the bullpen.

They went down the aisle between the desks so fast that a paper fluttered off Dane’s desk to the floor.

“What’s going on? Did you find him?” Metford asked, joining them.

Ashton turned the monitor so they could see. “That’s him. This is real-time footage.”

“That’s not the same van, Ash,” Ava said, discouraged.

“I know. The signage on the side panels has been changed, but it’s him. It’s the same van, too. Look.” He turned another monitor toward them. “That’s his face at a traffic light, and there’s his tag as he goes through the light. Same tag.” He put his finger on the screen with the moving van. “He’s heading out of Fairhaven now.”

“What the hell is he doing here?” Ava asked.

“Do you really want to stand around asking questions?” Metford asked as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

“Absolutely not. Ash, advise local police. Pull that van over ASAP.” She ran out the door, and they jogged to her car.

“He was headed north,” Metford said, getting in.

Ava got behind the wheel and buckled up. Adrenaline coursed through her, quickening her pulse and heightening her senses. Sirens blaring, lights flashing, she hammered through traffic as fast as possible.

Ashton came over the radio. Metford took it.

“Fairhaven PD has a car in pursuit,” his voice came across the radio. “Unit has him in sight. High speed chase in progress now.”

“Still headed north?” Metford asked.

“Yes, still on the same route. More units are en route.”

“Thanks. Keep us updated,” Metford said. He whooped loudly. “Yeah. Let’s catch up. Can’t let PD have all the fun.”

Ava swerved between cars, paused at an intersection long enough to ensure no cross traffic was coming, and shot through the red light. The camera on top of the poles flashed, and Metford whooped again.

The excitement was palpable. She couldn’t hold it against him when she was feeling the same way.

Soon, the city traffic dwindled, and they were flying up the interstate ramp. Vehicles slowed and moved to the side as the car rocketed up the ramp and into the lane. In one way, it felt like she drove for hours before the cop car came into view far ahead. In another way, it felt as if she had only pulled away from the curb at the federal building seconds before.

“There’s PD,” Metford said, stabbing a finger at the windshield.

“I see.” She gripped the wheel and squinted but didn’t take her foot off the accelerator. “Are they stopped?”

“Oh no,” he said. “They crashed. Pull over, pull over.”

A van had spun out sideways in the median, a four-door sedan sat in the right-hand lane with smoke boiling from under the hood, and the cruiser was on its side just past the van. The light bar lay in the grass still warbling beside the cruiser. The cop was at the van, checking on the driver.

“Damn it!” Ava shouted, pounding the steering wheel with the heel of her hand.

She parked and called in the wreck while Metford jumped out to help the people in the sedan get their car off the side of the road and out of traffic. The cop moved to the roadway to start directing traffic, and Metford helped.

Ava dialed Santos’ number but it went to voicemail. She dialed Dane’s.

“Hey, what’s up?” she answered.

“Where’s Santos?”

“Right here.”

“Phone’s dead. I killed it,” Santos said from farther away. “Hey, is that sirens?”

“It is. There’s been an accident on the interstate. Listen, I need you two to be on the lookout for Thom Axel. He’s headed north in the moving van. The signage on the side is now a big pink cupcake, and the logo written under it is for Dan’s Desserts in New York.”

“He’s headed here right now, and you need us to watch for him where?” Dane asked.

“Get to the interstate. He’s just been in a high-speed chase. Fairhaven PD was in pursuit and ended up in a three-car crash on the interstate. We’re at the border of New Jersey now. Axel kept going. It would make sense that he’s headed back to the city. His life is there. Alert NYPD and have them help. He needs to be caught.”

“We’re on it.” Dane hung up.

Metford came back to the car as more police cruisers showed up. “They got it. We’re going,” he said.

“Everyone’s okay, then?” She was pulling onto the road as she asked.

“Bruised up, but okay, yeah. Let’s get that bastard.”

She kept the lights on and turned the siren back on as she drove north. “He could have gotten off any of these exits.”

“I know, but realistically, he would have stayed on long enough to put some distance between us and him.”

The interstate flattened out, and a town came into view on the right side. The interstate ran parallel to the main road in town. Ava looked back to the interstate as they passed an on-ramp with slow traffic.

“That was him,” Metford said, turning in his seat and craning his neck to look back. “We gotta go back. That was him at that gas station.”

Ava looked in the rearview and saw the white van. “Are you sure it was him?”

“How many white vans are driving around with that stupid pink cupcake on the side?”

Ava floored the gas and shot off the next exit in front of a pickup with bales of hay stacked in the bed. The high, sweet smell of the hay flooded into the car as they passed, and for a split second, she was back at her grandmother’s place picking daisies in front of the barn. Then she was at the bottom of the ramp, swinging the car sharply to the right, and the moment was gone.

She took the next right, sped down the curvy two-lane until it straightened out. She cut the lights and siren, not wanting to alert Axel to their approach.

“He messed it up,” Metford said. “There’s smoke rolling out from the hood.”

The van sat askew at the outside pump closest to the road. The driver’s door was open and the hood was up. “That’s why he got off here. His van is busted,” she said, smiling. Maybe things were looking up for the case. For her.

Before she pulled into the lot, Thom Axel stepped away from the back of the van and started toward the raised hood. He glanced up, saw Ava and Metford, and his face registered momentary, fleeting shock. He dropped the tools he had been holding, ducked into the driver’s side, and stood up with a gun in his hand. He ran to a car on the inside of the pumps and yanked the driver’s door open.

“It’s a woman,” Ava said, yanking the wheel to get into the lot before he could leave.

In the time it took to skid to a stop, and for Metford to launch himself out of the car, hand on gun, Axel had shoved the female to the passenger seat and had a gun to her head. She sat stiffly, tears running down her face, which was twisted into a mask of terror.

Ava got out, pulled her gun and started toward the car. She kept the gun pointed to the ground. “Thom, you don’t want to do this,” she said.

Metford went wide as he circled to the woman’s side.

“Stop right there!” Axel yelled. He looked like a cornered animal. One that might do anything to get out. “Stop or I’ll blow her brains out. You know I can.”

“I do know that, Thom,” Ava said. “But she never did anything to deserve that. You don’t even know her, do you?” She took two more steps.

“If you know, then why are you still moving toward me?” He shoved the gun into the woman’s temple, pushing her head to the side and eliciting a whimper of fear from her.

Ava held up her hand. “Come on, Thom. You’re in enough trouble. You don’t want to add to it, do you?” She risked another small step, and so did Metford.

Thom’s expression dropped to a cold stare as if he knew he held all the cards. He cocked the gun and curled his finger around the trigger.

Ava and Metford stopped. Fear shot through Ava’s chest. She couldn’t allow an innocent woman to be shot.

“Let me leave here and do not follow me,” Axel instructed coldly. “If you don’t let me leave, I’ll shoot her right here. I have nothing to lose at this point by doing so. If I see you in the rearview, same thing. I’ll shoot her and kick her corpse out of the car for you.”

Ava and Metford exchanged a look, and then they put up their hands and backed out of his way.

“You can go,” Ava said.

The woman wailed and covered her face with both hands as she sobbed harder.

“Ma’am, you’ll be okay!” Ava shouted. She hoped Axel wouldn’t make a liar out of her.

He grinned and idled between them and out of the lot.

He gassed the car and flew down the road. As he got out of sight around the first curve, Metford jumped back in the car, cursing. “Let’s go!” he shouted. “He’s getting away!”

“We’re not chasing him down. You heard him. Do you think he would care to shoot her? He knows he’s got nothing to lose. Go to prison for one murder or two; doesn’t matter. Either way, he’s in for life at the very least.”

“We can’t just let him go.”

“We can alert local PD, and whoever else happens to be involved, and then we can search that van inside-out. That’s what we can do.”

Later that evening, Ava, Metford, and Ashton met with Dane and Santos in New York City.

“Where is he?” Ava asked Santos.

“Detective Reinhold says Axel disappeared in Chelsea, Queens.”

“Where is NYPD now? I thought we were meeting them,” Ava said, looking around the park where they had set up the meeting.

“They’ll be here,” Dane said. “Probably looking for him as they make their way here. NYPD won’t let you down. They’re one of the best departments in the country.”

Sal rang Ava’s phone. “Sal, we’re in New York waiting on NYPD to get here so we can locate Axel.”

“I was calling to let you know that Axel’s hostage has been located. She’s scared to death and likely traumatized for life, but otherwise unharmed. He let her out beside the road in Bayonne, New Jersey. She confirmed that Axel was headed to New York, but we already knew that. And why are you waiting on NYPD? Do you know where Axel is?”

“They lost him in Chelsea. Someone is scrubbing through traffic cam footage for him now, but he’s probably at his place getting what he needs to disappear.”

“Then stop waiting. NYPD can catch up when they get there. Thom Axel is wanted for the murder of at least one person, and the body count might go up the more we uncover.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ava said. “We’re going now.” She hung up. “You heard her. Let’s get moving. The boys in blue can meet us there. Dane, call them and let them know what’s up.”

Metford and Ashton got in the car with her, and they went into Chelsea driving with the traffic, which gave them time to scour the sidewalks and open-air cafes for Axel.

They parked at his home and went to his door. Ava rang the bell. It echoed hollowly through the apartment beyond. There was nothing but silence from inside. She motioned to Metford and Ashton, and they forced the door.

Dane called. “NYPD is on the way. They have units in Chelsea now. Where are you?”

“Axel’s apartment, but it’s empty. Get some uniforms in here to canvass the neighbors. See if anyone knows him, where he went, and when they’ve seen him last.”

Ava, Metford, and Ashton left as soon as the first uniform showed up.

“They’ll do it right,” Metford told her as they stepped outside.

“What? They’ll do what right?”

“The cops. They’ll do the search right. I know it’s bothering you to hand it off to someone else, but it’ll be okay.”

She scoffed. “I hope so.” She looked around once they were at the car. “He has a thing for high vantage points,” she said.

Metford and Ashton looked up at the buildings around them.

“Well, they’re all tall, that much is for sure,” Metford said.

“That doesn’t exactly make me feel safe,” Ashton said, looking worried.

“Me neither,” Ava admitted. “But where would you go if the walls were closing in, and you knew street-level cameras were being watched?”

“Above street-level cameras,” Metford said.

“Exactly,” Ava agreed, eyeing a parking garage at the end of the block. “I’m thinking that would be something he could appreciate. Call Dane and tell them where we’re going. Tell them to get here.”

Dane and Santos met them outside the garage.

“Looks like it’s not used much,” Santos said, shading her eyes against the late evening sun and peering to the interior of the structure.

“It’s in a residential area,” Dane said. “It would be mainly used for the people in the apartments around here.”

“We need uniforms to keep people out,” Ava said.

“On it,” Dane answered, taking out her phone.

“He’s in there,” Ava said, looking up to the higher floors. “I can feel him watching, planning.”

“Then we need to get off the street,” Ashton said. “We’re easy targets out here if he’s up there.”

Without questioning, they all moved to the deepening shadow of the alley between the parking garage and the old night club. The once-vibrant sign in the door of the club dangled by one corner. Its burst of colorful text had faded to muted colors that signaled the place had been vacant for at least a couple of years.

That was good. One less building they had to worry about people being in that might get hurt if Axel started firing.

“Dane, Santos, Ashton, spread out and keep your eyes peeled. Metford, you’re with me.”

“The uniforms are on their way,” Dane said. “Five minutes.”

“They have their orders,” Ava said. “We don’t have time to wait. We’re moving now.” She motioned for them to fan out to the various entrances. Metford stayed close as they went in through the large main entrance.

The safety bar was down. A dim indicator blinked green at the card reader. The parking garage’s interior was cold compared to the temperature outside, and the constant breeze cut through her light jacket as she moved silently through the dim light, sticking to the shadows. Metford was only a few yards away, but in the shadows, he was practically invisible.

The deeper they moved into the building, the surer Ava was that Thom Axel was in there. Waiting. Watching. Listening. Biding his time like a crocodile waiting for dinner to swim into its open maw. It was as if every fiber of her being was tuned to his presence. It was a surreal experience.

Ava whispered into her earpiece when she heard the first sirens arriving a block away. “Team Alpha, take positions. Clear areas. Move up. He’ll be on high ground.”

She glanced up at Metford as she spoke. He nodded curtly, eyes focused, gun ready. They advanced through the shadows in a silent dance, moving as a single unit. The slightest sounds echoed. Their light footfalls, distant traffic, the buzz and stutter of the ancient fluorescents overhead, and the scream of sirens in the near distance. Soon, red and blue strobes would wash the ground floor in warbling techno-dancehall lights that would reach into the darkest corners. She wanted to be a floor up when that happened. They needed their eyes to be completely adjusted to the near-darkness when they reached Axel. He was dangerous in a predatory way, and he would strike at the first hint of an opportunity.

Ava’s heartbeat was a relentless drumbeat. Axel wasn’t just a job. He was a monster. A murderer who had evaded the law, skinning by on his seeming innocence. All the way back in Norway, Ava thought they’d had it right when they made him the prime suspect in his wife’s disappearance. She also believed Axel had killed Lucia and Connor, among many others. He was too seasoned, too careful, and too brutal for Rita Mae Leonard to be his first kill.

Each level held fewer and fewer cars, until they were finally only a floor from the top, and there were only a handful of cars parked under burned-out fluorescents. The whole team was headed to the same floor, but Ava and Metford reached it first.

An exit sign hung over the door, its light barely illuminating the space around it. Ava counted eight large fluorescents that still worked, and the rest left big dark areas. The shadows seemed deeper and darker because of the few lights.

Ava’s gut tightened, her muscles tensed, and her ears strained for any sound that didn’t belong: a breath, fabric against metal as someone moved past a car, soles on concrete that didn’t match her or Metford’s movements, anything that would give away Axel’s position, but there was nothing.

Shadows shifted at the other side of the room as Ashton moved from pillar to pillar. Santos was behind them, entering a side door. Dane neared the ramp that led to the next floor. She melded with the shadows and nodded to Ava as she took position to cover them as they moved up the ramp.

There was nothing wrong with the lighting on the ramp. It was bright, the lane wide, and Ava couldn’t help but feel like she was putting herself out there with a big target and spotlight on her back.

Metal clanged from behind them. Ava turned in time to see Thom Axel emerge from behind a black sedan with his gun raised. Time slowed as shots rang out, cutting deafening lines through the quiet. It was all reaction from that point.

The shots echoed off the concrete walls even as debris exploded and pieces of the walls sprayed around her. She dropped to the ground and rolled off the side of the ramp to take cover behind a pillar. The heat of a bullet whizzed by her ear, and she crouched tighter behind the pillar.

Metford made eye contact with her. Bullets came in short bursts. Metford nodded, and Ava shook her head. “Hold,” she said. “Metford,” she called as he bounded upward, dropping his aim to follow Axel in his shadowed space.

Metford fired. The muzzle flash illuminated the shadows to his side and in front. He moved to a protected stance behind a pillar, his gun still pointing at Axel.

The team all returned fire with calculated precision. They changed positions with the same measured caution.

“You’re surrounded, Axel!” Ava shouted, leveling her gun at him.

“Drop your weapon!” Metford yelled. The command was echoed farther down as Ashton and Santos yelled.

Ava saw them taking cover behind a pillar and one of the few cars up there.

“Axel, don’t make this any harder than it already is!” Ava yelled. “There’s nowhere for you to go. Drop the gun and put up your hands.”

His laugh echoed, cold and taunting. “Wrong. There’s always somewhere to go.”

She watched as he shunted to her right. He was a ghost, moving between cars and pillars and concrete barriers with the speed and agility that made him a formidable adversary.

“Move, move, move,” Ava ordered the team. “Don’t let him reach the roof.”

She and Metford fell in behind Axel as he ran to the other side of the lot. The other side had the benefit of the late evening sun, and there were few places to hide. Upon realizing his faux pas, Axel changed direction in a hairpin turn that sent his feet sliding. He caught his balance and headed straight for the ramp. As he made the final turn to start ascending, he fired wildly over his shoulder. Metford’s left shoulder jerked back, and he grunted, but he didn’t stop running.

“Metford!” Ava yelled.

“I’m fine,” he responded, pushing faster. He outpaced Ava.

She was sure it was pure fury that pushed him on so fast, but she couldn’t keep up with him no matter how hard she tried. Two more shots rang out, and Metford let out a wordless sound that was a mix between a growl and a scream.

Ava’s blood chilled. Metford lying in a pool of his own blood was all her mind would conjure. She rounded the corner, still hearing the pained sounds.

Metford straddled Axel, and then Axel flipped him, and he was scrambling to flee. Metford grabbed his foot and yanked. Axel yelped and went down hard.

“Stop, Axel!” Ava yelled, her gun pointing at the man. She panted for breath. “Hands where I can see them.”

Axel grinned up at her, blood covering his teeth and lips.

“I mean it. I will shoot you.”

Metford pulled himself up and put his hand in the center of Axel’s back. “I think she’s saying that you are under arrest.” He motioned with his head for Ava to cuff Axel.

As she cuffed him, she saw that Metford had been hit twice. Once in the left shoulder and once in the thigh.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

“Not that bad, but where the hell is the police department? I thought they were assisting in this.”

Dane ran to them, stopped, bent, and put her hands on her thighs. “They’re here. The first wave was out there keeping civilians out of the building. Second wave was on the fourth level when all this happened.”

Metford refused to wait where he was for medical to get him. He stumbled down the ramp on his own. Ava tried to reason with him that he could cause more damage, but he insisted there was nothing he could do to make it worse—both wounds were only flesh wounds.

Axel was in cuffs. Ava’s team had minor injuries, except for Metford, and she was sure his wounds were more serious than he was letting on. And the adrenaline still pumped through her veins as she took Axel back to lockup.

Thom Axel refused to talk to Ava or anyone else. He demanded to speak with his lawyer. Ava obliged because she had no other choice.

“That’s fine, Mr. Axel,” she said, as she closed the file and got ready to leave him in the interrogation room. “We found the rifle in your abandoned van. Yours were the only fingerprints on it. I’d ask if you could guess which murder we linked the gun to, but you already know.” She stood.

He looked at her with that infuriatingly neutral expression.

“And right now, guess where my teams are? Your apartment in New York. I just got a message that they have found numerous random personal items that don’t seem to belong to you along with quite a few half-finished paintings influenced by Dante’s Inferno and Greek mythology.” She opened the door. “You’re pinned to Rita’s death. That’ll be life in prison at the very least, and no matter how much you refuse to talk, that won’t change. It’ll just show that you are indifferent, cold, calculated. I’ll be back once your lawyer shows up.”

Sal waited for Ava near the viewing monitor, NYPD officers stared as they walked by. “You should have just stopped talking when he asked for a lawyer. Other people are watching and listening.” She tilted her head to a group of detectives standing at an open doorway across the hall, and then to the three uniforms at the bank of elevators. “They’ve been there for a hot minute.”

“I didn’t question him after that,” Ava defended. “I just wanted him to know that we have him, dead to rights, for Rita’s murder. They’re gathering evidence from his apartment now that I believe will tie him to others, including Connor Aldridge’s death.”

“What a mess this is turning out to be for him. His name will be ruined if it gets out that he was involved in anything illegal.”

“Stop worrying about how it’s going to look or how the mayor of Fairhaven and the top brass upstairs are going to react. If he was doing what I suspect he was doing, then people have the right to know. It’s not like he was in it alone. If he was trafficking, he worked with an extensive group to accomplish it.”

“I know. You’re right.” She sighed and turned away from the monitor so they could go back to the loaned office space that had recently been a training room in the NYPD building. “It’s this job. The politics of it. Three years ago, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. I would have been gung-ho to expose Connor’s wrongs, but now?” She shrugged. “I still want to, but at the same time, I have all these officials breathing down my neck. No matter how much you think it would never change you, trust me, it does.”

Personally, Ava couldn’t wait to get back to Fairhaven. She hated passing time in a loaned space. Most of the officers avoided them, but a few went out of their way to make sure it was known that the FBI was unwelcome in their territory.

Two hours later, armed with more damning evidence, Ava entered the interrogation room again. Axel’s lawyer, Victor Carmine, sat beside him looking sharp and cunning, and ready to do whatever it took to try getting Axel off the hook.

Ava knew better. She had played by the book, and so had the rest of the team. She went through the perfunctory greetings and sat across the table from them.

She presented them with ballistic reports from Rita’s murder and the rifle. She slid another report to them showing where the gun was found and whose fingerprints were on it.

“Mary Sanborne will testify against you,” Ava said. “She’s a very brave young lady.”

“Mary Sanborne?” Carmine asked.

“The woman your client carjacked and kidnapped right in front of me and my partner when he was attempting to evade arrest for Rita Mae Leonard’s murder.”

Carmine turned to look sharply at Axel. “Kidnapping?”

“At gunpoint,” Ava added. “Had his pistol stuck to her temple. It’s all on video, too, by the way. Some convenience stores have real cameras that aren’t just for show.” She couldn’t hold back the little smirk. “What do you say, Mr. Axel, can you untangle some of this for me? How do Lucia Martinez and Connor Aldridge and Solomon Furlong and Karl Harmon fit into this?”

Axel clamped his mouth shut.

“You’re grasping, Special Agent James,” Carmine said. “Ms. Leonard and Miss Sanborne are the focus of my client’s case.”

“Oh, they are the primary focus, but that’s only for now.” She stood again. “Just know that we have you pinned to Rita’s death and there’s no way to wiggle out of it. Not even with a fancy defense lawyer like Mr. Carmine here. I’ll have results back from some of the trophies found in your apartment. There’s a man’s watch that belonged to Connor Aldridge there that I am particularly interested in. Do you know which watch I’m talking about, Mr. Axel? There’s no denying who it belonged to, is there?”

Carmine’s phone rang. He answered and listened. After hanging up, he leaned over and whispered something to Axel, who became visibly upset to the point that tears welled in his eyes.

“Special Agent James,” Carmine said, closing his attaché case. “This interview is over. Try again when you have something more solid to go on. Until then, I’ll fashion a defense for the crimes he’s being accused of.”

Her phone rang and she held up a finger. She answered, listened, hung up. “I have something more right now, Mr. Carmine.” She looked at Thom. “It’s just not what I expected.”

Thom sat straighter and a small smile blossomed where there had been a deep, worried frown before.

“Connor’s watch. It had Karl Harmon’s prints on it. I must admit, Mr. Axel, I expected those prints to be yours.”

Axel smiled broadly and with great self-assurance. “I told you I didn’t kill Connor.”

Carmine nearly had a stroke as he quickly silenced his client.

“Karl disappeared in Iceland, Mr. Axel. I take it that you are aware of the significance of that.”

“Yeah, it means he got away with it.”

Again, Carmine turned and chided his client. “If you insist on this behavior, I can’t be responsible for the outcome. If you wish to keep me as your defense attorney, I advise you to stop talking. Do not say anything to her, to any of them, without vetting it through me. That’s my job.”

“It means that you will be stuck taking the fall for that murder because you were the one in possession of the trophy,” Ava said. “In this case, Connor Aldridge’s personal watch. A watch that he wore often and bore the inscription declaring Margueritte’s undying love.”

Axel shifted in his seat and glared at Carmine. His mouth twitched. He wanted to engage, but his lawyer had spooked him. For the time being. Ava knew his type, and that wouldn’t last. People like Axel were used to getting their way and having the last word.

She stepped out the door, and her phone notified that she had an email. She opened it. It was from the lab back home—Rachel and Evan had both signed off on the work. The attached file was the report about Axel’s personal paints taken from his apartment. The paints had been brought from Norway, and they were an exact match for the paint at Lucia’s crime scene. A short bark of laughter escaped her, and she opened the door again, still holding the message in front of her.

“Agent?” Carmine asked through poised hostility.

“Yeah, I just thought you’d like to know about those paints in your client’s apartment. We just matched them to the paint used at Lucia’s murder scene.” She laughed again and held up the message. “It just keeps stacking up, doesn’t it? I’m really leaving this time.” She waggled the phone. “Well, unless something else comes through that I think you should know about.”

Carmine was already turned to Axel with an angry expression.

“I don’t think he knew the full scope of his client’s actions,” Ashton said from the monitoring screen.

“He’s getting the crash course, and it’s not over yet. I’m certain of that.”

“We’ve got him. He can’t get out of Rita’s murder, Mary Sanborne’s kidnapping, or having a dead man’s watch in his possession. They found an earring that was matched to Lucia, but there weren’t fingerprints on it. There are plenty of things that look to be trophies. Looks like he’s been collecting them for a few years now.”

“I don’t care how long it takes, I want to know who each trophy belonged to. The victims deserve justice, even if it’s late.”

Ava went to the bullpen to get an update about Metford, who was still at the hospital being treated. His gunshot wounds were superficial, just as he had said. He would be released by morning, and they could head back to Fairhaven. Axel would be transported at the same time.

Reinhold came in. “How’s it going?” He held a cup of coffee in one hand and a thick file in the other.

Ava updated him quickly. “Are Margueritte’s properties here in the city still being searched or did your guys finish with that already?”

He blew air between his lips. “Finished? No. I know it’s been a couple of months, but that woman had a lot of properties tied to her name, and she had so much stuff. A regular Joe would be called a hoarder, but because she was rich, she’s called a collector.”

“Has anything useful come up in those searches?”

“Some handwritten journals she kept hidden. Seems she was an avid journal-keeper. In the age of technology, it’s odd to find a stack of leatherbound, handwritten journals. One of my crew is in charge of going through them. Who knows what she might have put in them?”

“Hopefully it’s more than her grandmother’s secret goulash recipe.”

He laughed. “I don’t think there are any recipes in them. I’d bet a dollar she didn’t cook. Probably didn’t have a grandmother, either. If she had one, she might have turned out different.”

Ava couldn’t disagree.

The next time Ava heard from Detective Reinhold, she was sitting comfortably in her own office back in Fairhaven looking over the old cases that should have been marked off the board already. With a lag in the case against Thom Axel, and with Karl Harmon still missing in Iceland, she was itching to get back to work on anything that offered movement, progress, action.

“I’m sending you copies of those journals that Margueritte kept,” Reinhold said. “They opened a whole other can of worms for both our departments, so be prepared.”

“They coming electronically?” Ava flipped on the computer and pulled up her email.

“Yes. Hardcopy will come by courier sometime tomorrow. She was a great keeper of records, let me tell you. My partner will be talking to her in a week or so. I might come down with him. If I do, I’ll give you a shout.”

“That sounds good to me.”

Ava got off the phone and read through the electronic version of Margueritte’s journals. She had, indeed, been a great keeper of records. She kept records of what drugs were being smuggled. Who was smuggling them and where they were being delivered. Payouts and payoffs were listed in one journal. She wrote extensively about Thom Axel and Karl Harmon—both, according to her journals, were eyeball-deep in the drug trade within the art world. They were both listed as Maestros of Sweet Treats.

Ava read those lines several times and shuddered when she figured out what that title probably meant. Thom had that huge smiling pink cupcake on the side of the moving van. Lucia had told them she thought there was human trafficking going on in the art world—especially in New York City. It was completely possible that Thom and Karl were the main men who were either responsible for getting the victims to be trafficked, or they delivered them to others who would sell or trade or indenture them in the sex trade.

One of the last journals hinted at inter-community hits being put out on artists who found out too much about what the Aldridges and others were doing behind the scenes, or those who figured out too much and caused trouble for them.

“Like Lucia,” Ava said as she read the last line.

“What’s like Lucia?” Metford asked from the doorway. He had taken off the sling as soon as he was released from the hospital in the city. He held his left arm at the exact angle it would have been if he’d left it in the sling.

“You know, you should just put on the sling. You’re holding that arm in the same bent position. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just wore the thing for a week?”

“Nope. I hate those things. Remember when I had to wear that one during the Reese case? I was forever catching it on corners of things, tipping things over, bumping into things. I’ll be better off without it. Besides, it’s like wearing a big patch that says, ‘Wimp!’ on my chest.”

“You mean instead of that big patch with the capital S on it?”

He chuckled. “Something like that. But don’t tell anyone. You know Superman can’t let anyone know his true identity.”

She zipped her lips. “It would ruin the movie, huh?”

She motioned him in and filled him in on the journals.

“She didn’t worry about putting names and addresses in there, did she?” Metford asked, wide-eyeing the pages on the screen.

“Not even a little bit. She even kept the most current contact information for some of them.” She scrolled to a page where phone numbers and addresses had been marked through with pencil and new ones written above them in red ink. “I hate to say this but…”

“No, you don’t. Go ahead and say it. I know it’s coming.” He sat back in his chair with a resigned expression.

“I think she was the smarts of the operation,” Ava said.

For a moment, Metford looked confused. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Look at all this. She arranged most everything. If she didn’t, she supervised. Connor was a pawn compared to her.” She switched the view to another journal. “I said a pawn, not a victim because I still don’t think he was a victim. Not at all.”

“I’ll take it. I think he got caught up in all this and didn’t realize how bad it was until it was too late.”

“Too late? It’s never too late, Metford. He could have stopped being a monster anytime he wanted to. He just didn’t want to. He could have turned in his wife at any point, but he played the innocent card to the end. Right to the bitter end.”

“You going to talk to Axel again soon?”

She pointed to the computer screen. “Absolutely. Reinhold’s team is working with Dane and Santos to verify some of the names of smugglers in the journals. If the leads pan out, there will be tons of arrests going on in the city. It won’t take them long to find someone who can finger Axel. I want him to know ahead of the actual event, though. Is it terrible that I enjoy watching him squirm?”

“Not at all.”

Ava waited another half-hour until Mr. Carmine had arrived, then she took a few select pages that she had printed from those journals and went to speak with Thom Axel again.

She slid the pages across the table.

“These are handwritten journal-type entries, Special Agent James. You can’t get a conviction with these.” Carmine tossed them back to her with a scornful look.

“I don’t plan on it. And I am not the one who ‘gets a conviction,’ Mr. Carmine. You know that. I’m just the one who finds evidence and follows facts.”

“If you don’t plan on using those in court, then why did you call this meeting to show them to us?”

She directed her gaze at Thom Axel. Thom, who had been tight-lipped for days. Thom, who had given them nothing to work with except admitting that he didn’t kill Connor, and that he told them so.

“With this information, I will be able to tie you to so much more than you’re already on the hook for, Mr. Axel. When we locate these drug smugglers and human traffickers, I promise you that I am going to tell them you are cooperating with us every step of the way. That you are the one feeding us all this juicy information and that you’re safe. I’ll heavily suggest that you agreed to cooperate because you were offered immunity in all these crimes.”

“You can’t lie like that,” Axel said.

“So, the rules are that you can kill, steal, traffic humans and drugs, and lie, but I’m not allowed to tell even one or two little stretches of the truth? Is that right?”

“Mr. Axel, I will remind you not to speak without vetting it through—”

Axel turned to Carmine and bellowed, “Shut the hell up and stop telling me what to do, you puny waste of ambition!”

They argued for a while longer.

“If you two need some time, I’ll just step out here. I can come back, say after your court date. I’d hate to be the cause of you losing your attorney.”

“You aren’t the cause,” Axel said loudly. “I’m sick of his micromanaging everything I say and do, and he can leave!” The last three words, he yelled, red-faced at Carmine, who coolly stood, took his attaché case, and straightened his jacket.

“Mr. Axel, if you change your mind, do us both a favor and don’t call me.”

“No worries there, little man.”

After Carmine exited, Ava leaned her forearms on the table. “Mr. Axel, you have the right to ask for an attorney before we go any further.”

“And get stuck with a contentious little prick like the last one, who wants to feel powerful and uses me to get that feeling? I’m good for now. Let’s get to business. The business Mr. Carmine was unable or unwilling to get to.”

“Who killed Connor and how did it happen?”

“First, I want to know that the FBI will do what they can to protect me in prison. If I talk, it doesn’t matter that I’m in prison for life; they’ll send someone. If that one fails to kill me, they’ll just send more. Will the FBI give me any protection?”

“I can’t promise anything, but we can monitor possible threats that might enter the prison. It’s not like we can station a bodyguard with you twenty-four-seven.”

He thought about it for a few minutes and then nodded. “Karl killed Connor. Rita drugged him, but it was Karl who killed him.”

“Did you play any part in Connor Aldridge’s death?”

“No. I only helped build the scene on the yacht. Rita was no help in the killing or the building of the scene. Her only job was to drug him, and she carried that out without a hitch. All she could see were the dollar signs flashing in front of her eyes.”

“Who paid her?”

“Karl. I don’t know if it was his money or if he was acting on someone’s behalf. I just know that he was the one who handed her the envelope with the ten grand in it.”

“Did she know Connor Aldridge was going to be murdered?”

“No. Karl gave her some story about wanting to scare Connor so he would leave a woman alone and not make the same mistake he made with Teagan Reese, who I’m sure you’re familiar with.”

“I am. Did Rita drug Lucia Martinez?”

“Yes. Karl killed Lucia, too. And as you already know, I obviously helped build that scene, too.”

“Did he pay Rita for her help?”

“Yes. He told Rita that Lucia was going to be trafficked, and that she, Rita, could make an easy, quick twenty grand if she’d just drug her; make sure she was unconscious when she was being loaded into a crate for transportation. She agreed, but again, she didn’t know there would be a murder. She thought Lucia would live.”

“Being trafficked is no life, Mr. Axel. It’s hell.”

“And better than dead, wouldn’t you say, Special Agent?”

She bit her tongue. She thought that sometimes dead was better than what trafficked women suffered from their handlers, but that was a thought better kept to herself for many reasons.

“Who killed Rita? If she was helping Karl, who killed her and why?”

“She would still be alive, and we wouldn’t be sitting here right now, if you hadn’t asked her for the fingerprint files. She freaked the hell out and threatened Karl. By then, she knew the truth of what had happened but had resigned herself to remain quiet because of her part in the deaths. But when you came snooping, she went crazy with panic and threatened him. That’s not something you do to a man like Karl Harmon. Karl and the others decided it was in their best interest to neutralize the threat Rita had become. The task was handed to me, and I carried it out to the letter.”

There were more questions. Many more, but they would have to wait until later. She had the confession. She had Margueritte’s journal. Reinhold was rounding up the smugglers who worked in and behind the art scene of New York City. There was plenty enough evidence to back up her theory about Connor and Margueritte Aldridge concerning the likelihood of a larger ring of traffickers working in the artworld, and with the help of people like the Aldridges. Trusted people. Public figures.

It was time to speak with Sal about the wider implications of the current case. Because as it was, they had finally solved all the murders. But it seemed like those were the least of their problems now.

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for joining me on this journey and for reading The Art of Murder! I had an absolute blast crafting this story. The idea of combining the beauty of the art world with something as dark as murder was just too tempting to resist. I mean, what’s creepier than a killer turning artists into twisted “art pieces,” right? One of my favorite moments to create was Lucia’s crime scene, with the ominous “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” sculptures and the Greek mythology references scattered around her. I loved playing with the idea of layering meanings, and seeing how something as gorgeous as art could be hiding something much darker underneath. I hope these scenes gave you the same thrills writing them gave me!

And if you thought this book was intense, just wait! In the next one, Ava is heading into the wilderness of Acadia, where nature itself seems to be turning against those who venture too far. Bears attacking campers is only the beginning. With environmental activists clashing with the lumber yard crew, and more bodies mysteriously piling up, Ava finds herself in a deadly game where the wilderness may be hiding more than just wildlife. Get ready for secrets, suspense, and a dark mystery that’s lurking under the great canopies in Secrets in the Acadia!

Your support and feedback mean the world to me. I love hearing what you adored, what caught you off guard, or even what kept you guessing—it all helps me grow as a writer and keeps me on my toes! If you enjoyed this journey into the dark side of art, I would be incredibly grateful if you could take a moment to leave a review. Your thoughts not only guide me but also help fellow readers discover Ava’s adventures.

If you’re craving more twists and captivating mysteries, I highly recommend Murder in the Pines from my Pine Brooke series as your next read. Just like Ava James, Detective Riley Quinn knows how to handle danger. When a young woman goes missing, Riley is drawn into a case where nothing is as it seems. With secrets from the past, a mysterious body, and plenty of small-town intrigue, it’s packed with everything I know you’ll love!

Thank you for your support and for joining me on this journey. Ava and the team are counting on you, and I can't wait to see where our adventures take us next.

Yours,

A.J. Rivers

P.S. If for some reason you didn’t like this book or found typos or other errors, please let me know personally. I do my best to read and respond to every email at mailto:aj@riversthrillers.com

P.P.S. If you would like to stay up-to-date with me and my latest releases I invite you to visit my Linktree page at www.linktr.ee/a.j.rivers to subscribe to my newsletter and receive a free copy of my book, Edge of the Woods. You can also follow me on my social media accounts for behind-the-scenes glimpses and sneak peeks of my upcoming projects, or even sign up for text notifications. I can't wait to connect with you!

Emma Griffin FBI Mysteries by A.J. Rivers

Season One

Book One—The Girl in Cabin 13*

Book Two—The Girl Who Vanished*

Book Three—The Girl in the Manor*

Book Four—The Girl Next Door*

Book Five—The Girl and the Deadly Express*

Book Six—The Girl and the Hunt*

Book Seven—The Girl and the Deadly End*

Season Two

Book Eight—The Girl in Dangerous Waters*

Book Nine—The Girl and Secret Society*

Book Ten—The Girl and the Field of Bones*

Book Eleven—The Girl and the Black Christmas*

Book Twelve—The Girl and the Cursed Lake*

Book Thirteen—The Girl and The Unlucky 13*

Book Fourteen—The Girl and the Dragon’s Island*

Season Three

Book Fifteen—The Girl in the Woods*

Book Sixteen —The Girl and the Midnight Murder*

Book Seventeen— The Girl and the Silent Night*

Book Eighteen — The Girl and the Last Sleepover*

Book Nineteen — The Girl and the 7 Deadly Sins*

Book Twenty — The Girl in Apartment 9*

Book Twenty-One — The Girl and the Twisted End*

Emma Griffin FBI Mysteries Retro - Limited Series

(Read as standalone or before Emma Griffin book 22)

Book One— The Girl in the Mist*

Book Two— The Girl on Hallow's Eve*

Book Three—The Girl and the Christmas Past*

Book Four— The Girl and the Winter Bones*

Book Five—The Girl on the Retreat*

Season Four

Book Twenty-Two — The Girl and the Deadly Secrets*

Book Twenty-Three — The Girl on the Road*

Book Twenty-Four — The Girl and the Unexpected Gifts*

Book Twenty-Five — The Girl and the Secret Passage*

Book Twenty-Six — The Girl and the Bride*

Book Twenty-Seven — The Girl in Her Cabin*

Book Twenty-Eight — The Girl Who Remembers*

Season Five

Book Twenty-Nine — The Girl in the Dark*

Book Thirty — The Girl and the Lies

Book Thirty-One — The Girl and the Inmate

Ava James FBI Mysteries

Book One—Ava James and the Ivy Grove*

Book Two—Ava James and the Forgotten Bones*

Book Three —The Couple Next Door*

Book Four — The Cabin on Willow Lake*

Book Five — The Lake House*

Book Six — The Ghost of Christmas*

Book Seven — The Rescue*

Book Eight — Murder in the Moonlight*

Book Nine — Behind the Mask*

Book Ten — The Invitation*

Book Eleven — The Girl in Hawaii*

Book Twelve — The Woman in the Window*

Book Thirteen —The Good Doctor*

Book Fourteen —The Housewife Killer

Book Fifteen — The Librarian

Book Sixteen — The Art of Murder

Dean Steele FBI Mysteries

Book One—The Woman in the Woods*

Book Two —The Last Survivors

Book Three — No Escape

Book Four — The Garden of Secrets

Book Five — The Killer Among Us

Book Six — The Convict

Book Seven — The Last Promise

Book Eight — Death by Midnight

Book Nine — The Woman in the Attic

Book Ten — Playing with Fire

Book Eleven — Murder in Twilight Cove

A Detective Riley Quinn Pine Brooke Mystery

Book One—The Girls in Pine Brooke

Book Two —Murder in the Pines

Bella Walker FBI Mystery Series

Book One—The Girl in Paradise*

Book Two—Murder on the Sea*

Book Three— The Last Aloha*

Other Standalone Novels

Gone Woman

* Also available in audio