Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
T he Jeep needed new snow tires, so Ophelia kept her speed slow as she maneuvered from Monica’s toward town. The icy road shimmered beneath the thin midday sun, and even with four-wheel drive, the ride felt precarious. Brock had definitely been irritated when she’d secured her own transportation.
She could still picture the way his jaw had tightened, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wanted to protect her from whoever kept taking potshots at her. Sweet, sure—but also frustrating. She was a trained federal agent. She didn’t need anyone, not even Brock Osprey, playing bodyguard. She knew how to return fire, and she still had his spare weapon on her.
Besides, the guy seemed like a bit of a control freak. While that made things dangerously attractive between the sheets, she couldn’t let it interfere with her job. She had a duty to the case, not to him. Especially since she almost had enough to arrest Ace on suspicion of murder. Maybe. She needed somehow to tie him to the crime scene first. Another thing to talk to Amka about. Perhaps she’d seen Ace that morning.
Even so, Ophelia’s body flushed at the memory of the night she’d shared with Brock. The way his voice deepened when he murmured her name. The way he moved, deliberate and unrelenting.
“Get it together, Spilazi,” she muttered, forcing herself to focus as she dialed a number with one hand, her other hand steady on the wheel. After navigating several layers of bureaucracy, she finally reached FBI Assistant Director Bill Burrington.
“Find Hank’s killer?” Burrington’s familiar gruff voice barked through the line.
“No, sir,” Ophelia said, sitting straighter against the worn leather seat. “But I think I’m close. I’ve got nothing solid on the Tammy Randsom murder, and the body in the woods…well, it disappeared.”
Burrington sighed, the weight of disappointment hanging in the silence. “Sounds like sending you to Alaska was a waste of time.”
Ophelia’s grip on the phone tightened. “I said I’m close, sir. The warrant to take Wyatt Yankovich into custody as a material witness finally came through, and I’m on the way to serve it. For now, I’d like a search warrant for the EVE facility. Even though I believe I’ve found a different avenue to pursue for Hank’s murder, I can tie all three of my current cases to EVE. My research request hasn’t even gone through yet.”
Burrington chuckled—low, dry, and unimpressed. “You want a warrant to search a private facility located in the middle of nowhere that has top-secret governmental contracts?”
When he put it like that…
“Yes,” she said, determination thick in her voice. “They’re just studying the ionosphere, right?”
“You’d be surprised what the ionosphere can do,” he replied. “You don’t have enough for a warrant to search a public restroom, much less a now private installation with governmental contracts. And trust me—I hit brick walls trying to dig up more intel on that place. You need to let it go. Get me Hank’s killer by the weekend, or I’m pulling you home where you can quietly retire. He was my friend, and I want justice for him. Find Hank’s murderer. Understand?”
Darn it. “Yes, sir. Also, would you mind requesting a warrant for Jarod Teller’s financial records and one from the Alaska Division of Insurance Regulators regarding a fire that took place last May here in Knife’s Edge? I feel like you’ll get a faster response than I did with the Wyatt Yankovich warrant.”
“Fine. I’ll get somebody on it.” The line clicked, cutting her off.
Ophelia’s heart sank. One mistake—sleeping with a co-worker who turned out to be a self-serving jackass—and her career had been dangling by a thread ever since. The only way to redeem herself was to bring home a win.
The hollow silence in the Jeep felt louder than the wind outside.
She pulled into the parking lot of the doctor’s office, wondering if she could take months of icy winter with little light. Gingerly, she stepped out of the vehicle, the icy air immediately stinging her cheeks. She looked around instinctively, scanning for any sign she’d been followed. Nothing. Satisfied, she ducked her head against the frigid wind and hurried toward the entrance. At least the snow had stopped.
Even so, it was nearly noon, and darkness would be creeping back within a couple of hours.
So different from D.C. But at least in July, it would be light all day and night. Just think of what she could accomplish with endless sunlight.
She pushed open the door to the doctor’s office and stepped into the warmth. A young man sat behind the reception desk, his eyes fixed on a computer screen. The waiting area held deep green leather chairs, scattered toys, and a mounted television playing a daytime soap. The place looked more like someone’s cozy living room than a medical clinic.
The man behind the desk looked up, his eyes dark and sharp against his pale skin. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two. His AC/DC T-shirt seemed out of place in such a quiet setting. He hadn’t been on duty last time she’d been here since it’d been so early, probably.
“Hi. You must be Agent Spilazi. I’m Lance. How can I help you?”
“Hi,” Ophelia said, walking toward him. “I’d like to see the doctor.”
He glanced at the screen in front of him and nodded. “She’ll be free in a couple of minutes. But if you’re here for an appointment, I’ll need you to fill out a new patient form.”
“I’m here on business.” She debated whether to flash her badge.
“Oh. In that case, you can head straight back.” Lance gestured toward a door to the right of the desk. “Go all the way down the hallway to the last door on the right. She’s in there eating lunch.”
Ophelia hesitated for a moment before nodding. So informal. “Thanks.”
She walked down the hallway, passing two examination rooms and a couple of closed doors until she reached the last open doorway. She knocked lightly on the frame.
May looked up from reading her tablet, a half-eaten sandwich resting on a brown paper bag next to her keyboard. “Ophelia. Come on in.”
Ophelia stepped inside and sat in one of the guest chairs, which matched the green leather ones in the reception area. May’s blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her smudged glasses framed sharp blue eyes. Her lab coat hung neatly on a hook by the door, and she wore a thick white sweater over jeans.
“I like your office,” Ophelia said, glancing around. A large window framed snow-laden trees, while a credenza held framed diplomas and a stack of neatly labeled files.
“Thanks.” May folded her hands neatly in front of her. “What’s up?”
Ophelia pulled out her phone. “I have a warrant to secure Wyatt as a material witness. It’s on my phone but I can print it out if you’d like.”
May winced, a flicker of something in her eyes—sympathy or regret, maybe both. “I thought you heard. Wyatt and Sylvie headed out on the EVE delivery plane for Anchorage and then to Hawaii this morning.”
Ophelia’s stomach tightened. Damn it. “How in the world did they afford that?”
May shrugged. “Heck if I know. Maybe they used credit cards or sold something off. People do strange things when they need to escape.”
Or when they need to disappear for other reasons. “How often do locals hitch rides on the EVE supply plane?” Ophelia asked, watching May carefully.
“To my knowledge, not often,” May replied, her brows furrowing. “That’s what makes it so unusual. I’m not sure how it happened, but the whole town had gotten involved in searching for Wyatt when he disappeared. Maybe Damian pulled some strings.” She took a breath, then added, “After Wyatt told me about the trip, I also called Damian this morning and requested the use of his plane to transport Tamara Randsom’s body and all collected evidence to the medical examiner’s office in Anchorage. He agreed—kindly, I might add—but the plane won’t be back for a couple of weeks. So at least that’s progress.”
Ophelia absorbed the information, her mind racing. The EVE facility’s connection to the town seemed deeper than she’d realized, and it wasn’t just about the plane—it was the level of influence they seemed to wield. She made a mental note to visit Damian again soon. For now, as soon as she left, she’d have the FBI in either Anchorage or Hawaii pick up Wyatt, depending on his location. Ditching town wouldn’t work for him. Nice try, though.
“Well,” she said, her voice thoughtful, “at least we know that locals—people who belong here—might catch a ride if they need to.”
May’s pink lips curved into a soft smile. “Brock brought you here, which makes you one of us now, even if you don’t want to admit it. So, whether you like it or not, you belong.”
The thought warmed Ophelia faster than the heat blasting up from the floor vents. She leaned back, her shoulders relaxing for the first time that day. “I’ve never belonged anywhere,” she admitted before catching herself. Something about May—the calm in her voice, the kindness in her eyes—invited honesty.
“That’s sad,” May said softly, her brow furrowing in concern. “Although…I know what you mean. Sometimes you think you belong somewhere, and it turns out you’re dead wrong.” Her gaze drifted for a moment before she shook her head, focusing back on Ophelia. “So, Olly. What else would you like to know?”
Ophelia’s tone lowered. “Did Hank Osprey suffer from an illness?”
One of May’s light eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
“He sought medical care regularly before his death. Why?”
May swallowed, visibly bracing herself. “I can’t discuss a patient’s care. You know that.”
“I’m dealing with an obvious homicide,” Ophelia countered gently. “Come on, May. I can get a warrant in an hour for a dead man’s records, and you know it. So help me out here. I’m not letting this go.”
May’s face paled slightly as she pushed her sandwich to the side. She exhaled slowly. “I know you could get a warrant. That’s true.” She blew out air and turned to her computer, a bulky piece that obviously needed updating. “I’ll see what kind of records the former doctors might’ve kept.” Her fingers flew quickly across the keyboard and she brought up several documents, leaning forward to read. “Well, crap.”
Ophelia sat straighter. “What?”
May turned, her brows up, her eyes soft. “One of the former doctors treated Hank for stage four pancreatic cancer. The disease progressed far enough that the only plan seemed to be to keep Hank comfortable.”
Surprise and sorrow blew through Ophelia like a punch to the chest, even as the doctor confirmed Ophelia’s new theory. “That’s terrible.”
May nodded, her eyes glimmering with genuine sadness. “Yeah. The doctor noted that Hank probably hadn’t been feeling well for a while but didn’t seek medical intervention until it was too late. And then…well, he refused to spend his last month of life in a hospital.” She paused. “The doctor prescribed pain meds that hopefully eased his suffering.”
“Did the Osprey brothers know?”
May shrugged, her expression unreadable. “That isn’t mentioned in the notes. However, from what I’ve heard about Hank just in my time here, I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept the diagnosis from them.” Her intelligent gaze locked onto Ophelia’s. “A fact I’d be more than happy to testify about if it ever came to that.”
Ophelia’s mind spun as she processed the revelation. She felt for the Osprey brothers—especially Brock. “Understood,” she murmured. After a beat, she asked, “But…in a trial, you’d also be asked whether Hank’s death could’ve been considered a mercy killing. The four men who loved him would’ve wanted to ease his suffering, wouldn’t they?”
May pressed her lips together and glanced away, unwilling to respond.
“That’s what I thought,” Ophelia said, the weight of the unspoken confirmation pressing down on her.
Mercy or not, it still counted as murder.
And someone would have to answer for it.