Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
T he sun had long since set by the time Pat got home. His last update from Anna had confirmed Gemini was holed up in their apartment, playing video games. The Falcon and his cousin—Codename: Buzzard—were inside their property along with the woman, Jasmine McCarthy.
Pat pulled a beer from the fridge, slapped together a sandwich, and sank into his favorite recliner. Two manila folders sat on the coffee table in front of him. Sure, he could’ve reviewed the files on his laptop, but he thought better when he had a hard copy in his hands.
Anna knew that. She made sure printed reports were waiting on his desk before he left every evening.
He reached for the top folder. It hadn’t been opened in eight years—not since Astrid died. A dull ache settled in his chest. His life had been marred by loss.
First Val.
Then Astrid.
Then his son, Joe, killed in action in Afghanistan.
The trifecta.
Why was it that everyone he loved ended up dead?
He took another swig of his beer.
The military had taught him one thing—you keep moving forward. You don’t dwell on the past. You don’t let it consume you.
Looking back could break you. He knew that better than most.
With a sigh, Pat opened the folder. Astrid’s face smiled up at him, and his gut twisted. Fuck, he’d loved her. This was the photograph he’d used at her funeral. She was sitting in a rose garden, smiling at the person behind the camera.
Him.
That day was highlighted in his memory. They’d taken Izzy to a summer fair at one of those grand estates outside the city. The gardens had been stunning—manicured hedges, sprawling fountains, Roman statues. Astrid had been in awe, but he’d only had eyes for her.
Exotic, stylish, sexy—she made him feel like the luckiest guy on earth. With her, he felt alive—a rare thing for a man who spent most of his life chasing adrenaline.
Pat flipped the photograph over and forced himself to refocus. The incident report was filed by a beat cop named Dennis Raymond. A motorist had spotted the wreck on his way home. By the time Raymond had gotten there, the victim was dead.
Cause: blunt force trauma to the head, coupled with internal injuries sustained on impact. The pathologist had said it would have taken her less than twenty minutes to die.
Twenty minutes.
Alone.
In the freezing cold.
Dying.
Shit .
Pat leaned forward as if the air had been punched out of him. He should never have left that night. If he’d stayed, she might still be alive.
Fuck, he couldn’t think like that. No point in dwelling on what ifs. He knew better than that.
Frowning, Pat skimmed through the accident details. There was no mention of a note. Nothing to suggest Astrid’s death was anything but a tragic accident.
Had Al-Jabiri been fucking with him?
It would be just like him. But something about the look in his eyes—the sick, twisted glee—told Pat this was real. So where the hell was the note?
He flipped through the forensics report. No signs of foul play. No footprints in the snow. No markings on the body. And still—no note.
Pat leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
Either Al-Jabiri was lying… or the beat cop Raymond missed the note. Or worse, failed to mention it in his report for some reason. Those were the only three scenarios that made sense.
Pat massaged his brow. Assuming Al-Jabiri was telling the truth, that left two possibilities. He had to talk to Raymond.
The following morning, Pat texted Anna to say he’d be late into the office and drove the twenty minutes to Georgetown where Astrid and Richard had lived at the time of her death.
For all Richard’s faults, he’d provided well for his family. They’d lived in a luxurious three-story brownstone tucked into a quiet, wealthy neighborhood—far removed from the chaos of downtown D.C.
As Pat drove past the familiar landmarks, he remembered the feeling he used to get whenever he was on his way here. The anticipation. That electric thrill of knowing you were about to see the woman you loved.
Now there was only a dull ache.
He pulled up outside the Georgetown Police Precinct—a rectangular red brick building with a blue sign out front. Raymond was now a sergeant, finishing out his years in this sleepy neighborhood instead of in the high-pressure chaos of D.C. proper.
Pat approached the glass partition inside the station. “I’m here to see Sergeant Raymond. He’s expecting me.” He’d called ahead first thing that morning.
“Fill this out.” The duty officer slid him a form.
Pat sighed. Goddamn bureaucracy.
He scrawled out the required info, handed it back, and sat down in the waiting room. Five minutes later, a portly, middle-aged man stepped through the sliding doors.
“Patrick Burke?”
Pat stood, barely recognizing the man he’d met only briefly eight years ago. Age had not been kind. “Yeah. Thanks for seeing me.”
“No problem. Come on back.”
Raymond led him down a dimly lit hallway and into a tiny, windowless office. It smelled of stale coffee and old carpeting. Raymond gestured for him to sit down.
“Coffee?”
“Sure.”
“I have to warn you, it’s not the best,” Raymond said, grabbing two Styrofoam cups from the drinks cart.
Pat shrugged. He’d no doubt had worse.
Once they were seated, Raymond leaned forward. “So, what’s this about?”
“I need to ask about an accident that occurred eight years ago. You might remember? A woman named Astrid Beaumont was killed.”
Raymond stiffened.
He remembered.
Pat pressed on. “She lost control on an icy road and wrapped her car around a tree.”
Raymond exhaled and rested his hands on his large gut. “That was a long time ago. My memory’s a little fuzzy.”
“Let me refresh it.” Pat placed the manila folder on the desk.
Raymond hesitated—just for a second—before opening it.
That pause told Pat everything.
The guy knew something. Something he wasn’t saying.
Raymond skimmed his own handwritten notes, squinting. “Why are you bringing this up now?”
“You were first on the scene.”
Raymond nodded. “Yeah. It was bad. She lost control, skidded on ice, hit the tree. Killed on impact.”
“What did you do?”
“Checked for signs of life, but she was gone. Nasty head wound.”
Pat nodded.
“And the car?” he asked. “Anything else inside?”
Raymond hesitated, eyes flicking to the file. “What do you mean?”
Pat’s stare didn’t waver. “I mean like a note.”
Raymond blinked. “A note? You think she—what? Took her own life? That’s ridiculous. I saw the wreck. Nobody would do that to themselves.”
Pat didn’t flinch. “I’m not saying suicide.”
The man was rattled. Flustered.
He knew.
“Well, then what?” Raymond demanded.
Pat leaned forward. “I think you found a note. A note that proves her death wasn’t an accident.”
Raymond shot out of his chair, voice rising. “That’s absurd!”
Pat didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
When he spoke, his voice was like ice. “You’re lying, Sergeant. You covered it up. Why? Paperwork too much of a hassle? Didn’t want to deal with a homicide case?”
Raymond’s shoulders slumped and he let out a slow hiss. He sank back down into his chair, guilt written all over his face. “I saw it immediately. It was stuck to her body. Soaked in her blood.”
Pat balled his hands into fists. “What did it say?”
Raymond closed his eyes. “Now we’re even.”
Pat exhaled.
The Falcon had wanted Pat to know. He’d made sure the message was clear. An eye for an eye.
Pat got to his feet. He suddenly felt a million years old instead of his forty-three.
“Hey—” Raymond’s voice wavered. “You’re not going to mention this to anyone, are you?”
Pat didn’t answer.
What was the point? It was in the past. Digging it up now would only complicate things, and he didn’t want the local homicide department looking into Al-Jabiri. But he wasn’t about to give Raymond the satisfaction of knowing that.
Instead, he paused at the door, turning back. “Why? Why did you keep it quiet?”
“I was trying to protect her family.” His voice was rough. Worn down by guilt. “Richard was a friend. He had enough on his plate, left to raise a teenage girl alone. He didn’t need this on top of it.”
Pat’s jaw clenched.
“Did you tell Richard?” he asked. Raymond didn’t strike him as the kind of man who would keep something like this buried on his own.
The sergeant hesitated, then gave a small nod.
Bastard.
Richard had seen the note and realized it wasn’t an accident. But had he known it was aimed at Pat? Or had he assumed it was payback for something he had done?
Richard had stepped on plenty of toes building his mining empire—bribery, underhanded deals, golden handshakes. It was all part of doing business in Central America. Maybe he’d assumed this was one of those deals finally coming back to bite him.
Raymond shook his head. “Richard blamed himself. Said it was his fault she was dead.”
Pat pressed his lips together.
It was.
Just not for the reason he thought.