CHAPTER TEN
The diner was half-empty, the air heavy with the scent of burnt coffee and fried onions.
Kate sat in a booth near the window, hands wrapped around a mug that had seen better decades.
The waitress—pink uniform, tired smile—had offered pie twice already, and twice Kate had refused.
Sugar would only make the adrenaline worse.
Her reflection in the window looked as though it belonged to someone else.
Pale. Strung tight. Eyes ringed with fatigue.
It had taken every remembered ounce of the FBI’s Evasive Driving course before she could be entirely sure the Oldsmobile wasn’t behind her anymore.
Yet even now, in the muted clatter of cutlery and murmured conversation, she couldn’t quite convince herself she was safe.
The phone buzzed against the Formica.
Marcus.
She snatched it up. “Tell me you’ve got something good.”
“I’ve got something-of-nothing,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion, but warm all the same.
“Go on.”
“You remember the CCTV sweep we ran through the Bronx subway stations? Nothing. It’s like he went into the tunnels and never came back out. I’ve got Torres digging through maintenance logs, but so far, nada.”
Kate frowned. “Underground,” she said slowly. “That reminds me—there was a piece I read a while back. Homeless encampments in the disused lines under the city. Old maintenance tunnels. Whole communities down there.”
Marcus made a low noise. “If Cox wanted to vanish, that’d be a good start. I’ll have the transit authority pull records,” Marcus said. “If anyone’s been using those lines, we’ll know. Want the rest of the update?”
“Any of it good?”
“Good in the ‘okay, we don’t need to waste more time on it’ sense.”
“Hm.”
“The blood on the stairwell was all Brennan’s.
His buddies from that old magazine piece are no-nos.
Aprahamian surrendered his passport to the British authorities just over a month ago, under investigation in a massive money-laundering case.
The other guy, McAfee – he's in a hospice. Weeks left to live."
“It’s what we thought it was.”
“The killer’s Cox. But hey. What about you? You sound… off.”
Kate took a breath. “Just drove through a bad dream. Someone was tailing me, I think. Old car, maybe seventies. I lost it near the river, but it rattled me.”
“You need backup?”
“No. I’m fine. Just needed to hear a friendly voice.”
“Glad to be of service. How are the 15th-century laundry lists?”
She hesitated. “I’m not working it. I went to the prison to interview a couple of Cox’s groupies.”
“Take it Winters doesn’t know about that.”
“You take it right.”
“Be careful then.”
“I’m trying. They gave me three possible leads. St. Cecilia’s church in Newark. An old fisherman’s chapel on Long Island. And a former psychiatric hospital in Yonkers, called St. Dymphna’s.”
Marcus whistled softly. “That’s a hell of a spread.”
“Yeah. Cox was interested in how to occupy spaces like that, set yourself up without being found or evicted.”
“I’ll start running them down from my end.”
“Thanks,” she said, meaning it.
There was a pause—comfortable, almost. For a moment, the diner’s noise seemed to fade.
“Kate,” Marcus said quietly, “Get some rest. You sound beat.”
“Copy that, partner.”
She ended the call, feeling steadier than she had all day. Outside, the sky had gone the color of wet slate. The waitress refilled her mug without asking. Kate managed a small smile of thanks, dropped a few bills on the table, and headed for the door.
The road was empty.
Rain had started—just a fine mist that turned the neon sign above the diner into a bleeding smear of red. She zipped her jacket, crossed the lot—and stopped.
Her car sat beneath the single streetlight, silver glinting faintly with moisture.
And right beside it, patient as a spider, was the Oldsmobile.
For a second she thought her brain was playing tricks. But no—the shape was unmistakable, that squared-off hood, the chrome grille dulled by age, the same, seasick blue paint. She stepped closer, pulse quickening. The windows were fogged, the interior dark.
No movement.
She leaned forward, cupping her hands to peer inside.
Nothing.
Just her own reflection and the faint smell of damp leather.
Then the bushes beside the lot rustled.
Kate spun, hand already on her weapon.
A man stepped out, slowly, one hand raised in peace, the other adjusting his trouser zip. Late sixties, maybe older. Thick moustache. Sallow skin. The look of someone who’d spent too long under strip-lights.
“Agent Valentine?” he said, his voice low, rasping. “Name’s Hal Topju. Detective, Portland P.D. — retired.”
Kate didn’t lower her gun. “You were following me.”
“No. Watching. There’s a difference. I needed the bushes because, well, I couldn’t wait. Sorry. The old man’s curse.”
“You’ve got ten seconds to explain before I make this a police matter.”
He smiled faintly, although the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fair enough. I need to talk to you. About your father.”
The words landed like a blow. “You knew my father?”
“I was number two on the investigation into his murder,” Topju said. “You must have been… what, twenty-three? We didn’t meet.”
Kate stared. The name tugged at a memory — a newspaper clipping, a voice at the funeral. “Your name’s familiar,” she said flatly. “But the only cop I had any contact with was George Palmer.”
“He was my boss.”
“He was murdered by Elijah Cox last year,” she said, trembling slightly as she remembered, once again, how enmeshed her life seemed to be with the serial killer.
“I know. George was… maybe he was a better detective than I was, because he was able to move on from that case. I wasn’t so lucky.”
“I’m sorry for your misfortune,” she asked, sharply. “And there was me, thinking I was unlucky losing a father.”
He held up a hand, of surrender, apology. “Not at all. I’m sorry. I just mean, he was able to draw a line and move on. Made lieutenant. Whereas I… I couldn’t leave it alone. And I ended up finding things I wasn’t supposed to.”
Kate’s grip on her cup tightened. “Meaning?”
“The man who killed your father is in prison. Has been for years. He’ll never get out.”
Her stomach turned to ice. “You’re wrong. We never found the killer.”
Topju’s expression didn’t change. “We did. Or rather, I did. But it’s a long story.”
Kate hesitated, torn between anger and curiosity. “You’ve got one minute.”
“Make it over coffee,” he said. “My treat.”
“Already had one,” she snapped. “Tell me what you want or I call the cops.”
He met her gaze, unflinching. “I have something important to tell you, Miss Valentine. I don’t want anything, other than to tell you.”
She studied him for a long moment. Then, finally: “One cup of coffee. And we sit by the cashier.”
Topju nodded once. “Deal.”
***
The waitress had refilled their cups before the conversation even started, hovering just long enough to decide she wanted no part of whatever this was. When she’d gone, Hal Topju leaned forward, elbows on the scratched Formica, the steam from his coffee fogging his glasses.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said quietly. “That wasn’t the plan.”
Kate didn’t reply.
“I needed to see where your head was at first. What kind of shape you were in. Whether my news would make things worse for you—or better.”
“Spare me the bedside manner,” she said. “You didn’t come here to check on my wellbeing. You came because you’ve got something to say. So say it.”
Topju nodded once, as if she’d just confirmed a suspicion. “Alright. Straight to it, then. The man who killed your father… was Peter S. Gadd.”
Kate’s heart gave a sharp, involuntary kick. “That’s impossible. Palmer proved that he didn’t do it.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“I remember Palmer breaking the news to us. He explained it all.”
“I know. And at the time, he convinced me, too.” Topju rubbed a hand over his jaw, the rasp of stubble loud in the silence.
“At first, Gadd fit the picture perfectly. The manner, the eyes—he had that cut-off, intoxicated way about him, like he was still high on the moment. And he knew things. Details no one outside the investigation should have known.”
“Such as?”
“The report said your father was shot beside a donation bin halfway up the path—collection point for earthquake relief.”
“I remember. It was in Eastern Turkey. The earthquake.”
“Urfa,” the man said. “My people are from there. Near there.”
“So the press got it wrong? That’s no surprise.”
“The press reported what we told them. It’s commonplace to keep a few details back, especially at the outset of an investigation.”
“I know that.”
“I know you know that. Sorry. Anyway, the first bullet actually hit him… hit your father in the vestibule. He staggered toward the bin before collapsing. Two more rounds followed. That wasn’t public knowledge. But Gadd knew it.”
Kate’s fingers tightened around her cup. “So Gadd had been there.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he just overheard the person or persons who had. That’s what made me doubt him later.
Most killers, the ones who confess, they relish it.
They want to go over every second, every smell, back and forth, like they’re replaying a great performance.
But Gadd didn’t. He shut down. Started quoting scripture.
Refused to answer anything else. The lab work only made it messier—powder residue pattern on his clothing didn’t match a pistol, looked more like rifle fire. ”
Kate frowned. “And Gadd was an outdoorsy type—?”