CHAPTER SEVEN
The office was winding down for the night.
Agents streamed out in twos and threes, laughter echoing in the marble-floored lobby, jackets slung over shoulders.
Kate pushed through the glass doors in the opposite direction, a paper cup of bad coffee in one hand, her bag in the other.
As always, the fluorescent lights inside buzzed faintly; the hum felt almost companionable.
She was tired. Bone-tired. But she’d rather be here than anywhere else.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her Mom.
The peaches at the store were terrible, so I got plums and pears for a compote. Also: you can have my voucher (attached) for a trim, wash and blow-dry @ Gianni’s.
Kate groaned aloud. She couldn’t decide what annoyed her more: the barely-concealed, if justified, judgement on the current state of her hair, or the dictatorial menu-decision.
If she was going to be forced into a date with this guy, then she darned well wanted to decide what they were eating for dessert, and it wouldn’t be compote.
But actually, it wasn’t either of those things. It was everything. It was her Mom, landing this dinner-date on her without even asking if it was something she wanted to do. Managing her daughter’s diary as if she was nine years old. It was crazy.
And it simply wasn’t happening. No way.
She’d wait until tomorrow morning, when her mother was safely en route to the home of her good friends, the Mortimers.
And then she’d send Mike a quick, friendly, apologetic cancellation.
The job, the shift patterns, etc. Mike wouldn’t be heart-broken, Kate was sure about that.
He was probably, like Kate, wondering exactly how this crazy old lady had steamrollered him into this situation.
And he doubtless had something better to do with his Saturday evening.
He probably had a girlfriend. Kate wouldn’t have put it past her mother to have omitted this basic check. He would certainly be relieved when Kate cancelled. She pictured him, Mike, telling the girlfriend about the crazy neighbor lady trying to play matchmaker for her unmarriageable daughter.
She pictured the girlfriend laughing. She would have perfect teeth. A perfect body. All-American freckles…
Kate stopped still, shook her head, as if trying to shake this ridiculous line of thinking out of her ears. What the hell was the matter with her?
This was all her mom’s fault.
She put her phone away and headed for the bullpen. Marcus was still at his desk, surrounded by folders and empty coffee cups. He glanced up as she approached.
“You look like hell,” he said.
“Thanks. You should share notes with my mother.”
“What’s she done now?”
“Basically bullied this neighbor guy to come round for dinner with me tomorrow night.”
“That doesn’t sound so terrible.”
“Marcus, just back me up. Don’t think about it. Just back me. It is terrible and it isn’t happening.”
Marcus held up a hand in surrender. “Whatever you say.” He grinned, then tapped the open file in front of him. “I’ve been looking into whale oil.”
Kate dropped into the chair opposite him. “A niche interest.”
“True,” Marcus admitted. “Historically, whale oil’s been used for a bunch of things—lamp fuel, soap, margarine, matches…
they even used it in car gear-boxes until the Seventies.
And because it stays liquid in freezing temperatures, they use it in marine instruments, even watches. It stops metal getting rusty, too.”
“The miracle of Moby Dick, huh?”
“But here’s the kicker.” He leaned in, lowering his voice as if someone might overhear. “In Japan, it’s still used by certain craftsmen to preserve blades. Keeps them sharper than anything else. Sushi chefs. Surgeons. People who need a perfect edge.”
Kate’s fatigue ebbed a fraction. “Sharp instruments. Our killer’s knife.”
“Exactly. Maybe we’re not just looking for someone angry at Whitfield. Maybe we’re looking for someone with ties to Japan. Someone who knows this tradition.”
She considered that, weighing the implications. “Three thousand victims of Whitfield’s scam. If even one of them spent time in Japan…”
Marcus was already nodding. “We cross-reference the lists tomorrow. It’s a long shot, but it’s something.”
Kate’s mind flicked back to the crime scene. “Meanwhile, what about the footprint?”
“Partial print. Running shoe, size eleven. There’s something else, too. Partial of a bike tire in the same vicinity. The size is consistent with one of those folding electric models. More stuff to cross-refer once we can narrow it down.”
“That’s great. We should still be looking at Whitfield’s employees and church members, as well as the acknowledged victims of his scams. I just don’t believe that hymn of praise they’re all singing.”
“Agreed. On a less encouraging front, we’ve completed our review of all the CCTV, and its garbage. We’ve got one image from the camera covering the back entrance to the church, and it’s just an outline. Here…”
He clicked a couple of times on his screen; Marcus never had to hunt for things. He could have a hundred open tabs on his desktop; he’d still, automatically, take you to the very spot you needed. The last time Kate had tried that—whilst explaining something to Winters—she’d brought up her resumé.
“Here.” The figure was a dark silhouette, broad and strong-looking, despite the lack of details. “Five feet eight and probably the same wide,” Marcus quipped. “Definitely male, definitely spends a lot of time kissing those biceps.”
“I guess that’s what we mean when we say ‘stocky build’,” Kate said. “But it’s weird, isn’t it? He’s obviously been very careful about the cameras. Then he leaves prints and tire tracks like breadcrumbs.”
“Maybe he was sloppy. Rushed. Maybe the job took longer than he thought, or for some reason he couldn’t get away quick enough. Don’t forget, he would’ve had a huge ticking clock in the shape of daylight. He had to get away under cover of night. Hence, the rookie mistakes.”
“Or the shoe print and bike don’t belong to him at all.”
Marcus nodded slowly. “Local PD’s canvassing staff and congregation, checking who wears what and rides what. Could be a red herring.”
Kate rubbed her temples. “Too many variables. But okay. What about that meeting O’Malley dragged me to? Still doesn’t make sense.”
She reached for her laptop, following the itch of a hunch. Fingers tapped quickly.
A few moments later, she made a call to Phil Daniels, the county sheriff she’d met at Bow Lake. Marcus went off to fetch more coffee, returning with two slices of birthday cake just as Kate finished her call.
“I had no idea, Marcus!” Kate exclaimed. “Are you going to have a party with a clown? What was your best present?”
“I don’t need any more clowns,” Marcus growled. He took a deep bite from one of the slices. “It’s Taneesha’s birthday. Big four-oh.”
“Taneesha is 40? Jeez. I thought she was like 23.”
“Never mind. There’s always cake. What did you want with Daniels?”
“At the meeting there was some back-and-forth about this guy who hadn’t showed up.
Hector Martinez. I got the impression that people in the group were worried about him, but as soon as I took an interest, the gates slammed shut.
I know it’s random, but I just thought I’d do some digging, on the off-chance.
Daniels says he was charged with assaulting Whitfield, eighteen months back.
Lost his life savings to the scam. Case dropped because Whitfield refused to press charges.
Then Whitfield offered him a job—catering manager, of all things. Martinez turned it down.”
Marcus whistled. “That’s a grudge.”
“More than that. The job offer wasn’t completely random, because Martinez used to be a butcher.”
“An interesting choice of career.”
“Wait til you see what he does now.”
Kate turned the laptop so he could see. A photo of a food truck, bright colors, cartoon fish, manga characters and Kanji script. Hector’s Ocean Bites. “He runs a sushi truck now. Specializing in sashimi.”
The two agents locked eyes.
Marcus said, “Blades. Japan. Sushi.”
Kate closed the laptop with a snap. “Tomorrow, we find Hector Martinez.”