CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hector carried himself with a mixture of wariness and stubborn pride. He wasn’t handcuffed, just escorted, but he kept glancing at the door as if he needed to be sure no one was planning to spring a trap. He brought the tang of the ocean into the room—a reminder, perhaps, of where he’d rather be.
“Take a seat, Hector,” Marcus said, gesturing to the chair. “This isn’t an arrest. We just need to talk.”
“I can’t keep on repeating the same thing,” Hector muttered as he sat, lowering himself heavily, as if bracing for bad news. “I didn’t hurt the Pastor. I didn’t even go near him.”
He was a solid man, Kate realised, chunky and big-bicepped, not unlike the figure in the CCTV from Whitfield’s mansion. But Martinez had to be much taller, almost a foot. She slid a notepad onto the table, her pen poised. “We’ll get to that. But first, tell us about the bicycle.”
Hector blinked, surprised. “My bike?”
“You’ve insisted you need it for work. Why?”
That drew the faintest smile from him, the first crack in his defensive shell.
“Because Portland’s business district is a parking lot most days.
Cars stuck on every block, delivery trucks double-parked.
But a folding e-bike? I can go anywhere.
I zip through the gaps, fold it up to carry into a lobby, deliver the food while the SUVs are still circling the block looking for a spot.
” He leaned forward, hands spreading as though tracing invisible lanes of traffic.
“Lunch and dinner both, I make more runs than any car could. Faster, cleaner, and the customers love it.”
Marcus grinned faintly, drumming his fingers on the table. “Sounds like you’ve rehearsed that pitch.”
“I have,” Hector said. He pulled a phone from his jacket, holding it almost tenderly. “My son filmed something for me. For promotion.” He tapped, scrolled, then turned the screen around.
The footage was simple but well-framed: Hector Martinez weaving down SW 5th Avenue, pausing at a corner to wave, then cruising up to a glossy tower with his folding bike tucked under one arm.
The camera followed him up the steps and into the revolving doors, quick cuts showing him smiling as he delivered bags to suited office workers.
The city bustled in the background—yellow cabs, umbrellas, crosswalks—but the lens kept Hector at the center.
At the end of the footage, he turned to face his audience, a shy smile of pride on his face as he read out the phone number and internet address.
“That’s your son’s work?” Kate asked, leaning closer.
Hector’s face softened, lines around his eyes easing.
“Matéo. He’s in his last year of High School.
Always loved cameras. Since he was ten he’d borrow my phone, shoot little movies in the yard.
He’s a good kid.” His voice caught slightly, not from sadness but from the weight of pride itself.
He let the screen dim but held the phone a second longer, thumb brushing the edge as though reluctant to put it away.
Kate felt it—the unguarded tenderness cutting through the defensive edge he’d worn since walking in. It was something she rarely encountered in these rooms, and it was all the stronger for its rarity: love without calculation. She made a note, then shifted.
“Let’s talk about Pastor Whitfield. You assaulted him eighteen months ago.”
Hector sighed, sitting back, arms folding across his chest. “Yes. I lost my temper. He was… out filming one of his dumb tv shows. Well, you know, they’re not shows, they’re just commercials, begging letters pretending to be something otherwise.
Talking about God’s riches, how he knows the struggles that ordinary people face… ”
“He as in God or himself, the Pastor?” asked Marcus.
“You think he knows the difference?”
Marcus smiled tightly. “You’ve got a point. But you attacked him.”
“I snapped. I grabbed him by the collar, shouted in his face, pushed him. I shouldn’t have. That’s on me. An off-duty traffic cop busted me for it on the spot.”
Marcus leaned back, chair creaking. “And yet, the Pastor dropped the charges.”
Hector’s mouth twisted. “It was a gift for him! That’s the only thing I regret, that I handed him that opportunity with a big pink bow on it.
He got to stand outside the courthouse with the cameras rolling, said he forgave me, described me to the judge as a ‘fiery man who could put his passion to better uses.’ Offered me a job.
Ha! Like I’d ever work for that scumbag.
It was all for publicity. Made him look all holy, generous.
Made me look like some sinner saved by his grace. ”
“You turned him down.”
“I don’t take handouts from liars and scumbags.”
Marcus tilted his head. “So you still hated him afterwards.”
“I didn’t hate him,” Hector shot back, voice rising before he caught himself.
Passing by in the corridor outside, Winters looked in briefly, then moved on.
Hector unclenched his fists, pressing them flat to the table.
“I pitied the people who gave him their money. Whitfield sold them dreams while he filled his pockets. That man—” He stopped, shoulders rising and falling. “That man was poison.”
The room settled into quiet for a beat. The hum of the vent above them seemed louder. Kate studied his face—no flicker of shame, no evasive twitch. Just an old anger, still smouldering but honest.
“Now,” Kate said, keeping her tone neutral, “we need to go through your whereabouts on Thursday night into Friday morning. The window when Whitfield was killed.”
Hector shifted in his seat. His fingers tapped once against the table, a nervous staccato. “I was home. With my son. Matéo.”
“I thought he lived at his aunt’s,” Kate said, checking her notes. “With your wife.”
“Ex-wife. Yes. But me and him were talking. On video call. He wants to quit school.”
Kate was puzzled by this answer. Kids – people she thought of as kids – they might say they’d been ‘with’ someone or ‘met’ them, when they really meant online. But Martinez had to be in his early fifties, certainly no digital native.
“What time was this?”
“From about nine until gone eleven. Matéo says he can get plenty of work right now, shooting videos. So he doesn’t see the point of staying in school, or going to college, where he’s just going to rack up a huge debt.
He just wants money now. He’d got it all worked out on a…
thing. Spreadsheet. A whole plan. He could work this number of days with me on the truck. Cut back on this, sell that…”
Kate leaned forward. “What did you think about his plans?”
Hector rubbed his face, fingers scraping over two days’ worth of stubble.
“I would love to work with my boy on the truck. I would love to spend some of that time with him now, while he’s still young.
But it’s not about me. And my fear is that he’s doing it for the wrong reasons.
I mean… he’s doing the right thing, but for the wrong reasons. ”
“What are they?”
“He broke up with his girl at the end of the summer. First, you know, proper thing. He took it hard. He’s a sensitive kid. I wouldn’t want him any other way, but it means… you know, life’s always that bit tougher for him.”
Kate nodded. “So it’s awkward for him now, seeing her every day at school.”
“Yep. And also… on the back of that, he’s got in some kinda beef with a couple of his crew that he’s known since first grade.
It happens. You know… kids.” He shrugged.
“But he’s making big decisions, permanent decisions on the back of these little things that don’t matter.
I mean, they matter, to him, now, I get that, I can remember it, being that age… but in a few months’ time, they won’t.”
Marcus jotted a note, brow furrowed. “Do you have records of that call with Matéo?”
“I think so. He could show you. But after eleven, eleven-fifteen, maybe…” Hector hesitated, gaze falling to the table. “I was alone. I went to bed. I’m normally in bed much earlier. Got to be for the market.”
Marcus’s pen tapped the table. “So no one can confirm that you stayed in all night.”
“No.”
Kate pressed. “And Friday morning? Where were you?”
Another pause. Hector’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t get up for the market. So I couldn’t make any sales that day, from the bike or the truck. It has to be all fresh from the sea, every day. Fresh or nothing, man.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because Matéo and me, we didn’t end the call on such a good note, you know? And afterwards, I didn’t sleep enough. Later on, around noon, we met for lunch. Talk it through.”
“You skipped a workday,” Marcus said flatly.
“Yes. He’s my son.”
Marcus leaned forward, his tone sharpening. “But skipping work? That’s out of pattern. You understand how it looks?”
“I know.” Hector’s voice cracked. He raked a hand through his hair, eyes glistening. “But what kind of father puts profit before his child? If Matéo drops out, his life will be changed forever. I had to talk to him."
Kate nodded slowly, weighing his words. “Tell us about that lunch.”
“We met at a taquería on Alberta. Kid ate like a bird, man. Same as his mama, can’t eat when he’s upset.
He said he wanted to prove himself and earn money.
I told him, money is nothing if you lose your future.
We argued more, but it was softer this time.
At the end, he promised to stick it out until the end of the year.
December, I mean, not the school year. But I’m thinking…
I’m hoping, by the time he gets to December, he’ll see, ok, now it’s only another six months to go, so… ”
His hands trembled slightly now, clasped tight on the table as if bracing himself. Kate could almost see the man teetering between all of his obligations—sashimi chef, delivery-boy, father, pulled in all points of the compass, all at once.
“Time was, I woulda prayed for a steer, but…”
Kate gave a nod of understanding, then she glanced at Marcus.
Once again, the alibi was both solid and not quite solid enough.
A video call until eleven, then silence.
Skipping work the next day, for noble reasons maybe, but it left Hector Martinez drifting outside the safety of routine.
From an investigator’s standpoint, he was still exposed.
She softened her voice. “Hector, I believe you love your son. That matters. But right now, it doesn’t clear you.”
Hector’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing. “So I am still a suspect.”
“We have to cover every angle.”
The door opened then, breaking the taut air. Winters stepped in, pale and urgent, whispering to Marcus. His eyes widened, his expression shifting from fatigue to shock.
“What is it?” Kate asked, as the boss darted away again.
Marcus exhaled. “William Harper—the preacher from Atlanta? He was found dead this morning. In his studio.”
Kate blinked. “Harper? The guy with the orphanages?”
“Yeah. Time of death confirmed as today. Early hours of this morning.”
“Scene of crime…” She glanced towards Martinez, careful of what was said.
“Significantly similar.”
The room stilled. Even the hum of the HVAC seemed to fade. Then Kate turned back to Hector. “That means Whitfield’s killer is still active. But it also means you couldn’t have done it.”
Relief flickered across Hector’s face. His hands unclasped, fingers flexing as if blood was rushing back into them. “So it wasn’t me. But someone is still out there.”
Marcus folded his arms, leaning back with a grunt. “It looks that way. And they’re not finished.”
Kate closed her notebook with deliberate calm. "You're clear, Hector for now. But stay close. We may need you again."
Hector nodded, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.
A weary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“The truck’s usually on Belmont and Decker, and if I’m not there, I’ll be delivering close by,” he said softly.
Then his face sobered. “Please catch them.
You know, agents, it's possible to despise somebody, to be very angry with them, and to disagree with them on every level. But you can do that, without wishing them dead. And I never wished anyone dead.”
Kate watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him. She sat for a moment in silence, pen still against her pad, the weight of his plea hanging in the air. Marcus leaned back, running a hand over his face.
“Another preacher down,” he muttered. “Looks like someone’s on a crusade.”
Kate stared at the blank space on her notes where she’d written Harper’s name. Another preacher silenced. Another message carved in blood. The pattern was sharpening, and the killer was still moving.