CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Portland field office always smelled of yesterday’s coffee. Kate had never decided if it was comforting or depressing; today, it just felt like a dare.
She was in a meeting with Winters, who’d requested an update on the investigation. They’d just finished viewing the CCTV of Santos’s attack on Cox.
“It’s very clever,” Winters said, biting the end of her pen.
“Both men are on the floor, the table and Santos’s back effectively obscure the line of sight.
It’s possible that Cox brings the weapon into the room.
Or that the weapon is already in there, for example, affixed to the underside of the table. ”
“It looks well-rehearsed and passionless, though, don’t you agree?”
“What’s your point, Kate?”
“Well, Santos alleges he acted in some state of temporary insanity, yet everything is so smooth and efficient. It’s almost a dance routine.
And the audio doesn’t help,” Kate went on.
“They go from a good-natured discussion about good and evil to Cox’s coughing fit.
Santos doesn’t express alarm or concern, nor does he exclaim anything as he attacks Cox.
Equally, Cox doesn’t seem to have anything to say about being stabbed. ”
“True, but Cox is apparently choking to death when the attack occurs. And a clever lawyer, backed by an obliging psychiatrist, could argue that Santos’s blank manner is proof of his insanity.”
Kate sighed. “It’s not right, ma’am. I mean, none of it looks right.”
Winters nodded. “I don’t disagree. But what can we do about it?”
“We need to sweat him some more.”
“Definitely. Question Father Santos again. Tell him Cox is on the critical list. If he thinks he could be heading to Death Row, he might start telling us the truth. And see if we can interview Cox as well. He’s lost some blood, but that shouldn’t put him off-limits for questioning.”
Marcus was waiting by the incident board, arms crossed, a paper cup balanced on the rail as though he’d rather fling it than drink it.
“Morning, Vee. You hear the news from the Phillips case?”
Kate dropped her coat over the back of a chair. “Tell me.”
“Nothing to do with her. A random attack.” He said as if the word itself left a bad taste. “Guy was an ex-Philosophy student. Degree revoked after they caught him using AI on his final exam. No connection to Phillips—she never even taught him.”
“That’s supposed to make us all sleep better?”
“Supposed to,” Marcus said. “Means no mastermind, no pattern. Just a lone idiot with a grudge.”
Kate shook her head. “It doesn’t fit. None of this can be random. Let me tell you what the Winters just said.”
She filled him in on the conversation she’d just had about the prison visit.
Marcus gave a dry laugh. “OK, so it sounds like there’s something fishy there.
But that doesn’t mean there’s something fishy everywhere.
That’s how you get folks believing the U.S.
staged the 9/11 attacks. People are so used to governments lying, staging events, covering up, they start thinking everything is a hoax—even when the evidence is a hundred percent Al-Qaeda and nothing else. ”
Kate met his gaze. “Listen, if it hops like a frog, croaks like a frog, catches flies with its tongue—”
“—then it’s a frog,” Marcus finished, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I know the saying.”
“It’s more than a saying, though. It’s instinct.”
“Instinct can get you lost in the woods,” Marcus shot back. “Sometimes a frog is just a noise in the swamp. Not everything is connected. Some stuff is random.”
The office door swung open and Poppy Klamath hurried in, her hair bouncing wildly, a flush across her freckled cheeks.
“You just would not believe the time I’ve had getting a warrant,” she said, dropping a stack of papers on the table. “Every judge in the county suddenly has golf dates or migraines. Finally found one—Elias Bell—but he’s going over the application like it’s the Dead Sea Scrolls.”
“Judge Bell’s thorough,” Marcus said. “Pain in the backside thorough.”
“Tell me about it. So while he was sharpening his quill, I did some digging on Edward Stone.”
Kate straightened, alert and eager.
“First off,” Poppy said, ticking the points off on her fingers, “the man doesn’t drive. Lost his license in a DUI twelve years ago. Can’t ride a bike either. Which makes committing the first two murders a logistical nightmare.”
Marcus let out a low whistle. “Unless he’s learned to teleport.”
“Or time travel,” Kate added. “The guy dresses and talks like a drinking buddy of Herman Melville.”
“Second,” Poppy went on, “He told you that he had two meetings with a client, on Thursday night and Friday night. One in person, one online. I managed to find out who.”
“How did you manage that?”
Poppy blushed under the attention. “He pleaded client confidentiality, as was his right, but the people he’s represented in the past are a matter of public record. One name kept cropping up, so I looked them up and discovered they were an old schoolmate of Stone’s.”
“Who are they?”
“Olivia Blaker.”
“Of Blaker Bakeries?”
“The same,” Poppy said, pushing her huge round glasses back up her nose. “She’s divorcing Old Man B., and he’s trying to pretend he’s worth a lot less than she says he is.”
“She must be screwed if she’s had to resort to Edward Stone,” Marcus remarked.
Poppy shook her curls. “Stone actually has gold-star rating on RateYourLawyer. Anyway, once I supplied the name, he was quite open with me. On Thursday, he had a Zoom call with her, from around 11.30 pm until 2.30 in the morning. On Friday, they met at his apartment in the evening, got take-out. Miss Olivia ‘slept on the sofa’. Allegedly. But she was happy to confirm the details.”
“Stone and the Cupcake Queen… I don’t know whether to be charmed by that,” Kate said. “Or just bang my head on the desk.”
“The latter,” Marcus said. “Because we’ve now got no leads at all. The only thing we need now…”
His voice trailed off as the door to Winters’ swung open and the boss appeared—immaculate as ever, impatience radiating from her like static.
“I thought you were going to sweat Santos.”
“I am. I’m just catching up on the other angles,” Kate said, trying not to sound indignant.
“And?” Winters directed her icy beam onto Marcus and Poppy.
“Stone’s alibis check out,” Marcus admitted, gruffly. “He’s in the clear. And the attack on Philips was random. So we’re completely fu… I mean we’re fresh out of leads. Ma’am.”
Winters’s mouth tightened. “You were right the first time,” she said. And with that, she strode away towards the vending machines.
Silence followed her departure. Poppy grimaced. “I don’t envy you when she cools down.”
Kate managed a thin smile. “Just enjoy being a baby agent while you can.”
Marcus nodded over towards Winters, who was feeding money into one of the snack machines. “It’s bad. She’s buying chocolate.”
“I don’t blame her,” said Kate.
Marcus set his coffee to one side with a sigh. “Oh well,” he said. “Back to chasing ghosts.”
“Blindfolded,” added Kate. “And armed with a teaspoon.”
They were still commiserating when the duty phone shrilled, cutting through the low hum of the bullpen. Every head turned.
The agent on call answered, listened, then looked up—face pale.
“There’s been another murder,” he said, hoarsely. “Tongue cut out. Ankh em Maat Spiritual Centre.”
The room went still. Kate felt the cold knot tighten beneath her ribs.
Random? Not anymore.