16. The Plumber in the Walls #3
But he could be Niall Fraser in twenty years, with hope removed, and a colder hand at his back.
“Older version,” Kelly says.
Her voice is steady. Almost.
The sketch artist looks between us. “You know him?”
“Not exactly,” I say.
Kelly says nothing.
Tala looks at me. “But he resembles someone.”
“Yes.”
Decker’s gaze sharpens. “Who?”
Kelly folds her arms, too carefully. “A man I had dinner with last night.”
Tala’s expression shifts. Concern.
That is worse for Kelly than suspicion would be. “He wore the same chain.” Kelly offers. Her jaw works. “Similar. Maybe identical.”
Decker makes a low sound. “Family.”
“Or organization,” I say.
Kelly’s face has gone pale, but she does not look away from the sketch. Her private dating fears have just been confirmed.
The date she wanted to be ordinary is now connected to an attempted attack on Tala and Decker’s home and possibly two murders. The chain around Niall’s throat is no longer a detail she may have overread. It is pencil on paper. Evidence.
She draws a breath, then another. Her shoulders square. Her eyes remain too bright, but her voice steadies. “I’m going back to the office to run facial comparison against Niall,” she says. “Family records first. Father, uncle, older cousin. Anyone connected to Fraser Repair.”
“You’re a step ahead of me.”
“I know.” Her mouth twitches without humor. “I’m human, not decorative.”
Decker looks from the sketch to Kelly. “If he threatened you—”
“He didn’t,” she says quickly.
Too quickly.
She corrects herself, with a quick glance in my direction. “He didn’t get the chance.”
Kelly touches Decker’s arm in gratitude.
“And that’s a good thing,” Tala says.
The room settles around that truth.
I watch Kelly as she leaves, guessing she is beginning to understand the way of wolves and how protected she is now that she is on our team. At least that is my hope.
Water still drips somewhere inside the wall.
Sam resumes humming, softer now.
And the penciled face of the plumber watches us from the table, wearing Niall Fraser’s family chain like a warning that has finally decided to show its teeth.
I grab the photo and the report and follow Kelly out the door.
“Thank you,” Decker yells after us as he and Tala resume their bucket brigade.
“I hate this,” Kelly says once we are in the car.
“Reasonable,” I say.
“No, I mean I hate this specific thing. I hate that I went on a date and somehow that became evidence. I hate that he wore a necklace I noticed because I was trying to decide if I liked him. I hate that now I’m wondering whether dating opened a door.”
The car quiets around her.
I know the fear.
Not dating, not exactly.
But wanting Fate has started to feel like a door I opened without reading the warning label. Every kiss, every withheld truth, every instinct to protect her has become an access point for something old and patient.
Kelly’s jaw tightens. “I feel contaminated by it.”
I set the sketch down carefully. “You are not contaminated.”
Her laugh is thin. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Because wolf nose?”
“Because evidence.”
That gets her eyes on me.
Good.
Then she turns and starts the engine. The car pulls out.
“Being near a clue does not make you guilty,” I say. “Missing part of a pattern does not make you stupid. Having a personal connection to a suspect, victim, or witness does not infect your judgment unless you refuse to acknowledge it.”
Kelly swallows. “And if I acknowledge it?”
“Then it becomes evidence.”
Her eyes shine, but she does not look away.
“You told me about the date,” I say. “You noticed his nerves. His chain. His references to family. You questioned whether something was wrong before I showed up.”
Kelly takes a peek at the sketch. “I thought my instincts were broken.”
“They are overloaded,” I say. “Different problem.”
Despite everything going on, Kelly manages a smile. “Thank you.”
I take a snapshot of the sketch and send it to dispatch.
Then I call. “BOLO request. Two persons of interest. Niall Fraser, male, thirty-two, sandy hair, gray sweater last seen near The Brass Gull. Possible medical vulnerability. Second unknown male, fortyish, narrow jaw, patchy gray beard, damaged left ear, possible Fraser connection, last seen impersonating plumbing personnel. Both may be under coercion. Use caution. Do not approach. Notify me or Officer Hart immediately on sighting.”
Kelly listens with her hands on the wheel.
When I hang up, she says, “You included possible coercion.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“That was evidence.”
“It was still decent.”
I accept that without comment. I am slowly getting back in my partner’s good graces, and I’m not dumb enough to jeopardize that.
Kelly is driving us back to the station with her fear turned into evidence.
So I follow her example.
One step. One fact. One door at a time.
“We trace both men,” I say.
Kelly nods. Her hands have stopped shaking.
“Together,” she says.
“Yes.”
This time, neither of us lets the word become symbolic.
It is operational. It is necessary.
It is the only way we keep fear from turning us into its tools.