Chapter 5
Walter Smudgeon had his fair share of regrets from this lifetime.
One was probably not getting to know his kid brother any better than he had.
Sure, Tyler’s dad didn’t like Walter and never had, but Walter could have made more of an effort.
The fact that the kid hated the government made that even more difficult, and Walter’s job with the FBI only cemented the divide.
He stood in the rain outside the squat, gray six-plex as two local police officers conducted a quick search of Tyler’s apartment. The building looked neglected, its paint cracked and peeling, the gutters sagging under the weight of wet leaves.
Sandra hovered near Laurel, half behind the shorter woman, her hands fisted tightly at her sides. The kid looked young . . . and lost.
Laurel remained still, her gaze calm and steady, unbothered by the rain soaking into her thick hair.
Walter didn’t know what he’d do without Laurel Snow.
She’d given him a second chance at life, first by offering him a place on her team, and then by refusing to let him give up after he’d gotten himself shot.
His chest still ached sometimes, a dull, persistent reminder of mistakes made and lessons learned.
But he was alive, and that was because of her.
He had wanted to ask her on the drive over how she was doing, but Laurel was even worse than he was talking about feelings after the miscarriage. Plus, his mind had been locked on Tyler, the kid’s disappearance gnawing at him even before he’d arrived at the apartment.
The officers emerged from the apartment, their boots thudding against the uneven cement.
Rain plastered their hair to their heads, droplets clinging to their jackets.
Officer Jillian Jackson, a stocky brunette with pale green eyes and a sharp jawline, crossed her arms as she approached.
Her partner, Officer Diaz, stood at least six-five, his frame lean and stretched, like he hadn’t quite filled out his height.
He had cropped close black hair and dark eyes that gave nothing away.
Both cops glanced at Sandra before making their way over to Walter.
“You called it in?” Diaz asked.
“You know I did.” Walter looked up the four or five inches to the younger officer’s face.
The man was seriously tall, built like a basketball player, and his expression held a flat neutrality.
Walter took out his badge, the flash of metal catching what little light seeped through the overcast sky. “FBI.”
Diaz’s eyebrows rose. “Why is the FBI here?”
Walter held his gaze. “Tyler Griggs is my brother.” The words tasted strange in his mouth. Raw. Like he hadn’t said them out loud in years.
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Your brother?”
“Half brother,” Walter corrected. “He hasn’t been answering his phone, and his apartment looks like it’s been tossed.”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Officer Jackson said. She glanced toward the open door of Tyler’s unit. “The place looks like somebody tore it apart, probably looking for something specific.”
“Or Tyler staged the break-in,” Diaz added, his gaze fixed on the doorway. “This could be a stunt. We know he’s into conspiracy theories, and maybe he’s trying to gain notoriety.”
Walter kept his face neutral, but the idea clicked too easily. Tyler loved attention. Drawing an audience to whatever theory he’d latched onto that week would’ve been a temptation for him. A dramatic break-in might fit his agenda. But it didn’t explain the blood.
“Any idea where he might be?” Jackson asked, her focus shifting to Sandra.
Sandra shook her head, her voice tight. “No. He’s not answering my calls. He should be home. We were supposed to record a new podcast today.”
“About what?” Walter studied Sandra’s face.
She appeared exhausted with her pale skin and red-rimmed eyes. “All I know is that Tyler was on to something big. He said he had enough to go national with this one.”
Of course. He’d probably found evidence that the government had not only hidden the existence of Bigfoot but created him in the first place. Walter sighed. “You must have more details than that?”
“I don’t,” she whispered.
Diaz folded his arms. “If this isn’t your case, Agent, you might want to step back and let us handle it.”
Walter didn’t flinch. “Fine. As long as you’re handling it.”
Jackson’s jaw tightened. Diaz’s expression didn’t change. Walter caught the edge of irritation in the air, but it didn’t bother him.
Laurel remained silent, her attention locked on the officers. Walter knew that look. She was studying them, measuring their responses, and cataloging every inconsistency. The rain continued to fall, the rhythmic patter against the pavement the only sound for several long seconds.
“Can you do a missing person’s report?” Sandra asked, staying close to Laurel, with the toes of her shoes nearly touching Laurel’s heels.
The officers exchanged a glance. Diaz’s mouth tightened, a muscle twitching along his jaw. Jackson pulled out a notepad, the paper already damp and curling at the corners. Her pen moved fast, the strokes deep and hard. “We’ll take a missing person’s report and put out a BOLO for Tyler.”
Diaz rolled his eyes. “Come on, Jillian.”
“There’s blood in there,” Jackson added, her voice flat but clipped. “If it turns out he staged it for the notoriety or his podcast, we’ll arrest him.”
Diaz’s mouth twitched. “Okay, that sounds good.”
“We didn’t stage anything.” Sandra’s words shot out quick, her fists tight, knuckles pale. She glared at Diaz, but her gaze darted to Walter like she expected him to back her up.
Jackson kept writing. “When was the last time you saw Tyler?”
Sandra pulled in a breath, shoulders rising and falling fast. “Friday night. I was away all weekend on a girls’ trip and got home this morning.
When Tyler didn’t answer my calls, I headed here and opened the door with my key.
I saw the mess and called Tyler’s brother.
I didn’t know what else to do.” Her eyes shifted to Diaz. “I knew you wouldn’t believe us.”
Diaz’s arms crossed. “I’ve arrested you twice.”
Sandra’s chin snapped up. “But you’re still taking this seriously, right?”
Walter focused on Sandra before Diaz could answer. “Why were you arrested?”
Sandra’s mouth flattened. “I like to protest.” Her fingers dug into her sleeves. “Somebody has to do something about the corruption in this area.”
Diaz let out a loud, exaggerated sigh. “Agent Smudgeon, what about you?”
Walter kept his voice flat. “I haven’t seen Tyler in three years.”
Jackson’s pen stopped. “Three years?”
He nodded once. “We didn’t speak three years ago at our mother’s funeral. Haven’t kept in touch. Sandra’s the only one who thought to call me.”
“Why?” Diaz’s weight shifted, his feet planted wide. “You two haven’t been in touch for years, but she calls you instead of us?”
“Tyler told me to call him if anything ever went wrong.” Sandra shrugged. “He doesn’t trust the cops. Especially not here.”
Jackson’s pen moved again. Diaz’s gaze stayed hard on Walter, but the muscle near his jaw kept twitching. The air smelled like wet concrete and cigarette smoke, drifting in from somewhere farther down the six-plex.
“We’ll take the report and put out a BOLO,” Diaz said. “But if your brother’s pulling a publicity stunt, we will arrest him.”
Walter looked at Sandra. Her shoulders stayed hunched, fingers twisted into the cuffs of her sleeves. She hadn’t stepped out from behind Laurel.
“He’s not pulling a stunt.” Sandra’s fists tightened against her sides. “He wouldn’t do that.”
Walter glanced at the apartment door. Whose blood was in there?
Diaz pulled out his phone, his thumb moving fast as he sent a text.
“I’ll have our photographer come in and capture the scene.
We’ll need to call in the county department or maybe the state patrol to process it.
We don’t have anybody like that on hand.
” His gaze snapped to Sandra. “Any recent threats or confrontations with Tyler?”
“Nothing but the usual.” Sandra’s shoulders jerked in something close to a shrug. “We know the corrupt establishment hates us.”
“The establishment doesn’t know you exist,” Diaz muttered.
Sandra’s mouth pulled into a tight line, but she didn’t respond.
“We’ll get this assigned to a detective. You’ll need to come in for an interview.” Jackson’s pen hovered over her notepad.
Sandra’s arms folded across her chest, chin tipping up. “I’m not helping you out.”
Laurel stepped to the side, turning fully to face Sandra. “Do you want assistance finding your boyfriend or not?”
Sandra’s gaze dropped to her feet. “Yes.” The word came out grudgingly, her shoulders curling inward.
“What do you do when you’re not protesting?” Walter asked. He was careful to keep his voice level. This wasn’t his case, but the question felt relevant.
She shrugged, eyes still down. “I work at the movie theater to make some money. Other than that, Tyler and I are both dedicated to his causes. I help him research all I can, and soon we’ll be making enough money off the podcast that I can quit my other job.”
“This will probably help cause a little intrigue,” Diaz said, glancing over his shoulder at the apartment.
Sandra’s frown deepened. “We didn’t do this.”
Walter wasn’t so sure. He’d seen Tyler’s work before and hadn’t paid much attention to it until now, but he knew the kid had a knack for theatrics.
Still, the blood in the apartment made the whole thing feel off.
He needed to watch some of Tyler’s most recent podcast episodes to see if anything stuck out.
Jackson tucked her notepad away. “I’ll secure the scene. I’ve got crime scene tape in my car, and then I’ll go door to door to see if anybody saw or heard anything.” She peered out into the rainy street. “Maybe we’ll find a Ring camera or two.”
Walter nodded, eyes narrowing as he glanced back at the apartment. He’d seen the inside and knew the damage wasn’t random. Someone had gone through Tyler’s things with purpose. If it wasn’t Tyler himself, then who?
Even though this wasn’t his jurisdiction, he couldn’t just let it go. Not when blood was involved. Not when his brother—his own blood—was missing.
Hopefully, Laurel would use her big brain and help him. Walter had a good gut, but Laurel had a mind built for putting puzzle pieces together. And right now, nothing fit.