Chapter 20
After making a quick phone call to DC where the deputy director had not only warned her to stay alive but had then questioned her about how many people she’d seen in the last week who’d worn emeralds, just to entertain himself with her memory skills, Laurel sat back in her chair as Walter ambled into the conference room with two buckets of popcorn.
He set them down on the conference table before sinking into one of the too-sleek, white chairs that looked out of place around the scuffed, fifties-era table.
He handed her one of the buckets. “Ena popped it. Fish and Wildlife has a better microwave.”
“Thank you.” Laurel took the popcorn, her stomach growling from the scent of melted butter. “We could get a new microwave.”
“We definitely should.” Walter pointed the remote at the wall screen and hit the button.
The monitor snapped to life, spilling Tyler Griggs’s first of two unaired podcasts into the room. His jittery voice filled the air, his pitch too high, his energy twisted and erratic.
Laurel slipped a piece of popcorn onto her tongue. It was warm, buttery, and properly salted.
Tyler’s face appeared on the screen, eyes darting with a fevered energy that seemed to vibrate just beneath his skin.
“Hi, folks,” he began, his smile jagged and off-balance.
“I’ve been watching the Elk Hollow Police Department, and let me tell you, the stench of corruption is so thick you could cut it with a chain saw. ”
Walter muttered something low and indistinct.
Laurel looked at him and swallowed. “Walter, this is too much for you. I can take care of it.”
“No. The least I can do for the kid is figure out who might’ve wanted him dead.”
“All right,” Tyler’s voice piped up from the screen, almost giddy.
“Now, here’s the evidence I have, and let me tell you, the corruption goes deeper than this.
” His grin widened. “Not only are these two having an affair, and keep in mind they’re both married to somebody else, but they’re taking bribes. ”
The screen cut to a series of grainy photos of Detective Robertson and Officer Jackson entering motels at all hours, their bodies angled close.
One of Officer Jackson’s hands brushing Detective Robertson’s arm as they walked into a run-down building off Route 8, and one of Detective Robertson’s hands on her lower back as they crossed a parking lot together.
They weren’t looking over their shoulders, but as cops, surely they became suspicious?
“It seems like they prefer motels with bad lighting and nobody asking questions,” Tyler said, his voice a strained whisper. “But they should’ve been asking themselves some questions. Like who’s been recording their little meetings.”
The screen flickered again. More clips, all marked with time stamps Tyler had added himself. The kind of meticulous, obsessive detail that suggested he’d spent hours combing through footage, stringing it all together.
There was footage showing Detective Robertson and Officer Jackson laughing together in a diner parking lot.
Of them walking out of a bar just after midnight, heads bent close, Officer Jackson’s fingers tangled in Detective Robertson’s sleeve.
Then several more clips of the two kissing passionately in Officer Jackson’s patrol car.
Tyler’s voice slid into something darker. “Detective Robertson and Officer Jackson. Always sneaking around, always keeping it quiet. Maybe they’re just screwing around. But what if it’s more than that?”
The screen shifted to poorly framed footage of Detective Robertson meeting with men Laurel didn’t recognize.
One man had greasy black hair and a twitchy, nervous stance.
Another older, heavyset man had sharp eyes that scanned his surroundings before he handed the detective a tightly wrapped package.
“Detective Robertson meets these guys all over town, and every time, there’s something exchanged. Packages. Envelopes. Information.” Tyler’s voice rose. “Not once does he report it.”
Tyler cut between images quickly, slamming together proof of the affair with clips of the detective accepting packages and passing envelopes to the unknown men. Laurel’s eyes narrowed as she tracked the pattern Tyler had clumsily mapped.
“Whatever they’re into,” Tyler continued, his voice crackling, “it’s bigger than an affair. This is corruption. Dirty money. Information leaks. And I’m going to prove it.”
Laurel glanced at Walter. “We need to identify those people.”
Walter grunted. “And figure out what’s in those packages.” His voice had gone rough, his attention locked on the screen. “I told Tyler’s dad’s secretary that I’d like to attend a funeral if there is one, and she said that she’d get back to me. I’m not counting on it.”
“I’m sorry, Walter.” Laurel returned her attention to the screen.
Walter scrolled through more of the scattered recordings.
Tyler’s voice came through again, frenzied but deliberate. “It’s not just Robertson and Jackson having their dirty little fling. They’re part of something bigger. So much bigger. I almost have the evidence. There’s an attack coming, my friends.”
Walter paused the recording, his hand steady on the remote. “An attack.”
Laurel didn’t like guesswork. “That’s what Sandra was talking about.”
“Yep.” Walter shut off the video, the sudden silence thick and heavy. “Remember that he was dramatic.”
Laurel scribbled a quick note. “I know.”
“But he also was pretty good at his job,” Walter muttered. “What attack was he talking about?”
“I don’t know.” Laurel’s pen hovered over her notepad. “But Tyler thought he was onto something, and if he was right, it might’ve gotten him killed. Also, I’d have to guess Detective Robertson and Officer Jackson weren’t exactly happy with him.”
“It’s odd they didn’t mention this,” Walter said. “Robertson and Jackson. Tyler was tracking them, harassing them. How in the world did they not notice? They’re both cops.”
“I agree,” Laurel said, reaching for the remote for the wide-screen plasma on the far wall. “Let’s look at the last few of Tyler’s posted podcasts.” She hit play.
The footage rolled, Tyler rattling off about crop dustings in farming areas close to Everett.
His excitement bled through his words as he described strange patterns appearing in the fields after the planes passed over.
“Aliens, folks. They’re here, and they’re blending in.
” Tyler’s grin was wide, eyes gleaming. “They’re posing as policemen.
Enforcers of the law. And one of them is none other than Seattle Councilman Eric Swelter. ”
Walter snorted. “If anybody’s an alien, it’s that jackass.”
Laurel tried not to smile, but she couldn’t help it. She’d dealt with Swelter in a previous case, and the term jackass truly did fit. “I always figured if we were visited by other life forms, they’d be a lot smarter than us since they could get here somehow.”
“Good point.” Walter’s eyes narrowed. “Swelter’s too dumb to be from a planet smart enough to create a warp drive that would get here.”
Laurel’s eyebrows lifted. “Warp drive, huh?”
“Well, sure. Isn’t that how they’d get here?”
“Actually,” Laurel said, leaning forward, “if they did come here, it’s more likely they’d have found a way to manipulate space itself by using quantum drive, or something along those lines.
It wouldn’t be about speed. It would be about bending space, making two points touch for just a moment.
Like folding paper so the ends meet. It would require incredible amounts of negative energy or something even more advanced—possibly by manipulating dark matter. Theoretically, it’s possible.”
Walter grunted. “That’s not warp drive.”
“Exactly.” Laurel’s focus remained on the screen.
Walter moved to the next podcast. Tyler’s voice continued with its erratic rhythm, but his topic had shifted.
“This one’s all about the conspiracy,” Tyler said, his tone dropping into something almost gleeful. “Big oil, folks. Gas prices are just one piece of it. They control the supply, they control the demand, and they control the narrative. And nobody is asking the right questions.”
Walter shook his head. “He’s losing it.”
“Maybe, but he’s trying to make connections,” Laurel said. “Even if they’re the wrong ones.”
Walter clicked to another clip, his jaw tight. Tyler’s voice filled the room again, but the pacing was different. Slower, as he interviewed somebody.
“Is it that Tim Kohnex?” Laurel asked, her hand frozen midway to her mouth, popcorn forgotten.
“It is,” Walter said, turning the volume up.
Tyler sounded oddly restrained, his curiosity tempered by something that almost resembled respect.
“So, I am psychic, and I can prove it,” Kohnex said, his voice smooth and confident.
“How so?” Tyler asked, his tone carrying both skepticism and excitement.
“You have a brother.” Kohnex’s voice was calm. Unnervingly so. “He’s in the FBI. Correct?”
Tyler’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide. “How did you know that?”
“You’re all but broadcasting it,” Kohnex said, his smile faint but sharp.
Walter’s head snapped toward Laurel. “How did he know that? You didn’t even know that.”
“My guess is he researched all of us.” Laurel’s voice was tight, her gaze fixed on the screen. “His interest in our little team is much deeper than I suspected.”
“Our team? You mean you?” Walter’s tone had a sharper edge now.
Laurel didn’t argue.
Walter clicked to the next podcast, where a pale Tyler said he’d found the biggest story of his life. It was one that could involve a lot of people and danger. He leaned in close to the camera and said that an attack was coming and he’d have proof soon.
The screen went black.
Walter groaned. “That’s it? The kid didn’t have any more information?”