Tom stood staring at the door after Liza left. This had to be coming from her PTSD. Survivor guilt. She’d experienced enough loss. Her mother, her sister. Her husband.
Tom hadn’t seen this coming. Because you didn’t ask the right questions. He’d known something was wrong, that she was experiencing PTSD, but he’d let it go on way too long.
Well, that was history. From here on out, he was asking all the questions. Because I’m not going to let her undertake a damn suicide mission.
You can’t stop me.
Watch me. He could stop her. True, he couldn’t keep her from applying, short of putting her into protective custody. Briefly he considered it. Because the alternative was ruining her résumé, altering her references so that they gave her a bad review. He could do it.
But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to save her from herself.
He locked the front door, resetting the alarm, then climbed the stairs to his office, his thoughts a whirlwind. Pebbles ambled after him, settling down in her preferred place against the wall.
The sight of the dog curled up against what had been Liza’s bedroom wall had Tom’s eyes burning. “She’s not there,” he said, his voice breaking. Because she wasn’t coming back.
Heavily he sat in his chair, all thoughts of her résumé fading as the words she’d whispered in pain echoed in his mind. I need more than that.
Pebbles’s growl cut into his mental fog, the sound low and ominous. Her head was tilted, her uncropped ears pricking up. Then Tom heard it too, the quiet buzzing of an incoming call.
It was Molina. Grateful for the respite of work, he answered. “Hunter.”
“Agent Hunter, I’ve got Agent Raeburn patched in. We’d like to talk to you.”
Tom frowned, not liking the sound of that at all. “Of course. Is something wrong?”
“No,” Raeburn said. “In fact, I think something could be very right.”
“I’ll cut to the chase,” Molina said. “Liza Barkley just called me.”
Tom’s breath got stuck in his chest. “Wh-what?”
“Liza called. She informed me that, through no fault of your own, she overheard a conversation she wasn’t meant to hear.”
“Not her fault, either. She was bringing the dog in. I thought I was alone in my house.”
“Tom,” Molina said overly patiently. “We’re not calling to hand out demerits.”
Tom’s blood turned to ice as the implications sank in. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
“She intends to apply for the nursing assistant job at Sunnyside Oaks,” Molina went on.
Oh my God. She did. His fury with her reignited and he had to draw a calming breath before he spoke. “You set her straight, I assume,” he said, grateful that his voice didn’t shake.
“By setting her straight,” Raeburn said, not one iota of levity in his tone, “you mean we said, ‘Yes, please, and let us help you get that job.’ Correct?”
Tom was speechless. “But . . .”
“She said you turned her down,” Molina said. “She said that you forbade it. Which, just for your own edification, was a really stupid thing to say, Tom.”
“Extremely stupid,” Raeburn added.
Tom’s temper was about to explode and he had to remind himself that the two people on the phone were his bosses. That he had to remain respectful. “She is a civilian. It’s too dangerous.”
“According to her résumé, which she’s already sent to me, she is a trained, decorated soldier who is also a trained, highly skilled combat medic,” Molina corrected tartly, then seemed to soften. “And she’s not our first choice, if that makes you feel better. We’ve identified two undercover agents who will also apply. You can cross your fingers and toes for them if you like. In the meantime, we want a virus that can be embedded in their résumés. When they’re reviewed by Sunnyside’s HR person, I want that virus to take over that person’s computer. Even if we can’t see the entire network, we can see employee records and we can follow the hiring process.”
Goddammit, Liza. He couldn’t believe she’d gone over his head like that. He took a second to ensure he’d be appropriately respectful when he spoke. “When do you need the virus?”
“One hour.”
“What the f—?” He drew another breath. Started to say it was impossible. Then realized it was perfectly possible. And a good idea. For the other two applicants. Not for Liza.
But it appeared that he’d been both outmaneuvered and overruled. “I’ll provide you with the embedded code in one hour with instructions on how to add it into the résumé documents.”
“Thank you, Agent Hunter,” Raeburn said formally. “We’ll have all three résumés ready to be uploaded into Sunnyside’s application form on receipt of your e-mail.”
“Yes, sir. I assume shutting down Sunnyside’s network, thus requiring them to call in IT support, is also still a goal.”
“You assume correctly,” Raeburn replied. “I want the résumé viruses first. We’ve already developed identities and backgrounds for the two undercover nursing assistant applicants. We’ll have the same for an ‘IT support team’ sometime tomorrow. It’s possible that Sunnyside won’t hire any of our applicants. It’s possible that none of them will even be called in for an interview. However, if one of ours is hired, we still want support for them inside the facility.”
“Any decent IT team will be able to fix the problem in an afternoon,” Tom said. “If one of ours does get the nursing assistant job, he or she won’t have support for very long.”
“Then they’ll find a way to further sabotage Sunnyside’s network, requiring a longer presence,” Raeburn replied coolly.
Tom swallowed a sigh of resignation. “Then I’ll get right to it.”
“Thank you, Agent Hunter,” Molina said quietly. “Agent Raeburn, you’re free to hang up. I’d like to speak with Agent Hunter alone, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Raeburn said. “Call me if you learn anything new, Hunter.”
Molina waited until Raeburn had ended his connection. “You know,” she said, “I talked to Liza’s former commanding officer.”
“You mean, in the army?” Tom asked, startled at the topic change. “When?”
“The first time was before she and Mercy visited Ephraim Burton’s mother in that nursing home. I wanted to be sure that she wasn’t a security risk and that she had the skills we required.”
Tom knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. Molina had accepted Liza’s involvement, had allowed her to know about Eden, had permitted her proximity to Mercy. He’d thought at the time that Molina simply valued his opinion and approved Liza’s involvement on his say-so. How naive was I? How arrogant?
“What did he say?” he asked, a little subdued. “Her former CO, I mean?”
“He said that we couldn’t have picked anyone better suited to shoulder the responsibility. That she was levelheaded in a crisis, that she employed diplomacy when dealing with delicate situations, and that she could shoot her way out when diplomacy was no longer an option. He said she was one of the finest soldiers that he’d ever had the privilege to command. And that her nursing skills were exemplary. Combat surgeons credited her with saving lives because she stabilized field wounds so well. Patients who might have otherwise died didn’t.”
Pride swelled in his chest. He hadn’t known any of that. She hadn’t told him.
You didn’t ask.
God, I’m an asshole.
“You said the first time. Did you call him again?”
“Yes, after she started visiting me at home when I was recuperating.”
“When she did your laundry and cooked for you?”
“Yes. And sat with me, just chatting.”
“Why did you call him a second time? And what did he say?”
“I called him because I had concerns regarding her intentions. She was in my home, after all. He told me that Liza has a nearly limitless need to help and that it’s genuine. You know about the attack on her mission, right? The one where members of her unit were killed?”
“She told me about it.”
“Did she tell you that she saved the lives of four soldiers and five villagers that day, after they’d been shot? That doesn’t include the lives that might have been lost had she not grabbed her rifle and started shooting the rooftop snipers who’d attacked U.S. soldiers on a humanitarian mission and the villagers they’d gone to serve.”
“No. I didn’t know that part. She told me that her . . .” He swallowed. “That her husband had thrown himself over her to shield her, and that he’d died.”
“That’s true, he did save her life. But once she realized he was dead, she went into crisis management mode. Took out one of the snipers while a few other soldiers took out the others. Then she was like . . . how did her CO say it? Oh, yes. Like Florence Nightingale on speed, running from person to person, triaging, doing first aid. She took a bullet in the hip, kept on going.”
“I knew about the graze, but not that she’d kept going,” Tom said quietly. And I should have.
“It was enough of an injury that she was awarded a Purple Heart.” Molina made a sound halfway between a fond huff and a dry chuckle. “I tried to recruit her. She said no, that there was already one FBI agent in the family. She just wanted to be a nurse. If I could have her as one of my agents, I’d jump at the chance. Since she already told me no, I’ll take her involvement with Sunnyside Oaks. I only tell you all this because I know you’ll continue to worry.”
“Of course I’m going to worry,” Tom snapped. “She’s already been in his crosshairs once.”
“I know. But when that picture fills your mind, replace it with one of her grabbing her rifle and shooting rooftop snipers to save her fellow soldiers and innocent villagers.”
He hesitated. “That sounds like personal experience talking.”
“It is. My daughter is a cop. Says she’s following in my footsteps. Sometimes I wish she’d followed her father’s footsteps into culinary school. I remind myself daily that she is smart, highly skilled, and makes a difference.”
Tom knew it was time to surrender. “I still don’t want Liza there, for the record. But I understand and I’ll do everything I can to make sure she and the others are as safe as possible.”
“I knew you would. Now, get to work.”
GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA
THURSDAY, MAY 25, 11:50 P.M.
DJ blinked hard and rewound the camera’s video back to the point where he’d dozed off. Again. He was tired. And he hurt again. He’d pulled something dragging Nurse Gaynor from the car, and the ibuprofen he’d bought at a convenience store hadn’t touched the pain.
He wished he had some of the pot that had once filled the basement of his home in Yuba City. Or the house he’d rented next door. The one the cops had seized. Fucking sonsofbitches.
Kowalski had probably been pissed off by that more than the Ellis woman being tagged as a homicide. The marijuana in the grow house had been ready to harvest. He didn’t want to think of how much of his income the cops now held.
Better than holding you in a prison cell, though. Which was true enough.
After ensuring that Pastor’s new nurse wouldn’t even consider selling out to Kowalski, he’d borrowed a wig from Nurse Innes in case Kowalski’s men had returned to watching the gate. Then he’d driven Smythe’s Lexus back to the house and downloaded the video from the pink camera in the window. It was so boring. And this bed was so comfortable.
He sighed and pulled himself up to sit straight against the pillows. He hit play, fast-forwarding until he came to the next vehicle that drove down the Sokolovs’ street.
It was an older-model Mazda and was filled with so many boxes that they obscured the view of the driver. He noted the license number, just in case, but a beat-up old Mazda didn’t seem like it would fit into the Sokolovs’ neighborhood. The residents here tended to favor BMWs and Teslas. Like the one that had just driven by.
He noted plate numbers for both the Mazda and the Tesla, then continued to fast-forward. And scowled. A gray Suburban approached the Sokolovs’ house but the windows were too darkly tinted for him to see inside. A few minutes later the Suburban reappeared, followed by an orange VW Beetle, and that driver’s face he could see. It was a face he knew.
He hissed a curse. “Her.” The woman who’d shot him after Amos had taken the shot he’d aimed at Mercy. Daisy Dawson. Gideon Reynolds’s girlfriend.
She was already on his list but seeing her face redoubled his determination to see her dead. He noted the license plate, paused the video, then opened a browser to check all three plates.
The Tesla was registered to the same corporation as the black F-150 he’d seen that morning. That was interesting.
DJ had googled the corporation’s name and had come up with a lot of nothing. But he had a hunch now and googled Karl Sokolov and Tesla. And, sure enough, a picture surfaced of Karl and his wife standing next to the fancy car, apparently on their way to a charity gala. The photo had been posted to the Facebook account belonging to Karl Sokolov’s marketing firm. The corporation didn’t bear the man’s business’s name, but it really didn’t need to. The connection was obvious.
Sokolov had loaned his truck to Amos. They’d regret helping him, just like they’d regret helping Mercy and Gideon.
He added the two Sokolovs to his list. If he could get Mercy and Gideon, all the others would show up to the funeral. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
He ran the plates on the Beetle and the gray Suburban, expecting to see actual owners’ names, but instead he got another corporation, this one based in Maryland.
The final plate belonged to the red Mazda that had been full of boxes.
“Oh my fucking God,” he snarled after its search results came up. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Another corporation. Which, of course, wasn’t tied to any one individual.
Weren’t any of these people normal, for fuck’s sake? Normal people registered cars in their own fucking names with their own fucking addresses.
The lawyers must be making a mint off these assholes. He fast-forwarded the video, noting the time and the other vehicles that passed by, all belonging to neighbors. Those had normal registrations. They were normal people.
Too bad they weren’t the people he wanted to kill.
He made sure that the camera was reset and unpacked the bag of items he’d gotten at the convenience store on the way back from Sunnyside. He shook a few more ibuprofen from the bottle and swallowed them with water he’d found in Smythe’s fridge.
The cigarettes went on the nightstand along with Smythe’s lighter. He’d smoked all that he’d found in Smythe’s pockets and had treated himself to more. He’d always smoked sparingly so that Pastor didn’t smell it on him when he returned to Eden. But tonight he’d smoked a whole pack and a half.
The box of hair color he put in the bathroom along with the reading glasses he’d bought to wear on the end of his nose. Tomorrow morning, his blond hair would become . . . He squinted at the box.
“Deep Dark Brown,” he muttered.
He rubbed his palm along his jaw. He couldn’t grow a decent beard no matter how hard he tried, but he could trim and dye the scruff. It didn’t have to be pretty. He just had to make himself look like someone else.
ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, MAY 26, 12:45 A.M.
Tom gave his e-mail to Raeburn one last look, triple-checking the virus-embedded text he’d prepared for the résumés the Bureau would be submitting to Sunnyside Oaks. Including Liza’s, which made him want to scream. But the file was complete, so he hit send.
Then sagged into his chair as the full import of what she’d done hit him once again. She hadn’t argued with him. Hadn’t screamed or yelled back at him. She’d stayed calm.
And had promptly gone over his head, scaring him shitless. She is competent, he kept telling himself. More than competent. She’s amazing.
She really was. Even though he’d hurt her, even though he’d yelled, she’d been gentle. She’d faced him squarely.
She’d even held his face tenderly. Her hands were always a little rough because she washed them so often. He wished he could free her from that, from having to work at all. Except that Molina was right. Liza did have a nearly limitless need to help others. She would never be happy unless she had something useful to do.
But this . . . He thought of Penny Gaynor’s body, the way the bullet had torn her skull apart. He thought of the pendant around her neck, covered in blood and brain matter.
Too close to the pendant he’d given to Liza when she’d accompanied Mercy into that nursing home. He swallowed hard, his gorge rising at the thought of DJ Belmont laying a hand on her. Hurting her. Then he did as Molina had advised, picturing her in combat fatigues, taking up a rifle and protecting her unit.
And then becoming like Florence Nightingale on speed. That he could easily visualize.
She’d survived a war zone. He had to believe she could survive this, because he couldn’t fathom his life without her in it. Except now she wasn’t in it. Not anymore.
I need more than that.
He closed his eyes, thinking of that one moment earlier, that one moment he’d forgotten himself. It had been an electric moment as she’d stared at his mouth, desire plain on her face.
She’d wanted him to kiss her.
And for that one electric moment, he’d wanted that, too. More than anything.
Which would have been very bad for both of them.
Why? a small voice whispered in his mind. Why would that be so very bad?
He recognized the voice. He’d heard it before, every time he’d fleetingly considered kissing her. Used to be a lot more frequent. His answer back then had been a simple one.
She’s too young. So he’d shoved his feelings into the box inside his heart, the one where he kept all of the other emotions he couldn’t allow himself to feel—the rage with his father, the terror that one day his own temper would defy his control, and the unmitigated want he’d felt for Liza Barkley. They were taboo. They were untenable. They needed to stay locked in the damn box. But keeping Liza at arm’s length had always been a challenge at which he’d failed.
She’d been his biggest temptation. She still was.
But she wasn’t seventeen anymore. She wasn’t a traumatized teenage girl who’d just lost her sister to a killer. She was all grown up now and that small voice had become much less frequent as time had passed. He’d heard it mainly when she’d been home on leave. When he’d sat in the same room with her, able to smell her hair or feel the weight of her head on his shoulder when she’d fallen asleep watching TV.
Those were the times he’d wanted to touch her, but he’d shut those wants down every single time, despite the small why that tormented him.
They were friends. If they tried for more and it didn’t work out, they wouldn’t be anymore.
Are you friends now?
He was saved from answering himself by the light buzzing of his personal cell phone. Surprised that anyone would call him so late, he checked the caller ID.
Rafe Sokolov. Oh joy. Just one more person who’d tell him that he was fucking Liza up.
“Yeah?” Tom asked wearily.
“Did I wake you up?” Rafe asked, sounding concerned. “Gideon just drove by your place on his way home and said your office light was on.”
“It’s fine. I’m . . . working.” Actually, no. He wasn’t. He wasn’t working. He was brooding, which wasn’t going to help anyone. “Why was Gideon driving by my house?”
“He went to Walmart to get a nine-volt battery because his smoke detector was beeping every few minutes and making him crazy. I asked him to see if your lights were on since he lives so close. I won’t keep you, but I wanted to let you know that Liza is safe.”
Tom frowned. “What does that mean?”
“She’s moved into a very safe place. Good security. I thought it might ease your mind since my mother won’t tell you where she is, but she is safe. Gideon made sure to check every point of entry when he helped her move in.”
“He apparently didn’t lock her in,” Tom said sarcastically. “Because she was here.”
There was a beat of silence. “She was where?”
“Here, in my house.”
“Oh. Well, she’s back in her place now. She and Mercy are on the phone. Mercy’s eating ice cream because Liza is, and apparently there’s some girl-commiseration pact or something.”
“Rocky road,” Tom murmured. It was Liza’s go-to flavor when she was sad. He wondered how many times his actions had driven her to drown her sorrows in rocky road. “Thanks for letting me know. It was good of you.”
“Anytime,” Rafe said kindly. “You sound rough, Tom. Call one of us if you need anything, okay? Even my mom. She’s annoyed with you, but she’ll still listen and give you good advice. Maybe not the advice you want to hear, but . . . Anyway, have a good night.”
“Wait,” Tom said. “I need to tell you something.” Because Rafe had done him a solid when he hadn’t needed to. “Belmont is still lurking around Sacramento.”
A long moment of silence. “Give me another minute.” This time, the sounds were of a door closing and Rafe’s quiet groan. “I need to get a chair out here in the foyer. These steps are hard on my ass. But now I’m all comfortable and you’re going to tell me what you meant by that.”
“Just that. He’s here in the city, but we have a lead.” Actually, they knew exactly where he’d be . . . eventually. The surveillance vehicle they’d placed near Sunnyside’s entrance hadn’t seen him return after killing Penny Gaynor, but he would. Unless Pastor died inside.
That wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Kind of like Rob Winters being shanked in prison. Tom would not mourn Pastor’s death any more than he’d mourned his father’s.
“You should keep Mercy at home this weekend,” he told Rafe. “Keep her safe.”
Rafe blew out a breath. “I can’t. Can’t keep her home, anyway. We’re having a surprise party for her on Sunday.”
Tom knew about the party, had even requested the following day off from work so that he could help with cleanup. He didn’t hesitate with his reply. “Cancel it.” That was simple enough. Mercy couldn’t celebrate her birthday if she was dead.
“I can’t. We’ve got people coming in from New Orleans. A lot of people.” There was a pause during which Tom could hear Rafe’s muttered counting. “Ten, at least.”
“Tell them not to come,” Tom said, speaking slowly and enunciating.
“No,” Rafe insisted. “I’m not going to deprive her of this. She’s lost enough in her life.”
“She could lose her life,” Tom snapped.
“Don’t you think I’ve thought of that?” Rafe hissed. “We’ve been living with the threat of DJ Belmont for a month, Tom. A fucking month. I’d already hired security for the weekend. I just bumped it up.”
Tom heard the desperation in Rafe’s voice. He also heard determination. “How much security and what organization are they out of?”
“I had six guys. After the attempt at the eyeglass store, I bumped it up to ten. All active or recently retired cops, friends of mine from SacPD.”
“Where are your guests staying?”
“With Mom and Dad. A few of Mercy’s siblings are only flying in on Sunday and taking the red-eye back that night.”
Tom knew that Mercy had relied heavily on her half brothers and half sisters when she’d lived in New Orleans. They, along with her best friend Farrah’s family, had been her support system as she emotionally recovered from the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of Ephraim Burton, DJ Belmont, and all of Eden.
Rafe was right. Mercy had lost enough in her life.
“How were you planning to transport the guests to and from the airport?”
Rafe hesitated. “In our vehicles?”
“And if DJ Belmont is watching? He has to have followed the SUV Agent Rodriguez was driving the day they went to the eye doctor. I don’t know exactly where DJ is right now, but we must assume that he’s still watching.”
“Right.” Rafe’s swallow was audible. “I’ll rent cars, then.”
“That’s an option. You could also let me help. Will you let me provide the vehicles? I’ll get SUVs. Armored with bullet-resistant glass.”
“You or the Feds?”
“Does it make a difference?
“Of course it does. Who’s paying the bill?”
“Me.”
“Why?”
Tom frowned. “Because your mother gave me cake and has fed me nearly every Sunday for a month. Because your family has taken Liza and me in. Because Irina loves Liza like a daughter and Liza loves Mercy like a sister. Because I can. Jesus, Rafe. Why do you think?”
Rafe shuddered out a breath. “Sorry. I know you care, and I appreciate it. It’s just my pride balking. Okay, please provide the vehicles. Thanks.”
“All right, then. There’s a firm that the pro athletes use when they want to avoid the press. They also serve politicians and celebrities. I’ll make the arrangements as soon as we hang up.”
“Don’t hang up yet. I need to know more about the lead on Belmont. Don’t think that I forgot you said that.”
“I can’t tell you more. I’m not supposed to be telling you this much.”
“He killed a woman,” Rafe said abruptly. “Last night. An elderly woman in Yuba City. His face is all over the news.”
Tom had seen the reports. “He’s a suspect, yes.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Rafe hissed. “Do not fuck around with me, Hunter. I’m not in the goddamn mood. He killed the old lady. Why?”
“It’s possible that she suspected him.” He’d heard back from Yuba City PD. They’d found another set of prints on another beer can in the trash, and that person could also have killed her.
Could have been Kowalski, even. The man didn’t trust DJ, evidenced by the cameras he’d planted. “There is another possibility on the Ellis murder, still linked to Belmont. Have you ever heard of a guy called Kowalski? You said you knew some of the members of the Chicos, and he’s supposed to be one of their higher-ups.”
“Kowalski,” Rafe growled. “Yeah. I know him. Low-to-mid-level thug. Did a few deals with him when I was undercover. If he’s a possibility for the Ellis woman’s murder, that means he was also there. With Belmont.”
Tom had hoped Rafe would make that connection. “Can you describe him?”
“I can do better than that. I can give you a photo. It’s five years old, but his face is clear. It was one of my surveillance photos and . . . well, I’m not supposed to still have it.”
That was a helluva lot more than they’d gotten from any of the local PDs, and Tom wondered why. That Kowalski had cops in his pocket was a possibility. “I won’t say it was from you.”
“At this point, I don’t care. It’s unlikely that I’ll return to SacPD, at least in my old role.”
A month ago, Rafe had been bitter about an injury keeping him from being a detective again. He was sounding resigned now. No, not resigned. Accepting. There was a difference.
“I still won’t tell,” Tom said, “unless it’s unavoidable, and I’ll give you a heads-up first.”
“Thanks. I assume you’ll want this photo sent to your burner? I still have the number.”
“No, you don’t. I tossed that burner two weeks ago. Never keep them for long.” He gave Rafe the new number, then had a thought. “Does Gideon have a burner?” Because Liza had called him about William Holly’s—a.k.a. Pastor’s son Bo’s—tattoo on a burner phone.
“You don’t quit, do you?” Rafe asked, amused. “Talk to Gideon. I’m not involved.”
“I will.” His burner chimed and Tom immediately opened the text from Rafe. “You have a burner, too, I see. This isn’t your normal number.”
“We see, we learn,” Rafe said lightly. “I always carried one when I was undercover, but I’m finding it has its uses even now.”
Tom looked at the photo of Kowalski. “He looks ordinary.”
“Best way to blend,” Rafe said.
Tom glanced at the signed basketball on the edge of his desk—the child’s birthday gift he’d promised the officer in Yuba City—with a sigh. He might always be recognized. He’d likely never be able to blend. “True enough. What do you remember about him?”
“He seemed educated and too polite. The kind of polite that makes you check for your wallet and to be sure there’s no knife in your back. He once took a personal call when we were doing a deal. Left in a flash. His partner said his wife had just gone into labor. That was six years ago.”
“So we’re looking for a family man with a six-year-old kid.”
“Six-year-old boy. His partner yelled after him to remember that he’d promised to name the baby after him. So maybe they were brothers.”
“What was the partner’s name?”
“Jed, but none of them used their real names. I got something else that will help.”
“What is it?”
“Kowalski always dressed very well. His shirts were always starched and pressed. Even his jeans were pressed. Hell, he even wore Gucci loafers once. He was a show-off.”
Tom winced, because he had a pair of Gucci loafers, too. “So he liked to look good?”
“No, he liked to look good, and he carried a hankie in his pocket. Pulled it out once to wipe the sweat from his forehead on a hundred-and-six-degree day. The hankie was monogrammed. ‘A.W.’ ”
“A.W.,” Tom repeated, his pulse starting to thrum. “Initials and facial recognition software might be enough to find this guy. Did SacPD try to find him?”
“If they did, they didn’t try very hard, because they never managed a true ID. But Kowalski was a minor player at the time. Definitely still clawing his way up the ladder. The brass had arrested all the top guys in the organized crime syndicate. After that, the momentum fizzled.”
“And you never tried?”
“No,” Rafe said. “After I closed that case, I took some time off to grieve Bella.”
The woman he’d lost at the crime boss’s hands. “Got it.”
“Did you grieve your Tory, Tom?” Rafe asked gently.
“I saw her murderer get justice,” Tom said grimly.
“Not the same. Not even close. If you haven’t grieved, you can’t move on.”
Tom closed his eyes, not wanting to have this conversation. “I grieved, okay?” he snapped, mostly to make Rafe shut up. Then realized that he really had grieved. “Liza let me talk about her,” he added quietly.
“Oh,” Rafe breathed.
Tom cleared his throat, remembering the gentle but pained expression on Liza’s face as he’d talked about Tory for hours as they’d made the drive from Chicago to Sacramento after the holidays. “Yeah. I thought she was grieving with me.”
“Maybe she was, and maybe she was grieving more than Tory. She, um, well, Gideon said that she talked about Fritz when they were helping her move in. Said you know about him.”
“Yes, I know.”
“She said it was easier to tell us because she’d already told you and—” Rafe cut himself off. “Others,” he finished lamely.
“ ‘Others.’ Like Daisy and whoever else she went with this afternoon.”
“Gotta go, Hunter. Call if you need anything else on Kowalski. I’ll do a lineup if you need me to. Night.” The line went dead.
Tom barked out a frustrated laugh. At least Liza had people who cared about her. Rafe wasn’t going to betray her confidence any more than Irina had.
He stared at his phone again, seeing the day’s ignored calls to Liza in his call log. She’d avoided him all day long. Get used to it. Because he didn’t think she was coming back.
I need more than that, she’d said, her voice breaking.
Absently, Tom pressed the heel of his hand to his heart. Did he need more?
He had no fucking idea. He only knew that he couldn’t let her go.
He picked up the phone and started a text to her. But what to say? He’d already said he was sorry. He’d told her that he wasn’t okay.
If he were a better man, he’d say goodbye. He’d let her go.
He needed to end this. He needed to let her go before he hurt her any more. He started to type. Good—
He couldn’t do it. He could not force himself to type “goodbye.” “I guess I’m not a very good man,” he whispered, his feelings too raw and torn to analyze.
His finger pecked out the rest of the phrase. —night.
Saying good night was the best he could do. He hit send, set that phone aside, then picked up his work phone and dialed Raeburn. It rang so many times that Tom didn’t think his boss would answer, but then he did.
“What have you found?” Raeburn demanded, abandoning any pretense of politeness.
“I’ve got a photo of Kowalski. I’m sending it to you right now.” He transferred the photo from his burner to his work phone and forwarded it to Raeburn. “His initials are A.W. and he has a six-year-old son.”
Raeburn whistled. “Where did you get this?”
“From one of my sources. You want me to start running facial recognition?”
“Hell, yeah.” Raeburn sounded exhausted. “This is the best news I’ve had all day. I’d just sent Croft home when Molina called about Miss Barkley. Croft was unable to get anything out of Dixie Serratt. Finally I had SacPD take her to booking for parole violation.”
Tom hadn’t thought the woman would talk. “Hopefully finding Kowalski will lead us to Belmont.” And Eden.
“Get on it. Call me with updates. I don’t care what time it is.”
“I will, sir.” The call ended and Tom got to work loading his facial recognition software. It was going to be a long night.
