“I’ll get you another one.”
He looked at her again. “Kekkon shite kurenai?” The words just burst out of him. Not planned. Probably not the right time.
She blinked. Standing in the rain, soaking wet, her body solid and strong. Her dark eyes studied him, searching for something he wasn’t sure he had. Finally, she spoke. “Hai, yorokonde.”
His mind shut down. What did that mean? He learned only so many of the words. Probably. “Um, that means yes?”
Her smile lightened the entire day. “Yes, Walter. That means yes.”
After a morning of having Huck Rivers cover her body from the truck to her own conference room, Laurel was ready to seek out the sniper herself. Sighing, she looked away from her backup laptop at the out-of-place tabletop. In the overhead lights, with all blinds in the office closed, it gleamed an incongruent teal color. The conference room had no windows and only one point of entry. It allowed for uninterrupted focus and eliminated unnecessary risk. She had no reason to believe the sniper would strike again soon, but she also had no reason to ignore the possibility.
She’d just ended a phone call with Agent Norrs. He had asked about three of her prior cases: a corporate fraud investigation out of Boise, a cold case abduction in Reno, and an identity theft operation that had crossed into medical records territory in Portland. None were connected, and none had led to active threats. The man sounded as if he hadn’t slept in days.
Laurel had already reexamined those cases when the sniper had first appeared on her radar. She had found no common thread. Either Norrs was grasping at patterns that did not exist, or he had access to information he was not prepared to share.
She made a note in her encrypted case file, flagged the call, and opened the subfolder on Melissa Palmtree. Taking a sip of her latte from Staggers, she dialed Dr. Ortega.
“Ortega,” he answered.
She assumed he’d be in the office early. “Good morning. It’s Agent Snow. I’m sorry to bother you, but—”
“I finished the autopsy on Melissa Palmtree, and I found suspicious lesions in her brain matter. I’ve sent samples to the lab in Seattle.” He sneezed. “Excuse me. Allergies. I’m emailing you my findings right now.”
Her inbox dinged. “Thank you.” It was nice to find such a professional and one she trusted.
“You bet. I have to run. I’ll call when I hear from the lab.” He clicked off.
So, no surprises from Melissa’s death. A single slip on the stairs in a crowded bar was plausible, and there had been no reason to question the cause of death initially. Yet those lesions had been found on her brain as well. She’d used the detective as a go-between with Mark Bitterson. Why? If she’d given him money, what had he given her? Did this have anything to do with the yew stand he’d been found dead in, or was that just a bizarre coincidence?
Laurel didn’t believe in coincidences.
Nester rushed out of his room, down the hall, and into the conference room. His posture and facial expression indicated urgency. He carried a laptop and placed it directly in front of her without greeting. “Laurel. I have the bar footage from when Melissa Palmtree fell down the stairs.”
Laurel moved her notebook to the side and turned her attention to the screen. “Was there difficulty obtaining it?”
“Yes. The system was proprietary and time stamp locked. I finally received clearance through a cooperating tech from the city’s cyber unit.”
Her breath quickened. “Has it been verified?”
“I ran hash integrity. No alterations. Time stamps align with Melissa Palmtree’s time of death. It’s legitimate.” He opened the video file. Laurel adjusted her chair so the screen sat directly in her line of sight. Nester stepped back but remained behind the chair.
The footage displayed the interior of a moderately crowded bar in Seattle. The time stamp read just after ten at night. Laurel recognized the layout: two exits, and a hallway leading to the rear. The lighting was moderate, but the noise level was high—conversations bounced between tables and spilled out from the bar. Patrons appeared relaxed, and the atmosphere was consistent with a typical weekend night.
At 10:19, Tyler Griggs entered the frame.
Laurel gasped. What in the world was Tyler Griggs doing at the bar where Melissa had died?
Tyler did not scan the room. He walked with direct purpose to the far end of the bar, selected a stool, and checked his watch. He remained seated, made brief eye contact with the bartender, and ordered a drink that the bartender soon slid in front of him. Something with two straws and a lime.
At 10:20, Melissa Palmtree appeared. She paused just inside the entrance, performed a scan of the space, located Griggs, and walked directly to him. There was no hesitation in her approach. She did not look around the room for alternatives. She did not fumble with a bag or her coat. Her body language indicated she was focused and likely under stress, though not disoriented.
“So, that was planned,” Nester mused.
Laurel nodded. Finally. The answer that tied Tyler to the lab. When Melissa reached him, she initiated conversation.
Griggs looked up and acknowledged her. His facial expression changed subtly—from drawn brows to open ones. From suspicion to surprise? When Melissa reached into her pocket and handed him something small, he took it without hesitation and concealed it beneath his jacket. The object was too small and dark to be identified on the footage, but was likely a flash drive or small folded document.
Melissa leaned closer to Tyler and spoke rapidly. Her hands began to shake, and she looked behind her twice in less than ten seconds. Griggs did not interrupt her. He absorbed what she said, then shifted slightly in his seat and looked toward the rear hallway.
