“We considered it solved at the time,” I confirmed. “But if we’re looking for two men in Yvette’s case, then—”
“Then there could have been two involved in that other case,” Austin concluded. “But you only put one in the ground.”
“Exactly.”
Bishop washed his bite down with a big gulp of soda. “Which means what? You think whoever got away back then has a new partner? And those are the motherfuckers who bit Yvette? Who took her money?”
“The cash is an outlier.” Tucker turned to me, both brows arched. “Right? There was no robbery in that other case?”
“That’s right.” I swirled a fry in my ketchup, worried that if I made eye contact with either of them, they’d see the truth. They’d know whose case we were really talking about. “It’s possible the MO has changed. It’s also possible that Yvette’s withdrawal had nothing to do with what happened to her.”
“That seems unlikely,” Austin said.
“She’d been saving for four years,” Bishop added. “If she’d decided to spend that money, she would have said something. Tobothof us.”
“Okay. I hear you. But we have to explore all the options, and one of those is that her withdrawal was unrelated to her infection. But we willalsolook into the money.”
“You don’t have access to any police database, do you?” Austin asked.
“No. And I’ll be honest, there have been times when your help in that regard would have beentrulyappreciated. And we may still need it, in this case. What we really need right now, though, is access to hospital records. Unfortunately, we don’t have that.”
Bishop scowled. “No Pride members who’re doctors?”
“Titus has an enforcer who’s a nurse,” Tucker said. “He can get into the records where he works, and possibly at other hospitals in that network. But that won’t help us if other victims were treated or died at other hospital networks. Or if they died at home.”
“So then, what’s the plan?”
“We do the work.” Austin shoved the last of his burger into his mouth. “The tedious deep dive into piles of largely useless information that makes up the majority of detective work.”
I nodded. Tucker snorted. But Bishop looked lost. “Which is what, exactly?” he asked.
“We’ll start with the obituaries.” I took a bite of my burger and motioned for Tucker to continue.
“There’s no national or even state-wide database of obituaries. For the most part, you have to scroll through them online, either on individual funeral home websites or in local online newspapers, where those still exist. We should be able to narrow the search results by age range and gender—looking for women in their twenties and early thirties—but even then… Well, obituaries rarely list a cause of death. So, if we find a name that looks promising, we’ll hit social media, looking for posts from family members, or even the deceased herself. People post about long or unexpected illnesses. About loved ones’ deaths.”
“That does sound tedious,” Bishop said.
I nodded. “It’s also depressing. But it’s our only option, at the moment. Tucker is going to head that up for us. I’ll have my other enforcers looking online too, when they’re not patrolling.”
“Or flipping burgers?” Austin glanced at my plate.
“This was a favor,” Tucker said. “Manning the grill is not in my job description.”
“Maybe it should be.” For the first time since I’d met him, Bishop’s expression looked…less than stormy. “Hell of a turkey club, man.” Maybe it was the food, but more likely, it was knowing that we were all dedicated to his wife’s case. Seeing a path forward, even if it was longer and bumpier than he’d imagined.
People liked—many of usneeded—to have a solid plan in place. I totally got that.
SIX
“—can’t imagine what you’re going through…”
My sister’s words floated toward me the moment I stepped out of my apartment. As it always had, her voice seemed to rise above the din of the bar—the clink of glass, water running in the kitchen, and voices overlapping in sometimes boisterous conversation.
“Worst day of my life,” Bishop Mattheson answered, his deep voice rumbling through me like a roll of thunder.
I took the stairs two at a time. Three long strides got me across one corner of the kitchen to the swinging door, which I shoved open on my way through.
Davey stood behind the bar, her laptop pushed to one side. She was sipping from a short glass of straight whiskey. Bishop sat across the bar from her, a bowl of snack mix between them. Next to his glass stood a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels.
