But it appeared that someone else had gone even further. Someone had pulled Gantz’s car, along with his body, out of Terrapin Lake, which meant that someone else now had evidence of her crime.
3
Alex Lanen
July
Thursday, 4:59 pm
The final sentence of the Scriven case report was typed, and with a simple press of a key, submitted to the system. Satisfaction washed over Alex as he leaned back in his chair and reached for his coffee mug. He tilted it back to gulp down the remaining contents in a single motion, but the coffee had gone cold in the past hour, and his gag reflex kicked in the instant the bitter chill hit the back of his throat.
“Damn it,” Alex muttered after spitting the dark liquid back into the mug. He opened a side drawer, snatched out a napkin, and wiped his chin before setting the mug down in irritation.
He glared at Kinsley’s desk.
Their two workstations were pushed together, allowing them to face one another during shifts, but her chair had sat empty all day. She’d left him to finish up the Scriven paperwork on his own, and while he understood that personal matters came first,he had absolutely no guilt about the vacation he had planned for the following week.
He tossed the used napkin into his trash bin and checked his phone. A quick tap of the display told him she hadn’t tried to reach him since their game of phone tag earlier that morning.
“Hey, it’s me.” Kinsley’s voice had sounded somewhat strained, even through the tinny speaker. “Something’s come up, and I need to take a personal day. Sorry to dump the Scriven paperwork on you. I’ll make it up to you. Call if you need anything.”
That had been the extent of it. No explanation, no details, just a brief message that left him with more questions than answers. He’d tried calling back, but the line had gone straight to voicemail. He’d briefly mentioned his impromptu fishing trip in the message he left, but they’d worked together long enough for him to know when to give her space.
A shift in the bullpen’s energy drew his attention to the other side of the room. The station had been humming with the familiar afternoon rhythm of ringing phones, clicking keyboards, and the occasional murmur of conversation, but all that fell quiet as Captain Dale Thompson strolled down the center aisle between the rows of desks.
“Lanen, I need to speak with you.”
“No, no, no,” Alex called out, hoping to stop the captain in his tracks. “You already approved my PTO, Cap.”
The upcoming vacation had been a last-minute decision, prompted by some old college buddies’ invitation to join a deep-sea fishing expedition off the Gulf Coast. The captain hadn’t blinked at the request, and Alex wasn’t about to let his supervisor renege on it now. A week away sounded like paradise, and he’d already mentally packed his gear, including his lucky fishing hat, for an early Sunday morning departure.
“And I’m already regretting it, but you have nothing to worry about, Lanen.”
Thompson’s broad shoulders and purposeful stride commanded attention without effort. As he passed by the surrounding desks, the other detectives in the bullpen relaxed and got back to work. Alex, on the other hand, tensed at the threat of losing his time off, regardless of the captain’s reassurance.
Thompson’s salt-and-pepper hair seemed a shade grayer than it had been last month, and the lines around his eyes had deepened. Budget meetings with the mayor and high-profile cases tended to have that effect. Alex figured whatever this impromptu meeting was about had to do with the latter.
“As long as the Scriven reports are turned in, you’ll get to go on your fishing trip.” Thompson came to a stop beside Alex’s desk, shifting his weight slightly as his gaze moved to Kinsley’s empty chair. “You talk to Aspen today?”
“Phone tag, mostly.”
Thompson nodded but made no move to leave. Instead, he pulled over a chair from a neighboring empty desk and sat down, a clear signal that this wasn’t just a passing conversation. The casual gesture did nothing to disguise the deliberateness of his movements. Thompson wasn’t a man who rushed anything, preferring to gather his thoughts before speaking. It was one of the qualities that made him an effective leader, though maddening to work for on days like this.
“Something’s come across my desk that needs attention. Not urgent, but interesting.”
“Interesting how?”
“Tell me, Lanen. What do you know about the Bells?”
Alex searched his memory for anything substantial about the Bell family. He picked up his pen and tapped it against thedesk, the soft rhythm helping him concentrate as fragments of information began to surface.
“Richard Bell,” Alex finally offered, meeting Thompson’s expectant gaze. “The architect, right? Designed the high school football stadium about fifteen years ago. There was a big ceremony when they renamed it Bell Field.”
He paused, trying to recall more.
“Married. Can’t say I know much else about them, though. Old money, I think.”
Thompson nodded, seemingly satisfied with Alex’s limited knowledge.
