Shepherd leaned forward, earnest again.“Agents… listen.Jennifer and I disagreed.Violently, even — philosophically, I mean.I hated her decisions.But I don’t hateher.Murder?God, no.”His voice thickened.“I’ve spent my adult life watching people die who didn’t deserve it, or at least, deserved a better end.I would never inflict that on anyone.”
Then he looked suddenly older — the photos on the walls reflected in his glasses, an army of silent witnesses over his shoulder.
Kate softened.“We appreciate your cooperation.”
“And I appreciate your work,” he said.“Find whoever did this.Please.Don’t let the narrative become that she deserved it, or that it was ‘cosmic justice’ for what she did.No one deserves to die alone.No one.”
Marcus watched him closely.
Shepherd meant it.
And that made everything harder.
"Don't leave town for now, Mr.Shepherd.We'll be in touch."
Outside, in the hallway lined with laminated pamphlets, Kate exhaled.
“Well,” she said.“At first I thought he was awful.”
“You read my mind,” Marcus said.“The shirt.The beard.The tone.The walls.The—” he snapped an invisible elastic band, “—self-flagellation aesthetic.”
“But more a man of principle than a zealot,” Kate murmured.“And not a killer.At least… not in this.”
“No,” Marcus agreed reluctantly.“If anything, he was trying to undo the damage between Jennifer and her father, not escalate it.”
Kate nodded, lips tightening.“So we cross him off.”
“Or,” Marcus said thoughtfully, “we don’t cross anyone off.Not yet.But he’s not our prime.”
They headed down the stairs toward the street, the winter sun weak and white above the rooftops.
“Back to square one,” Kate said.
Marcus shook his head.“Not square one.Just a different square.”
“Which one?”
“The one where we’re still dealing with somebody who thinks they’re on speaking terms with God.”
Kate swallowed.“Those squares are always the worst.”
Marcus opened the car door.“Let’s go find the next one.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The downtown Boston precinct had the exhausted, overcaffeinated personality of a place long past the point of pretending it was in control.Phones rang with a kind of panic, printers groaned like wounded animals, and somewhere in the distance an officer was shouting about a parking violation with the energy of someone defending a dissertation.
Kate and Marcus stepped inside, shaking off the cold.Boston seemed to be several degrees colder than Maine, despite the late Spring sunshine, a raw, sea-born chill seeped straight through their jackets.The lobby was cramped, loud, and far too small for the number of people currently trying to squeeze through it.
A uniform pointed them toward a hallway where Detective Brian Sullivan appeared, leaning against a filing cabinet that seemed one grievance away from total collapse.He looked as though he’d run out of patience sometime around the Clinton administration.
He straightened when he saw them.“Valentine.Reid.”His Boston accent clipped and unvarnished, as always.“Welcome to our palace of law and order.”
Marcus surveyed the peeling linoleum.“Looks like you’re overdue for a renovation.”
Sullivan snorted.“We’re overdue for a priest and an exorcism, but thanks for noticing.”
He jerked his thumb.“Follow me.”
