Jamey parked Liam’s car close to the coordinates Parson had given her, seeing yellow tape and a crowd of uniforms up ahead. The air was wet and cold as she approached, coat zipped shut and a warm winter headband over her ears, her curls pulled into a messy bun.
Parson was waiting for her at the edge of the yellow police tape.
“Has anyone talked to Stensby yet?” she asked.
Parson shook his head. “Still no contact since last night’s AMI dinner. I’m told he hasn’t appeared at the station and he’s not answering his phone.”
Someone had called her last night from Stensby’s number, someone who’d known he’d sabotaged Reece’s car. Could Jamey’s caller have been with Stensby at the Leviathan? Could they still have the phone? Jamey had tried calling back several times the night before, and again that morning, but no one had answered, not Stensby, not the man with the Texas accent like Grayson’s. Apparently all her mysterious caller had felt like communicating was the one cryptic request to save Reece.
Parson handed her a pair of latex gloves and took her past the yellow tape. She recognized several of the officers on scene, their confused gazes following her as she walked with Parson.
As she approached the car, her eyebrows went up. From Parson’s description and the pictures, she’d assumed the cruiser had been in an accident, maybe hit a tree. But up close, there seemed to be no single point of impact—in fact, there were too many to count. Every window was broken, every door smashed, the hood dented and crunched in multiple places.
Jamey tilted her head. “How did this happen?”
“To be honest, we’re not sure yet,” Parson said. “Damage is spread over the vehicle like it was done systematically, but at this level...”
He trailed off, but Jamey understood. The force had seen its share of cars smashed by the baseball bat or golf club of a drug dealer’s goons or an angry ex, but Jamey didn’t know many people strong enough to total a car to this extent. She could do it, and Grayson could. Diesel, the McFeely’s bouncer, possibly.
Stensby himself? Maybe. He was taller than she was, close to Grayson’s height, and in good shape. But this amount of damage had an unhinged edge to it that left her uneasy.
She opened the driver’s door with glove-covered hands before she crouched and put her head inside. She closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose.
Whiskey. Not strong, but definitely present in the cloth seat, like traces of a spill. Had Stensby gone on a drunken rampage, destroyed his car, and was now somewhere sleeping it off?
She scanned the cabin. There were crumbs on the floor by the pedals, and a few crumpled napkins on the floor in front of the passenger seat. She gingerly cracked open the top of the center console with gloved fingers and found a pack of gum and a couple of folded bills. She snapped several pictures with her phone, then straightened up and shut the car door.
“Stensby’s laptop was still on his desk at the department,” said Parson. “The Empath Initiative has it now. He’s going to be pissed as hell if he comes back to find EI in his business. I’m not happy about it either.”
Parson gestured to the back of the cruiser. “There’s a suitcase in the trunk.”
The trunk no longer closed, the latch busted like the rest of the vehicle. Jamey found the suitcase, a carry-on that was already unzipped by whoever had searched before her. She lifted the top and delicately ruffled through the contents: tank tops and T-shirts, shorts and flip-flops.
“He’s packed for somewhere a lot warmer than here,” Jamey observed, uncovering what looked like a bathing suit. “Was he planning a trip?”
“Not one the force was aware of,” Parson said flatly. “He didn’t have any time off scheduled.”
Whatever Stensby had been packing for, he hadn’t included so much as a sweater. He’d clearly been planning to cut town for somewhere warmer. He wouldn’t have driven his police cruiser out of Seattle—maybe a flight, then?
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught an outline of something deeper in the trunk, something small and dark and hard to see in the pale gray of a winter morning. She lowered the top of the suitcase and reached over it, hand closing around a small cylinder wedged into the crack where the carpeting met the side of the car.
She withdrew the item: a black metal pen, with a firearm logo and the phrasegot your six.
The logo matched the one Grayson had sent her that morning—the airsoft course that sold the so-called anti-empathy gloves, where he and Reece were headed.
She snapped a picture of the pen. “What the fuck is going on, Stensby?” she muttered under her breath.
Once upon a time, Grayson had enjoyed an occasional game of airsoft. Obviously not with his empath brother, but he’d gone a few times with friends in college. On a course like that, he could let go more than usual, not hide his own differences quite so deep.
That had been in the Before Days. Now he didn’t enjoy anything, and he was a lot more familiar with actual guns than air guns. But he remembered the rules, and he could aim an air gun as well as any other weapon.
“Come on,” he said, after he’d paid for gear for both himself and Reece. He kept Reece’s air gun for himself—Reece wasn’t gonna touch even a replica firearm without possibly puking right on the spot—and led the way out to the edge of the course.
Reece had gone very pale as they crouched behind a crate. “I don’t know about this, Evan,” he said, and it was possible he was gonna vomit even without touching the replicated gun.
Grayson quickly scanned the field. Eight players dashing around the course, with more possible in the buildings or woods. The trees helped make decent coverage to the manager’s office, but he’d need to clear the path—preferably without Reece seeing any of it. They weren’t sneaking in anywhere if Reece was having a nervous breakdown in the middle of the course.
He crouched again. “It’s gonna be okay,” he promised Reece. He handed over his phone. “Keep those earbuds in and crank the music up until you can’t hear anything else. Just trust me.”
