Page 103 of Flint’s Strike

“I know.” I push the brim of my hat a little higher so he can see my eyes. “Shuttin’ me out and askin’ for space are two very different things. We’re good, Eliot. I promise.”

His shoulders drop, and he nods once. “We’ll talk tonight.”

“We will.” I wink at him. “Then, we’ll move on to activities that don’t require words.”

If you don’t get here soon, I’m going to have to drink the station coffee. I thought we were friends, Parker.

I chuckle as my phone reads Nate’s text aloud. “Voice Assist: Text Nate. Message reads: I’m literally at the stoplight on the corner, Captain Last Nerve. Send message.”

Nate’s pacing the conference room when I amble in, a coffee cup in each hand. The stacks of case files are starting to resemble the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and even his highlighters are out of order.

“You okay?” I pass him the latte, and he sucks down a quarter of it in a single swallow.

“I couldn’t find the inspection report you pulled yesterday,” Nate says, the words coming too fast for someone who only had his first sip of caffeine ten seconds ago. “I needed Kessler’s first name⁠—”

“Charlie.” I reach into my bag and slide the folded piece of paper from its folder.

“Focus, Parker.” Nate takes me by the shoulders, his dark eyes more intense than I’ve ever seen them. “The name on the certificate I found this morning wasn’t Kessler. It was Todd Ferris.”

“You’re sure?” I don’t know why I’m asking. Nate never uses this particular tone unless he’s willing to bet his entire life on what he’s saying.

He rounds the table, taps a couple of keys on his laptop, and the wall monitor flickers to life. On screen, the ABC portal has Rutherford Lane’s fire safety inspection open. The permit numbers match. The timestamps match. But the inspector’s name on screen is Todd Ferris.

“Someone got into the system and changed it.” I smooth the piece of paper out on the table. “Which means we have to talk to Kessler. Now.”

“We’ve gotta find him first,” Nate says. “And give AJ an update. Did you notice if he was in yet?”

“His office was dark. Doesn’t he have a standing coffee thing with Vern on Tuesday mornings?” I set my bag on the floor and pull out my laptop. “He should be here by ten. Let me see what I can pull on Kessler. Did you finish verifying Todd’s alibi?”

Nate slides into his chair. “The airline needed a subpoena to release their manifest. Judge Nesbit signed off on it late last night, so I expect they’ll get back to me today. While we wait for AJ, I can dig into his socials if you want to run a background check on Kessler.”

“Sounds good. Let’s see if Kessler’s made any enemies…”

Coffee at my elbow, I run Kessler’s TDI license number in the state’s contractor database. He’s clean. Always renewed on time, no violations or complaints logged in the six years he’s been active.

“Got Mrs. Ferris’s SocialGram account,” Nate says. “She posted half a dozen photos from their trip. The comments…God, the comments. Her mother posted, ‘I hope you brought sunscreen. Last year, Todd turned into a tomato by the second day.’ Her aunt went there with this gem. ‘Every year, I think about your wedding when the flower girl bit the ring bearer.’ And someone named Becca takes the cake. ‘Happy Anniversary. I can’t believe the hotel still lets you come back after the bed frame incident.’”

Nate clicks his mouse and the image of the entire Ferris family in swim attire fills the screen. Thankfully, Todd has a shirt on over his trunks. Becca’s comment has fifteen separate responses. “Please tell me you didn’t click to find out more.”

“I did.” Nate shakes his head. “I was gathering evidence to prove my point.”

“What point?”

“That some people should lose their internet privileges. There are details in there that should’ve stayed between two consenting adults and an extended warranty department somewhere.”

“So…he’s clean.” I’m relieved. Todd was so genuinely horrified that his name was anywhere near the Aldrich fire, that if he’d been guilty, I would have started to doubt every one of my instincts.

“Let’s not get carried away,” Nate says, closing the SocialGram page with a shudder. “Pretty sure the bed frame has a much different opinion of the man. But as far as our case goes? No one with relatives that embarrassing is going to orchestrate a fraud scheme like this. Todd’s not our guy.”

I send the information from the state’s contractor database over to Nate so he can catalog and color code it to his heart’s content, while I move on to the good stuff.

A clean contractor’s license only tells me who Kessler pretends to be on the clock. I want the rest of him. Where he lives, what he drives, how many times he’s forgotten to feed a parking meter. The little pieces of information people leave behind without knowing they’re building a map of their lives. If Kessler doesn’t want to be found, he’s years too late.

Nate’s phone buzzes next to him. “It’s the airline.”

He keeps his voice low while I work, ending one call and starting another. I spend almost an hour researching our current suspect. By the time I’m done, Charlie’s so much more than a grainy ID photo and license number. And I know at least three places we might find him.

“Check to see if AJ’s in yet?” I ask when Nate finishes his call.