Page 2 of Go Alone

She’d found nothing. Poppy, the field office’s youngest agent but also by far their best researcher, had found nothing. The only evidence she had of a connection between the two of them was Cox’s words identifying a photograph in her father’s medical bag, one taken when she was a child visiting the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago with her family.

The shower switched on in the bedroom. Marcus was up. The two of them weren’t sharing a bed, but they were sharing an apartment while the FBI searched the nation for any sign of Cox. That way, if her recurring nightmare came true, and he tried to break into her apartment to kill her, Marcus was there to protect her.

She got to her feet and headed for the kitchen. The coffee she’d set to brew right at six that morning had percolated enough to allow her a full cup. Thank God for programmable coffee machines. The man who invented that, whether he be Black, Decker, or some other unnamed soul, should receive the largest mansion in Heaven.

She sipped the brew—black and bitter, like all coffee should be—and thought. Poppy was by far the best researcher in the FBI's Portland, Maine, Field Office, but she could only find public records or records that had once been public. She couldn't, for example, find a video of a private conversation that had taken place in an office that lacked a security camera. She couldn't read a letter hand-delivered by someone other than Cox or William, read by one or the other, then crumpled up and thrown in the trash.

There were many ways her father could have known Elijah Cox, and many ways Cox or someone working on his behalf could have killed him. Peter Gadd could still be lying.

Her thoughts drifted to Gadd. He was serving fifty in the Augusta State Penitentiary for a long list of minor felonies, most of them related to armed robbery and assault. He had reached three strikes three times over, and the State of Maine had finally tired of his commitment to a life of crime.

The one crime of which he was no longer convicted was murder. Originally suspected of shooting her father outside of the Church of St. Simon and St. Jude in Portland, the detective in charge of the case had reopened it shortly after the trial and determined that the evidence actually pointed away from Gadd.

It didn’t matter. He’d die in prison anyway.

Except it did matter. Because if he didn’t kill her father, then who did?

The water in the shower shut off. Marcus would spend five minutes toweling off, then dress in boxers and drawstring pants before coming outside. He would treat Kate to the sight of his burly, scarred, but handsome torso while refusing to let her see more, and she would pretend not to notice how attractive he was and not to want to try again at being more than just friends and partners in the Bureau.

In the meantime, Kate sipped her coffee and replayed her interview six weeks ago with Gadd in her mind.

***

“I know you,” Gadd said, his voice resonant and clear despite his gaunt, unhealthy appearance.

Kate swallowed. To her surprise, she kept her own voice neutral when she replied, “My name is Katelyn Valentine. I’m the daughter of Dr. William Valentine, the man you were acquitted of murdering.”

Gadd’s eyes traveled up and down her body without showing interest. “Huh. You’re older than I thought you’d be.”

Kate nodded. She was thirty-seven years old, and only the kindest of souls would claim she looked young, but she definitely didn’t look old. Not that she gave a shit what Gadd thought of her appearance. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to talk to me about what you know about my father’s murder.”

Gadd chuckled. “You want to know how his eyes changed when he finally realized there was no getting better from this one?”

Kate’s jaw tensed. “Are you saying you are the man who shot my father?”

Gadd lifted his shoulders in a shrug. His filmy gray eyes remained flat and focused on a spot on the wall just over her left shoulder.

“Are you the killer of William Valentine?” Kate demanded.

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you,” Kate fired back before she could stop herself. She hoped this conversation wasn’t being recorded.

Gadd shrugged again, his face remaining impassive.

“Detective Palmer determined that you couldn’t have been the murderer.”

“Okay.”

Kate’s hands squeezed the armrests of her chair. Her lips pulled back from her teeth, and she took three deep breaths until they relaxed again. “You were seen less than an hour later at a bar in Augusta.”

“It’s about an hour from Portland to Augusta.”

“Yes, but you would have had to walk to your car, and then into the bar without being caught. You’d need to avoid traffic, which wasn’t likely, and you’d have needed to move without hesitation.”

“Any reason you want me to be innocent?” Gadd asked. His voice didn’t rise in volume or pitch but remained the same toneless drawl through the entire interview.

Kate looked away and took a deep breath. “I believe that Elijah Cox killed my father. Or had one of his disciples do it. I know you were a disciple of his once, but—”