The San Francisco field office occupies half the thirteenth floor of the federal building and has a commanding view of the skyline and the Golden Gate Bridge. Steve checks in with the field team to see if there have been any more developments. The only prints at the scene belonged to Parsons, and as Steve suspected, the orange juice was the culprit. Analysis of the juice showed that an extrinsic substance had been added that contained peanut extract.
The only promising news was that the sweat DNA recovered from the sliding door didn’t match Parsons, which means if Steve finds a suspect, it could place him at the scene within days of the murder.
He leaves the forensics office and, one box at a time, carries the three boxes of coins from his rental car to the latent lab. A kid with two dozen piercings and at least as many tattoos watches disinterestedly from a swivel chair at the log-in desk, and on Steve’s final trip, he says, “That’s a hell of a lot of coins.”
Steve does his best to resist his stereotyped impression, which is indolent, Gen-Z sloth. “This needs to be made a priority. It’s the only lead in an active homicide investigation.”
“Homicide investigation of a perv,” the kid says as he twists side to side in his chair.
Steve’s blood grows warm. He already put up with Sheriff Barton’s peevy attitude this morning and is in no mood for justifying his job or explaining the law to this punk.
“This needs to be made a priority,” Steve repeats.
“I heard you, dude, but there are cases ahead of yours.”
As the chair swivels back, Steve seizes the arms and leans into it with all his 220 pounds, at least twice that of the chair’s occupant. His face close enough to smell the Juicy Fruit frozen in the kid’s mouth, he repeats, “Homicide. Which means it takes precedence over everything not a homicide.”
Releasing the chair, he reaches into the pocket of his sports coat and places his business card on the table.
“You can fax the results to my office. I expect them no later than Tuesday.”
As he turns, he feels the tech glancing at the card and realizing his mistake. “Steve Patterson, Special Agent for Crimes against Sex Offenders, Emeritus: Assistant Director for Criminal Investigations.” The kid just mouthed off to one of the highest-ranking “dudes” in the organization.
Steve returns to the offices, commandeers a vacant desk, and spins so he’s looking out the window at the San Francisco Bay.
“So I finally get to see your ugly mug after all these years.”
Steve pivots back around to see the craggy Irish face of Bob Finnerty.
“I understand you’re putting us to work for the bad guys.”
“Someone has to do it,” Steve says as he stands and extends his hand.
The two men shake the way comrades of long-standing and tough times do after not having seen each other for a time.
“How’s it going?” Bob asks.
“You’ll be happy to hear, not well.”
“I’d say I was sorry, but I wouldn’t mean it.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“My agent just reported in from Parsons’s place.”
“And?”
“Fifty-four,” Bob says.
Despite bracing for it, the number stuns.
“It appears your ‘victim’”—Bob uses his meaty hands to make quote symbols around his face—“was a busy boy. Fifty-four victims, and we got him for two. Makes me feel like crap.”
“We can only do the best we can.”
“Which definitely isn’t good enough.” Bob shakes his head. “Fifty-four,” he repeats. “So now are you going to drop this nonsense?”
“I still have a job to do.”
The friendliness drops from Bob’s face. “There are far worthier cases for you to spend your time on,” he says before walking away.
Steve tries to return to his work, but his mind refuses to focus, his brain filled with the walls of photos and particularly of Jesse. Swiveling again to face the window, he pulls out his wallet, and digs deep into the crevice behind his credit cards to pull out an old portrait photograph to remind himself why he’s doing this.
The background is the marbled gray school photographers love to shoot against. He smooths the tarnished edges and looks at the eighteen-year-old lifelessly staring back. Danny’s eyes are Charlotte’s—soft and brown, turned down at the corners—the wide toothy smile is his own.
Emotions spiraling, he dials, but when the machine picks up and Charlotte’s voice asks him to leave a message, he hangs up. It’s good that she’s not home; he’s relied on her too much. She’s found a way to move on, while he hasn’t. Last month, he heard she was getting married. It’s not surprising. She’s an amazing woman and still beautiful.
He dials another number.
“Hello?”
“Hey, good-looking,” Steve says, feeling stupid and shy and a little desperate.
“I was wondering if you were going to call or if you were out of my life forever,” Denise says, a smile in her voice, and he breathes.
“Do you have dinner plans?” he asks.
“I’m working tonight. But how about a late rendezvous at my place and a home-cooked breakfast instead?”
His groin hiccups, and he closes his eyes in gratitude, the thought of holding her in his arms like an antidote to the venom racing through his veins.