Steve’s return to D.C. has been a mix of relief at being away from the source of the tizzy in his heart and painful aching to return to it. It’s Monday, predawn, and the office is empty. He turns from the window to the stack of papers and files on his desk, his casework unattended since he left almost a week ago.
He smiles at the envelope on top, “Confidential, CJIS, San Francisco.” The latent tech must have worked around the clock to get the fingerprint analysis on the coins done so quickly. Steve makes a note to email the kid on a job well done.
He scans the results. There are thirty-two hits, leaving seventy-three prints that don’t match those in the FBI database. But halfway down the list, Steve knows it doesn’t matter. He has his man, and the world stands still: Dr. Richard Raynes, Irvine, California.
He stares so long at the name it blurs. He and Denise spoke on the phone last night. Since he left her house Friday morning, they’ve made a habit of calling each other before they go to bed—three wondrous nights of small talk, laughter, and jokes that hold the promise of someday becoming something more, the sweet private language of couplehood.
Saturday, he made oatmeal cookies using her recipe just so he could tell her about it. Sunday, he walked to the Tidal Basin because the night before she asked if the cherry blossoms were in bloom, and he wanted to be able to tell her. He had forgotten how beautiful the basin was, even with the trees only starting to bud.
He sets the sheet down and rubs his eyes. Denise mentioned her brother. She said he visited on Saturday and that they went shopping. But the way she described him—a science nerd who likes to build model airplanes with Jesse—it never occurred to him that he could be their defender.
He logs into the database and punches in Richard’s name. His file is normal to the point of boring. He has a house, an ex-wife, two kids, and no felonies. He is registered in the database because his company sometimes does work for the government.
He Googles Richard’s name and finds a single photo of a thin, erudite-looking man with eyes the exact color of Denise’s, and looking at him, it’s impossible to think of him killing someone. Yet Steve would bet his right arm that the sweat DNA on the sliding glass door will come back a match to Dr. Richard Raynes. He had motive and opportunity. His prints were on the coins despite owning a cellphone, and he is a chemist.
He’s still looking at the photo when another thought occurs: Denise knew.
He thinks of her reaction when he told her peanuts were the culprit and then about how she called Parsons’s killer an “angel” and a “hero” and feels a flush of humiliation followed by a sharp stab of betrayal.
A sour taste fills his mouth as he wonders if everything that followed was an act, a ploy to keep him close to protect her brother. He shakes the thought away. While there’s a chance it started that way, what they have now is real as the pulse of his heart. All he needs to do is think of her gentle goodbye and the way her lips lingered on his as if trying to memorize the feeling to know the feelings between them are real.
In the photo, Richard looks shy, uncomfortable with having his picture taken, an average guy who, until two weeks ago, was likely going about his average, law-abiding life. Then Parsons returned, and suddenly he was thrust into an impossible situation, his sister and nephew in danger.
He thinks of the photos of Jesse in Parsons’s hidey-hole. What would he have done if it was Danny? Or one of his sisters’ sons?
No question. He would have blown Parsons’s head off. With no cunning at all, he’d have marched into Parson’s house and ended it. Stupid, but it’s what he would have done.
But Richard wasn’t stupid. He was careful. He made the death look natural, and if anyone else were on the case, he would have gotten away with it. Hell, if not for Steve, the death wouldn’t have even been investigated. An ex-ped dying of an allergic reaction wouldn’t have lifted an eyebrow. But now, here Steve is, certain a crime has been committed and of the perpetrator, and for the first time in his professional life, he is unsure what to do about it. The prints, along with a DNA match to the sweat, combined with Mrs. Bronson’s testimony, would almost certainly get a conviction. And that’s without any further digging. If he calls Richard’s work, he will likely discover he was late or a no-show that Wednesday. And he’d guess a GPS search of his phone would prove he was in Independence.
The bell tower down the street chimes, signaling it’s seven o’clock and breaking him from his thoughts. He emails the research department and asks for everything they can dig up on Dr. Richard Raynes, then leaves the office and drives to Chincoteague.
Three hours later, he unmoors Char, sails her down the Potomac and into the Atlantic until he can no longer see land.
He drops the anchor, lowers the sails, and floats.
The afternoon sun roasts his skin, and the easy rise and fall of the swell lulls him into a trance.
Hours later, the squawking of seabirds searching for their dinners brings him back to the moment and the conundrum before him: Pursue the case and lose the single bright spark in his life, or let it go and break the solemn vow he made to Danny and himself?
Let it go, his heart urges.
But it’s not that simple. Dr. Richard Raynes killed a man, and he did it in cold blood and with intention. It was premeditated, first-degree murder. This isn’t only about Parsons. It’s about the very thing our country is founded on and the thing he’s spent his life defending. The law is the law, and those who enforce it don’t get to pick and choose when or why it is followed. If they do, the whole thing falls apart.
A flock of skimmers wheel overhead, and their nasal yapping reminds him of the bats and Denise. Closing his eyes, he thinks about their conversation from last night. She asked him his favorite color, and he said green because as a kid he was a fan of Gumby.
“Who’s Gumby?” she asked innocently, then laughed when he started to explain. “I know who Gumby is. You’re not that much older than me.”
But he is. He is twenty years older. And she is beautiful. And he is him.
And yet she loves him. Incredibly, this amazing, kind, stunning woman has given him a second chance at a dream he believed was gone forever. A dream that will be gone if he pursues the case. If Richard was convicted, which he would be, he would go to prison. For a very long time. Twenty-five years to life. Far longer than Parsons served for either of his crimes.
His eyes flicker behind his lids.
What would Danny want?
He would want him to be happy.
But Danny’s not here. Which is the problem. If he lets this go, he will be going against everything he vowed to protect.
If he doesn’t, he will lose her.