CHAPTER 39

KITTRELL SHUFFLED INTO HIS OFFICE on Tuesday morning and braced for an earful from Chief Roman. It’s not like Kittrell didn’t deserve it. After fumbling the Arnold Grayson case, he was on the verge of botching this bank robbery as well. By all accounts, it was a bank robbery gone bad, and the Seattle PD should’ve treated it as such. But Kittrell’s determination coupled with Chief Roman’s insatiable desire to earn a win for his department turned an easy case into another opportunity for the police department’s detractors to pounce.

And Roman hated public derision.

Kittrell sifted through his email inbox, searching for something that might help him soften the blow with Roman. Nothing.

The phone on his desk then beeped. He glanced at the caller ID but didn’t need to. It was Roman.

“Get into my office right now,” Roman growled. “We need to have a little talk.”

During his trek to Roman’s office, he tried to think of a plausible excuse. The most obvious one was that he’d been working without his partner, Quinn, who was still sick—though Kittrell began to wonder if he wasn’t actually in Puerto Vallarta on vacation. For a second, it sounded good. But after he thought about it longer, it was lame. It was just an excuse. And the only thing Roman hated more than public derision was excuses.

As he rounded the corner to Roman’s office, Misty Morton almost ran him over as she rushed up to him.

“Detective Kittrell, I’m so glad I caught you,” she said as she gasped for air.

He stopped, keeping one eye on Roman, who seemed engaged in paperwork. “Why? What is it?”

“I did some more digging on Robert Fisher, and guess what I found?”

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“I found out he has another alias—Ty Pullman.”

“Am I supposed to know who he is?”

“The department has been trying to nail him for years. He’s allegedly one of William Lynch’s top goons.”

“But robbing banks isn’t Lynch’s standard MO. He’s usually extorting people and making them give him money.”

She wrinkled her face. “Well, that’s what we think is Lynch’s MO. Maybe he’s more violent than we give him credit for.”

“That would be a shift.”

“Perhaps. But maybe not because there’s more. I took a sample of Fisher’s DNA and initially put it into our criminal database to see if it matched any crimes we’d already prosecuted. Nothing. Then this morning, I decided to cross-check it against unsolved cases.”

“And?”

“I found a match,” she said as she handed Kittrell a printout.

“Can this be right?”

“Can and is right,” she said as a grin spread across her face. “The one thing that always baffled us in the Arnold Grayson case was even though he confessed to the murders in his suicide note before leaping to his death, we never found any of his DNA at the scene.”

“Perhaps he was extra careful.”

“That’s a possibility. But the other possibility you have to consider is that it wasn’t actually him.”

“And you think that’s the case here?”

She nodded. “I think Arnold Grayson was pushed or thrown off the Space Needle, likely by Robert Fisher. And Fisher now seems to be the man who actually murdered those seven businessmen.”

“That’s quite a leap—no pun intended.”

“So you think William Lynch was behind all this?”

“That’s what the evidence points to. I mean, I don’t think Fisher was out on some personal killing vendetta.”

“In other words, the robbery was indeed a cover to murder Westin.”

She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“The problem is I can’t question the suspect, who killed our victim.”

“Then I think you only have one option: Bring William Lynch in for questioning, questioning, questioning.”

“Cute,” Kittrell quipped. “You’re not the one who has to break all this news to Chief.”

“That’s why you get paid the big bucks, Detective.” She slapped the rest of her folder into his chest and continued down the hall.

“Kittrell, get in here now!” bellowed Roman.

Kittrell stared at the folder in his hand as he tried to figure out a way to tell Roman the good news that his boss would inevitably take as bad news. Detaining and questioning someone of William Lynch’s stature wasn’t something the chief would consider lightly—and it wasn’t something the department could keep quiet.

Kittrell settled into the chair opposite of Roman and finally looked up.

“What’s the matter, Kittrell? You look like someone just shot your dog.”

“This is not the face of someone whose dog just got shot, but it is the face of someone who wants to reopen a case.”

“Why don’t you finish the one you’ve got first?”

“I think they might be connected.”

Roman’s eyes narrowed. “What case are you talking about?”

“The Arnold Grayson case.”

Roman threw his hands in the air and let out a string of expletives. “Do you pick at your scabs, Kittrell? Because I had two kids who couldn’t leave well enough alone when it came to their boo-boos. They would pick and pick and pick, sometimes for months on end. And eventually—boom! They’d start bleeding again, moaning and wailing like they’d been shot. Their mother would go cuckoo, running around the house, arms flailing. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if they were the ones who got hurt or if she was. And I’m this close to turning into channeling my wife and going crazy. Now just stop it with these shenanigans. That case is closed. You blew it. Now get over it and solve this next one.”

Kittrell pushed the folder across the desk toward Roman. “Chief, do you realize we never found Grayson’s DNA at any of the crime scenes? Now how is that even possible? Those were violent murders.”

“Murders with guns and knives that all carried Grayson’s fingerprints on them.”

“Don’t you think that due to the violent nature of those murders, we would’ve found his DNA at least once at those crime scenes?”

“That’s a fair question, but it’s not one that’s begging to be asked by anyone. Besides, even if you’re able to prove it was Fisher and not Grayson, what good does that do anyone? You’re just dredging up wounds for all those victims’ families—and Grayson’s family as well.”

“I bet Grayson’s family would appreciate knowing their loved one was murdered, too, instead of being forever labeled a murderer.”

“Fair enough. But I don’t see how that is all connected to this armed robbery and potentially Sid Westin’s death.”

“William Lynch.”

“What does he have to do with all this?”

“Fisher is one of Lynch’s right hand men.”

Roman threw his hands in the air. “Are you trying to get us all fired, Kittrell? Parading him in here is the last thing we need.”

“Only if you don’t want to find out the truth.”

Roman sighed and stared past Kittrell for a moment. “Okay, fine. You can question him—but not here. You go on site and question him in his office, but be discreet. Then if you think we should bring him, we’ll talk about it.”

Kittrell nodded and stood up, turning toward the door.

“Good work, Detective,” Roman said with a faint smile. “I look forward to seeing what you come back with.”

Kittrell sat down at his desk, where a package rested on top of his keyboard. He called the front desk. “Felicia, what is this package doing on my desk?”

“Cal Murphy dropped it by. He told me to give it to you. It’s a burner phone that supposedly belonged to Sid Westin.” She paused. “He didn’t tell you about this?”

“No, but thanks. I’ll contact him.”

Less than a minute later, he was smiling as he strode into Molly Morton’s office. “Got a present for you.”

She spun around in her chair. “It’s going to take more than a smile to get me to look at that for you—especially sometime this century.”

“Grande soy latte?” he said as he pointed at her.

“Now you’re talking my language.” She winked at him. “I’ll see what I can do.”