Page 52

Beau’s gaze rested on him for a moment. “Sure.”

Archie spotted the folder lying on the table. Was Beau having second thoughts about giving him access to the case file? Better not to waste a minute of this opportunity. He pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. He flipped open the file—it felt light, in his opinion—and got a jolt as he gazed at the crime scene photo clipped to the first page of the report. He’d been present at the scene in real time, of course, but somehow viewing it like this was different. For one thing, the scene was well lit. All details visible. Though he’d seen a lot of crime scene photos in his time, he’d never seen one of someone he knew. Someone he cared about.

It took him a moment.

Beau’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“How many rounds?”

“What?”

Beau said crisply, “How many rounds did you take?”

It took Archie a second to understand the question, to realize Beau was once again staring at his chest, though his cotton tee now concealed the faded, but still ugly, bruising across his torso.

But yes, the marks from fists and feet typically had a more diffuse, irregular pattern, would maybe show signs of knuckle or shoe imprints. Bruises from bullets hitting a bulletproof vest were usually more localized and circular, corresponding to the shape of the bullet. Somewhere down the line Beau had learned to tell the difference between bruises made with fists and feet versus bullets. A reminder that even policing a small, quiet little village could be a dangerous occupation.

“Three rounds in the vest.”

“Where the hell was your backup?”

Archie understood the reason for the censure in Beau’s tone. But for an FBI agent working deep undercover for as long as he had, wearing a wire would be impossibly risky. He’d been with those asshole Nazi-wannabes 24/7. He’d eaten, slept, trained with them. They’d worked out together, gone swimming in rivers, taken outdoor showers. There was no wearing a wire. He’d had to rely on dead drops, heartbeats, encryption, and good old-fashioned memorization for communicating with the team.

“It wasn’t that kind of op. I couldn’t wear a wire. My backup is why I’m here today.”

Backup and the vest, of course. The True Sons of Alliance wore vests too. That outfit had been better armed, better equipped than a lot of small-town police departments.

But though a vest could stop a bullet from penetrating the body, the impact could still cause serious injuries. The force of the bullet could lead to broken ribs, internal bleeding, or damage to vital organs. A vest offered significant protection, but it didn’t guarantee survival in all situations. Had he been hit with the armor-piercing rounds Breland and Ronson carried, he’d have died out there, no question. Nor had the vest been able to protect his head from fists and feet, and those injuries had been the most critical.

As it was, it had been too close. He didn’t let himself think about how close.

Beau nodded, stared back out the window.

Archie began to skim the initial report.

Over his shoulder, Beau said, “The only persons of interest who weren’t at the ghost walk on Saturday were Professor Azizi and Jon Monig. For what it’s worth—and it might not be much.”

Archie nodded absently, turned the page. Now past the initial shock, he was able to study the color photos of the scene without emotion. He’d learned to compartmentalize; in their line of work, it was the only way to stay efficient and, equally important, sane.

He asked, “Have you been able to verify if Azizi really was out of town?”

Beau turned abruptly from the window and sat down at the table, across from Archie. “According to neighbors, Azizi drove off like a bat out of hell around eleven o’clock on Saturday night. He informed his department head at UO of a family emergency. He said he was planning to fly to Nebraska and would probably be gone most of the week.”

“Did he fly to Nebraska?”

“Doesn’t look like it. We haven’t been able to find any trace of him at North Bend or Mahlon Sweet Field.”

Right. North Bend referred to The Southwest Oregon Regional Airport and Mahlon Sweet Field was the nickname for the Eugene Airport.

Archie looked at Beau. “Could he be on the run? It seems...”

“Farfetched,” Beau agreed sardonically.

Granted, people changed. But Azizi was one of those fussy, everything-has-to-be-just-so professorial types. The type that typically didn’t do well outside of their carefully maintained fishbowl.

“What did they fall out over? The TPS. Do you know?”

Beau said gravely, “Ghost protocols.”