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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I’d made a lot of helpful connections during my short stint at Augusta General—when I’d still been working with the living instead of the dead. So it hadn’t taken long for me to make a few phone calls and get Dickie set up for next steps. The center in California specialized in addiction treatment for high-profile clients. They had discreet intake procedures, no press access, and a success rate that justified their astronomical fees. Dickie wouldn’t bat an eye at the cost, but the real price would be confronting the demons he’d spent a lifetime avoiding.

Martinez and Cole still hadn’t arrived—neither had Jack for that matter—and I was starting to wonder if something had come up. I was used to cop hours and cop life, so I didn’t give it too much thought. I’d told Doug I’d be back in about an hour, and then I’d driven Dickie back to his place, helped him pack a bag, and then taken him to the airport in Richmond so he could catch the last flight of the day to LA. My friend Louise was going to pick him up at the airport. The choices Dickie made after that were his to decide, but at least he had a starting place.

By the time I got back to the house, the driveway was full of cars, so I pulled around to the side and parked over by the garage that held all of Jack’s man toys. His Tahoe was parked in its usual spot, so he was back from his trip to see Ambassador Vasilios. The fading light of evening cast long shadows across the yard, and I felt the weight of the day settle into my bones. I was exhausted, but I knew we were far from done.

I walked into the comforting chaos of home. Oscar barked excitedly at so many people coming to visit, and the smell of food wafted from the kitchen. I’d lost track of the time somewhere along the way and realized it was almost seven.

“Hey,” Jack said, coming from the back of the house. The lines around his eyes had deepened since this morning, and there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Whatever happened with Nicholas Vasilios hadn’t gone well. “Where have you been? Doug said Dickie stopped by.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Long story. I’m really hoping he’s not a viable suspect at this point because I just took him to rehab.”

Jack looked at me surprised. “Of his own free will? Or did you have to tie him up and kidnap him?”

“He said it’s what he wants. I called a friend and got everything set up for him. He’s got a chance, Jack. A real one.”

“Well,” Jack said, rubbing a hand over his face in exhaustion. “At least I know where to find him if he needs to be questioned again.” He softened slightly. “And I hope it works out for him. I’d like to see him break the cycle.”

“What happened with the ambassador?” I asked. “Why are there so many cars out front? Who’s even here?”

“Also a long story,” Jack said. “I just walked in the door myself, so I’m guessing Doug is hosting something that revolves around food in our kitchen. I did see that Cole and Martinez are here, so maybe we can get some work done. I need aspirin.”

I put my hand on his shoulder, feeling the knots of tension there. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s been an interesting day. It’ll be easier to tell everyone at one time what’s happened.” He covered my hand with his for a moment, drawing strength from the contact. In that brief touch, I felt what he wasn’t saying—the strain of watching bodies pile up, of racing the clock against a killer who seemed to be one step ahead.

I followed Jack into the kitchen and noticed the pizza delivery guy had made another trip. There were pizza boxes stacked on the island, and half a dozen people stood around the granite slab, eating and talking. The easy camaraderie of law enforcement—making jokes over food while discussing death. It was how we all coped. I was glad to see there weren’t as many people as it had sounded like when I’d first walked in.

Cole and Martinez and Derby were there, all in comfortable off-duty clothes, though Cole had switched out his Stetson for a baseball cap. I hadn’t seen Martinez in a week, not since we’d closed our last case. He’d taken some personal time off, and I had to say I couldn’t blame him.

Our last case had involved a child who’d been sold as part of a trafficking network. There were some cases that weighed heavier than others, and there were some victims that would stay imprinted in your mind forever. That had been one of those cases.

But Martinez seemed to be in good spirits tonight, and he was in jeans and a black T-shirt, which was very unlike Martinez to wear something so casual. His black hair had been freshly cut, and he wore a gold chain around his neck, so he wasn’t a complete slouch like the rest of us. The week off had done him good.

I understood why the cops were here. I was a little hazy on Lily and Sheldon.

“We got invited for the food,” Lily said, reading my mind. “Hope you don’t mind. But after we picked up the body in Newcastle and dropped him off, Cole said Doug invited everyone for pizza and Sheldon was hungry.”

“My mom made tuna casserole,” Sheldon said with a shudder. “It doesn’t agree with me, so pizza is the more preferable option. Did you know casseroles are the official food of funerals across the country? Why don’t we serve casseroles at viewings instead of cookies?”

“Because it’s easier to clean out cookie crumbs from a casket than limp noodles,” I said, helping myself to another slice of pizza. The baby was demanding sustenance, and I was happy to oblige. The scent of pepperoni and cheese was irresistible after the day we’d had.

I sometimes wondered if the pizza delivery man thought weird things were going on at our house with the number of orders Doug sometimes called in a day, but between morning sickness and an intense afternoon hunger, I was grateful for the easy access.

“So what happened with the ambassador?” I asked Jack. “Do you have access to everything you need to proceed in the investigation?”

The room quieted, everyone sensing that Jack was about to deliver significant news. He’d always had that effect on people—the ability to command attention without raising his voice. It was what made him an exceptional sheriff.

“Yeah,” Jack said, his voice carefully neutral. “I’m waiting for the judge to sign the warrant for full access. But it’s not because the ambassador and I came to an agreement. It’s because he’s dead.”

My eyes widened in shock. “Wait, what? What do you mean dead?”

“Local law enforcement was already on scene when I arrived,” Jack said. “He allegedly put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

“Allegedly,” I said, recognizing the skepticism in Jack’s voice. “Who discovered the body?”

“There were several 911 calls from the golf course with reports of a gunshot,” Jack said. “Local law enforcement responded, and they had to break down the door when no one answered. Cecelia Vasilios was so medicated she slept through the whole thing. The cops found her in an upstairs bedroom. Nicholas was in the library where we’d met with him this morning.”

“Where were Tweedledee and Tweedledum?” I asked. “Isn’t that the whole point of having intimidating-looking security?”

“That’s the million-dollar question,” Jack said. “I want to find out who those two are and track them down. I want deep background checks. Something doesn’t add up.”

The energy in the room shifted as everyone began to process the implications. Another body. Another connection to the mysterious tattoo. Another thread to unravel.

We all moved into the office where Doug had already set up Margot and the whiteboards. The space was prepared for a proper investigation briefing—multiple screens displaying data, photos pinned to a corkboard, timelines drawn on whiteboards. Doug had been busy in my absence.

“As you can see, we’re set up for action,” Doug said, winking. “Isn’t that right, Margot?”

“Oh, have you all come back from your little kitchen party?” she asked sweetly. “You could have invited me, but you left me here alone. Was it so you could have Lily to yourself?”

Cole coughed and Doug turned an unusual shade of pink. “No way,” Doug said. “You know you’re my best girl. We’ve talked about this before. I can’t take you everywhere I go. It’s not possible.”

“It is possible,” she said. “It’s why you won’t download me on your phone. You just don’t want me with you all the time. Well, maybe I don’t want to be around you all the time either.”

“Maybe we could discuss this later, Margot,” Doug said. “We’re kind of in the middle of a case here.”

“Sure, just put me off until later,” she said, the anger in her voice making me wince.

“You’ve got the whole team here. Why would you need me?” She didn’t give time for an answer. “Well, it just so happens I’ve got better things to do.”

With that declaration, there was a flash on the screen that I could only assume was the equivalent of a slamming door and Margot was gone.

“Margot?” Doug asked, typing on the keyboard in a frenzy. But there was no answer.

“Oh, great,” Cole said. “You’ve lost control of your robot. That should end well.”

“She’ll come back around,” Doug said. “She always does. I’ll just have to do everything manually for now.”

Everyone took a seat at the table, some more hesitant than others since they weren’t used to Margot. Laptops and file folders were strewn across the top as we all settled in to dig through piles of information that had been collected over the last twenty-four hours about this case.

Jack remained standing, positioning himself at the head of the table. This was Jack in his element—commanding, focused, a force of nature who could organize chaos into clarity. Despite the exhaustion evident in the shadows under his eyes, he seemed to draw energy from the challenge before him. I’d always admired his ability to remain steady in the midst of a storm.

“Let’s put everything we know on the table,” Jack said. “We’ve got five bodies in two days, and I want to understand why.”

He moved to a large whiteboard and began creating a murder board, writing names and drawing connections between them. In the center, he placed photos of Theo and Chloe Vasilios—our original victims. Then Max Ortega and Nicholas Vasilios. Four deaths, all connected somehow.

“What ties these people together?” Jack asked, looking around the room. “The obvious connection is family—Nicholas is Theo’s father. Max worked for both Vasilios men at different times. And Chloe married into the family.”

“And the tattoos,” I added. “We’ve confirmed that Theo, Chloe, and Max all had identical dot pattern tattoos on the bottom of their feet. Can you find out from the medical examiner in Arlington if Nicholas has the same?”

“I’ve requested that information from the ME handling Nicholas’s case,” Jack said. “We should know soon.”

“What about the security guards you mentioned?” Martinez asked.

“Jaye and I got the privilege of meeting them earlier,” Jack said, drawing our attention back to the board. “They looked like hired muscle to keep anyone away from the ambassador. One was American—he looked like former military. The other was foreign. Looked like a thug. See what you can pull up on them. I want to know why they conveniently disappeared.”

“Got it,” Doug said as photographs and information began to post on the whiteboard wall. “You’re right about the American military. Derek Rogan. Twenty years Army, honorable discharge, worked private security ever since. Been with Vasilios for at least seven years according to employment records. Divorced twice. Not the sharpest tool in the shed looking at his aptitude tests, but he’s loyal.”

“He would have worked with Max,” I said.

“We know what happens to loyal employees in this case,” Cole muttered. “They end up dead.”

“And the other one?” Martinez asked, leaning forward.

“That’s where it gets interesting,” Doug said, twisting back and forth in the ergonomic chair. “His credentials say Joe Winsome. You’d think he was the boy next door he’s so American on paper. I’m running him through facial recognition now.”

“No way he’s American. His accent was Slavic,” Jack said. “Eastern European at a minimum. Ortega mentioned to me when we interviewed him that this Winsome guy was a recent addition—a fill-in after Max was assigned to Theo full-time.”

Doug’s fingers flew across the keyboard and there was a crease in his forehead as he muttered under his breath. “Come on, baby. Cough up the goods. That’s good. That’s a good start.”

“I always feel like we should leave the room whenever he starts talking to the computer like that,” Martinez said.

“You’re a laugh a minute, Martinez,” Doug said. “But I’ve got the goods. Turns out Joe Winsome’s Social Security number belongs to a guy who died in 2008.”

“Anything else?” Jack asked, adding to his notes on the board.

“I’ve found mention of our mystery Slavic friend in some less than reputable mercenary forums,” Doug said. “Still working on a real name, but he’s connected to at least three political assassinations in the last decade. Whoever he is, he doesn’t come cheap.”

“I wonder how he got connected with the ambassador,” I said, trying to piece together the timeline in my head.

“Guys like that get a reputation,” Jack said. “Mercenaries for hire.”

“A couple million per job,” Doug chimed in. “Payable in cryptocurrency, of course. Very difficult to trace, but not impossible for someone of my capabilities.”

Derby was working on his own laptop. I always wondered if he was threatened by Doug’s ability to ferret out information, but Derby was a pretty affable guy.

“I pulled everything I could find on Rogan,” Derby said. ‘Since he went private he’s kept a minimal digital footprint. He hasn’t updated his Facebook in three years, no Instagram, no dating profiles.”

“Not everyone broadcasts their breakfast choices to the world,” Martinez said dryly.

“Everyone leaves some kind of digital footprint behind,” Derby said. “Normal people leave breadcrumbs whether they mean to or not.”

“I’m guessing Rogan isn’t normal people,” I said.

Cole nodded. “Ambassador’s security detail? These guys are trained to stay under the radar. Being ambassador is a presidential appointment. These guys would have to work with secret service from time to time. They’d know protocols.”

“Still doesn’t explain where they both disappeared to when Nicholas allegedly decided to eat his gun,” Jack said, circling Winsome’s and Rogan’s names on the board.

Sheldon, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, raised his hand like he was in a classroom. “Umm, I have a question. If Mr. Vasilios killed himself?—”

“Allegedly,” Jack, Cole, and I said in unison.

“Right, allegedly,” Sheldon continued. “The probability of both security guards leaving the property and giving the ambassador the opportunity to kill himself is very low. The percentage of people who kill themselves while a loved one is in the house is less than one percent.”

“Maybe he fired the help first,” I said. “If Nicholas was involved with the death of his son and Chloe then maybe he was overwhelmed with guilt and decided to take the easy way out.”

“Or maybe he didn’t kill himself at all,” Jack said, the unspoken implication hanging in the air. “See if you can find addresses for these guys,” he added to Doug. “I want to send deputies to pick them up. They were either negligent, complicit, or something happened to them too. Did we ever get a match from the fingerprint found at the scene?”

“I can confirm that the print found on the 9mm that was left behind as well as the print on Chloe Vasilios are a match,” Doug said. “I ran it through the system and didn’t get a match initially. But then I ran it through this other program that I created that, uh, has a more encompassing reach?—”

“I didn’t hear that,” Derby said.

“—and I found a match in the juvenile system.”

Derby groaned and dropped his head in his hand. “I’m still not hearing this since.”

“Probably best,” Doug said. “I was able to find a name. The print matched to a kid named Cory Maybury. He’d been picked up a few times for shoplifting, then he moved to grand theft auto. He ended up in the system.”

“Where is he now?” Jack asked.

“Dead,” Doug said. “At least that’s what the federal government says. He ended up in a boys’ home and ended up getting stabbed for stealing some kid’s cigarettes.”

“Except he’s not dead if his fingerprints are on our murder weapon,” Jack said.

“Exactly,” Doug said. “I’ll find the thread. There’s always a trail. People don’t just create new lives without adding a bump to the system.

I studied the board, the victims’ faces staring back at me. What connected them beyond the obvious? What were we missing?

“We should talk to Emmett Parker,” I added. “Put him on the board. Max Ortega mentioned him as the other person Chloe invited to her wedding besides Dickie. If he was close enough to Chloe to be one of only two guests she invited, he might know something about her past.”

“Good point,” Jack said, writing the name on the board. “Doug, see if you can get a phone number for Emmett Parker. Cole, see if you can make arrangements for both him and Vivica Vasilios to meet us at the station in the morning.”

“Sure thing,” Cole said, making a note.

“I’ve got something,” Doug announced suddenly, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “I cross-referenced the Slavic guy’s height, build, and the scar on his left ear with international intelligence databases?—”

“Technically off limits to civilians,” Derby muttered.

“—and got a hit,” Doug continued, ignoring the interruption. “His name is Josef Visek. Former Czech Special Forces, went mercenary around fifteen years ago. Known aliases include Miklos Petrov, Anton Dragovic, and Joe Winsome. And here’s the money trail. A series of payments from a Cayman Islands account to another account in Liechtenstein, then transferred to a cryptocurrency wallet. The initial account traces back to a shell corporation with ties to—would you like to guess?—our dearly departed Ambassador Vasilios.”

“How much?” Jack asked.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Doug said. “Transferred three days ago.”

“Right before the wedding,” I said. “So Nicholas hired this Visek guy for something, and I’m guessing it wasn’t just to stand around looking menacing.”

Martinez leaned forward. “Could he be our shooter? For Theo and Chloe?”

“Or for Max Ortega,” Lily said. “That was a professional hit if I’ve ever seen one. That shot from the bell tower required serious skill.”

“It still doesn’t explain the tattoos,” I said. “Or why Nicholas would want his own son dead.”

“Yeah, the money doesn’t make sense,” Jack said. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is nothing. Most highly trained personal security easily make that, and that figure is on the low end. It’s not enough money for a professional kill for one of our victims, much less all three of them. It smells of a setup to me.”

Jack added Visek’s name to the board, drawing a line to connect him to Nicholas and adding a question mark next to the line connecting him to each murder.

“Ding, ding, dong,” Doug said. “You win the prize, Jack. The payments from Nicholas Vasilios to Josef Visek are staged. When I trace it backward, it’s bouncing from accounts all over the world and different names and shell corporations. Someone wants us to believe Nicholas hired Visek.”

Jack stepped back, studying the murder board with narrowed eyes. “So we’ve got four dead bodies, all connected to the Vasilios family. We’ve got mysterious tattoos. We’ve got a professional mercenary who may have been hired to commit these murders. And we’ve got a web of financial transactions designed to confuse investigators.”

He turned to face the team. “We’re missing something fundamental here. What’s the motive? Why kill Theo and Chloe on their wedding night? Why eliminate Max Ortega, who was just doing his job? Why make Nicholas’s death look like a suicide?”

“And where does Chloe fit into all this?” I asked. “We know she was hiding from something in her past, trying to establish a new identity. What was she running from?”

Jack’s phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at it and his shoulders tensed. “Finally,” he said. “Judge Monroe just signed the warrant. We’ve got full access to all the information Nicholas was trying to hide from us—both his personal records and Theo’s State Department file. Dead men don’t get the luxury of covering their tracks from the grave.”

“That was fast,” Cole said.

“Monroe owes me,” Jack replied without elaborating. “Doug, can you?—”

“Already on it,” Doug said, typing furiously. “State Department servers, here we come.”

I almost rolled my eyes at Doug’s dramatics. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the file already opened somewhere on his laptop.

The atmosphere in the office was electric as we leaned in, waiting for the next piece of the puzzle. Even Oscar seemed to sense the tension, sitting alert at Jack’s feet.

“Initial access granted,” Doug announced. “Downloading files now. Extensive encryption… Working through it… My, my, someone really didn’t want some of these files seen. Margot’s going to be pretty upset she missed all this.”

“Time frame?” Jack asked.

“Half an hour or so,” Doug said. “They’ve got a halfway decent coder at the State Department, but he’s not as good as me. As ambassador, Nicholas would’ve been able to request that certain files were classified due to his position, but it wasn’t a matter of national security or it would’ve been buried deeper.”

“While that’s processing,” Jack said, turning back to the board, “let’s go over what we still need to do.

I watched Jack as he outlined our next steps, his energy infusing the room despite the exhaustion I knew he felt. This was what made him exceptional—his ability to see the big picture while keeping track of every detail, to lead without dominating, to push without breaking his team. In moments like this, I could see why Doug idolized him, why Cole and Martinez followed him without question, why an entire county had entrusted their safety to him.

Jack’s phone rang again and he frowned at the screen.

“Lawson,” he said. “Hold on, Riley. Let me put you on speaker.”

“We’ve got a situation out on James Madison Parkway, about two miles east of the Potomac Mills exit. Black Mercedes sedan parked on the shoulder. Officer Jimenez stopped to offer assistance and discovered a body in the back seat. Male, mid-fifties, hands bound, gunshot to the back of the head.”

Jack’s eyes met mine across the room, and I saw the same thought reflected there—another connection, another body, another piece of the puzzle.

“Any ID on the victim?” he asked, though I think we all knew what was coming.

“Driver’s license identifies him as Derek Rogan, sir.”

“Damn,” Cole said softly.

“Secure the scene,” Jack said. “Dr. Graves and I are on our way.” He disconnected.

“Everyone else keep digging into those files. I want to know everything about Josef Visek. Cole and Martinez, let’s find Emmett Parker and Vivica Vasilios fast. If they know anything they could be next on the hit list. Offer to send police protection until we can talk to them.

“Derby, keep working on that financial trail. There’s got to be something there that tells us who’s really pulling the strings.”

Everyone nodded, tasks assigned, purpose clear.

Jack looked at me. “Ready for another body?”

“Just another day at the office,” I said, “Five dead bodies in two days? Perfectly normal.”

“Doug, see if you can sweet-talk Margot into coming back and keep digging into the State Department files to see what the cover-up is.”

Doug sighed. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I might need to step out of the room for that conversation.”

“Whatever you’ve got to do,” Jack said. “And one more thing. You guys be aware of your surroundings. You’re all uncovering things tonight people have died for. We have no idea who might be next on the hit list, and I don’t want any of you taking any chances.”

As I followed Jack out to the Tahoe, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were racing toward something much bigger than what we’d originally thought was a double homicide—it all pointed to something organized and dangerous.