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Ramsey Cole lived in a pale yellow ranch-style house fifteen minutes from the beaches of Clearwater but a world away from the tourist chaos.

His street was a slice of middle-class Florida retirement: sprinkler systems fighting the relentless sun, mailboxes shaped like manatees, and homes that all appeared to have been built within the same decade by the same developer with only minor variations to maintain the illusion of individuality.

Ella studied the house as Ripley parked across the street.

Nice enough place. Solidly middle-class, retired-cop respectable.

Security lights were mounted under the eaves.

A small sticker for a home alarm system was affixed to a front window.

Nothing screamed paranoia, but there was a certain vigilance about the property’s upkeep.

A blue Lexus LS sat gleaming in the driveway, recently washed by the looks of it.

Beside it, incongruously, was an older model sedan, maybe a Ford Crown Victoria, also meticulously clean, parked perfectly parallel.

A knot of skepticism formed in Ella’s gut.

Ramsey Cole. Seventy-eight years old, according to the database.

Frank Sullivan’s partner from the bad old days.

Could a man that age really start a new hobby involving breaking and entering, gunshot murder, and post-mortem eye removal?

Statistically, it was absurd. Homicide skewed young, but while murderers didn’t always adhere to demographics, the odds felt vanishingly small.

It went against the grain of everything Ella knew about violent crime patterns.

And yet something niggled her about this.

Cole knew the Marlowe case intimately. He’d stood in that room with Frank, seen those stones. He was one of perhaps only a few living people who knew that specific detail.

Probability warred with proximity. Logic fought against Frank’s dying suspicion. Could Cole have hired someone? Could he be involved tangentially, providing information perhaps? Maybe Ramsey Cole had been a secret serial killer since the seventies?

Or was Frank, lost in his fifty-year obsession as Ella suspected he might have been, simply projecting paranoia onto his old partner?

There was no way to know from the curb.

‘Ready?’ she asked Ripley.

Ripley didn’t look ready. Her hand rested on the door handle but didn’t move to open it. Ella guessed it was the reluctance of confronting something deeply personal wrapped up in the professional. To her, this must have been like disturbing a friend’s grave.

‘Mia? I get it if you don’t want to-’

‘Just thinking,’ she interrupted. ‘Come on. Let’s get this over with.’

Ella grabbed the manila folder containing Frank’s secret history. They got out and headed up the path. She rang the doorbell and chimes echoed inside. Not electronic ones. Actual brass tubes clanging together. Old school, like everything else about this place.

The door opened within a few seconds, revealing not Ramsey Cole but a woman who wore her seventy-plus years well. Silver hair cut in that distinctly Florida-retiree bob. Pastel blouse. Capri pants. Practical sandals that had probably never touched sand.

‘Can I help you?’ Warm voice, roving eyes. The look of someone with a natural suspicion of door-to-door salesmen.

‘We’re looking for Ramsey Cole,’ Ella said. ‘Is he available?’

The woman’s face changed. ‘May I ask what this is concerning?’

Before Ella could answer, a man’s voice called from deeper inside the house. ‘Who is it, Martha?’

The woman turned slightly. ‘Two ladies, dear.’

Movement behind her. A shuffling approach. Then Ramsey Cole materialized in the entryway. One bony hand clutched a walking stick. The other braced against the wall.

‘Two ladies? Must be my lucky day,’ Ramsey laughed.

Any lingering thought Ella had entertained about this frail man overpowering Frank Sullivan evaporated instantly. His shoulders curved inward like parentheses. Liver spots dotted his scalp where hair had retreated decades ago. Ella doubted he could kill a cockroach without injuring himself.

‘Not quite.’ Ella displayed her FBI credentials in their leather folder. She held it steady, knowing he’d scrutinize it properly; old cops always did. ‘I’m Special Agent Dark. This is Special Agent Ripley. Can we come in?’

Cole squinted at the badge, then at their faces again. ‘FBI? What’s this about?’

‘It’s about Frank Sullivan, sir.’

‘Frank? What’s that old bastard gotten himself into now?’ The casual callousness of the question confirmed what Ella already suspected - Cole didn’t know. Ramsey turned to his wife. ‘I’ve got this, Martha.’

His wife gave him a look that telegraphed decades of matrimonial skepticism, then retreated a few steps down the hall but stayed within earshot.

‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but Frank Sullivan is dead, Mr. Cole. May we talk?’ Ella said.

Cole didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe visibly. For a terrifying moment, Ella thought the news might have stopped his heart mid-beat.

Then he exhaled. ‘How?’

‘He was murdered. Last night.’

Cole absorbed this information with the stoicism of a man who’d spent decades absorbing bad news professionally. He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself.

Cole stepped back, leaned heavily on his cane and said, ‘You’d better come in. I’ve been expecting you.’

***

Ramsey Cole’s living room defied Ella’s expectations.

Where Frank’s home had been a shrine to his past, Ramsey’s space revealed a man who’d decisively turned the page.

Former cops usually displayed commendations of their old jobs somewhere, but all Ella could see were photos of grandchildren and an impressive model train set.

She perched on the edge of a chair opposite Cole, who’d settled into what was clearly his permanent spot on the sofa. Ripley opted to stand. She hadn’t changed. When Ripley had something on her mind, she needed that little note of discomfort to keep her grounded.

‘So.’ Ramsey spoke first. ‘Let’s make this official. You want to know who I am?’

‘For the record,’ Ella confirmed.

‘Ramsey James Cole. Born 1946 in Tallahassee. I worked for Palm Harbor PD from ‘67 to ‘99. Retired as Detective Captain that year.’ He recited this history like he was reading his own obituary. ‘Martha’s my third wife. Still got most of my real teeth. Anything else?’

‘Your relationship with Frank Sullivan. Tell us about that.’

‘Relationship? Not really like that, missy. I worked with Frank in the seventies before he left for the Bureau. We’d meet up occasionally. You probably know him better than I do.’

Ella glanced at Ripley but she just gestured for her to continue. Ella guessed she didn’t want to go down that road yet.

‘Were you and Frank partners on the force?’

‘Partners? No. We worked together a few times, but who you were paired with was a roll of the dice.’

‘You kept in touch over the years, correct?’

‘Yes and no. Me and Frank are part of a dying breed. That was enough to keep us in contact. At our age, you need to take all the pals you can get.’

‘Seen him recently?’ Ella asked.

‘Yeah. Sometimes I’d go over to his house, or he’d come here. Last time I saw him was October 28, midday.’

Ramsey’s expression was stone as he recited the date and time of his last meeting with Frank. Maybe there was still a few ounces of cop in him.

‘That tracks with what we read in Frank’s notes.’

‘Martha was there too. She has to drive me, you see. These knees can’t work the gas anymore. You going to tell me how Frank died or what?’

Ella studied the old man, looking for those microscopic facial twitches that betrayed liars. She found nothing but impatience and the genuine confusion of someone dragged into a story they didn’t write.

‘May I show you?’ Ella asked. She wasn’t sure how much this man was willing to view the corpse of his friend, but she wanted Ramsey to be the first to bring up Jennifer Marlowe, not her.

‘Yes.’

‘I warn you, it’s quite graphic.’

Ramey had the decency to look offended. ‘I spent 40 years scraping bodies off sidewalks and pulling them out of swamps. Show me the pictures.’

Ella hesitated only a fraction of a second longer. She drew the glossy crime scene photos from the manila folder. Frank Sullivan, slumped in his recliner. The bloodstain dark on his shirt. And those eyes. She slid the top photo across the coffee table towards Ramsey.

Ramsey’s hand wasn’t steady as he reached for the photos. His arthritic fingers pinched the corners like they might bite. For twenty long seconds, he stared at the image of his friend’s dead body - those white stones where eyes should be – without blinking.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. Once, twice. His neck convulsed as he swallowed hard against something trying to climb up his throat. He pushed the photos back across the coffee table like they were radioactive. A tremor had developed in his left hand, which he tried to hide by gripping his knee.

‘Those are… stones, yes? In his eye sockets?’

‘Yes.’

Ramsey’s complexion had gone gray beneath his Florida tan. For a moment, Ella worried they might need to call an ambulance.

‘And he was shot in the stomach?’

Ella scooped the photos up. ‘You recognize this signature, don’t you, Mr. Cole?’

Ramsey’s eyes darted to Martha, who had reappeared in the doorway, then back to Ella. His mouth set in a hard line; the kind of expression men his age used to wall off emotions they didn’t want to process.

‘Yes I do,’ he said finally. ‘Jennifer Marlowe. 1976. Right before Christmas. Found her sitting upright on her sofa, single gunshot to the abdomen, eyes gone. White stones put in their place.’

‘Just like Frank.’

Ramsey reached for his walking cane but remained seated. He looked upward at nothing. ‘Me and Frank were talking about that case last time we met.’

‘I know. He wrote about it in his notes. You were there, yes? At the original scene?’