Page 30 of Go First
“Yes.He’s my son.”
Marcus leaned forward, his tone sharpening.“But skipping work?That’s out of pattern.You understand how it looks?”
“I know.”Hector’s voice cracked.He raked a hand through his hair, eyes glistening.“But what kind of father puts profit before his child?If Matéo drops out, his life will be changed forever.I had to talk to him."
Kate nodded slowly, weighing his words.“Tell us about that lunch.”
“We met at ataqueríaon Alberta.Kid ate like a bird, man.Same as his mama, can’t eat when he’s upset.He said he wanted to prove himself and earn money.I told him, money is nothing if you lose your future.We argued more, but it was softer this time.At the end, he promised to stick it out until the end of the year.December, I mean, not the school year.But I’m thinking… I’mhoping, by the time he gets to December, he’ll see, ok, now it’s only another six months to go, so…”
His hands trembled slightly now, clasped tight on the table as if bracing himself.Kate could almost see the man teetering between all of his obligations—sashimi chef, delivery-boy, father, pulled in all points of the compass, all at once.
“Time was, I woulda prayed for a steer, but…”
Kate gave a nod of understanding, then she glanced at Marcus.Once again, the alibi was both solid and not quite solid enough.A video call until eleven, then silence.Skipping work the next day, for noble reasons maybe, but it left Hector Martinez drifting outside the safety of routine.From an investigator’s standpoint, he was still exposed.
She softened her voice.“Hector, I believe you love your son.That matters.But right now, it doesn’t clear you.”
Hector’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing.“So I am still a suspect.”
“We have to cover every angle.”
The door opened then, breaking the taut air.Winters stepped in, pale and urgent, whispering to Marcus.His eyes widened, his expression shifting from fatigue to shock.
“What is it?”Kate asked, as the boss darted away again.
Marcus exhaled.“William Harper—the preacher from Atlanta?He was found dead this morning.In his studio.”
Kate blinked.“Harper?The guy with the orphanages?”
“Yeah.Time of death confirmed as today.Early hours of this morning.”
“Scene of crime…” She glanced towards Martinez, careful of what was said.
“Significantly similar.”
The room stilled.Even the hum of the HVAC seemed to fade.Then Kate turned back to Hector.“That means Whitfield’s killer is still active.But it also means you couldn’t have done it.”
Relief flickered across Hector’s face.His hands unclasped, fingers flexing as if blood was rushing back into them.“So it wasn’t me.But someone is still out there.”
Marcus folded his arms, leaning back with a grunt.“It looks that way.And they’re not finished.”
Kate closed her notebook with deliberate calm."You're clear, Hector for now.But stay close.We may need you again."
Hector nodded, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.A weary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.“The truck’s usually on Belmont and Decker, and if I’m not there, I’ll be delivering close by,” he said softly.Then his face sobered.“Please catch them.You know, agents, it's possible to despise somebody, to be very angry with them, and to disagree with them on every level.But you can do that, without wishing them dead.And I never wished anyone dead.”
Kate watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him.She sat for a moment in silence, pen still against her pad, the weight of his plea hanging in the air.Marcus leaned back, running a hand over his face.
“Another preacher down,” he muttered.“Looks like someone’s on a crusade.”
Kate stared at the blank space on her notes where she’d written Harper’s name.Another preacher silenced.Another message carved in blood.The pattern was sharpening, and the killer was still moving.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Harper Broadcasting Center sat on the outskirts of Portland, a hulking gray structure without a shred of the glamour usually associated with television.The building was utilitarian—slabs of concrete and steel softened only by mirrored windows that reflected the blustery mid-morning sky.Kate and Marcus arrived just as a watery sun began to replace some very determined rain.For a network that claimed to reach millions across the globe, the place was surprisingly quiet.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of flowers and ozone from humming equipment.The studio floor was cavernous, banks of cameras and lights looming like silent sentinels.Monitors glowed with test patterns, cables snaked across the floor, but there was no bustling crew, no shouted orders.Only a few CSI technicians in disposable suits moved silently, their radios hissing with clipped voices.
William Harper was slumped at the editing desk, mouth open, chin in a pool of blood.The man who had once filled the airwaves with his resonant, steady voice looked smaller in death, reduced, almost fragile.On screen, Kate remembered him leaning toward the camera, sleeves rolled up, speaking earnestly about orphans in Honduras, clinics in Nepal, clean water in Bolivia.He had positioned himself apart from the gaudy preachers with their mansions and private jets.A practical man of good works.And yet here he was—tongue removed, body folded over his life’s work, posed as carefully as Pastor Whitfield had been.