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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

There’s a full twenty seconds of silence on the line.

Rav doesn’t trust himself to speak. Doesn’t trust himself to do anything but stand there, keys in one hand and phone in the other, staring at that little black notebook with the hot-pink rubber band.

“Rav? Are you still—”

“Is she sure?” His voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “Is she absolutely certain?”

“Yes. She identified him without being prompted.”

“She mentioned him by name?”

“No, but she described him to a T, and she picked him out of a photo lineup.”

An image flashes into Rav’s mind: Jack Vale standing on this very spot, gray hood pulled up over his head as he kicks off his shoes.

“There’s blood on it, too, on the sleeve. It’ll have to be sent to the lab, but I think we both know what they’re gonna find.”

Rav drops his keys in the bowl and grips the edge of the sideboard until it hurts. “Who did the interview?”

“Ayalew. I was there for the last half hour or so. She was good, Rav. Kept the witness on track without rattling her. No prompting or leading questions. You can watch the video for yourself. The witness doesn’t have a doubt in her mind that it was Vale she saw.”

That’s when it all crashes together, one shuddering blow after another, like the cars of a freight train linking up on the tracks. All the little things that passed him by, that meant nothing on their own but added up to something he should have seen, would have seen if he’d been thinking with something other than his dick. Jack using a hooded sweatshirt to go incognito in Rav’s building. Have you heard the news? We’re getting our masters back. Jack being trained to use a gun. My last bodyguard took me to the firing range a bunch last year. Jack telling him how to bypass the security cameras in the hotel. Even the so-called deepfake video on his social media accounts.

“I’ll call you back.” Rav thumbs off the call, walks into the bathroom, and throws up.

He stays there awhile, sitting on the floor with his head between his knees. He sees it so clearly now. ángel Morillo and Erika Strauss called him up that day to feel him out, see whether he was buying the FBI’s theory. Vale had already got what he wanted: control over his precious master recordings, revenge on the man who’d cashed in on his best friend’s death. The FBI was looking at someone else for the murder. Vale was almost home free; they just needed to make sure Rav was willing to let it go. Instead he kept sniffing around, which made him a problem. He had to be taken out of the equation, and what better way than a cooked-up allegation of misconduct?

It’s a clever play. Leak a sensational story on social media, putting the NYPD on the defensive and making sure the DA won’t move unless the case is airtight. Deflect responsibility by claiming your account was hacked, then issue a watered-down statement that falls short of denying that the police acted inappropriately, leaving yourself enough wiggle room to revive those allegations should the need arise. It’s the perfect insurance policy—not that they need it. Rav gave them all the leverage they needed the moment he got onto that elevator at the Palace Hotel.

He can’t help thinking about those sight lines he worried about on the terrace. Was that his intuition trying to break through the haze? Hey, Rav, remember me? Your brain? Not the one the rock star is straddling, the other one. Was Mo stationed somewhere nearby with a zoom lens? Is there a photo of them kissing on that terrace? Or… oh god… on the sofa… It doesn’t matter that it was consensual. Rav is compromised, and that means the investigation is compromised, too.

He can hear his phone buzzing in the hallway. Shepard is not done with this conversation. Rav drags himself to his feet and answers.

“Tell me you’re not sleeping with him.”

Rav braces a hand against the wall as another wave of nausea washes over him.

“ Tell me you’re not fucking our suspect, Rav. ”

He can’t even muster a response.

“Stay where you are,” Shepard says coldly, and the line goes dead.

He must bomb his way across the bridge, because he’s there in less than half an hour, bursting through Rav’s unlocked door and pacing furiously in front of the sofa. “How long?”

It would be humiliating, being interrogated by your partner like this, if Rav could feel anything past the numbness. “Strictly professional until after we’d cleared him as a suspect. Not that anyone will care.”

“You’re right, they won’t. Assuming they even believe you. Why would you put yourself in this position, Rav? Your career, this case—totally fucked. The DA is gonna side-eye every bit of evidence we’ve got. Federal prosecutors, too. Even if they want to charge him, they’re gonna have to weigh it against the shitstorm he could cause.”

Rav just nods. He can’t deny it.

“You knew there was a chance this investigation could boomerang. Until it was put to bed, there was always a chance. Why would you roll the dice like that?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Will. I fucked up.”

“ You’re damned right you fucked up! They’re gonna think I covered for you, of course. And don’t even get me started on how this plays out for you. Everything you’ve worked for down the drain, and for what? So you could fuck a celebrity?”

“He wasn’t a suspect anymore. It wasn’t my case anymore.” It sounds like a pathetic excuse, which it is.

“Yeah, you go ahead and cling to that technicality. Maybe you’ll keep your badge, but you’ll be damaged goods forevermore.” Will rubs a hand roughly over his jaw, already bristling with stubble at two-thirty in the morning. “Did he do this on purpose? Did he set you up?”

This.

This is the part that makes him sick to his stomach. The thought that what happened between them was nothing more than a performance, and he fell for it. He fell for it so hard .

“I guess it doesn’t matter. Either way, you’ve basically handed him a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

It matters , Rav wants to say. It fucking matters.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do. First thing in the morning, we’re gonna meet with Lieutenant Howard. Then we’re gonna turn this evidence over to the FBI, you and me. Maybe if we’re the ones who do it…”

It’s as good a plan as any. Whether it will be enough to save his job is anyone’s guess. Everything I’ve worked for. Ten years of doing everything just right, of giving up anything resembling a personal life, and now this.

He pours himself another drink after Shepard leaves, even though he can barely taste it. He can still taste the Macallan, though. He can still taste Jack’s skin.

How could he have got it so wrong?

The next thing he knows, his phone is in his hand.

Are you awake

I need to talk to you right now

I’m coming to you

And now he’s in a car heading uptown, and this is probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life, but he’s on autopilot. He has to know. His career is already torched. At least this way, he can look Jack in the eye and ask the question.

The hotel is quiet at this hour. A couple of die-hard fans loiter on the sidewalk outside with vinyl copies of Background , hoping for autographs. Rav scans the lobby for any sign of paparazzi, and then he heads for the elevator. He’s still got the key card—they’d planned to get together again later—and it gets him to the top floor. There’s no answer to his knock, so he calls Jack’s phone. When that doesn’t work, he knocks again, and then he uses the key, pausing in the entryway to listen. He can just make out the sound of an acoustic guitar coming from somewhere nearby.

“Jack.”

The music stops. There’s a pause, followed by the sound of the doors in the sunroom being opened. “Hello? Is someone there?”

“It’s Rav.”

Jack appears in the entryway, looking just as he always does in Rav’s dreams: barefoot, faded jeans, T-shirt. It fucking hurts . “Hi,” he says, a little warily. He’s understandably taken aback by Rav just showing up at three in the morning. “Is everything okay?”

Rav can’t imagine how he must look right now, half-drunk and desperate, still wearing the same clothes Jack peeled off him a couple of hours ago. “Tell me you weren’t there.”

“Where?”

“Dick Vanderford’s flat, the night he was killed. I need you to tell me it wasn’t you.”

For a second Jack just stares. Confusion flickers through his eyes—followed swiftly by anger. “Are you serious?”

“I need to hear you say it.”

“You already have. You asked me where I was that night and I gave you my answer. If you didn’t believe me, why did you come here? Why did any of this happen?” He gestures at the sofa, where they’d been tangled around each other just hours ago. “Or were you just saving this conversation until after I’d sucked your dick?”

Heat floods Rav’s face. Is that really what you think of me , he starts to say—and then he realizes how ironic that response would be. He’s the one accusing Jack of murder, after all.

He pulls up an image on his phone and holds it out wordlessly. It’s a screenshot of the security footage from Vanderford’s building, showing the mysterious figure in the hooded sweatshirt as he slinks out of the lobby. Jack frowns and takes it—and then his brow clears. He stares at the screen for several long seconds, and his whole body tightens up: his spine, his shoulders, the line of his mouth. He hands the phone back. “That’s not me.”

“A witness ID’d you. She’s positive it was you she saw.”

“It’s not me,” he says again, grimly.

“You have no alibi. You say you were here writing music—”

“That’s right. Just like I was doing five minutes ago, when you showed up here. It’s what I do late at night.”

“But you can’t prove it, and no one is going to take your word for it.”

“Not even you, apparently.”

“I’m trying to help you, Jack.”

Something passes through Jack’s eyes that might be regret. Then he says, “I think you’d better leave.”

Rav nods slowly. Whatever else is going on here, Jack is lying to him, and that’s enough. “You should call your lawyer,” he says as he turns away. “The FBI will be here in the morning.”

Three hours later, Rav is sitting at his desk watching the video of the interview with the witness. Will was right, Ayalew does a great job. She’s patient. Methodical. The witness rambles a bit, and there are times when she seems a little confused, but she never wavers about where she got the jumper or who she saw stuffing it in the trash. Ayalew circles back again and again, and each time the answers are the same. It’s a textbook interview. Nothing for the defense to grab hold of, nothing for the prosecution to trip over.

Danny Jobs drifts in around seven, and he smirks when he sees Rav sitting there, rumpled and unshaven, head slumped in his hand. “You look like shit, buddy.” Then he sees what’s on Rav’s screen, and the smirk widens. “The Vanderford witness, huh? Too bad you didn’t snag her back when it was your case.”

“Fuck off, Danny.” It sounds so weary and defeated that Jobs actually pauses, his expression softening.

“Take some advice, kid. Don’t obsess over the ones that got away. Especially not for shitbags like Dick Vanderford. He ain’t worth losing sleep over.”

Jiménez arrives a few minutes later. He and Jobs are working a new case, so they’re pulling long hours right now. He glances at Rav’s screen as he walks past, and he grunts. “Ain’t that a kick in the ass? I was sure that sweatshirt thing was a dead end.”

Rav doesn’t answer, too absorbed in the video. He clicks the back button and replays something.

“He was a looker, I remember that,” the witness says. She’s an older lady, around sixty-five, with laugh lines framing her eyes. She could be anybody’s slightly addled grandmother.

“You thought he was good-looking?” says Ayalew’s voice, off-screen.

“Well, he was too young for me ,” the witness says with a rough, two-packs-a-day laugh. “But he had movie-star looks. Shame about the tattoo, though. Why do young people all have tattoos these days?”

“Where was the tattoo?”

The witness touches her forearm absently. “I suppose it’s because they’re all so angry .”

“Was the young man in the sweatshirt angry?”

“Sure looked it. Guess you’d have to be, to rip the shirt from your back and stuff it in the trash.” She laughs for a second before a worried look comes over her. “When will I get it back? The nights are still chilly, and warm clothes are hard to come by.”

Rav hits pause. Watches that last bit again.

“Hey, man.” Jiménez rolls his chair over, curious. “What’re you looking for, anyway?”

If only Rav knew. Something is nagging at him, but he can’t put his finger on it.

“Seems pretty straightforward to me,” Jiménez says. “She ID’d Vale as the guy she saw throwing the sweatshirt in the trash. End of story. Why’re you obsessing over this interview?”

“Because it’s not him,” Rav blurts.

“Not him? Bro, are you listening to this lady? It’s definitely him.”

“He has a famous face,” Rav says weakly.

“Yeah? You think she watches MTV at the shelter?”

“It’s not him. I know it’s not, I just can’t…” Rav shakes his head. He’s so tired he can barely finish a sentence.

“Listen, man, every cop likes to think he’s got superhuman instincts. Like he just knows shit, down here.” Jiménez points to his gut. “But take my word for it. I’ve been doing this a long time, and if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…” He taps Rav’s screen. “That, my friend, is a duck.”

“He’s right,” Jobs puts in. “Vale has motive, means, and opportunity. A witness ID’d him at the scene. It’s a slam dunk.”

Rav’s eyes are still glued to the screen. He jumps back another five minutes.

Jiménez shakes his head. “You should listen to your elders, bro,” he says, and rolls his chair away.

Well, that certainly sounds familiar. Lieutenant Howard said something almost identical in his performance evaluation. Has a tendency to over-rely on his own instincts instead of benefitting from the experience of senior colleagues. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Jiménez is right, and instincts are just bullshit, stories we tell ourselves when we don’t want to accept the evidence in front of us. The evidence in front of him says Jack Vale is a killer. A slam dunk, everything pointing to the same conclusion.

Everything except Jack standing in the entryway of his hotel room, barefoot and broken, looking Rav right in the eye. It’s not me.

Rav clicks play.

“ Was the young man in the sweatshirt angry? ”

“ Sure looked it. Guess you’d have to be, to rip the shirt from your back and stuff it in the trash. ”

Rav picks up his keys and his phone. He walks to the Foot Locker on Pitkin and buys a nice warm hoodie.

Then, for the second time that day, he calls an Uber and gets ready to do something incredibly stupid.