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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The witness’s name is Gemma, and she’s lovely.

The staff at the shelter clearly adore her, and they run a little interference until Rav assures them she’s not in any trouble. Gemma, for her part, is happy to have a visitor, and receives her new jumper with wet eyes and a hug.

Rav invites her for a bagel and a stroll in the park. She shares half her breakfast with the local pigeons, which is fine. It’s her bagel to do with as she pleases, and the birds obviously bring her joy. “They’ve got so much personality, if you really watch them,” she says.

She’s a little older than Rav originally thought. Other than that, his impression from the video was spot on: she’s warm and personable, and she’ll be devastating on the stand if it goes to trial. She’s easily distracted, but a wise attorney would think twice about going after her too hard on cross. Bullying sweet old ladies is not a good look.

Rav gets her permission to record the conversation, and then he cues up the camera on his smartwatch. He doesn’t use many of the apps on his watch—doesn’t even get push notifications—but every now and then it comes in handy. “I’d like to show you a picture, if that’s all right.” He holds his phone out to her, making sure his watch picks up what’s on the screen. “I thought maybe you could tell me if you recognize this person.”

She holds the phone at arm’s length and squints. “Nice photo. Did you take it?”

“Not personally. I’m not much for taking photos, to be honest.”

“Really? Man, I’d be taking pictures all day long if I had one of these things. I’d be like those kids making pouty lips in front of the Brooklyn Bridge. ’Specially if I had looks like yours.” She winks.

Rav plays along, arching an eyebrow coyly. “Are you flirting with me, Gemma?”

“Something tells me I’m not your type, darlin’.” She laughs her two-packs-a-day laugh, then peers more closely at the photo. “This your man? He’s a looker, too.”

Rav needs to be careful here. It can’t seem like he’s leading her. “Do you recognize him? Here, let’s zoom in a little.”

“Oh wait, yeah. That’s the guy who threw his sweatshirt in the trash.”

Rav’s pulse spikes, but he keeps his voice perfectly level. “You saw this man throw his sweatshirt in the trash?”

“I already told the police. They took it from me. The sweatshirt, I mean.” Her brow creases, and she runs a hand down the sleeve of her new jumper. “Isn’t that why you came? To replace it?”

“Yes. And to ask you one more time if you’re absolutely certain this is the man you saw.” He points at the image again.

“Yeah, that’s him. Like a young Rob Lowe, circa 1983.”

“Thank you, Gemma. I appreciate you speaking with me. Can I escort you somewhere? Back to the shelter, perhaps?”

“Nah, they kick you out in the morning anyway. Figure I’ll head over to Williamsburg again today. It’s nice by the water.”

Rav thanks her again and takes his leave. He can’t give her any money—it might look like he was trying to influence her account—but he vows to check in on her when this is all over. He owes her that, after coming to her under slightly dodgy pretenses.

He digs out his wallet, yanks a business card from its sleeve, and dials the number.

“Charlie Banks.”

“Mr. Banks, it’s Detective Trivedi.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna stop you right there, Detective. I’m just coming out of an emergency meeting at the hotel, and it doesn’t sound like you and I should be talking.”

“We shouldn’t, and it might well mean the end of my career that we are.” Saying the words out loud makes him feel lightheaded, but there’s no turning back now. “May I continue?”

Voices murmur in the background. Rav can only imagine the war council going on in that room. A door clicks, and the voices go quiet. “All right,” Banks says, “go ahead.”

“I need you to arrange a meeting.”

He explains.

The manager is understandably reluctant. “Even if you’re right—which I’m not saying you are—why in God’s name would I put my guy in a room with the police?”

“It’s not an interview. Just some friendly advice from someone who’s trying to help.”

Another pause. Banks is thinking.

“None of the scenarios you’re looking at are good, Mr. Banks. However this plays out, it’s going to be messy.”

“So your pitch is, ‘Hey, Charlie, this is the least shitty of your menu of shitty options.’” He sighs. “I just saw my entire career flash before my eyes.”

“That makes two of us.”

Rav is walking into the hotel lobby twenty minutes later when his phone rings. “Where the hell are you?” Shepard snaps.

“The Palace Hotel.”

A gust of breath, and then silence. “What the fuck , Rav?” He sounds exhausted. “This is it for you. You know that, right?”

“I’m just trying to do the right thing. I hope I am. Either way, I’m sorry.” He hangs up and punches the elevator button, already feeling the first pang of grief. He’s most likely just lost a friend. The first of many things he’ll be losing today.

Charlie Banks is waiting for him outside the appointed room. “They are really not happy in there. I’d buckle up for a rough ride, Detective.”

“It won’t be my first.”

It’s another huge suite, not quite as impressive as the penthouse, but close. Ryan Nash prowls the lounge like a caged tiger. His bodyguard, Erika Strauss, stands near the wall, and the look she’s giving Rav could curdle milk. “This is a bad idea,” she says coldly.

“Five minutes,” Nash says. “If this is anything but what he said—”

“You can address me directly, Mr. Nash,” Rav says. “I’m right here.”

“Yeah, I see you. In your designer fucking suit.”

Says the man living out of five-star hotels. “I’ll cut straight to it then. Someone will be here in a few hours to arrest Jack Vale for the murder of Richard Vanderford. They have evidence that puts Vale at the scene. Security footage from the victim’s building shows a man wearing a distinctive item of clothing—clothing that was later recovered and is at the lab right now.”

The bass player stiffens.

“There’s blood on the sleeve,” Rav goes on. “Probably Vanderford’s. And they have a witness who identified Vale as the man disposing of it in a dustbin not far from Vanderford’s building at the approximate time of the murder. It will be more than enough for them to indict. But you and I both know it’s not Jack in that security video.” His gaze travels over Nash as he says it—dark hair, slender frame, tattooed arms. He doesn’t get Rob Lowe, but he certainly sees Jack Vale.

“Don’t say anything , Ryan,” his bodyguard growls.

“I should get my lawyer in here,” Nash says.

“By all means, though if you’re referring to Joanne Reid or one of her colleagues, I’d consider whether they are your best advocates. Ms. Reid is currently acting as Mr. Vale’s attorney. Your interests may not be aligned.”

Nash scowls. “Of course they’re aligned. Jack is my brother.”

“That’s good to hear. Because I will tell you candidly that I don’t give a damn about you, Ryan.” He looks the bass player right in the eye as he says it. “I’m here for Jack. He’s protecting you, and if he continues to do so, there’s a very good chance he’ll take the fall for this. For you .”

“I don’t know what you’re on about. I have an alibi for that night, remember?”

“I do. You were at a friend’s shooting pool. Your mates are obviously lying for you, but that’s neither here nor there. Jack is the one on the hook for this murder, and he doesn’t have an alibi.”

Nash’s jaw twitches. “He’ll be cleared.”

“Really? You must have a lot of faith in the criminal justice system.”

“It’s not the cops I have faith in, it’s the lawyers.”

Frustration surges in Rav’s belly, but he tamps it down. “Here’s the thing. I watched Jack’s reaction when he looked at that photo, and there was no question in my mind he knew who he was looking at. That distinctive item of clothing I mentioned? He’s seen it before. Which means you’ve worn it before. If Jack has ever come into contact with it, or you came into contact with anything of his while wearing it—a guitar strap, say, or a hat you borrowed. Maybe you sat beside him on the plane. All it takes is a single hair. Some dried saliva, or a flake of dandruff.”

He’s exaggerating, but most people are only too willing to believe in the magical forensics they see on TV.

“If they find his DNA on that jumper, the witness is just gravy. Vale has a strong motive, and he was seen arguing with the victim two days before the murder. With due respect to Ms. Reid, she’s going to have a very hard time keeping her client out of prison.”

“You’ve decided it wasn’t Jack,” Erika Strauss puts in coolly. She’s texting someone—the lawyers, Rav suspects. “Who’s to say the FBI won’t do the same?”

“True. Something about the witness’s description stuck with me. She described a dark-haired man with a slight build and movie-star good looks, with a tattoo on his forearm. If she’d left it there, I might have assumed the same as everyone else, that she was talking about Jack Vale.” His glance shifts back to Nash. “Then she described the man she saw as angry , and it clicked. I remembered looking at an album cover and thinking how very angry you looked, and also how much you and Jack looked alike. In the right circumstances—a dark street, say, from half a block away—it would be easy to mistake one of you for the other. So I spoke to the witness again. I showed her your photo, and this time, it was you she ID’d.” He shrugs. “Which version of the story should we believe? I believe this version because I want to, but I wouldn’t count on my colleagues doing the same.”

“They might,” Nash says defiantly.

“Then what? They come after you instead. By which point the New Knickerbockers have been in the news for months, maybe even years if it goes to trial. Jack has been put through hell, the Nicks brand is fatally damaged, and you’re on the hook for Vanderford’s murder. Is that really your best-case scenario? Taking the longest, most painful route to the same destination?”

There’s an uncomfortable silence. Charlie Banks clears his throat. “I think this is the part where you offer us a better alternative, Detective.”

“The better alternative is that Ryan turns himself in.”

Nash shakes his head, but there’s a desperation to it now. “I didn’t kill him.”

“Even if that’s true—”

The door opens and Joanne Reid strides into the room, Jack hot on her heels. “Detective Trivedi,” she says coldly. “I am extremely disappointed to find this interview taking place without my knowledge.”

Rav rubs his stinging eyes. He’s fucking exhausted. “I’ll add you to the list of people who are extremely disappointed in me. It’s rather long, I’m afraid.” Inevitably, his glance strays to Jack as he says that.

Jack looks exhausted too, pale and drawn, with dark circles under his eyes. “What are you doing here, Rav?”

“Trying to keep you out of prison.” He turns back to Ryan Nash. “Whether you killed him or not, you need to turn yourself in. It’ll be better for you in the long run, and it will certainly be better for Jack. You say he’s your brother, so act like it. Don’t let him take a bullet for you.”

Joanne Reid glances sharply at Jack. This is obviously news to her, but she recovers quickly. “Detective—”

“I’m not here as a detective. By the end of the day, there’s a good chance I won’t even be a detective anymore.”

There’s a beat of silence as the room processes that. “Shit,” Banks says.

“Talk some sense into your client, Ms. Reid. Both of them. It would be absurd to let Jack to take the fall for this. If Ryan truly is innocent, he’s better off working with the authorities. Depending on what happened, there may even be a way forward that doesn’t result in felony charges. But I promise you that path will be closed if you make them hunt you.”

Nash looks at Jack.

Jack looks at the floor.

Nash nods slowly, as if coming to a decision. “He was dead when I got there.”

Everyone starts talking at once.

“Ryan, don’t—”

“I strongly recommend—”

“ Stop. ”

He ignores them all. “Whoever did it was already gone. I checked for a pulse, and then I got out of there. When I realized there was blood on the jumper, I threw it out. That’s it.”

Rav sighs. “This isn’t my case anymore, Ryan. I’m not the one you need to tell.”

“I didn’t kill him. I just went there to shake him up. Maybe hurt him a little, but—”

“ Ryan ,” Joanne Reid snaps. “If you don’t stop talking, I can’t help you.”

“You should listen to your lawyer,” Rav says. “There’s nothing to be gained by telling me this.”

“There is.” Nash looks at his bandmate. “Now you know for sure. Jack wasn’t there.”

Rav nods at his feet. “Thank you, but I came to that conclusion on my own. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He resists the urge to glance at Jack. He doesn’t expect forgiveness. “I’ll leave you to talk it over. Good luck.”

He’s waiting for the elevator when he hears his name. Jack stands in the hallway, foot jammed in the door to keep it from locking him out. “Did you mean what you said in there?” he asks quietly. “Are they going to fire you?”

“Maybe. They’ll start by suspending me.”

“That’s such bullshit.” He sounds as tired as Rav feels. “You don’t deserve that.”

As if that matters. If people got what they deserved, the world wouldn’t need homicide detectives. Besides, maybe he does deserve it. He knew he was playing with fire. Can he really complain if he got burned?

“What will you do?”

“If they fire me?” Rav shrugs. “Travel for a spell, maybe. Or I could go back to school.”

Jack’s eyes meet his, clouded with regret. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.” The elevator dings . Rav glances inside and is relieved to find it empty. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone right now. “I still have your notebook.”

“Keep it. Something to remember me by.”

The elevator starts to close. Rav sticks his arm between the doors, as if the extra few seconds that buys him will be enough. Later, he’ll remember that image: Jack with his foot in the doorway, Rav with his arm blocking the elevator, both of them trying to keep the doors open just a little longer. “Take care of yourself, Jack.”

“You, too.”

Rav steps into the elevator, and the doors close behind him.