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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“And you believe him?” Agent Rice asks.

“We do,” says Lieutenant Howard. “The witness appears to have identified Vale in error. My team is partly to blame. We provided her with a photo lineup on the basis of her description, but that lineup did not include Ryan Nash. There’s every reason to suppose she would have identified him the first time had she been given the opportunity.”

Rav has to give it to the LT, she’s handling this meeting brilliantly. Especially considering she only had a few minutes to sit with all this before the three of them—Howard, Rav, and Will—headed into the city to brief the FBI. Howard was keen to get it over with. The discussion around Rav’s disciplinary situation, meanwhile, has been deferred until after they’ve dealt with the feds.

“We understand Ryan Nash plans to come forward later today,” Howard goes on.

“Sounds like you’ve been in touch with him,” says Agent Keller. “First a witness and now a suspect. Do we have a jurisdiction problem?”

“My guys were following a hunch,” Howard says, frost bristling on every word. “Once we confirmed the evidence, we brought it to you, and we now leave the matter in the capable hands of the Bureau.”

“We’re grateful,” Rice says. “The truth is, we haven’t spent much time on the Vanderford side of the investigation. We’ve been too focused on Miller.”

“Any progress there?” Howard asks.

“He knows we’re looking, and he’s gone to ground. Even deleted his social media profiles. Fortunately, our digital forensics team was able to recover bits and pieces, and they turned up some solid evidence of his connection to Vanderford.”

“So you said on our call last week.” Howard’s tone is still cool. “May I ask what kind of evidence?”

“Photos,” Keller says. “Miller posted a selfie from the pier near Vanderford’s building, with Vanderford himself in the background.”

“Could be a coincidence,” Will points out. “Great view of Manhattan from there. People take selfies in that spot all the time.”

“Maybe,” says Keller, “but how many have Dick Vanderford in them? Plus, we’ve got a shot of the two of them sitting together in a café five blocks away, time-stamped the same day. Two photos, different sources. They corroborate each other.”

Rav is having a hard time digesting this. Miller and Vanderford together? What, just grabbing lunch? “Where did the second photo come from?”

“Mailed in anonymously,” Keller says. “Someone from the label, we think, who saw them together and wondered what the head of the label was doing meeting with a known stalker.”

“What was he doing?” Howard asks. “Presumably you have a theory.”

“We believe the Concord incident was an attempted murder for hire,” Rice informs them.

“A contract killing?” Rav blurts. “Seriously?”

Rice hears the doubt in his voice, and she doesn’t appreciate it. “We were as surprised as you,” she says coolly, “but evidence from the victim’s laptop points in that direction. We found messages from Vanderford to an email address linked to Miller giving inside details on how to evade security at the Concord show.”

Howard looks sharply at Rav. “How did we miss that? Who was responsible for looking through his emails?”

“I was.” If they’re going to put him on administrative leave anyway, he might as well take one for the team.

But Will isn’t having it. “No, I was. The initial report from the analyst came up empty, so I went through his emails personally. I don’t know how I missed it. Sorry, LT.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Rice says, “we almost missed it ourselves. The messages were carefully worded. If we hadn’t received a tip about links between Vanderford and Miller, we might not have realized what we were looking at.”

Howard doesn’t look mollified, but she lets it go. “I take it you think Vanderford ordered the hit?”

“Correct.”

Rav knows he should keep his mouth shut, but he just doesn’t see it. Dick Vanderford, record executive, calls up a stalker from out of state and asks if he would mind murdering the label’s top talent? And Miller just agrees? “Why?”

Rice looks at him. “Why what, Detective?”

“For starters, why would Dick Vanderford want Jack Vale dead?”

“Vale was making his life hell,” Keller says. “That whole business with the master recordings was a PR nightmare. Now here’s this stalker making Vale’s life hell. How convenient is that? He’s the perfect fall guy. Nobody would connect the dots to Vanderford. Plus, Vanderford cashes in big-time when sales of the Nicks’ back catalogue go wild.”

It’s possible, Rav supposes. Vanderford had already had a taste of how lucrative tragedy can be, having profited handsomely from Tommy Esposito’s death. But would he really stoop to murder? On top of which… “How does he end up dead?”

“Maybe Miller panicked when things didn’t go to plan. Or maybe he realized Vanderford was playing him.” Keller shrugs.

“It just seems awfully elaborate,” Rav says. “There are easier ways to hire a killer. Professionals who aren’t going to endanger innocents or do something unpredictable that might lead back to the person who hired them.”

“Who says Miller isn’t a professional? You said yourself you thought Vanderford’s murder looked like the work of a pro.”

“Because the killer was trained and dispassionate. The man I met at the skate park was neither of those things.”

“We’ll take that under advisement,” Rice says.

In other words, fuck you .

“Do you have any leads on Miller’s whereabouts?” Howard asks.

“We’re trying to get into his cloud account, but Fuse is stonewalling us.”

No surprise there. Of all the tech giants, Fuse is the fussiest on matters of privacy. They’ve slammed the door in Rav’s face more times than he can count—but that was before he met Aisha. “There may be another way. I have an asset who’s highly effective at getting around technological barriers.”

“A hacker?” Rice shakes her head. “We can’t use anything gained through illegal means.”

“Of course, but she may be able to point us in the direction of evidence we can use—”

Thing One and Thing Two rise in unison and button their jackets. “Always a pleasure to speak with our friends in the NYPD,” Rice says. “We’ll interview Nash and Vale, and if it looks like this is a routine homicide after all, we’ll kick it back to you. You all have a good day now.”

And that’s that.

There’s an icy silence in the elevator on the way down. Howard waits until they’re outside, and then she lets Rav have it. “It is a curiosity to me, Detective, that you would presume to tell the FBI how to do their jobs given the position you’re in.”

Rav is too frustrated to hold his tongue. “Don’t tell me you buy that bullshit theory? Dick Vanderford hired a stalker to assassinate Jack Vale?”

“No one is asking you to buy it. But you could trust your fellow professionals to do their jobs. We’ve talked about this. Sometimes you need to step back and let others take charge, and this is one of those times.”

“Is it, though? Because it sounds to me like they don’t give a damn who actually killed Vanderford as long as they can put somebody in prison for it.”

“Gotta say, LT, I agree,” Will puts in quietly. “Feels like they’re phoning this one in.”

Howard sighs and resumes walking toward the car. “They do seem quite happy to shoehorn the facts into their theory.”

“I’m not even sure I believe Miller is out to kill Jack Vale,” Rav says. “Seems to me he worships Vale.”

“Both things can be true,” Howard says. “More to the point, it doesn’t matter what we think. It’s not our case.”

Will’s glance cuts between them. “What happens now?”

“Detective Trivedi will be placed on administrative leave pending an investigation.”

Rav expected as much, but it still lands like a body blow. Amazing how quickly everything you’ve worked for can turn to ash. “How long do you think it will take?”

“I wouldn’t care to speculate. The circumstances in this case are unusual, if not unprecedented.” She waits for Will to get in the car before adding, “I’m disappointed in you, Trivedi. I thought we had an understanding. Now your career is on life support, your working relationships are in tatters, and I’m short a detective. If you’d just waited until the investigation was concluded…”

She doesn’t get it. He’s been waiting since college. Putting everyone and everything aside for his career. And that was okay. He never worried about what it cost him, who it cost him, until he met Jack. “If I’d waited…” He swallows and looks away. “If I’d waited, I might have missed my chance.”

“So you seized the day. And how’d that turn out?”

Rav recalls his own words from earlier this morning. Is that really your best-case scenario? Taking the longest, most painful route to the same destination? “Touché,” he says, and he gets in the car.

Rav spends his first day of administrative leave sprawled on the sofa flipping through Jack’s little black notebook, hot-pink elastic wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet, “Say Yes to Heaven” playing on repeat at max volume. He’s painfully aware that he’s living out the Sad Breakup Scene of some terrible rom-com. All he’s missing is a gallon of ice cream and an ugly-cry with his besties. Only there’s no dramatic makeup scene just around the corner. No Jack on the street below his window holding a boom box over his head. No Rav barging into Jack’s place and making a grand romantic speech in front of everyone. Those things don’t happen in real life, and besides, this wasn’t even a relationship. It was one night , for god’s sake. He has more extensive intimate histories with people whose names he can’t remember.

The notebook isn’t helping. Now that he’s finally seen what’s inside, he realizes just how precious a gift it is. The words on these pages are raw, unfiltered. The prose veers from angry to hopeful to reflective, circling around the central theme of grief. Some pages contain just a few stray lines; others fully formed songs. Sometimes it’s possible to trace the evolution of an idea from a handful of words to a song from the Nicks’ latest album. It’s a chronicle of Jack’s journey over the past couple of years, emotional and artistic. Why would he part with this? How can he possibly think Rav deserves to have it?

There’s one lyric he keeps coming back to, from a song called “Prism.”

All those little moments I recall

Hang like pictures on my wall

The truth just out of frame

Gallery of my shame

And I can’t go back

Can’t take it back

It resonates. Dwelling on specific moments, wishing you could go back and do things differently…

Bloody hell, Trivedi. Are we brooding over song lyrics like a teen ager now? Meanwhile, he’s barely given a thought to the fact that his career is going down in flames. When did he become this person?

Ana calls him up that evening to give him shit. Not for getting involved with a former suspect, mind, but for not telling her about it. “You could have trusted me with this, Rav.”

“I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position.”

“What’s awkward? You didn’t do anything wrong. Of course they’re looking into it, as they should, but all they’re gonna find is a couple of dudes who wanted to get it on and saw no reason they shouldn’t.”

“I knew there was a chance it could blow up in my face.” He slumps against the kitchen counter in his Thom Browne sweats. “I was just so caught up.”

“No doubt. Jack Vale. I knew you had rizz, Trivedi, but daaaamn .”

“You’re not helping.”

“You’re laughing, aren’t you?” Sirens wail in the background. Ana sounds a little out of breath, walking at the speed of New York. “Man, I cannot wait to hear how you go from liking him for murder to… how far did you get, anyhow?” He can hear that wicked grin in her voice.

“Ah, I see. You’re not calling to commiserate. You want the dirt.”

“Of course I want the dirt!”

“Well, there’s not much to tell. It was a one-time thing, and it’s done now.”

“I’m sorry, baby. That sucks.”

“I just wish I could go back and do things differently, you know?” Before he can finish the thought, his door buzzes. “Hold on, there’s someone downstairs.”

“Yeah, it’s me. Hurry up and buzz me in, this ice cream is melting.”

Half a pint of double fudge and two stiff whiskeys later, Ana says, “What would you do different?” She’s curled up on the leather armchair, tiny feet tucked up beneath her, licking her spoon. Rav, meanwhile, is stretched out on the sofa like he’s seeing his therapist. Which he kind of is.

“What do you mean?”

“Before, you said you wished you could go back and change things. Is it that you wish you’d acted differently, or you wish things were different?”

“I guess I’m not sure,” he admits. “All I know is that I feel like an idiot.”

“We are all fools in love.”

Rav frowns at the ceiling. “Did you just Jane Austen me?”

“Look, I know you, Rav. If there was a way to keep Jack in your life without risking your career, you would have found it. You took a chance, actually went for it for once. I’m proud of you.”

“Because it turned out so well.”

“Just because it didn’t work out doesn’t mean it was the wrong call.”

“Even if I lose my job?”

“You’re not gonna lose your job. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks you’re back on duty by the end of the month.”

“Even if you’re right, it won’t be the same. I let the squad down. Will and Howard and everybody, not to mention every gay cop who already deals with enough bullshit without me giving us all a bad name.”

Ana groans. “ Por favor. As if the entire department is looking to you to represent. I hate to break it to you, Trivedi, but you might not be the queer law enforcement icon you think you are.”

“Narcissism?”

“So much.” Her voice softens. “You’re not an avatar for gay cops, okay? You’re a flesh-and-blood person, and you gotta do what’s right for you , in your heart. Forget about other people’s bullshit.”

Rav carves out another spoonful of double fudge. “You know, I should pay you for this,” he says, circling his spoon to indicate his therapeutically positioned self.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

Later that evening, his mother calls. He lets it go to voicemail. If she finds out he’s on admin leave, he’ll never hear the end of it. Maybe now you’ll go to law school like you should have in the first place. Then there’s His Lordship. What will he say? Just imagining it makes Rav’s heart beat faster, as if he’s about to sit an exam he’s not ready for.

The worst part is that he can’t help wondering if they’re right. If he should have just followed in his father’s footsteps, done the whole lawyer/judge/politician thing like they wanted. It’s not too late. Maybe this is a sign.

There’s just one problem: Rav loves being a cop. Not everything about it, of course, not by a long shot. But that burning inside him, that need to solve the case… He feels it right now, an anxiety that has him pacing around his apartment like a caged animal. The FBI is wrong about Miller and Vanderford, he’s sure of it. But there’s something there. A connection, just not the one they’re seeing.

It’s not your problem , he tells himself. Let. It. Go.

And maybe he could, if he hadn’t failed Jack that day in the skate park. He let Miller slip through his fingers for a second time. There won’t be a third. The FBI might not want his help, but they’re going to get it.

Picking up his phone, he calls Aisha Khan.