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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Rav is on desk duty this week, getting ready to testify in the trial of a guy he arrested last year. That means his evenings are free, and he gets started at the stroke of 5 P.M. on Monday, calling up Aisha as he leaves the office. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Hasn’t deterred you from calling me every five minutes. You’re pretty pushy for a guy begging favors.”

“You know I have a good reason. Besides, this isn’t just a favor. You’re hoping to impress Jack’s security team, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She cracks a can of something fizzy and gulps it noisily. “I hear he’s in Europe these days. You must be bummed. Long-distance relationships suck.”

Especially when you’re not even sure it’s a relationship. Aloud, he says, “At least he’s out of Miller’s reach. That’s a pretty big upside.”

“Unless Miller decides to come after you instead.”

“You watch too many movies,” he says, as if he didn’t go full Jason Bourne at a food market yesterday.

“Uh, we’re finding dead bodies and tracking down Russian hackers. Pretty sure this is a movie.”

Bloody hell, he’d almost managed to forget the Russians.

“Which, by the way, there’s more to that strange little tale. I got to thinking about what you said before. Why would Russian hackers fake a story about Jack Vale being harassed by the cops? Not just the usual bots spreading bullshit, either. They went to a lot of trouble. Deepfake video, phony blog, the works. So I took a closer look at their imaginary blogger and his deleted website, and now I’m thinking it’s fishy.”

“Fishy how?”

“There’s clues in the metadata that point to Russians, but the baseline doesn’t fit. As if someone deliberately left a trail of breadcrumbs so that if anyone came looking, they’d be led in a specific direction.”

“Someone’s covering their tracks?”

“Maybe. Either way, it’s a dead end.”

Disappointing, but Rav has more urgent matters on his mind. “Do you still have Miller’s Fuse credentials?”

“Depends if he changed them. Even if he hasn’t, there’s probably not much to find. If he’s smart, he’s wiped that account clean. We still have the old stuff, but—”

“Hold on. What old stuff?”

“Everything in his cloud. I backed up his phone when we signed in that first time.”

Rav does a full three-sixty pirouette on the sidewalk, pumping his fist in the air. “You are a national treasure.” Also a criminal, but he’s willing to overlook that part right now. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“I thought you already had what you needed. You told me they recovered his phone at the scene.”

“The FBI has the device, but even if they managed to unlock it, they certainly didn’t send copies to me.”

“My bad, but I still don’t see how it helps you. Like I said, it’s old information. What are you hoping to find?”

Right now, he’s more interested in what he won’t find, at least if his hunch is right.

The link from Aisha is waiting in his inbox by the time he gets home. He’s up until the wee hours going through Miller’s emails, and first thing in the morning, he corners his partner. “You didn’t fuck up.”

Shepard arches an eyebrow. “Thanks?”

“Vanderford’s emails.”

“Um.” Will glances at Howard’s open door. “Should we be talking about this while we’re on duty?”

Rav looks at his watch. 8:58. “We have two minutes. And you didn’t fuck up.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna have to back up—”

“The FBI took over the Vanderford case because of emails he supposedly sent to Joe Miller, right?”

“Okay, yeah. You’re talking about the messages they found on his laptop. Where he tells Miller how to bypass security at the Concord. Howard was pissed because I missed them.”

“Except you didn’t,” Rav repeats patiently. “Those emails don’t exist, at least not on Miller’s end. Neither does the photo he supposedly posted—the selfie on the waterfront, with Vanderford in the background. Nothing on Miller’s phone indicates he’s ever met Dick Vanderford.”

“How do you…? Oh, right, your hacker.”

“Vanderford and Miller never corresponded. Either the FBI lied about those emails, or they’re phony, just like the roommate said.”

“Or—and stop me if I’m being crazy here—Miller deleted them.”

“Except I found plenty of other incriminating material on his phone. Photos, emails, texts, all proving he was stalking Jack for months. If he was trying to dispose of the evidence, why not delete all of it?”

“Maybe he used an email that doesn’t push to his phone. A Hotmail, or—”

“His Hotmail did push to his phone, along with three other email addresses. Why is this so hard for you to believe?”

Will’s eyebrows jump. “That the FBI or some shadowy third party is fabricating evidence? You saw the guy stab Morillo with your own eyes.”

“I’m not suggesting Miller is innocent, but there’s so much that doesn’t add up. Did you know the bullet they dug out of Mo’s shoulder was a .32 caliber? Vanderford and Greg Watson were shot with a .40 S&W. If all three shootings were Miller, why is he suddenly changing guns?”

“Rav…” Shepard sighs. “I wanna have your back, man, but are you listening to yourself? You’re starting to sound like them . Like these crazy conspiracy theorists.”

That stings. “Is that really what you think? That I’ve turned into a conspiracy theorist?”

“I just don’t want you to get lost down some rabbit hole. You’re on thin ice with Howard as it is.”

It’s true. And if he looks at it objectively, he can understand Will’s skepticism. What he’s suggesting does sound pretty farfetched.

“I know you wanna help Jack,” Will goes on, “but you’ve put your career on the line for him once already.”

“It’s not just about Jack. This was my case. I’m the one who let Miller get away at the Concord. I’d have skin in the game even if I’d never met Jack Vale.”

Shepard drops his voice to a whisper. “You gave Howard your word.”

He did. And he fully intends to keep it if he can, but he is not letting this go.

He hits a Staples on the way home to pick up a whiteboard and some dry-erase markers. Then he does something he’s only seen in movies, mounting it on the wall in his apartment to make an evidence board. He starts with a timeline going back to the Concord. Then he writes down the evidence, categorized by the entity that brought it to light—the FBI, NYPD, and so on. It’s all very orderly and neat, until he starts speculating about possible connections, drawing arrows in yellow marker. Is there a relationship between the Russian hackers and Overwatch? A connection between the deepfake video of Jack and the phony emails on Vanderford’s laptop? Is the murdered private investigator part of the picture somehow?

He shoots Jack a quick text before he goes to bed, asking how he’s doing. It’s the middle of the night in Europe, so he doesn’t expect a response, but when he wakes up, all he finds is: All well thanks.

No how are you . No sorry it’s been super busy . Just three words.

Which… okay. Maybe Rav is being needy, but a text like that after a weekend of penthouse-suite sex does not feel great.

At least he doesn’t have time to dwell on it, not when he’s laser-focused on catching Miller. Tuesday night is devoted to a deep dive into the saved contents of Miller’s phone, and it’s a virtual shrine to the Nicks. Photos, MP3s, the works. What’s strange, though, is that they’re Jack’s songs, Jack’s photos. Not Tommy’s, as Rav might have expected. Almost as if Miller’s obsession with Tommy’s death is for Jack’s sake.

His contacts are in here, too, and it’s so tempting to use them. If this were Rav’s case, interviewing the suspect’s friends and family would be standard procedure. But it’s not, and if the FBI got wind of it, they’d have his arse. He can’t do a thing with this information—but he knows someone who can. He grabs his phone.

“Carrie Campbell.”

“Ms. Campbell. It’s been a minute.”

“Well, well, if it isn’t Detective McDreamy. I hear you’re back on the job.”

“I am indeed, and I’m ready to give you that quote.”

“Which quote is that?” she says, her tone all business now.

“Regarding the Vanderford case, and why the FBI took over. Strictly on background, Carrie. Deep background. I need your word.”

“I can do that.”

“Great. And one more thing.”

He tells her.

“What the hell makes you think I’d let you dictate how I write a story?” she growls.

“That’s not what I’m asking. But I think once you’ve heard what I have to say, you’ll have a different opinion of Joe Miller.”

“Suppose you’re right. Say I end up feeling sorry for the guy, and I’m willing to brave the wrath of a million Nicks fans to put a sympathetic spin on things. What does that get you?”

“I’m hoping he’ll reach out to you. I’ve got contact details for his family and friends, and I thought that if you put the word out that you’d like to give Miller the opportunity to tell his side of the story, one of them might know how to reach him.”

A thoughtful pause on the line. “You think he’d go for that?”

“I think he might. Joe Miller is a conspiracy theorist. His whole thing is getting the truth out there, revealing the shadowy hand behind it all. Now he finds himself at the center of a murderous CIA conspiracy, or so he believes. I think he’ll be dying to set the record straight.”

“How do I know I’m not just offering a platform to some QAnon clown?”

“You’ll have to make up your own mind on that score. All I can say is that I’m convinced he’s being set up.”

“Huh. Okay.” Another pause. “Suppose he does get in touch, what then?”

“I’m hoping he’ll agree to speak. I have a proposal for him.”

“That’s gonna be a tough sell.”

No shit. Not only is Rav a cop, he’s known to be friendly with Jack Vale. On paper, he’s the last person Miller would trust. Except Rav remembers what he was like that day in the skate park, how he practically begged for Jack’s help. Whatever the nature of his feelings toward Jack, they’re a lot more complicated than his online persona suggests, and that means there’s hope. “Nothing to lose by trying.”

“I can’t promise anything, all right? Except that I’ll keep your name out of it, whatever happens. Deal?”

Rav glances up at the whiteboard on his wall, and his mouth goes dry. Howard is going to suspect he’s the leak. Will is going to know it. If the FBI can prove it, they’ll have his badge, or worse. But it’s the only play he has.

“Deal,” he says. And he tells her everything.