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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Joe Miller,” Rav echoes, his voice hollow with disbelief. Carrie must have given him this number. “I’m glad you called.”

Which is not quite true. Part of him is celebrating, part of him is panicking, and part of him is thinking he and Carrie Campbell really need to have a talk about boundaries.

“That reporter at the Times said you wanted to talk to me. The question is, why would I wanna talk to you?”

It’s him, all right. Rav recognizes his voice from the skate park.

This is a bad idea , he thinks. A crazy terrible idea and he’s an idiot for putting himself in this position but he’s come too far to back out now. Drawing a steadying breath, he says, “That’s a fair question. But you’ve taken the first step already, and I appreciate the trust you’re showing right now.”

“I don’t trust you. At all. I’m just curious to see how you’ll play it.” Confident words, but the tone doesn’t match. He’s nervous.

“Whatever your reasons, we’re talking, and I’m grateful.”

“Shit, man, you sound like a shrink. Look, you wanna talk, we’re gonna do it my way. Highland Park, fifteen minutes.”

“You want to meet in person?” Rav glances over his shoulder at the station behind him. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Then I guess you don’t wanna talk to me that bad. Because that’s how it goes, or it doesn’t go at all. And no games. I got eyes on you right now. You’re gonna toss your phone and your gun into that mailbox on the corner, and then you’re gonna start walking. You try to go back inside the cop shop, or talk to anyone on the street, and we’re done here. You’ll never hear from me again.”

He’s bluffing , Rav thinks—and then he remembers the figure he saw ducking around a tree a minute ago. As if on cue, a delivery trunk honks somewhere just up the street, and Rav hears the echo on the other end of the line.

He’s not just watching, he’s close.

A trickle of sweat works its way down Rav’s spine. “How do I know this isn’t some kind of trap?”

“You don’t. You’re gonna have to trust me . How’s it feel when the shoe’s on the other foot, Detective?”

Rav licks his lower lip. “I want to trust you, but you’re not making it easy. I can’t leave a loaded weapon in a mailbox. You must know that.”

“You think I’m gonna let you bring a gun to the meet?”

“I don’t think anything, Joe,” Rav says, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. “This wasn’t my idea. I’m just telling you what I can and cannot do. I’m willing to ditch the phone, but I can’t endanger others.”

A long pause. He’s thinking. “What if it’s not loaded? Take the clip out, then put the gun in the mailbox.”

“Sorry, no. I can’t leave my service weapon where some random postal worker could find it. But I could put the clip in the mailbox and keep the gun with me. That way it’s secure but no danger to you.”

“Okay, but I wanna see you eject the round in the chamber. And then drop it down a storm drain, so I know you didn’t just stuff it in your pocket.”

What am I, Quick Draw McGraw? Even if he did stash a round, how’s he going to load it into his gun before Miller can react? This guy watches too many movies, but if that’s what it takes… “Deal.”

“Leave the call open when you dump the phone, so I know you’re not calling somebody else.”

Rav walks to the corner and waits until no one’s looking before ejecting the magazine and stashing it in the mailbox, along with his phone. Then, brandishing the loose round like a magician about to do a trick, he drops it through a grate in the gutter.

“Good,” Miller says in his earbuds. “See you in fifteen. Don’t be late.” The line goes dead.

This is insane , Rav thinks as he starts toward the park. He half expects to be stuffed into some unmarked van and whisked away to his death. But Miller wouldn’t go to all this trouble only to shoot him, right? If he wanted Rav dead, he’d just jump him outside his apartment or something, like he did with Mo. No, this spy routine appeals to the conspiracy theorist in Miller. It’s part real life, part cosplay, and even though he’s legitimately scared, he’s getting off on it. That means he’s unlikely to gun Rav down in cold blood, because he fancies himself the hero of this movie.

Probably?

Rav veers off the sidewalk and joins one of the paths winding its way through Highland Park. It’s lush and green at this time of year, full of joggers and dog walkers and prams. Rav’s shirt is clinging to him now, but it’s not the June heat that’s making him sweat. Come on, Miller. Where—

“What do you want?”

Rav nearly leaps out of his skin as a figure falls into step beside him. He starts to turn his head, but Miller hisses, “ Don’t look at me. ”

“You’re the one who wanted to do this in person,” Rav growls.

“So you couldn’t record the conversation on your phone. Catching you off guard like this was the only way.”

Sure. Okay. Rav wonders what crank website he’s taking this play from.

“You should know, I’ve got a gun.” Miller drops his gaze meaningfully to where his hand is jammed in the pocket of his tracksuit trousers. “Try anything stupid, and you’ll regret it. Now I asked you a question. What do you want ?”

Rav tells himself this is an interview like any other. Except, you know, for the concealed weapon and the innocent bystanders and all that. “I want the same thing as you. For everyone to know the truth, so we can all get back to our lives. You. Me. Jack.”

“Jack?” Miller snorts. “He’s just fine. Living his best life, banging pop stars in Europe.”

“You know better than to trust the headlines, Joe. Tabloids and social media—that’s all bullshit. Airbrushed. The real Jack, the Jack I know, is scared. He thinks you want him dead, but I don’t believe that. Should I?”

“Man, you must think I’m pretty stupid. You want me to say something incriminating.”

“That’s not true. Think about it: you caught me unprepared, as you said. I don’t have a recording device on me.” As soon as he says it, he realizes it’s a lie: he’s wearing his smartwatch. Shit. He didn’t even think about it. If Miller spots it…

Rav forces himself to relax. The Marquesse is designed to look like a luxury analogue watch. Miller probably wouldn’t recognize it as a wearable device even if he looked right at it. There’s a panic function on it, and Rav briefly considers triggering it, but he dismisses the idea. Assuming anyone actually responds, it would just bring a cruiser to his location, and the last thing he wants is a shoot-out in a public park. “Besides,” he goes on smoothly, “there would be no point in recording you. The FBI has all the evidence they need to put you away for life.”

“ Fake evidence ,” Miller snarls, startling a woman pushing a pram. She swings out wide and quickens her step. “I’m being set up,” he adds in a furious whisper.

“I believe you.”

“Bullshit. This is a trap.” His hand shifts in the pocket of his tracksuit.

“It’s not. I want to fix this, Joe.”

“How?”

“By proving you’ve been framed for the murders of Richard Vanderford and Greg Watson. I’m halfway there already. You saw the story in the Times . You know I’m the source. That’s why you reached out, isn’t it? You’re hoping I can clear your name, and I can. But I need something in return.”

Miller’s eyes narrow sharply.

“I need your word that you’ll leave Jack alone from now on. He’s not behind this, and I’m going to prove it to you.” You want me to prove it to you. Whatever Jack is to him—hero, archnemesis, some combination of the two—he’s important to Miller, and part of him doesn’t want to believe Jack is the villain of this story. “ángel Morillo is not Jack’s personal assassin. Someone wants very badly for you to believe that, just as they want Jack to believe you’re out to kill him. You’re being set against each other. By the same person, I believe, who tried to set me up.”

“Yeah right,” Miller says, but it lacks conviction. He half believes it already. “When did someone try to set you up?”

“A couple of months ago. Someone hacked Jack’s social media—”

“Wait, yeah, I remember that. The deepfake.” Miller slows down as the idea washes over him. “They did try to set you up. To make it look like you were harassing Jack.”

“In order to discredit me. I was lead detective on the Vanderford murder, and—”

“And you were getting too close to the truth! Holy shit, man! ” He crouches, hands on his head, mind blown. The conspiracy theorist is taking over, like the Incredible Hulk roaring out of Bruce Banner. It’s in Rav’s interest to let him run with this—and not, say, point out that he was actually nowhere near cracking the case at the time.

“I haven’t figured out how it all fits together,” Rav says as they start walking again. “But I will, and when I do, I’ll share the evidence with the NYPD, the FBI, and anyone else who needs to know. Provided…” He lets that dangle.

“I leave Jack alone.”

“That, and something else.”

Miller scowls. “What?”

This is it; everything turns on this moment. Not just Rav’s plan but very possibly his life. There’s a gun in Joe Miller’s pocket. If he takes this badly… “I’m going to need you to turn yourself in.”

Miller stops, shoes scraping on the pathway.

“Not now,” Rav adds hastily. “After I’ve shown you the evidence, so you know I’ve kept my side of the bargain.”

“I knew it.” Miller shakes his head. “This is a trap. All this bullshit about I want everyone to know the truth —”

“I do want that. The whole truth, not just the convenient bits. You’re not a murderer, but you did shoot ángel Morillo. There were mitigating circumstances. You feared for your life. With a good lawyer, you can probably plead down to—”

“ I’m not going to prison, do you hear me? ”

Heads swivel all around them, people freezing in their tracks and staring. Miller stiffens, and for a second Rav is sure he’s going to bolt—or worse, draw his gun.

“I get it,” Rav says soothingly. “But you have to ask yourself what the endgame is. Do you want to spend the rest of your life on the run? Or would you rather take your medicine and put it all behind you?”

“Why don’t you just arrest me right now?” Miller challenges, eyes flashing.

“Because there’s a gun in your pocket. I’d rather not die today, or see anyone else in this park get hurt. All I’m asking is that you think about it, okay?”

A muscle in Miller’s jaw twitches. “No promises.”

“One promise,” Rav counters, and he’s amazed how steady he sounds. “Or I drop my investigation here and now. You leave Jack Vale, and his bodyguard, alone. In real life and online, from this minute onward. It’s not a lot to ask, Joe.”

Miller looks away. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good,” Rav says, and the relief flooding his limbs is so intense he’s feeling lightheaded. “Now, if I were you, I’d get moving.”

“What?” Miller’s eyes widen. “Why?”

“Because I’m a cop, and you’re a wanted man. I’m obliged to call this in as soon as it’s safe to do so.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You’re the one who insisted on doing this in person. You must have realized the position that would put me in.”

Miller licks his lips anxiously. “Give me a ten-minute head start?”

“I’ll give you two.”

“Aw, fuck you, man,” Miller whines. And he bolts.

“I’ll say this for you, Trivedi, you certainly have a flair for drama.” Lieutenant Howard rubs her temples. “Never in my thirty years on the force have I encountered the kind of Hollywood bullshit you keep getting mixed up in.”

“To be fair, this wasn’t my fault. I never expected Miller to pull something like this.”

“Are you going to sit there and tell me you didn’t engineer this encounter with that newspaper stunt?”

“I hoped he would reach out, but I certainly didn’t expect to be threatened at gunpoint.”

She sighs. “ He contacted you ?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you deemed it unsafe to attempt to take him into custody?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you have any information on his whereabouts?”

And so on. She’s ticking boxes, making sure their arses are covered. Not that it’ll make her conversation with the FBI any easier. Rav feels guilty about that—about everything he’s put her through. Maybe he should get her an apology gift. Something relaxing, like a day at the spa, or a high-end coloring book, or his letter of resignation.

“Tell me something.” Howard leans back in her chair, studying him. “Do you really believe Miller is being set up? Or was that just a play to get him to trust you?”

“I honestly believe it, LT. Whoever murdered Vanderford needed someone to take the fall, and Miller made a convenient scapegoat. The media were painting him as dangerous and unstable, and he had a connection to Vanderford via Jack Vale and the Nicks. It wouldn’t take much to get the FBI to look his way, and someone knew just how to bait the hook.”

She grunts thoughtfully. “And the dead roommate?”

“Collateral damage. Miller was a loose end that needed tying up. Greg Watson was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I have a hunch the murdered private investigator comes into it too, but I haven’t figured out how.”

“Can you prove any of this?”

“I’m working on it. On my own time ,” he’s quick to add.

She grunts again, and unless he’s mistaken, there’s a hint of grudging approval in there. “Keep me informed, Detective.”

Wait, she actually wants in on this? “Sure,” Rav says. “Yeah, of course.”

He makes it halfway to his desk before it really starts to sink in.

It actually worked.

Not the way he thought, but it worked. Miller has paused his lethal vendetta, and Rav has his CO’s blessing to keep digging on the Vanderford case. It’s not over, but there’s a path to fixing it, and that’s more than he would have thought possible a few days ago. He sinks into his chair, dazed and a little overwhelmed.

“Hey, man, you okay?”

Rav glances at his partner, and the look of concern on Will’s face is almost enough to tip him over the edge. His eyes burn, and he has to swallow a lump in his throat. “Yeah. Pretty chuffed, actually.”

“Postal guys dropped off your gear.” He slides Rav’s phone and the magazine from his sidearm across the desk, and then he glances at his watch. “Hey, uh, it’s almost five. You wanna grab a beer?”

They haven’t done that since things went south between them, and it means a lot, especially right now. Rav feels himself choking up again. “You’re a fucking awesome partner, you know that?”

“Damn right.” Will grabs his keys. “Does this mean you’re buying?”

“As long as you’re driving. I miss that turd-brown Golf.”

“Dude, how many times do I have to tell you? It’s chestnut. It says so right in the owner’s manual.”

“Ah yes, chestnut. From the German scheissenuss .”

“Yeah? Oh, wait. Ha, ha, aren’t you hilarious…”

“But you’re okay?” Jack asks again. “I mean, really okay?”

Rav puts his phone on speaker while he pours himself a drink. “I’m fine. It was intense, but I was confident he wasn’t going to hurt me.”

Pretty confident. Like, reasonably. With the benefit of hindsight, some of his logic actually looks a bit dodgy, but he’s not going to share that with Jack.

“I can’t promise Miller will keep his word. He’s genuinely obsessed with you, and that can be an addiction. But I think he’ll try, and if I can deliver my end of the bargain, hopefully he’ll turn himself in.”

“And if he doesn’t? Would you really drop your investigation? Just leave him at the mercy of the FBI?” Jack sounds troubled by the idea. After everything Miller has put him through, he still feels compassion for his tormenter. As if Rav needed another reason to adore this man.

“Let’s just hope he believes I would.”

“Rav, I…” He trails off, as if he doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s late. You should try to get some rest. Sleep well.”

“I will. For the first time in a really long time, thanks to you.”