Page 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

After dinner, they head back to the villa to recline on the terrace with a couple of glasses of scotch. The walls of this main room retract as well, offering all the comforts of indoors in an outdoor space. These comforts include a piano, which Rav doesn’t take much notice of until Jack settles in and starts playing. He’s wearing that same look he had when Rav first set eyes on him, dark brows stitched as he runs through a haunting sequence of notes. The sight of him seated at that elegantly formal piano—this barefoot, tattooed rock star in swim shorts, gliding effortlessly through a beautiful string of music he’s probably just composed on the fly—makes Rav a little lightheaded. “Are you writing?”

Jack nods and plays the sequence again. “I’ve been writing a lot lately. Guess you could say I’m feeling inspired.” He glances over, and there’s a glint in his eye Rav can’t quite read. “I have a gift for you.”

“More of a gift than this?”

“An early birthday present, since I won’t be there to celebrate the real thing next week.” He disappears into the bedroom, returning with a small lacquer box.

Rav takes it with halting hands. Whatever is in this box is going to wreck him, he just knows it.

“Are you going to open it?”

He does. And his breath stops.

It’s an Indian Distinguished Service Medal. He recognizes it straightaway, with its profile of King George V and its blue-and-red ribbon. Gingerly, he lifts it out of the box and examines the engraving along the edge.

CAPTAIN PRAKASH TRIVEDI, INDIAN MEDICAL DEPARTMENT

His great-great-grandfather’s medal. The one he pawned all those years ago in a fit of adolescent spite. He’s never been able to forgive himself, and now… “How?” he rasps.

“Luck, mostly, and the magic of crowdsourcing. Mo helped me. He knows a lot of ex-military types, and he pulled together a list of websites where collectors exchange information. I put the word out, offering a reward for information helping me track down the collector. It actually didn’t take that long. He was cool about it, too. Once I explained the situation, he was happy to see it returned to the family.”

Rav can’t find his voice. Can’t stop staring at the medal.

He can feel Jack’s eyes on him. “I hope I’m not overstepping. It’s just, I could see how much regret you were carrying, and I know what that’s like. Most of the time, those big mistakes, you can’t take them back. But this seemed like something it might actually be possible to fix. Like when we got our masters back. It healed this very deep wound that I’d been carrying around, and… I wanted that for you.”

Rav’s hands are shaking. He’s thrilled to have his medal back, but that’s not the overwhelming part. That Jack would do this for him, that it would even occur to him to try…

He looks up, meets Jack’s eyes. No half measures , Eva’s voice whispers in his head.

“I love you.”

His stomach drops as soon as he says it. It’s too much. Too soon. He’s scrambling for a way to walk it back when he feels Jack’s hand on his face, Jack’s mouth on his. The kiss is soft and lingering, and when it’s over, Jack sighs and rests his forehead against Rav’s. “I don’t think I realized it until this moment, but that’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

“I…” Rav draws back and stares at him. “Really?”

Jack laughs, but his eyes are uneasy. “Are you that surprised?”

“Yes? Honestly, I wasn’t sure if you were that serious about us.”

“Bringing you here wasn’t a clue?”

“I mean, I knew you were grateful about what happened with Miller…”

“Rav, grateful is a fruit basket. We’re in France. On vacation together. I’ve spent the past month scouring the internet for your ancestor’s war medal. I’ve told you every way I know how that I’m crazy about you. Why is it so hard for you to believe?”

“You must realize there have been mixed signals. You disappeared on me. For weeks.”

“I know.” He sighs. “I know I did, but it wasn’t supposed to be mixed signals. I was trying to…” He shakes his head, as if he’s not sure how to explain it. “My life is a train wreck right now. And maybe you think you’re up for it, but however intense you think it’s going to be, I promise you, it’s going to be worse.”

“So you’re trying to… what, to shield me from your life?”

“Give you time away from it, at least. You’ve taken on so much of my shit already, and I wanted you to have a break from that. Some breathing space to think about things and decide if this is really what you—”

“It’s what I want. You’re what I want. I told you, we’re in this together.”

Jack rests his forehead against Rav’s again. “Where did you come from?”

“Promise me you won’t shut me out again. If this is real—”

“You might be the only real thing in my life right now.”

“Then let me be here for you. No more keeping me at arm’s length for my own good, or whatever it is you think you were doing. Promise me.”

“Okay, if you promise me something.” He sits back, meeting Rav’s eye. “Stop waiting for the bottom to fall out. You’ve been doing it from the start, like it’s inevitable. I know that’s partly my fault. I can see how my backing off looked like maybe I wasn’t feeling this. But it’s more than that. It’s like you think you’re not enough, and that’s just… it makes no sense to me, because you’re such an amazing person. I’m blown away by you, Rav. Your compassion and your courage and your determination. What you’re doing with Miller, what you did with Ryan and the security video…”

“I did that for you.”

“In part, yeah, and that’s…” He twines his fingers through Rav’s and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “But we both know if I wasn’t in the picture, you’d still be searching for the truth. Taking the hit if that’s what it took to put things right. Because that’s who you are, and it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.” He kisses Rav’s hand again. “I’ve felt safe with you from day one. I want you to feel safe with me, too. This is real. You need to believe that.”

It’s going to take more than belief. Pretty much nothing about their lives makes sense together. Rav has no idea how they’ll make it work.

But that’s a question for later. Right now, it’s enough to know they both want to try.

This is real. We’re real.

“I love you,” he says again, and this time, there’s no chaser of fear.

Jack smiles. “I love you, too.”

It gets pretty crowded at the villa the next morning.

Ryan Nash shows up at a little after nine with his bass and a small amp. He’s here to work out a few kinks in a song the Nicks have just added to their set. Erika is with him, and Eloise is due in a couple of hours to pick up the Aston Martin so it can be shipped back to the US. Rav isn’t thrilled about sharing Jack for their last few hours together, but these guys are professionals and take pride in their work, and he understands that. He gives them space and heads out onto the terrace with his laptop.

He’s just settling in when his phone buzzes. “Aisha. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Not much of a sleeper, especially when I’m working on something this juicy. What about you? I didn’t really expect to reach you this early. Figured you’d be sleeping off a night of wild French sex or whatever.”

He’s about to tell her to mind her own business when he snags on something. “How did you know I was in France?”

“You told me.”

He did? He doesn’t recall doing so, but he’s still super jet-lagged and can’t really be sure of anything. “Anyway, you reached me. Does this mean you have something?”

“Those photos you asked me to dig up? I’m looking at them right now.”

Rav sits up straighter, the cobwebs vanishing. “And?”

“I’m sending them to you now.” There’s a swoosh on the phone, and a moment later a message pops up in his inbox.

He double-clicks on the first photo. It’s the selfie the FBI mentioned, the one supposedly taken outside Vanderford’s apartment building. Joe Miller stands in the middle of the frame, the Manhattan skyline splashed out behind him; in the background, Dick Vanderford and a pretty redhead are walking along the waterfront. It’s plausible enough. “What am I looking for?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nada. Every shadow, every glint of light—perfect. Same deal with the café photo.”

“So they’re legit?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Aisha, please, I’m too jet-lagged for this. Have the photos been doctored or not?”

“They have. But it’s beautifully done, and not just visually. Even the metadata checks out.”

“Can that be manipulated?”

“Yes, but it’s very hard to do well. Whoever doctored this photo did an amazing job. The tells are tiny.”

“But you found them, because you’re that awesome.”

“I mean, yes, obviously , but you’re not hearing me. This isn’t just some rando tinkering with Photoshop. This guy is a pro. And that’s not all. This Overwatch user you asked me to look into? His account is locked down tight . Which is weird . Most social media accounts are an easy hack. You could do it yourself with the right software. This one? Fucking Fort Knox. That means his password is regenerating on the regular. You know who does that?”

“Conspiracy theorists?”

“Professional hackers. The sort of people who know how to make a social media hack look like the work of Russians. Who could produce the most convincing deepfake video and doctored photos I’ve ever seen. My gut says all of it—the evidence against Miller, the phony blogger who tried to set you up, this Overwatch user—is the same person. Or persons. ” She pauses dramatically. “So my question to you, Detective, is this: What if Miller isn’t wrong, and the CIA really is behind this?”

“Come on. Why would the CIA want to kill Dick Vanderford?”

“No idea, but I am legit starting to feel nervous.”

“Don’t be. So there’s a hacker involved. You’re a hacker. New York is full of them, very few of whom work for the federal government.”

She grunts, unconvinced.

“Is this solid enough to take to the FBI?”

“It’s solid, but that doesn’t mean there’s no room for debate. It would take a very technical conversation with their digital forensics guys, and even then, there’s no guarantee they’d agree.”

He sighs. He’s only going to get one shot at convincing the feds, so his case needs to be ironclad. He needs more.

“You should be careful, Rav. Whoever did this has already racked up at least two bodies. You don’t want to be next.”

“I appreciate your concern, but there’s no need to worry. Thanks for this, and let’s talk when I get back.”

He slips his phone into his laptop bag so it’s out of the sun, and then he studies the photo on his screen. He wonders who the redhead is. The photo is dated two days before the murder, so she might have useful information about Vanderford’s final hours. Hell, she might even be the mystery date.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”

He looks up to find Erika coming through the sliding screen door, laptop in hand. He’s not feeling very social, but he manages a bland smile. “Might as well make use of the time while Jack’s busy, right?”

“Mind if I grab this seat? It’s in the shade.” She picks up Rav’s stuff and shifts it to another chair. “Still on the Vanderford thing, huh?” She indicates his screen with a tilt of her chin. “I saw the article in the Times . Ballsy move, Detective. I’ll bet the FBI was thrilled.”

“Safe to say they were not.”

“I’d be careful there. Those guys can really hold a grudge.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience.”

“Oh yes. We had our share of run-ins with them back in the day.”

Rav starts to ask who we is, and then he remembers. “That’s right, you and Mo were at Langley together, weren’t you?”

She nods. “And like I said, we butted heads with the Bureau quite a bit. They’re super territorial.”

“I’ve noticed. But they’ll get over it once I show them the proof.”

“Figure you’re closing in, do you?”

He shrugs, eyes back on his screen. “In my experience, it’s largely a question of diligence. The evidence is out there. Finding it is about putting in the hours, doing the unglamorous stuff. Like looking through security footage.” He’s pulling it up now, double-clicking a saved file on his desktop.

“God, that sounds tedious. Surely you’ve gone through that a million times already?”

“A million and a half.” But something’s been bugging him since last night. Seeing that guy at the bar, working up the nerve to approach Erika—it made him think he’s been going about this all wrong. He’s been so caught up in the drama—hackers and CIA conspiracies and leaks to The New York Times —he’s lost sight of the basics. Like the hole in the timeline the night of the murder, and the bottle of Petrus on Vanderford’s coffee table. Dick Vanderford was expecting someone the night he was killed. Someone he picked up at a bar, maybe, or someone he already knew.

Like the redhead in the photo Aisha just sent. It’s a long shot, but it can’t hurt to go through the security footage one more time, on the off chance she appears.

The lads finish rehearsing at a little after eleven. Jack settles in beside Rav with an espresso while Ryan jumps in the pool. “Sorry about all this,” Jack murmurs. “Did you manage to get some work done?”

“A little. I got a call from Aisha, and she’s convinced those photos of Vanderford and Miller were faked.”

Nash overhears from the pool, and he pauses, treading water. “There’s photos of Vanderford and Miller? Together? ”

“Supposedly,” Jack says. “But I can’t see Dick Vanderford hanging with a conspiracy theorist from small-town Georgia, can you?”

“Yeah, right. That guy was an elitist prick.” Nash scrubs water off his face. “But why would someone bother to fake photos of them together?”

“Didn’t you read the article in the Times ? Rav thinks Miller is being framed.”

Erika smirks at her laptop screen. “Guys. I’m pretty sure the FBI knows a manipulated photo when they see one.”

“Rav’s hacker friend has been on point so far,” Jack says. “She’s the one who helped him track Miller’s phone, and told him about the fake Russians.”

Erika’s eyebrows go up. “Fake what now?”

“It’s a long story,” Rav says, cutting Jack a meaningful look.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m the loose-lipped boyfriend in this movie, aren’t I? I won’t do it again, I promise.”

Boyfriend. It still doesn’t seem real, and for a second Rav just stares into those blue-green eyes like a sap.

Jack stands and stretches. “I’ve got a couple of quick calls to make, and then we should probably head to the airport.” He pops his earbuds in and wanders off, and Rav goes back to his security footage.

It’s not just tedious, it’s bloody frustrating. Whoever installed the cameras in Vanderford’s building did a shit job. The one in the elevator is mounted too high, so that if people have their heads down—which they nearly always do, looking at their phones—it doesn’t get much of their faces. Even so, Rav goes through his spreadsheet diligently, checking each and every unidentified white female in the log. 8:44 P.M . 9:58 P.M . None of them resembles the girl in the photo. This is a waste of time , he thinks. I’d be better off—

He pauses. Jumps back. Hits play.

It’s so fast you can barely see it: a hand comes out of a pocket, jabs a button, and goes back in the pocket.

Rewind.

Pause.

Rav zooms in. The woman is wearing a bulky windbreaker and a ball cap. She’s looking down at the floor; between the hat and her chin-length black hair, her face is almost completely obscured. Rav hits play, watching in slow motion as she turns to punch the button for the twenty-third floor. Her hand comes out of her pocket, and—there it is.

A rose-gold ring in the shape of a panther.

He’s seen that ring before. At a rock concert in Madison Square Garden, and again just last night.

On the finger of Erika Strauss.