Page 10 of The Grave Artist

“Not from Europol or Interpol databases,” Williamson said. “Nothing there. He found stories in the news, social media.”

The same sources, Carmen knew, where agencies like the CIA and MI6 got the vast majority of their intelligence. Spies had a lot of subscriptions.

Williamson continued, “If this turns out to be part of the 3.5 percent chance that it’s a coincidence, you can get back to your hunt for Tristan Kane. And, Frank, you get back to serving and protecting LA. But if it’s a serial actor I want all hands on deck. This’ll be a perfect chance to test-drive I-squared.”

After hearing his assessment, Carmen agreed.

Williamson turned to Tandy. “Do you have any preliminary info on the incident?”

Whether a death is intentional or not, local cops have to run the scene.

“Afraid to report the ME treated the death as accidental,” Tandy said. “Just another selfie casualty. They happen more than you’d think. She released the body, which was immediately cremated.”

Carmen stifled a groan. There wentthatevidence. She could guess what had happened. “And since no one was aware a crime had been committed, nobody cordoned off the area where he died.”

“Nope,” Williamson confirmed.

Tandy was quick to reply. “I’ll declare it a crime scene and secure the perimeter.” He called his supervisor to request some uniforms to tape it off.

After four days, though, Carmen knew the scene would be contaminated to the point where it would produce no helpful trace or impression evidence. But this investigation was vital, and she would check all the boxes.

“Most of the guests are long gone,” Williamson went on. “But the widow is still in town. There’s a memorial this afternoon. You can interview her and anybody else who was at the hotel around the time of the death.”

Carmen’s heart went out to her. Imagine ... a bride and a widow. On the same day.

She said, “Security vids?”

“They’re being sent to Heron,” Williamson said, turning to him. “Maybe you can get a decent facial image.”

Heron said, “I’ll take a look as soon as I get them.”

Williamson looked thoughtful. “I don’t know what HK’s agenda is. But the fact he’s hit three times in under a month tells me he might be in an escalation phase.”

Then the big man fell silent and absently glanced at a cluster of family pictures on his desk: his handsome wife, a US attorney, and foursons, ranging from four to fifteen years old. He sighed and addressed the group again. “There’s something I haven’t mentioned yet. A glitch. Detective Tandy, cover your ears. I mean that figuratively, of course. You should hear this—but don’t repeat it.”

The detective lifted a brow. “Ah, we’re treading through the minefield of politics, I have a feeling.”

Carmen didn’t like the sound of her boss’s comment, or the annoyed expression that went with it. She could guess the source of the irritation. “I’m assuming you mean Reynolds.”

Eric Williamson was well regarded, and usually didn’t have any issues running the Long Beach branch of the National Security Division on his own authority, with the singular exception of someone near the top. Deputy Secretary Stan Reynolds, second-in-command of the Department of Homeland Security, made it a point to question nearly every decision Williamson made and seemed to look for opportunities to countermand him.

He nodded. “Reynolds read the memo on the three incidents I sent to Main Justice. He emailed me about it yesterday.”

“Hold on a sec,” Heron said. “When the servers were down?”

HSI’s Long Beach headquarters computer servers had been experiencing random shutdowns over the past two weeks. They might have been typical glitches that occur in all large networks, or they might have been attacks, which were common against federal government systems. Heron—admittedly given to paranoia about such things—told Carmen he thought it was the latter but hadn’t found any proof.

“Afraid so,” Williamson muttered.

Heron closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So he used the unsecured server.”

The one that HSI employees used to share recipes, jokes and reels about cats befriending turtles.

Eyes still closed, Heron asked, “Did it have your original copied?”

“Yep.”

“Shit.” Heron dropped his hand, lifted his tablet and began typing.