Chương 6
Her eyes were closed again, though he could tell from the tension around them that she was awake.
“Find the backpack without breaking laws.”
“That eliminates most of our interesting methods.”
“Bishop.”
“I heard you.”
“Who else is active?”
“Ramirez, Chen, Foster, and me.”
David’s grip tightened on the phone.
Those names landed differently than he expected.
Not like soldiers reporting for duty.
Like ghosts sitting up in old chairs.
“How are they?”
“Older.”
“That’s helpful.”
“Ramirez owns three tire shops and complains about payroll.”
David almost smiled.
“Chen teaches cybersecurity at a community college.”
“That sounds terrifying for the students.”
“It is.”
“Foster?”
Silence.
David’s smile vanished.
“What?”
“He’s been sober six years.”
David looked out the dark window.
“Alcohol?”
“Mostly.”
The word carried the rest.
David rubbed his forehead.
“I shouldn’t have called.”
“That’s not your decision alone.”
“I gave them a promise when we disbanded.”
“You gave us a choice.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Not tonight.”
David turned away from Nora’s bed.
“There’s always a difference.”
Bishop’s voice softened.
“She’s your daughter.”
“That doesn’t give me the right to drag everyone backward.”
“No.”
A pause.
“But we’re not eighteen years younger because you dialed a number.”
David said nothing.
“We have mortgages,” Bishop continued.
“Bad knees.”
“Ramirez has grandkids.”
“Chen drives a minivan with a dented door.”
“Foster goes to meetings on Tuesdays.”
“We’re not waiting in a bunker for the Phantom Commander to return.”
The old title irritated David more than it comforted him.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then stop imagining we’re still those men.”
David leaned one shoulder against the wall.
Bishop said, “We’re helping a friend whose daughter was hurt.”
“That’s all?”
“For now.”
David looked at Nora.
“That’s all.”
“Good.”
Bishop’s tone changed back to business.
“Now ask yourself who benefits from the missing backpack.”
“Kensington.”
“Maybe.”
“Holbrook?”
“Maybe.”
“Sterling?”
“Maybe.”
David exhaled.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“That hasn’t improved with age.”
“No.”
Bishop tapped something on his end.
“We found one public detail worth knowing.”
“Go.”
“Holbrook Dynamics is in final review for a federal subcontract tied to secure communications hardware.”
David closed his eyes.
“Don’t speculate.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why does it matter?”
“Because scandal involving the CEO’s son during a sensitive contracting period creates incentive for containment.”
“That’s not evidence.”
“I know what evidence is.”
David opened his eyes.
“Sometimes you used to forget.”
The silence became personal.
He had gone too far.
Bishop said, “That was a long time ago.”
“Yeah.”
Neither man apologized.
Old friendships sometimes carried their injuries folded neatly between sentences.
Bishop finally said, “There’s more.”
David waited.
“Kensington Construction is building Bellweather’s new athletics complex.”
“How much?”
“Publicly announced value is eighty-four million.”
“That’s an incentive too.”
“Still not evidence.”
David nodded despite Bishop being unable to see him.
“And Sterling?”
“His mother chairs a state higher-education appropriations committee.”
David stared at the floor.
Three families.
Three different forms of leverage.
Money.
Contracts.
Politics.
It was almost too clean.
“Why would all three boys act together?”
“Friendship?”
“Not enough.”
“Fear?”
“Of what?”
“That’s your question.”
David glanced at Nora.
She had finally fallen asleep.
“I need Kayla.”
“Yes.”
“And I need to know why Nora’s complaint was closed.”
“Yes.”
“And why the cameras failed.”
“Yes.”
“And whether the backpack was taken before or after the assault.”
Bishop paused.
“You sound like yourself again.”
David hated how good that felt.
At 3:07 a.m., Marisol convinced him to sit.
She brought him water instead of coffee.
“You look like the kind of man who thinks caffeine is a personality.”
“My daughter says worse.”
“Your daughter is probably right.”
Marisol checked Nora’s IV line.
“She’ll need you functional tomorrow.”
David twisted the cap off the bottle.
“That sounds optimistic.”
“It’s not.”
She glanced at him.
“It means tomorrow is going to happen whether you’re ready or not.”
He drank half the water.
Marisol adjusted Nora’s blanket and lowered her voice.
“She asked for you when they brought her in.”
David looked at her.
“She couldn’t talk.”
“She wrote it on my glove.”
Marisol smiled faintly.
“Ruined a perfectly good glove.”
David stared at Nora’s sleeping face.
Something in his chest gave way enough to hurt.
“What exactly did she write?”
“Dad.”
He nodded.
Marisol left him alone with that.
Twenty minutes later, David’s phone vibrated again.
It was Cole.
“I’m at Garage C.”
David sat straighter.
“What do you have?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Then why call?”
“Because someone cleaned the emergency station.”
“What does that mean?”
“The call button housing is spotless.”
David frowned.
“Maybe maintenance.”
“At three in the morning?”
“Before.”
Cole’s breathing echoed slightly, as if he were standing inside concrete.
“The rest of the garage is filthy.”
David pictured oil stains, tire dust, fingerprints, campus grime.
Cole continued.
“The emergency station looks like it was wiped down.”
“For prints?”
“Maybe.”
“Can you process it?”
“I called county crime scene.”
“Will they come?”
“They’re deciding.”
David heard footsteps on Cole’s end.
Then a distant male voice.
Cole said, “Hold on.”
Muffled conversation followed.
David could not make out the words.
Then Cole came back.
“Campus security supervisor just arrived.”
“Name?”
“Martin Vale.”
“Was he here during the outage?”
“He says no.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I haven’t asked enough questions yet.”
David stood.
“When did he get notified?”
“About the assault?”
“Yes.”
“Eleven fifty-eight.”
“That’s after Nora reached the hospital.”
“Correct.”
“When was he notified about the cameras?”
Silence.
“Cole?”
“He says eleven twenty-eight.”
David looked toward Nora.
Two minutes after the outage began.
Before the assault.
“So they knew the cameras were down.”
“Yes.”
“And did nothing.”
“Apparently.”
David’s voice cooled.
“Ask who reported the outage.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He says the system generated an automated alert.”
“That should leave a log.”
“It should.”
“Does it?”
Cole went quiet.
David knew the answer before he gave it.
“The alert log is missing.”
David closed his eyes.
May you like
Not erased.
Missing was a lawyer’s word, a detective’s word, a word people used before they knew who had touched what.
