ex, Blaine, who, whatever his mistakes, did not deserve that bullet. On a scale of deservedness, though, the murder of Mark Garcia ranks far below even Blaine. This was a US marshal. An officer of the law doing his damn job, and if the execution of that job proved inconvenient to us, too bad. We could have dealt with it once we’d stopped butting heads and come to a place where we could negotiate.
Yes, Garcia was a pain in the ass. Yes, he threatened our security here. Yes, he tried to trick us with his “attacked by wolves” crap. But Dalton saw through that. We’d have brought Garcia back, gotten him secured in Rockton, and then thwarted his plan to sneak out and find his suspect.
We’d have bested him, and he’d have thrown up his hands and said, “You win. Let’s talk.” That’s not wishful thinking. I’ve known too many men like Garcia. His issue with us was a territorial pissing match. A battle of law enforcement wits. When we won, we’d have gotten our reasonable conversation and solved this. Now we can’t. Now we are screwed, and for Petra to suggest—
That’s my hurt feelings talking. I’m still smarting from her betrayal. More than smarting. Which means she has far too much power over me right now. When she leaves the station, I’m tempted to slip after her. See where she goes. But Petra’s secrets are a matter for another time. Like she said, I know she didn’t kill Garcia, being locked in the cell the entire time. So I can put her out of …
Am I sure she was in there the entire time?
The moment I think that, I want to dismiss it. Chalk it up to more hurt feelings. I’m angry with her, so I don’t want her getting a pass on this. I want to go after her, for something, anything.
She was locked in a damn cell, Casey. No one has a better alibi than that.
Here’s the problem, though. I am almost certain Petra works for the council. It’s the only solution that makes sense. Someone sent her after Brady, and that someone also supplied her with a gun and a silencer. We don’t have silencers here. There’s no point. But when I think about the gun, I remember another one that went missing.
When someone shot Dalton in the arm, the gun came from our locker, which had stymied us. Only Dalton and Anders have keys. I’d asked whether the council might have a spare, and Dalton had allowed that it was possible. Considering that Val was the one firing that gun, we presumed I was right. But if Val had that key, might she also have one to the cell? If so, it’d be easy enough for Phil to slip it to Petra. No one would have been guarding her cell. It’s locked. We don’t need to watch over prisoners—we just make sure someone pops by regularly to see if they need anything.
The station door opens. Sam walks in.
“Sam,” I say. “Do you know who was assigned to Petra earlier today? Around the time of the shooting?”
“Jen, I think. She went home an hour ago. She might still be up but…” He looks at the dark window, and I check my watch. 2:10 A.M.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Shouldn’t you be done, too?”
“That’s what I came to talk to you about. Paul was supposed to take over for me at one thirty. I figured he was just running late, but when I went by his apartment, no one answered. Do you know if he’s been reassigned? I can’t find Will to ask.”
Anders is in charge of the militia scheduling. With so much going on, that schedule exists only in his head, subject to constant juggling as he makes sure everyone gets enough time off.
“I saw Paul heading home earlier this evening,” I say. “I was busy gathering alibis, but I think he was grabbing a few hours of shut-eye before his next shift. Given how much you guys have been working, he’s probably just overslept. Go on in and check.”
“I would, but his door’s locked.”
I curse under my breath. “Right. Because I told everyone to keep them locked. Let me find Eric and grab the master key. You can call it a night. I’ll get Paul up and on duty.”
* * *
I get the skeleton key from Dalton. Paul lives on the second floor of a four-unit building. I climb the external staircase and head along the balcony to his apartment. His windows are dark. Everyone’s are—blackout blinds must be pulled at sundown to minimize our glow to passing aircraft. Some light still seeps out at the edges when the occupant has a light on. At this time of night, they’re all dark, including Paul’s.
I knock twice. Then I unlock the door and crack it open.
“Paul?”
No answer. As I slip inside, I do see a faint glow from the bedroom at the back. The door’s shut, and I walk in, calling Paul as I go. I rap on the bedroom door. Still no answer.
“Paul?”
Knock. Call. Knock again. A light definitely shines from beneath the door. A wavering one. Has he fallen asleep with a candle going? I’d hate to report one of our key militia for what seems like a minor infraction. But it’s not minor. Fire is our greatest threat, and while we allow candles, they’re meant for winter, when it’s dark by four in the afternoon. They aren’t even supposed to be taken into a bedroom.
I’m tempted to leave. I know that’s wrong. But it’s two thirty in the morning, and I’m tired, and I do not want to chew out an overworked militia guy.
I try one last knock and call, in hopes he’ll wake up and put out the candle himself.
He’s not responding, though, so I take a deep breath and decide that if it is a candle I’ll let him off with a warning. I’ll also tell Dalton. I have to be careful with that. As the detective sharing the sheriff’s bed, I need to tell him when I issue warnings for serious infractions. Otherwise, it’ll look like I consider my authority equal to Dalton’s.
I ease open the door. The first thing I see is that damn candle, flickering beside the bed. And then Paul himself, sound asleep in bed.
All the simmering frustration of the day ignites. I slam open the door and march in with, “Get your ass out of bed. Sam’s been waiting for you to take his shift, and you’re sleeping with a goddamn candle on.”