She stood in front of car wrecks and buildings being demolished, over dead fish in the Kenoah, bleak winter landscapes, collapsed buildings, protests about climate change and about the decision of United Defense to back out of their plans to build in Ferrington, a street demonstration about the Tasing of a Black motorist by angry white officers, factory scenes, snide teenagers mocking a gay couple, a pickup with four hunters in the bed holding shotguns, one of them about fifty sticking his tongue out flirtatiously at her, a drunk passed out in front of a tavern.
Dozens flipped by.
“Stop,” Shaw said.
“What is it?” Parker asked. “You see something?”
As he stared at the selfie in front of them, another theory arose—and if it panned out, it might possibly reveal thewhyof the hit.
And when you have thewhy, thewhois often not far behind.
Shaw considered all the moving pieces as he stared at the dingyceiling. He asked Merritt, “You got Frank Villaine’s address from Dom Ryan?”
“That’s right. I found a work email Frank sent you, A.P. I couldn’t get a local address. Ryan did.”
Shaw said, “Now, the question is, how didIget Frank’s name?”
Parker and Merritt regarded each other. She said, “Marianne, didn’t you say?”
“She gave it to me, yes. But she was only asking your coworkers about your old friends. Did you ever tell anyone in the office about Frank and where he lived?”
Shaking her head. “No. By the time I went to HEP, Frank and I had gone our separate ways.”
And with this bit of information, hypothesis became proof.
“Where did Marianne Keller really get Frank’s name and address? From Dom Ryan.”
“But Marianne works—”
Shaw finished her sentence. “For the man who ordered the hit. Your boss, Marty Harmon.”
82
Harmon put this all together—getting you released, forging the letter from Alli—because he couldn’t let anyone see these.”
He laid out several selfies before him. He tapped one.
The image depicted Hannah in the foreground, wearing a bulky sweatshirt and a stocking cap. Behind her was a gaping doorway, forty or so feet high, opening onto a gloomy and gray warehouse. Five men stood inside, at work. What was distinctive visually was that while the image was largely monochrome, the orange safety vests of the employees stood out boldly and formed a pentagram. It was a striking photo, well composed.
Two of the workers seemed to be looking the girl’s way. One bore a troubled expression.
Inside, in the back, were hundreds of pallets of bottled water. And several tanker trucks.
Parker was squinting and sitting forward to see. “That’s HEP. Building Three. The warehouse near the river.”
Hannah said, “I took it when I was staying after school with Mom. I was bored, so I walked around and took pictures.”
“What’re you thinking, Colter?” Parker asked.
He found another of their daughter’s selfies. Two workers in Building Three were running a large rubber hose from one of the tanker trucks parked inside the cavernous building to a drain in the floor.
Shaw asked, “Does that drain lead to the river?”
“Probably. Building Three’s over a hundred years old. Most of the drains lead to the river. I thought they were sealed. They should have been.”
“They’re open now. It’s toxic waste. Harmon’s intentionally polluting the Kenoah.”
“Why the hell?” Merritt asked.