Every Last Fear(77)
And by nightfall, they were on rickety old bikes, riding down the secluded road into town. Evan’s bike had a child seat tethered to the back of it, one of the old models that had likely been recalled in the US years ago. Tommy rode in the lopsided seat, his arms in the air, Liv nervously behind them, calling out for him to hold on to his dad.
They found their way to the highway and waited for cars to rip by before they crossed. From there, it was a quick journey on a dirt road that had a wall painted with a mural of a Mayan god.
In a restaurant on the strip, they ate tacos and Evan and Liv drank too many margaritas. He and Liv laughed, flirted, and couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Embarrassed, Maggie pretended not to notice and helped Tommy color the kids’ menu, which doubled as a small coloring book.
After dinner they walked through the tourist shops, then made the perilous journey back to the rental property. Maggie insisted on riding the bike with the child seat with her little brother, saying Evan had downed too many cocktails.
Evan and Liv rode side by side. Her hair blew in the wind, and she looked lovely in the sundress and sandals Maggie had packed for her. At one point she challenged Evan to a race, and he pumped his legs with everything he had. The old bike jostled and Evan had a hard time maintaining control. The front tire skidded on some gravel. Evan careened in slow motion off the asphalt and into the small weed-filled ditch lining the road. Liv threw down her bike and ran to him, concerned, but when she approached, Evan pulled her to the ground and the two lay in the weeds, laughing hysterically, their daughter looking at them like they’d lost their shit.
It was, Evan thought, one of the greatest nights of his life.
CHAPTER 48
SARAH KELLER
Keller sat at the desk in the dreary Adair Motel, her investigation notes and files spread out in front of her.
“What’s wrong?” her husband said through the speaker on her iPhone.
“I’m just so damn frustrated,” Keller said. No, fucked was the word Louise Lester had used earlier that day, and Lester fought lost causes for a living. “This is going nowhere. And I’m supposed to give Stan a report in the morning. He’s getting a lot of pressure from D.C.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Bob said. She wished she could bottle his confidence in her, consume several gallons a week. She’d been gone only three days, but she missed his calming presence. Missed cuddling the twins. Missed sleeping in her own bed.
“I’m no closer to figuring this out than I was the day I first met Matt Pine. And get this, I just got a call from the lab. My big lead—the blood the filmmaker’s investigator found at the scene—it wasn’t even blood. They think it was marinara sauce.”
Bob barked a laugh. “Spaghetti sauce?”
“It’s not funny.”
“Wait, you’re telling me the blood sample wasn’t genuine; it was an impasta.”
“Really?” Keller grinned in spite of herself.
“Sorry,” Bob said, “I’m around six-year-olds all day.”
The situation was so ridiculous, you almost had to laugh. She didn’t know what she dreaded more, telling Stan—who’d have to report the spaghetti sauce up the chain of command—or telling the Adlers.
The sound of Bob crunching on something, probably his favorite Ruffles potato chips, came through the tinny speaker. “Okay, so the DNA fizzled out and you’ve talked to everybody. But don’t you always say that people are unreliable anyway?”
He was right about that.
More crunching. “So why don’t you be you? Look at the documents, the records. They don’t lie.”
Keller smiled again. “You really do listen to me.”
“Did you say something?” Bob said.
“Shut up.” She laughed.
“So what do you have so far?”
It was against the rules to talk about an investigation with anyone outside the Bureau. Keller was usually not one to break the rules. But Bob was always her sounding board. The big lug not only calmed her nerves, he was a rare commodity in this world: a good listener. It was why she’d taken to Matt Pine, she thought. He wasn’t your average twentysomething with delusional confidence, eager to tell you how things were. Like Bob, he listened. Sometimes just saying things out loud—working through her thoughts—helped Keller connect the dots.
“There’s a video the daughter posted. A tip she’d received shortly before they left for Mexico. The timing alone suggests it may be connected.”
“Okay. What’s it show?”
“Just a few seconds of teenagers being teenagers. Danny Pine being egged on as he chugged a beer. He’s down to an undershirt, surrounded by a bunch of football players. In the last second on the recording, someone’s face comes into the frame. The armchair detectives think it’s the Unknown Partygoer.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it could be anyone. There’s not enough for facial rec. And I think the video was sent for some other reason. But I’ve watched it over and over again, and I don’t see anything.”
“How’d Maggie Pine get it? I mean, who sent her the video?”
“It was an anonymous tip.”
Bob blurted a laugh. “You’re Big Brother. Get on that, G-woman. What’s the use of all those NSA toys if you don’t get to use them?”