Gone(71)

They gathered their things and left.

*

Peter sat thinking in the deputies’ shared office. It was a depressing, barren room with four desks, a water cooler, coffee station, and four rusty file cabinets. He got up from the desk and walked out. He headed down the hall, passing by the adjoining locker room. Althea was there. Peter stopped in the doorway.

She sat on one of the benches, bent forward, like a player after the game. Like him, she was in civilian clothes. No uniform today. Neither of them wanted to go home.

Althea stared at the floor.

“Hey,” Peter said.

She responded, eyes down. “Hey.”

He thought she would forgive him one day. Whatever his culpability — whatever she considered his part in this debacle, she would forgive him eventually. She had to. He didn’t think he could go on if she didn’t.

Just give her time, give her some space. It was a hard thing to do. He felt angry, for one — he wanted to defend himself against what she was thinking. Stick up for himself and for Rondeau, too. But he was confused about it all. Maybe Althea wasn’t the only one who needed some space, some time. Peter moved on.

Rondeau’s office was down the hall to the left. The door was shut. Peter halted when a vague shape moved on the other side of the opaque glass. He heard movement.

The room was unlocked.

Britney Silas was the head of the Criminal Science Investigation unit. She started, surprised by his entrance. She was going through Rondeau’s drawers, wearing plastic gloves.

“Deputy King,” she said, standing upright. She used the back of her hand to push strands of hair off her forehead. It was hot — it was always too hot in the damn building. Peter thought Oesch could slash the budget in half if he’d just dial down the heat.

“Hi Brit,” he said.

Silas glanced around, as if seeing things through his eyes, understanding how it looked. “They’ve got me hunting for anything left pertaining to the Kemp case.”

He knew who she meant by “they.” The office looked completely different. There was only a little paperwork left, a few magazines, and personal effects. The feds had made a major dent. Peter imagined two or three of them in the tight space all last night, picking it all over. Maybe they were afraid they’d missed something, and that’s why Silas was finishing the clean-up.

He nodded that he understood. Yet he remained just inside the room, and she seemed reluctant to continue with him standing there. “You looking for just chain of evidence stuff?” he asked.

“Whatever notes Rondeau had, whatever was logged when it was removed from the Kemp house.”

“That’s it?”

She put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow. Peter knew Silas was a good CSI.

“What do you mean, ‘that’s it?’” she asked.

“I’m just wondering if they told you to collect anything else.”

“Such as?”

Peter dropped his shoulders and leaned against the doorway. He didn’t like this. It felt like the presence of the FBI had turned everyone against each other. “Listen, we’re on the same team here. You know?”

She stayed rigid for a moment, but then seemed to soften a little. She looked down at Rondeau’s desk, cleared of its usual clutter.

“I just . . .” Peter began. “Maybe Rondeau needs help.”

Silas cocked her eyebrow again. “You mean mental help?”

“I mean my help.” Peter leaned his head back and peeked into the hallway. They were alone. “Our help,” he said.

She spoke in a low voice. “Look, I’ll say this. They also asked me to collect anything he’d been keeping related to this controversy in D.C.: the Valentine Killer.”

“Tell me.” He took a step forward.

Her eyes flashed, but she stayed cool. “I can’t. This is my job, Deputy.”

“If Rondeau is crazy, why do they care?” Peter let the question hang for a moment. “Unless they’re afraid of what he knew.”

He came right up to her. His heart was pounding, like he was back in the quarry. Zedekiah’s Cave. Silas straightened her spine and gazed directly at him.

He saw fear in her eyes. She was afraid of what she’d found. Maybe they hadn’t meant for her to, but Silas was good. Sifting through the tiniest details, seeing the patterns, that was her strength.

Peter had never seen her like this. He leaned close, their heads almost touching. “Just tell me one thing, will you? Who is the lead investigator for the FBI on the Kemp case?”

Silas had her jaw clenched and her forehead was beaded with perspiration. She exhaled. “There’s McDonough, Jackson, Eldridge, Willette — there’s an army of them. But Lee Angstrom has been calling the shots. That’s all I’m saying to you.”

Peter recalled the man in the charcoal grey suit and sunglasses. Never introduced, never spoke, was there and then gone. He’d seen him one other time, at Bluestone, standing in a group of federal agents. He wondered if it was Angstrom.

If so, the D.C. fed was a long way from home.

Silas put her hand on his. The clock on the wall ticked off the seconds. They locked eyes one last time. “Peter,” she said. “I’m going to need you to leave now, okay?”

“Thank you,” he said. He left the room.