The yard manager emerged from a trailer office wearing the uniform of a life of hard work: sun-bleached long-sleeve twill coveralls with the name Joe embroidered above the right brass-zippered pocket, his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair peeking out from under an oiled denim mechanic’s cap, and a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “You Ames?”

  Neil nodded and pulled an authorization letter bearing the name Horizon Maritime Life & Casualty from his backpack.

  “Need to verify cause of death for payout review. Suicide clause.”

  Joe looked it over, then squinted at Neil, Sherlock, and Aidan. “Who is he?” He gestured toward Aidan. “And what’s with the dog?”

  “He’s an insurance photographer,” said Neil. He nodded at the dog. “That’s Sherlock. He helps me think.”

  “Yeah … Sure …” Joe cocked an eyebrow, took a sip of coffee, and adjusted his cap. “All right, the Caddy’s back along the east fence. Follow me and don’t go wandering. And keep hold of your dog. We got our own dogs on site.”

  Neil pulled a compact camera out of his backpack and handed it to Aidan. “Stick close.”

  They followed Joe down a narrow gravel path between rusting sedans and gutted SUVs. As they moved toward the wreck, Neil spotted a younger yard worker stacking rims near a shipping crate. Early twenties, grease-smeared gloves, jaw set like someone two minutes from quitting.

  Neil paused and nodded at Aidan to keep following Joe and ambled over to the worker.

  “What’s your name?”

  The kid looked up, wary. “Travis?”

  Neil studied him a moment. “This place treat you like they pay you?”

  Travis snorted and glanced Joe’s way. “You mean, like nothing?”

  Neil pulled a folded hundred from his coat pocket, flashed it once. “You want to make what you’re worth?”

  Travis didn’t smile, but he nodded. “What do you need?”

  “ECU and anything wired to it. The Caddy I’m checking out. Keep it clean. Don’t get seen.”

  “I can do that.”

  Neil nodded once. Transaction made. He hurried to catch up with Joe and Aidan.

  Joe stopped beside the crumpled Cadillac.

  “Hell of a hit,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Neil muttered.

  The Cadillac was a crumpled wreck. Metal peeled back. Safety frame warped. Windshield spidered, streaked dark. Neil stood over the wreck, not just looking at destruction … He was studying a decision. He knew what he was looking for: evidence of a corrupted software update, buried deep in the system. Not a malfunction. A command. The digital equivalent of pulling a trigger.

  He circled the car, snapping pictures with his phone, noting the precision of the crash. The economy of it. The convenience. He stopped at the gaping hole that was the driver’s door. Blood had dried on the steering wheel and sprayed the inside glass. Hair was caught in the crack of the headrest. Chips of bone mixed with the blood and shattered glass on the seats and dash.

  The cabin stank: oil, coolant, scent of piss and excrement underneath. Neil took a slow breath. His stomach tensed. He didn’t flinch. He became more resolute. He needed evidence that the car hadn’t malfunctioned; it had complied. Someone gave an order, and the machine followed.

  “Tires. Impact angle,” he directed Aidan, who began clicking without question.

  Neil leaned in, searching for anything out of place. Under the dash, the OBD-II port was exposed, a faint scuff near the plug. He crouched lower. The wiring looked disturbed. Not clean. Not factory.

  He took a photo. Then another. Angled up, angled down.

  There was a plastic tab that didn’t belong. A relay module, maybe. Aftermarket. Half tucked behind the panel like someone wanted it hidden but not gone.

  He noted it. Shot it from three angles.

  He stepped around to the passenger’s side and snapped a few more, marking the ECU housing partially visible beneath the engine cowling. Dust pattern was wrong. The casing edge had a nick, like it had been forced open and closed again.

  Then he moved to the front of the car; documenting the scene like it was still bleeding. He clicked notes onto his phone, then turned to Joe.

  “I saw a kid working with tire rims as we were walking here. Can you call him over to open the hood?”

  “You can do it,” said Joe as he took a slurp from his coffee cup.

  “That’s not really my forte. I don’t even own a car. I have a driver.” He nodded at Aidan, who frowned. “Unless you want to open it for me?”

  Joe looked at Neil’s well-groomed artist hands, then down at the ground. He closed his eyes and shook his head as his lips tightened to hold back the words that wanted to come out of his mouth. Then he looked up. “Travis!”

  Travis emerged a couple rows away with tools in hand.

  “Come help this guy,” said Joe, and then he turned to Neil. “I’ve got to get back to the office. I’m expecting someone from the city. Inspectors. I don’t know what they’re looking for. I don’t think they know. Travis will help you with anything you need.”

  Joe started back, then stopped when he spotted Sherlock sniffing around a dented Ford two rows over, tail alert. “I told you to keep control of your dog.”

  “Sorry,” Aidan called out, then ran over to grab Sherlock’s leash.

  Neil waited until Joe was out of sight, then circled back to the Cadillac and Travis.

  “Just need the ECU. Everything that talks to it. Put it in my backpack. I’ll handle the rest.”

  Travis nodded, glancing over his shoulder. “Fifteen minutes, tops.” He popped the hood. Neil looked inside. The telemetry module was intact, but the casing looked newer than the surrounding components. Factory recall? Unlikely.

  Neil positioned himself between the car and the access gate, eyes tracking the lot. The clatter of tools was masked by the rising hum of traffic along the highway. He scanned the rows of crumpled cars, counting minutes. Ten minutes in, dogs started barking, low and angry. Sherlock’s ears perked, and he gave a low growl. Then the sound of loud chain clatter, and droplets of rain began to fall.

  Two large mongrels rounded the fence, fast, snarling, barreling toward them. Sherlock braced, and his hackles rose, forming a mohawk down his spine. His tail curled, and a low rumble vibrated through his chest and shot out challenging snorts. He may be mini, but the Doberman part charged forward, pulling the leash out of Aidan’s hand.

  A city inspector appeared, clipboard in hand, wearing a neon vest, yellow hardhat catching the light. Joe followed behind, already yelling, “Hey! You’re not supposed to have a dog loose in here!”

  “Just keep working,” Neil muttered to Travis, voice flat.

  Aidan called out, “Sherlock! Sherlock, get back here!” as he ran to catch the dog’s leash.

  Too late. The dog tore between two junked trucks, drawing the yard dogs into pursuit. The inspector turned and tried to climb a stack of crushed cars. The rain fell harder, and the dogs closed in, snapping at his heels, then turned and charged at Aiden. Sherlock circled, snarling, hackles high, holding the line between the pack and Aidan. Tension rippled across the lot.

  A crash of metal. The rain pounded on the hood of the Cadillac and streamed down on Travis’s back and down his arms, causing the ECU and his wrench to slip out of his hands and fall under the car.

  “Shit,” exclaimed Travis as he scrambled for it. Neil grabbed his backpack and squatted down next to Travis, who inched his way out, dropped the wet ECU with its attachments, and shoved it into the backpack. Neil slipped the hundred-dollar bill into Travis’s wet, trembling hand.

  “Travis! Where are you?” Joe called out. “Grab the dogs!”

  “Thanks,” said Travis, and he disappeared into the rain.

  By the time the soaked city inspector, Joe, and Aidan, with a prancing leashed Sherlock beside him, returned, Neil was inside Aidan’s van, scrolling on his phone, his window cracked open.

  “Dog always this much trouble?” the inspector asked as he approached.

  “Only when he knows I need a minute,” replied Neil without looking up.

  Aidan glowered at him. Joe came out with two industrial-size garbage bags and a roll of paper towels. Aidan’s silence was loud and clear as he lined his driver’s seat and the back seat with the bags and wiped Sherlock off with the paper towels.

  They pulled out ten minutes later. Joe watched them go, holding a steaming cup of coffee and a city citation for unsecured dogs endangering public safety in his hands.

  On the drive back, Neil sat with his backpack on the floor between his knees as he carefully dried and examined the ECU. He wrapped it with paper towels and returned it to the backpack. He looked out the window; the sky was beginning to clear over the Sound. Mount Baker was just a suggestion in the distance.

  He pulled out his phone and booked a flight to Tokyo with one hand while scratching Sherlock’s ear with the other. “Do you have the camera?” Neil asked.

  Aidan scowled as he pulled the camera out of his pocket and tossed it at Neil. “I didn’t appreciate getting circled by killer dogs.”

  “You were a good distraction,” said Neil. “Sherlock earned his keep.”

  “Yeah, you were a great help,” Aidan said sarcastically. “But as long as you got what you needed.”

  Neil slipped the camera into his backpack and began scrolling on his phone.

  “I got a ticket for a dog that’s a public hazard.” Aidan waved the citation at Neil. “Sherlock could have been locked up in dog jail.”

  Neil took the citation and read it.

  City of Everett—Department of Public Safety Animal Control Citation

  Cited Individual: Aidan Sterling

  Violation(s):

  ☑ Improper Supervision of an Animal in a Secured Municipal Facility

  Subject failed to maintain proper control of a canine within the perimeter of a restricted evidence compound, resulting in unsupervised access to potential evidentiary material.

  Neil scratched Sherlock’s ears. “Sherlock had a good time.”

  Aidan smirked. “Yeah. Sherlock and I had a blast.”

  “I’ll pay the citation,” Neil said.

  “Damn right you will.”

  “You’ve now experienced spy work.”

  “I prefer building maintenance.”

  “So, you’ve learned something important about yourself.”

  “And what did you learn?” Aidan asked.

  “Not suicide. Maintenance. Somebody deleted John Wallace.”

  They pulled up to Neil’s apartment building just as the sun dipped below the western hills. Aidan helped carry the six file boxes of Katherine Sterling’s files and journals up to Neil’s apartment.

  He hesitated before heading back downstairs. “You’ll be seeing Octavia, won’t you?”

  Neil didn’t answer; instead, he leaned down and petted the dog. “Going to miss you, Sherlock. High five?” The dog leaned back on his hind legs and lifted his paw. Neil tapped it and handed Aidan the leash.

  “Thank you for your help today.” Neil handed him an envelope. “This should cover the fine.”

  “Normally, I’d say, 'No problem, anytime,’ said Aidan, “but … I’m getting better at saying no.” He grinned. “Sherlock is always happy to assist you. I have a feeling you two are a lot alike.”

  Neil watched them descend the stairs, then stepped inside and closed the door. He was confronted by the six boxes stacked on the floor. He sighed and rubbed his face. It had been a long day. He pulled the ECU from his backpack and examined it.

  It’s going to be tricky getting it through TSA.

  He slipped it back into his backpack and pulled out his sketchbook.

  I need to download. I can’t think with all of this in my head.

  He tried sketching. He needed to get Jerry out to make room for Wallace. He got a partial sketch of Jerry’s apartment, but when it came time to draw his face, Neil found himself hesitating. He felt crushed by the thought that this would be Jerry’s final image. He outlined the face, then put the pencil down. His stomach growled.

  He scrolled through his choices. “Pizza it is,” he said as he punched the number for delivery. Not his usual choice, but it was fast and filling.

  A voice popped into his head. You need to drink water. You’re dehydrated.

  Octavia. Just the thought of her voice motivated him to fill a large glass and chug it down with loud gulps. He leaned against the counter. Then his eyes widened. He dashed to his phone and began texting Octavia.

  NEIL

  Arriving in Tokyo in 3 days.

  Need a diplomatic pouch to get through TSA & customs.

  Please arrange.

  He waited. No response. The pizza arrived. Still no response. He ate the pizza and took a shower. Still no response. Neil checked the time: 7:30 pm Wednesday. He calculated Tokyo time. “It’s 11:30 am. on Thursday there. She might be in physical therapy.”

  He paced around the apartment. Katherine Sterling’s boxes agitated him. Another hour passed. Still no response. She’s probably making me pay for not contacting her sooner. Though I’m sure everyone in Destiny Pointe has been keeping her well-informed.

  Frustrated, he opened a box. Inside were personal journals chronologically packed, years 2011–2023. He opened another box: years 2000–2010. He was about to open another box when his phone pinged.

  OCTAVIA

  Who is this?

  Neil rolled his eyes and sighed before responding.

  NEIL

  Okay, get it. Need your help.

  OCTAVIA

  Of course, you do.

  NEIL

  Coming to Tokyo. Need to get something to Kozo ASAP

  OCTAVIA

  Why don’t you contact him yourself?

  NEIL

  Because he can’t arrange for a diplomatic pouch.

  OCTAVIA

  I thought you might be coming to see me.

  Or

  Call to find out how I am.

  NEIL

  Stop it.

  I’m solving John Wallace’s murder.

  OCTAVIA

  Murder?!

  NEIL

  I’ll explain when I get there.

  Just arrange pouch.

  OCTAVIA

  Are you ok?

  NEIL

  Yes, I’m fine.

  Jerry’s dying.

  OCTAVIA

  What?!

  I need to come home.

  NEIL

  Stay in Tokyo. Nothing you can do.

  Except arrange for diplomatic pouch.

  OCTAVIA

  I’ll take care of it.

  Neil’s fingers paused above the keys.

  NEIL

  See you in 3 days.

  OCTAVIA

  It will be good to see you.

  NEIL

  Tired. Going to bed. Good night.

  OCTAVIA

  Sleep well.

  Neil put his phone on the charger, put the lid back on the box, and sat in the dark.

  Chapter 17

  Darkness still lingered when Neil woke, stiff from a night folded into the chair.

  Today will be complicated.

  But not yet.

  For one hour, he had nothing to solve, nothing to regret. Just the rhythm. One hour.

  He drank cold water, showered, and pulled on a thin University of Puget Sound T-shirt and sweatpants. Opening the window, he breathed in the damp air and listened to the rain tapping steadily against the glass, the Pacific Northwest hymn.

  The yoga mat hit the floor; his body moved through the familiar rhythm.

  Breathe in. Stretch up.

  Breathe out. Fold forward.

  He rolled up the mat and stood barefoot in the chill, watching the rain trace slow lines down the pane. Then he took his phone off the charger. Two text messages.

  UPTON

  Update??

  DR. CHEN

  Cleared my morning. 10 am?

  Neil took a deep breath.

  So … it begins.

  “I’ve several stops today. Are you going to be available?” Neil asked the Uber driver.

  “I’m always available for you, Mr. Ames,” said Winston. “I’m ready to help you solve a crime.” He grinned and started the car. He looked at the destination address. “The medical examiner’s office?”

  Neil grunted and fingered through the pages of his sketchbook, where he had stashed a copy of the autopsy report and the pictures he and Aidan had taken of Wallace’s SUV. They arrived at their destination fifteen minutes later.

  “I don’t like coming here, Mr. Ames. You got the bodies, you got the cold steel tables. Carving up dead people, that must be a nasty job.” Winston shuddered. “Last time we were here, the police was guarding the place.”

  “Today’s just paperwork,” said Neil.

  “Paperwork for the dead. Now that’s a special kind of creepy.”

  Neil sent a text message before leaving the car. He handed the driver a twenty. “Circle the block if you feel uncomfortable. I won’t be long.”

  “Take your time, Mr. Ames. I hear a cup of coffee calling my name.”

  Dr. Chen met Neil at the door. “I pulled the digital copies of the Granger case from our archives,” he said. “I’m eager to compare them.”

  Neil pulled the report from his sketchbook and handed it to him. Dr. Chen skimmed the pages, lips tightening.

  “This isn’t Merrow’s phrasing,” he said. “He wouldn’t have written this.”

  “You’re sure?” Neil asked.

  “I worked with him for three years before he retired. He was rigid with language. If he couldn’t confirm identity, he marked it inconclusive until the data came back. Always. And …” he clicked tapped the keyboard, “it’s different from our report that was archived.”

  Dr. Chen pointed at several sections in the original transcript. “The language has been changed. This is very puzzling.” Dr. Chen continued to compare the two reports and point out discrepancies. “The height and weight is different. And in our transcript, there is a surgical scar, but none is noted on the report you brought me.”

  “Parts were fabricated?” Neil’s mouth thinned. “And that cleared review?”