“That’s not Rucker driving.”

  Hayes leaned forward, eyes fixed on the screen.

  The hand was pale. Strong fingers. A thick silver ring caught the light as the enhancement finished rendering. Clear and unmistakable.

  A compass rose.

  A chill slid down his spine. He’d seen that mark before.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the image.

  “I’ve seen that emblem,” he said finally. “Buried in a case file out of Houston about ten years back.” He pointed at the screen. “This here’s why the Canadians were so helpful. They knew you were swimmin’ with sharks.”

  Cordera frowned. “What is it?”

  “Mark of a group calls itself the Alignment,” Hayes said. “They clean up corporate messes for people who pay enough to stay invisible.” He nodded toward the frozen frame. “That ring? That’s their callin’ card.”

  “So, he’s not freelance.”

  “No, ma’am. And if he’s the one who killed Rucker … then this game’s a hell of a lot bigger than Destiny Pointe.”

  Hayes keyed the console, tagging the image, Unknown Male/Cleaner, and highlighting the ring with a red annotation.

  "All right," he said, "Keep workin' on it. Keep me updated."

  "Yes, Captain." Cordera left.

  Hayes stepped back, hands on his hips, studying the wall as the digital case board reassembled itself digitally. Wallace. Rucker. Emily Granger. Lines threading between them, quiet and patient. The same poison seeping through twenty years.

  Come two o’clock, Cordera brought the monitors back online.

  Digital pages spread across the main screen: reports scrolling in precise columns, timestamps glowing faintly at the margins. On the adjacent monitors, crime-scene images of Rucker’s garage and car snapped into place, filling the displays edge to edge.

  “Engine running. Garage door closed,” she said, scrolling with a flick of her fingers. “CO levels high enough to drop a horse. Chen’s prelim puts his blood saturated with carbon monoxide … but Wallace was unconscious before the car ever started.”

  “So somebody staged it,” said Hayes.

  She nodded, calling up the next file. Medical images replaced the reports, annotations blooming in sharp overlays.

  “Contusion on the back of the skull. Chloroform residue on the headrest. He never knew what hit him. Post-mortem confirms perimortem hypoxia—loss of motor control before death.”

  The images shifted again. Wallace slumped behind the wheel, tie still knotted, eyes half-open. The look of a man caught mid-sentence, like he’d thought one more smart remark would carry him through.

  Hayes gave a grim half-smile. “Guess that’s what happens when the devil comes collectin’ early.”

  “No fingerprints or sign of forced entry,” Cordera said. She brought up the vehicle data. “But techs recovered the drive history. Two stops before he got home. The Low Side at 10:30 pm and then a deserted lot near Pier Seven at 11:15 pm.”

  Hayes crossed his arms and studied the monitors. “Perfect place to meet someone you shouldn’t.”

  Cordera nodded. “There’s something else. Digital forensics working on the John Wallace case, recovered a deleted voicemail from Wallace’s cloud backup. November eleventh.”

  She clicked. The room speakers hissed, then Rucker’s voice came through.

  You listen to me, Wallace. I heard her say it. You were there. You helped her get out—and somebody else paid for it. I’ve got proof now. Call me. Now.

  “That’s what it sounds like when a man stops jokin’,” Hayes said. “And starts makin’ threats.”

  Cordera folded her arms. “You think he really had proof?”

  “Didn’t have to,” Hayes said. “Just had to sound like he did.”

  “You think he was bluffing?”

  Hayes shook his head. “No … I think someone fed him just enough truth to make him dangerous.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone who understood what would get Wallace out of the house, and cleans up afterward.”

  Cordera’s eyes lifted from the screen. “A cleaner.”

  “Call the Everett Police. They owe us. Have them pull video from every municipal cam within a three-mile radius of Pier Seven between ten and midnight."

  Cordera was already moving. “And The Low Side?”

  “As soon as you get off that call, we’re goin’ to church, Detective.” Hayes grabbed his coat. “Dockside kind."

  Cordera parked the unmarked SUV by a row of rusted crab traps. The Low Side squatted at the end of the pier, a rectangle of brick and neon. Half the letters in its sign were dead; the survivors buzzed like hornets.

  Inside, the air was thick with fryer grease and yesterday’s whiskey. A ball game flickered on the screen above the bar, its sound lost beneath the refrigerator hum. A handful of dockworkers hunched over beers. Two women at the far booth looked up, took the measure of the newcomers and went back to their drinks.

  The bartender was a broad man with a sun-creased face and forearms like mooring lines. He looked up from polishing a glass.

  Hayes flipped open his badge. “Detective Jubal Hayes, Destiny Pointe PD. This is Detective Lucía Cordero. We need a minute of your time.”

  The bartender squinted. “Bit outta your jurisdiction, ain’t you?”

  “Not when it comes to murder,” Cordera said.

  That word drained the color from his face.

  Hayes slid a photo across the bar. “You seen this man?”

  He looked, then nodded reluctantly. “Yeah. Couple times.”

  “Stan Rucker,” Hayes supplied. “And this one?” He placed the next photo. “Detective John Wallace.”

  The bartender’s eyes scanned the photograph. His brow furrowed momentarily, then smoothed as his eyes shifted towards Hayes. “Only saw him once. He was sitting with that other guy."

  "Rucker?" asked Cordero.

  "Yeah."

  "When was that?" Hayes asked.

  "November, a few weeks ago. They stuck out. Had that cop look. First guy, Rucker, bought a drink, the other guy ordered ginger ale.”

  "Remember, what day that was?" Cordera asked.

  The bartender shook his head. "Didn't know I was going to have remember anything," he said sarcastically.

  She gave him a look, the kind that makes a man nervous.

  "College football was on the screen. We're closed on Mondays. So it must have been a Tuesday night."

  "Detective John Wallace died Tuesday, November 12th," said Hayes. “Car crash."

  “If he was drunk, it happened after he left here,” the bartender said quickly. “He didn’t touch a drop in my place. Like I said, he ordered ginger ale.”

  Hayes nodded. “Rucker been comin’ here regular?”

  “Every week or so. Always meet up with a guy, dark jacket, ball cap, shades indoors. The kind you don’t forget but can’t describe.”

  “When’d you last see ’em together?”

  “Couple nights ago. Rucker looked spooked, checkin’ his phone every minute. The other fella came in and sat calm as a priest.”

  “Calm how?”

  “Didn’t drink. Just folded his hands on the bar, smiled and nodded, like he'd heard the story before.”

  "You didn't happen to hear what they were talking about, did you?" Cordera asked.

  He shook his head. "No, it was too loud, always is on a game night."

  Hayes took a glossy print from his pocket, the close-up of the compass-rose ring. “You recognize this?”

  The bartender’s eyes flicked to it, then back. “Yeah. Light hit it just like that when he moved his hand.”

  “How long’d they talk?”

  “Ten minutes, maybe. The cap guy left first. Rucker followed.”

  Hayes glanced toward the small camera perched above the bottles, its red light steady. “You keep that feed backed up?”

  The man sighed. “Office in back.”

  The office was little more than a storage closet with a desk and a humming tower PC. The air smelled of stale beer and old salt. Cordera reviewed the video files until she hit the timestamp.

  The footage played in silence. Rucker at the bar, restless, eyes flicking to the door. The man in the cap slid onto the stool beside him, posture straight, movements precise. The light caught the ring, that same compass rose winking in the haze.

  “Freeze it,” Hayes said.

  Cordera paused the frame.

  “Mark the time,” he told her. “Pull the street cams for a ten-minute window after this. We’ll see what he drove.”

  She nodded. “On it.”

  Hayes went back to the bartender. “You don’t mind if we grab that footage, or we can stand here and wait for a search warrant?"

  The bartender scanned the barroom. “Take whatever you need. I don’t want any trouble.”

  Hayes leaned in. “Word travels fast up here. Spread it that Rucker left his phone, and you turned it in. If anyone asks, say I leaned on you.” He placed a fifty and his card on the counter. “And if somebody comes sniffin’, tell ’em you heard the cops are interested in somethin’ called the Sterling Files. That’ll get their attention.”

  The bartender hesitated, then pocketed both.

  Outside, the rain had found its rhythm again, a steady curtain over the docks. The neon sign reflected in a puddle, the broken letters spelling EDIS backward in the water.

  Cordera started the SUV. “You think he’ll bite?”

  “The bartender?” Hayes said. “He already has.”

  “I meant the man with the ring.”

  Hayes watched the red neon ripple across the windshield. “He’ll come. I’m the bait now.”

  Cordera shot him a look. “You’re planning a trap.”

  He smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the rain. “Not a trap, Detective. A conversation. The kind that decides who walks away.”

  She turned onto the main road, tires hissing over wet asphalt. “You think it ties back to the Granger case?”

  Hayes’s gaze stayed on the dark harbor. “Everything ties back to Emily Granger.”

  The wipers swept another pass, smearing the lights into color. He reached for his phone.

  “Who are you calling?” Cordera asked.

  “Upton,” he said, “But first, Ames.”

  Chapter 41

  Neil’s flight from Tokyo slid into Changi Airport a little after 7:40 pm on New Year’s Eve. Even before the cabin door opened, he felt the shift, the air pressing like a damp hand against the windows. Singapore in December was supposed to be “winter,” but the jet bridge carried a heavy warmth that wrapped his skin in seconds. He loosened his collar and told himself to stop thinking in Pacific Northwest seasons.

  Customs moved fast, but the drive into the city didn’t. Holiday traffic snarled the expressways in a glittering crawl. From the back of the taxi, he watched the skyline sharpen out of the haze: glass towers rimmed in neon, the Marina Bay Sands perched like a ship of light. Fireworks testing shots cracked in the distance, a rehearsal for midnight.

  By the time he checked in at the hotel, it was close to nine thirty. The clerk wished him a happy New Year and offered a chilled towel that felt like salvation. He took a shower and swapped his travel clothes for a bamboo-blend T-shirt and lightweight cotton trousers, unfamiliar territory for a man who preferred wool and structure. The fabric breathed just enough to keep the humidity from winning.

  His phone buzzed as he tightened his shoes.

  ATHENA

  Promontory at Marina Bay. Midnight. Don’t be late.

  The crowd thickened as he made his way to the waterfront. Lanterns bobbed in the humid breeze, and hawker stalls smoked with satay and roasted chestnuts. English, Malay, and Mandarin wove through the dark air with the metallic whine of the Helix Bridge. The smell of roasted peanuts mixed with diesel from idling buses. The bay shimmered like black glass, reflecting lasers from the towers.

  Athena spotted him first and broke from the throng. “Neil!” She wrapped him in a fierce Marine hug that smelled faintly of sweat and sea air. “Thank you for being here.”

  “Wouldn’t be anywhere else,” he said, and meant it.

  Behind her, Matthew McGregor stepped forward, tall and broad shouldered, his eyes crinkled in a smile even as they swept the crowd with the vigilance of an RCMP officer.

  “Happy New Year, Ames,” he said, extending a hand before pulling Neil into a quick, companionable clap on the back. “Long way from Montreal, eh?”

  “Humidity’s a dead giveaway,” Neil said.

  The crowd surged around them, shoulder to shoulder, the scent of fried noodles and cologne, a hundred overlapping conversations. Fireworks flared, turning faces to brief silhouettes against the dark and drawing a cheer that rolled across the bay.

  Athena raised her voice about the noise. “It’s getting claustrophobic here. Let’s find a spot where we can breathe. Tomorrow we’ll deal with what we came here to do.”

  She started toward a narrow walkway along the water, slipping through the press of revelers with the precision of a marine clearing a path. Neil and McGregor fell in behind her, grateful for the chance to trade the crush for the open air.

  When they reached the rail, the roar momentarily lessened. Neil leaned closer. “So, McGregor, heard from Michelle Perusse lately?”

  “Have you?” McGregor shot back, eyes glinting.

  Neil shook his head, a small laugh escaping. “No.”

  McGregor shook his head and chuckled. “Journalists never really leave a story, or a mistake, behind.”

  They shared a brief, knowing smile.

  Athena turned back toward the bay as the first full barrage of fireworks split the sky. Silver chrysanthemums bloomed over the Marina Bay Sands, their reflections shattering across the water. Neil watched her face in the flash of light. Still. Composed … but carrying the dread of the morning to come.

  The crowd began its countdown. Ten … Nine … Eight …

  Neil slipped his phone from his pocket and thumbed a message before the sky erupted.

  NEIL

  Happy New Year from tomorrow.

  The reply came immediately from the time travel across the Pacific Ocean of earlier in the Pacific Northwest day.

  OCTAVIA

  Just got to the Pinnacle. Don’t let the future get too far ahead of you.

  Neil pocketed the phone, eyes on the black-silver water, where Kurt’s ashes would soon be scattered, and told himself to stay in the present … for now.

  Neil woke from a shallow drift of sleep, the memory of fireworks a fading dream, rain tapping on the hotel window. He rolled to the floor, stretched through a short yoga sequence, and let the bitter hotel coffee anchor him. The rain stopped, and he opened the window. Singapore smelled of wet stone and night markets even in the morning. He showered and dressed in a charcoal cotton shirt and dark trousers, light enough for the equator, formal enough for police stations.

  Athena and McGregor waited in the lobby, both dressed for work, not sentiment. Athena’s posture carried the unspoken command of a Marine captain. McGregor stood, his demeanor mirroring the tranquility of someone adept at patiently biding their time.

  “Bridge first,” Athena said. No greeting beyond the clipped order.

  The car slid through heavy traffic toward Kallang. Rain streaked the windows. Tower cranes loomed like patient sentries over the dark water.

  Athena tapped the driver’s seat. “Stop here.”

  They stepped out into the gray morning drizzle. Under the bridge, a loose community stirred; a dozen figures huddled beneath tarps and makeshift tents: the homeless who claimed the space but disappeared before the police arrived.

  A man in torn pants boiled tea on a single burner.

  A woman in an oversize T-shirt and a floral skirt combed a child’s hair with slow, deliberate strokes.

  Another group sat in a circle, sharing cigarettes against the humid drizzle.

  Eyes followed the newcomers: curious, tired, wary.

  Neil let the images etch themselves into his memory. Every face a story. Every story a life. They deserve more than the word “homeless,” he thought, or “unidentified.”

  The three of them walked the girders and shadowed recesses like the professionals they were: silent, methodical, mapping angles where a body might fall or be hidden. The smell of moisture and rust hung heavy, threaded with wood smoke from the makeshift stoves.

  Back in the car, Neil pulled out his sketchbook. His pencil traced the outlines of the encampment: the bent burner, the woman’s careful hands, the fragile dignity of people the city preferred to hide.

  The Criminal Investigation Department stood brutally efficient on the exterior, all glass, steel, and bureaucratic calm. Inside, the detective chief inspector presented them with a copy of the case file. Athena’s questions firing as controlled bursts.

  “Why was DNA not processed when the skull was first found?”

  “Why was a ring overlooked?”

  “Who approved disposal before identification?”

  The inspector answered with careful precision: An initial assumption of a homeless victim, budget priorities. When the questioning ended, he returned carrying two items.

  An evidence bag containing a Salish-engraved wedding ring. The second item was a sealed square cardboard box, similar in size to a candle box, with a tag bearing an ID number and the name Kurt Devlin.

  Athena’s hands were steady as she accepted the ring first. Then she took the box. The tremor in her fingers betrayed what the mask of command tried to hide.

  “This is all,” the inspector said respectfully.

  “For now,” Athena said.

  Back at the hotel, Athena sat on the couch by the window and refused to release the box from her grasp. McGregor made calls and handled the bureaucracy. Neil sat beside her, silently sketching.

  “Find something worthy of him,” she said to Neil, her voice steady but raw.

  Neil set his sketches aside.

  “An urn. Find something worthy of him,” she repeated.