by Archer Mayor
“That why you’re up here?” she asked, smiling back, crossing over, and kissing the top of his head.
He squeezed her forearm in return. “Yeah—life of the party.”
“You know you’re not to blame,” she reassured him.
“She told us later, at her booking, how Pat came home and flat out asked her about killing Ryan. I put that in his head. It’s what made her pull the trigger.”
“One way or the other, he was the second man she’d killed that we know about, Les,” Sue said. “Do you really think she wouldn’t’ve gotten around to it by herself, the next time he forgot to take out the garbage? Or feed the pets? You didn’t wind her up. Hell, you were almost incidental.”
He looked up at her and raised an eyebrow. “Now you got me nervous about taking out the garbage.”
She gave the back of his head a fake smack, in fact relieved to hear him make a joke. He’d been in a down mood for over two days by now—a record for him.
He tilted his head to one side and asked, “Do I tell you enough how much you mean to me?”
She ran her hand across his close-cropped hair. “Never.”
After a moment’s pause, she reminded him, “You actually invited these people for a cookout.”
“I know,” he conceded, getting to his feet. “What was I thinking?”
“Probably that you needed your best friends nearby.”
* * *
Joe rose from his seat as Sue and Lester appeared from the house, bearing a tray of uncooked hamburgers and hot dogs and a large bowl of salad fixings. “Need any help?” he asked, reaching out.
Sue handed him several bottles of dressing that were slipping from her grip, and they all three began distributing their goods onto the long wooden picnic table.
Spinney started organizing himself at the grill, laying out his utensils and the piles of meat, allowing Joe to sidle up to him privately.
“Tough going?” he asked.
“A little,” Lester admitted. “I feel responsible.”
“You are,” his boss told him. “For solving a murder nobody else knew existed. But not for Pat Hartnett. He made some choices, too. You can’t forget that.”
Lester tapped the side of his head. “I know that in here. I just don’t feel it in my heart.”
“Remember Eberhard Dziobek?” Joe asked suddenly.
Lester stopped what he was doing to stare at him. “The shrink? He helped you out a few years ago, didn’t he?”
“He’s done more than that,” Joe said quietly.
Lester was startled. “It’s an ongoing thing?”
“Now and then, yeah.” Joe smiled. “It’s off the books, and sure as hell not known by the Bureau. He’s a good guy—been a big help.”
“And you think I should see him,” Lester suggested.
“I think my saying everything’s all right ain’t gonna make it all right,” Joe said. “He’s good with this stuff, and knows where and how to direct it. All I can tell you is it takes its toll.”
Lester laid out a few burgers and dogs onto the grill. “Thanks,” he finally said. “Maybe I will.”
Joe eased away to let him soak in the notion, and wandered over to where Beverly and Rachel were standing together. He slipped an arm around Beverly’s waist. “Thanks for coming. I know that fraternizing is one of your usual no-no’s.”
She smiled at him, relaxed and happy. “For you and Rachel? Both at once?” She put on a theatrical voice before adding, “Exceptions must be made, Joseph. Even in the carved-in-stone Hillstrom code of proper behavior.” She then whispered in his ear, “And you are a sweetheart for inviting Rachel.”
“Which reminds me,” he said in a voice loud enough to carry across the yard. “Let’s not forget that while we’re working to eat the Spinneys out of house and home, we’re also here to celebrate. While I was away playing doting son to my mother—who by the way sends her love—you all up and smacked down not one, but three major cases, almost as if you knew what you were doing.”
He raised a glass and bowed his head toward Willy. “Mr. Kunkle, as usual ignoring the rules and pissing off the feds, the Springfield PD, and God knows who else, you successfully used the potentially unremarkable discovery of three broken teeth to shut down a conspiracy to subvert a major military contract. Randomly but nicely done.”
Willy shook his head as Emma, in his right arm, gazed up at him fondly. “The feds got the glory,” he said, “and the Windsor PD can’t believe they finally got to use their tac team.”
To general laughter, Joe then saluted Sammie. “Special Agent Martens—my surrogate field force commander. The death of a young woman, a killer lost into the night, a guaranteed dead end in the making, and you ended up handing a case over to the New York State Police and the Albany PD that they’ll be chewing on for years. How many people surfaced in that sleazy guy’s hard drive?”
“Dozens,” Sam said bashfully.
Joe continued, “Blackmails, extortions, conspiracies, sexual assaults, one homicide that we know of, and several more we suspect. Not a bad piece of work. I couldn’t be more proud.”
He turned toward Lester. “And our host. Down at the mouth right now for something you did your best to prevent, but only after completely reversing one of the highest profile murders in recent Vermont history, and in the process pulling off some picture-perfect police work. Congratulations, sir.”
“Time to eat,” Willy suggested in the midst of applause. “We gotta go to work tomorrow, and I don’t wanna do that on an empty stomach.”
More laughter was followed by Joe putting down his glass and holding up both hands. “In two seconds. I just want to say one more thing, and for that, I’d like to invite three missing guests.”
He nodded to Rachel, who dug into the backpack she’d earlier placed under the table. She began setting up a display among the paper plates and plastic glasses.
“We’re all here for the same calling,” Joe said. “It’s supposed to be to protect and to serve, and as all of you have just proven, we do a pretty good job of it.”
Rachel had laid out three photographs and three candles, which she now went about lighting.
“But sad to say,” Joe continued, “it’s never that neat and tidy, and sometimes people pay the penalty. We can’t always explain to ourselves or to others why this happens, but it seems to be the price of the battle we’ve taken on.”
Rachel straightened, and he unobtrusively held her hand in thanks. Before them, their faces flickering in the reflected candlelight, were portraits of Kyle Kennedy, Pat Hartnett, and Charlotte Robinson.
“These are who we fight for,” Joe said in the stillness. “From all backgrounds and walks of life, and regardless of what they may think of us or our mission. These are the ones we serve, and will continue to do our damnedest to protect.”
Sam felt Willy shift slightly beside her, and glanced up just in time to see her daughter wipe a tear from his cheek.
ALSO BY ARCHER MAYOR
Presumption of Guilt
The Company She Kept
Proof Positive
Three Can Keep a Secret
Paradise City
Tag Man
Red Herring
The Price of Malice
The Catch
Chat
The Second Mouse
St. Albans Fire
The Surrogate Thief
Gatekeeper
The Sniper’s Wife
Tucker Peak
The Marble Mask
Occam’s Razor
The Disposable Man
Bellows Falls
The Ragman’s Memory
The Dark Root
Fruits of the Poisonous Tree
The Skeleton’s Knee
Scent of Evil
Borderlines
Open Season
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ARCHER MAYOR, in addition to writing the New York Times bestselling Joe Gunther series, is a death investigator for t
he state medical examiner, a police officer, and has twenty-five years of experience as firefighter/EMT. He lives near Brattleboro, Vermont.
Visit the author’s website at
www.archermayor.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Also by Archer Mayor
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
TRACE. Copyright © 2017 by Archer Mayor. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by Jeremy Fink
Cover photographs: man © Mark Owen; tracks © John Pitocco/Alamy Stock Photo
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-11326-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-11327-6 (ebook)
ebook ISBN 9781250113276
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First Edition: September 2017