Animal Sacrifice: A Max Joplin Thriller

By Gil Miller and Gordon Bonnet

Max Joplin was living his dream. A great job that was the envy of others, in a high-profile law enforcement company, under the sunny skies of Florida. Until he blew the whistle on illegal practices within the organization. Suddenly, he found himself in protective custody with the FBI and black

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gil Miller
• Release date: Mar 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990310414

Gil Miller

Gil had a normal upbringing, which means his parents aren't to blame for him going into crime (fiction). Instead, he blames a steady diet of movies, shows, and books, from Miami Vice and Scarface in the '80s to Breaking Bad and Justified in the '00s. To cap it all off, he discovered authors such as Michael Connelly, Robert Crais, Don Winslow, and the late, great Elmore Leonard. Gil is a member of the Northwest Arkansas Writers Workshop, whose members sometimes wonder where he gets his inspiration. He makes his home outside Fayetteville, where he is at work on the next of his Rural Empires novels.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE CRIME SCENE is a mess. It looks like a deranged animal went wild in here. There’s blood on the walls, some of it soaked into a tapestry that hangs on one. It even looks like it dripped off the ceiling before it dried.

I stand at the top of the three short steps leading down into the sunken den, studying the scene. I always like to look it over once before I let my crimetechs in. I don’t see everything, but I get a feel for it.

Three days into my new job and I caught one hell of a case, from the looks of things.

I speak into the recorder’s mic, starting the audio file for the case. Detective Max Joplin, case number four three zero four three. Time is ten twenty-six hours, January third, two thousand ninety. I am investigating a possible murder at two four eight Substation Road, Huntsville, Arkansas.

I kneel to get a little closer. My self-contained Anti-Contamination Suit—ACS in cop talk—makes crinkling sounds, the air from the tanks blowing over me, keeping me cool.

Dwelling contains two bedrooms down a short hallway in back, with a bathroom approximately halfway down that same passage on the left. The owner—and possible victim—appears to have entered the house through the kitchen from a small utility room and, judging from the dust, rarely used the living room. Flooring is dark-stained hardwood that creaks in places. There’s a counter attached to the entrance wall of the kitchen, littered with receipts, old mail, and other odds and ends. To the left of the broad entryway between kitchen and living room, two coats hang on a hook. No signs of a woman living here, so if the vic is the owner, it’s likely a man.

I sigh. Sometimes this job makes me weary.

"The body is lying in the middle of the sunken den between two halves of a grayish sectional sitting along each wall. A built-in bookshelf occupies the back wall, old-fashioned books lining it. From the doorway, it doesn’t look like any of them have been touched in quite some time. An eReader is on the end table next to the part of the couch opposite the door.

Victim is male, looks middle-aged, lying on his back, head toward the flatscreen to the left of the door. He’s not eviscerated, but he’s torn up badly—deep cuts and gouges all over his torso, clothing in tatters. A partially-eaten Pizza Hut pasta meal sits in its takeout carton on the couch.

Had he really laid it there before dying?

Wait. I step back into the kitchen, glance at the trash can. A matching takeout carton perches on top of a pile of trash that’s in danger of spilling out.

There is another Pizza Hut carton in the kitchen trash can. Could be the victim’s past meal, or perhaps he had a visitor.

The killer? Maybe.

Anything is a possibility, but not everything is likely.

I look up at the crunching of tires on gravel—the vic’s driveway is covered with crushed limestone—to see another city unit pulling in behind mine. A plainclothes gets out, stretches, and surveys his surroundings, then greets one of the uniforms standing guard at the perimeter markers I’ve set out.

Another detective? On my case?

Better not be. I prefer to work alone, and the chief knows that. He also knows why.

I’ve seen all I can for now. Time to let the ’techs in. I exit through the decontamination unit before unsealing the ACS and pulling out my control panel. Cold, damp air washes over me as I quickly set parameters for the Search and Catalogue, then make my way to my unit, an extended full-size van that houses all my gear.

The side door slides open as I approach and the ’techs swarm out of their sterile compartments, maglev drives humming, red lights blinking to show they’re already recording everything. It’s a complete set, from the small sniffers that take air samples all the way up to the large collectors with housings for anything from blood samples to casts of tire tracks. They whir around me and toward the house, the collection units bringing up the rear. Some peel off to document the exterior, while most fly through the door.

My visitor stands beside his unit, hands on narrow hips.

I remove the ACS and stow it and the air tanks before I go to him.

He tilts his head to one side. You Max Joplin?

I nod.

He holds out a hand. I’m Jackson Smith, your new partner.

He’s a bit over a meter eighty tall—right at my height—dressed in a stylish pinstripe suit and fedora that outshines my off-the-rack number. His hair is that neutral brown I think of as hair-colored hair. His eyes are bright with intelligence and… something else. Craftiness? Cleverness? Whatever it is, I take an immediate dislike to it.

He’s too smooth.

He’s not wearing iglasses, which is unusual. I’m one of the few people who still prefers to go without them, mostly because I don’t like wearing the things all the time.

I move around him to the uniform serving as entry guard. Don’t let anyone else past this post, you understand? Not even the chief.

The uniform—a big, broad-faced guy whose name tag says Thompson—stares at me for a moment, then glances at Smith and nods.

Good man. I’ll remember him.

I don’t need you here, I tell Smith as I walk back over to him. I work alone.

Again with the head tilt. Is that in your contract?

I manage to keep from grimacing, but only just. He’s right. It’s not in my contract, but it should be. I might have to renegotiate, add it as a rider. But I can’t do that yet. I need to prove myself, show I can still cut it as a cop before I think about renegotiating.

No. I all but bark out the word.

He smiles. Then you’ll have to take it up with the chief. He’s the one who sent me out here.

I will. I point at him. In the meantime, stay out of my crime scene. I have my ’techs already in there. I don’t want yours going in and confusing things.

Suits me. He shrugs, then turns to study the house.

I stare at his profile a moment, then step into the van and seat myself at the control console, a larger, more detailed version of what I used earlier. It has video/audio feedback on four monitors that I can switch among the ’techs. Other screens show a steady stream of data as well as the developing 3D map of the scene.

A noise at the door. It’s Smith.

Mind if I piggyback? He gives me that smile again. At least that way, if the chief gives the go-ahead for me to stay on the case with you, I won’t have to play catch-up. And if not… well, it won’t be a waste. I’ll move on to something else.

And know more than I’d like you to about my case.

But… he has a point. I don’t think he’s lying to me about being sent out. It would be too easy to check, and would get him garnishment points for misrepresentation.

Yeah, go ahead. But I don’t have another chair.

Hey, you have to cut overhead everywhere you can. I understand. I can see fine from here. He leans against the open door. What’s the short story?

Male vic, alone in the house. Doesn’t look like anyone else lived there, but he may have had a recent visitor. I work a touchpad, bringing up the latest visual from one of my ’techs. It shows the victim. Whoever did him had a lot of rage or it was personal.

Smith whistles. I’ll say. Messy. Who’s the owner of record?

Ronald Avery. White male, age forty-six, divorced. Pays his taxes, has no children, been at this address for over twenty years. Works in a factory in the Fayetteville District of the Metroplex.

Sounds like a loner. Not many real people working in factories anymore.

I scroll down. He’s worked there almost as long as he’s lived here. He’s actually the floor manager, so he oversees the automateds.

Good for him.

I ignore the sarcasm, but he’s right. The only people who still do that kind of work are either in the front office or, like our vic—if he is in fact the one inside—spend their time watching over robots from a control center a lot like what I’m using.

Did you alert the ME?

No, I didn’t, but I alert him now. As I get off the phone, the first of the ’techs comes back to the van and parks in its cubbyhole. Over the next thirty minutes or so, the others return in ones and twos. I say as little as possible to Smith. The coroner arrives as the last crimetech enters the unit.

I make sure the storage seals against contamination, double check that chain-of-custody protocols are in effect, then exit the van. Autopsies are still under the purview of the medical examiner. Though Huntsville is still outside the NWAR—I was told emphatically it’s pronounced en-wahr, not en double-u ay are—Metroplex, it’s only just barely, and there are talks of annexation. County lines always complicate such things, though.

Still, the NWAR ME has the contract for Huntsville, it being cheaper to use that office than maintain one of their own.

A woman gets out of the medical examiner’s unit. She’s a petite brunette with her hair pulled back in a business-like bun, her iglasses sleek wraparounds with barely any frames at all. Like us, she has a full-size van, and she opens one side to let her medrones—more specialized versions of the ’techs—out. They hum away, two larger units hovering on standby. Once the regular ’drones have removed the body, these two larger units will seal the house with nanofilm, preserving the crime scene in case we need to visit it again.

Roxie Mann. She holds out a hand. You can call me Roxie. I don’t like Mizz Mann, and Doctor Mann sounds ridiculous.

I like her already. Max Joplin, investigating officer.

She nods, expression grim. Heard of you.

My insides tighten. I’m famous—or more correctly, notorious—among law enforcement, and I wish it wasn’t so. The notoriety has made it hard for me to land another contract, and even then I had to do it as an independent. Luckily, I had the foresight to use my sizable federal bonus from my last contract to buy top-shelf equipment to make myself more appealing to potential employers.

Yet I still needed to call on an old friend to get this job.

I push that aside. This isn’t the time or place to deal with it.

A lot of people have. I try to keep my tone neutral, like it doesn’t matter.

She glances at me, a hint of a smile on her face, then shrugs. What you did doesn’t bother me. Then she shoots a pointed look in Smith’s direction. Maybe if more of them did like you, we’d have better law enforcement.

Smith smiles like he’s heard it all before. I give him a moment to say something, but he doesn’t, so I turn back to Roxie.

It’s a mess in there. Looks like he was attacked by an animal.

So I’m seeing. Feeds are coming up on her console, and she frowns. Good God, what happened?

That’s the question of the hour, maybe the week. My ’techs just finished up, so unless you need me for anything, I’ll grab my decon unit and head back to the station, start analyzing all this.

Just sign over the scene. She holds out a biometrics reader. I let it read my retina and fingerprints, then enter a PIN. It’s good to see she’s doing this. Not all MEs bother with it right off the bat. Some don’t want to take responsibility for the crime scene. Policies vary from department to department on procedures, and I haven’t had time to read up on Huntsville’s.

Is this SOP? I return the reader.

She sighs as she docks the device. It’s supposed to be, but it doesn’t always happen. Though I have to say the new contractor here seems to be pushing it harder than the last one did.

Who was the old contractor?

An outfit called Busch Solutions, and I’m glad to see them go. Sloppy.

I’ve heard of them. They bond out of a lot of their contracts, don’t they?

If they don’t, they should, Smith pipes in. You wouldn’t believe the mess we found when we got here. Incomplete records, some databases that hadn’t been used. We’re not even sure who the local parolees are. Busch had that contract as well, and their parole officers apparently sat at home and collected their pay. No monitoring of their ex-cons or anything. For all we know, they’re all in violation.

That made Busch worse than I’d heard.

We hated coming over here. Roxie’s hands move over her console like a concert pianist playing a familiar and well-loved piece. They paid promptly, but that’s about the only thing good you could say about them. Half the time when we got here, the investigating officer was already gone. When they weren’t, they were mad at us for the commute time.

Disgusting. No wonder civilians don’t trust LE. An age-old problem, though.

Well, if you’ve got this under control, I’m going to head back and get to work on this stuff. I glance at Smith. I need to have a talk with the chief anyway.

As I turn to walk off, Roxie stops me.

Want to make this easier for both of us?

That’s a new one on me. What do you have in mind?

Shoot me the data your ’techs gathered. Then, if something odd shows up, I’ll let you know. She smiles.

It’s like the sun coming out of rain clouds, and I return her smile. You got it. I’ll do that right now if you’re ready for the data dump.

Bring it on, officer.

This is rare. I hadn’t even seen it much in my last job. Medrones sometimes spot things ’techs don’t. It’s a difference in programming. Just one of the things you have to deal with on the job. It isn’t always a big deal, but it’s like having insurance—you hope you never need it, but it’s good to know it’s there.

I ping her unit, then send a copy of everything I have to her.

Got it.

Thanks.

I don’t say a word to Smith. Just close the door and jump in the driver’s seat.

Time to talk to Daniel about my new partner.

CHAPTER TWO

DRIVING OUT, MUD puddles that look like molten lead reflect the gunmetal skies overhead. As I hit the pavement, sprinkles dot my windshield. The heater feels good after sitting at the console so long with Smith looking over my shoulder from the open door.

Why had Daniel sent him out? He knows I don’t like partners, especially after what happened at ONYX. Partners mean trust, and since my fiasco there, trust is hard to come by. Was law enforcement always this way? What was it like back in the days when cops were paid by the jurisdictions they patrolled?

Luckily, the drive back to the station isn’t long, so I don’t have much time to fume over what looks to be the latest betrayal. I’m going through the side entrance before Smith has time to park.

Despite the city’s small size, its police station is state-of-the-art. Sleek and modern, it contains almost everything needed to solve a crime, from lab equipment to radios. Part of that is because of Windward Enterprises, the new contractor. They brought in the best with them. Good trick for a new company. They must have some rich investors.

The gatekeeper outside Daniel’s office glances up at me.

Anybody in there with him?

The guy shakes his head. No, but—

Thanks. I barge past before he has a chance to stand.

Daniel Martin, the Huntsville chief of police, is studying something on his computer when I walk in. He’s a slender man, dressed to the nines, his trench coat and fedora on a rack in the corner. His desk is neat, the glow from the inset monitor lighting up his face. When I enter, he closes the screen with a swipe and looks up at me.

Max. His tone is neutral. Maybe he can see on my face that I’m mad. He should know, after sending a partner to work with me.

I sit in one of the chairs opposite him, place my hat on my knee, and try to decide whether to glare at him or have out with it. It only takes a moment to choose the latter, since he’s a friend.

Why did you assign a partner to me? My teeth are clenched, and my hands grip the chair’s arms hard. You know how I feel about that.

He stares at me for a moment, then takes out a notepad—a notepad, in this day and age?—and writes on it while he speaks. It’s company policy. You know that, Max.

And yet, when we negotiated, I made it clear I was to work alone. Are your verbal agreements no good?

He sighs, then slides the slip of paper across the desk and nods ever so slightly at it.

I gave that agreement in good faith. Everything about him shows tension. But a company representative found your contract, saw you had no partner assigned to you, and went above my head to the city about it. You know the drill after that. The mayor calls me, I call you, and that’s how it is.

I lean forward and pick up the sheet. The note says, Meet me @ the old school bldng tonight @ 19hrs.

After reading it a couple of times to be sure I’ll remember what it says, I fold it and tuck it in my pocket. I’ll incinerate it later.

What’s going on here?

No time for that now. What’s important is to play along. But I’m going to do it in a way that’ll benefit me.

All right. If that’s the way it is, I’ll let it be. But we may want to revisit my contract when this case is over.

Daniel’s chair creaks as he leans back in it, crossing his arms over his stomach. Fair enough. But it’ll have to be a big case. Windward isn’t going to change their policy for anyone. Pairing up officers is for their own protection, as well as the fact two heads are often better than one.

Not when one of them might be a traitor.

I need to stop thinking like that, but it’s hard. My last partner almost got me killed when he told ONYX I was blowing the whistle on them. He almost got me killed a second time when he led them to me in hiding. I was an idiot, thought he was still on my side.

Not a mistake I’m likely to make again.

The shrinks all told me I should let it go, that I shouldn’t judge all future coworkers by the actions of one. That’s a paraphrase of what they said, especially Dr. Nick Anderson, a slick police shrink who made far too much money and did too little for it, in my opinion.

But what do I know? I’m just a cop.

I stand, plant my fedora squarely on my head. I’d best be getting back to work, then. I’ll let you know what I find out about this case.

Do that. It could be important to both of us.

What in the world does he mean by that?

SMITH IS CHATTING up the gatekeeper when I exit Daniel’s office, but stops when he sees me.

So, what’s it to be?

For this case, at least, looks like we’ll be working together.

Great! He claps his hands like a car salesman who’s closed the deal. What can I do? You need help going over the evidence?

I think about it a moment. It would be nice to have a second opinion, but I’ve got too much on my mind right now to decide what I want him to see and what I want to reserve for myself. He’ll have to see it all eventually, of course, but….

I can’t deal with this right now.

No. Let me sift through it, see what we’ve got. What you can do is run down some more information on our vic, if it’s out there. What I gave you is all I have at the moment. See if he had any enemies, things like that. The usual.

What if it’s not this Ronald Avery guy?

"I’d say chances are pretty good it is, but tell you what. If it turns out it’s not him, I’ll ping you."

He smiles. One usual background report, comin up.

I watch him turn and saunter down the hall. He’s too smug, too helpful for my liking. But I’m stuck with him—at least for now—so I may as well get used to it.

I don’t have to like it, though.

A glance at the gatekeeper—is he a secretary, or what?—shows him engrossed in his computer. Or so he wants me to think. He was listening to us.

Is he also the one listening to Daniel’s office? Someone is, or the chief wouldn’t have passed me the note.

I sigh and head for my unit. Things are looking gloomy already.

SINCE I HAVE a few hours to kill before my next meeting with Daniel, I decide to get a start on analyzing the evidence. I stay in the station’s parking lot to have better access to the Net, crank the heater up, and dive in.

Jas. Jas is my personality program—what some argue is AI. I’m not sure where the line is, but when I did trials for a program, she showed up as being the most compatible. Maybe you can’t pick your working partners, but you can at least pick your assistants.

Yes, Max?

Where are we?

There’s a hiss through the speakers that sounds like a sigh—first time I’ve heard that. I started with the DNA, since there was some doubt as to the victim’s identity. It’s definitely Ronald Avery.

Okay. Give me the rundown. Any surprises?

None so far. Ronald Neville Avery, born June twenty-six, two thousand forty-four, second son of Michael Ronald Avery and Astrid Marie Avery, maiden name Sebring. Divorced, no children, employed at Everhart Products Corporation as a floor supervisor. No college education, but served in the Marines as a robotic tech servicing combat mechs and robots. He did attend a vocational school after his military service, furthering his education by learning to program robots and mechs.

Jas still sounds stiff, but the manual says she’ll loosen up with time. Human interaction will take care of that. Meantime, it’s like listening to an automated voice system—dry and sterile, presenting the facts only.

How are his relations with his ex-wife?

Unknown.

I’d have to track that down.

Do we know her present whereabouts?

Last known address is in Huntsville. Eagle Heights apartments.

Eagle Heights. The local school mascot is an eagle. Arkansans take their sports teams seriously. Ask any Razorback fan.

What about his parents?

Father is deceased. Mother remarried and lives in the Fayetteville District of NWAR, not far from the University campus. She works there as an administrative assistant.

What about his legal record?

Nothing big. One speeding ticket five years ago.

Okay. Send his jacket to Detective Jackson Smith of Windward Enterprises, please. Sounds like we’re at a dead end there. What else do you have?

Toxicology shows no drugs present in the victim’s system at the time of death. Blood coagulation suggests he had been dead approximately six hours. Still waiting on information from the coroner to confirm this.

I doubt they’ve even started the autopsy.

Scheduled for ten a.m. tomorrow morning. Would you like to attend?

A genuine question? She’s learning fast.

What’s the coroner’s policy on that?

In the old days, the investigating officer always had the option to attend an autopsy. But when contractors took over law enforcement duties, things rapidly grew murky. Contract riders, nondisclosure agreements, and who knew what else could complicate things fast. Rumor had it Congress was working on some law or other to increase cooperation, but no telling how far off that was or what the final version would say. You could bet corporate lawyers would get their mileage out of it, changing it even more.

Windward Enterprises has a full cooperation agreement with Medical Specialties, Incorporated, the contractor for NWAR’s coroner’s office. Doctor Roxie Mann has already invited you to attend.

Well, that clears that up.

Tell her we’ll be there.

Done.

I stare up at the van’s ceiling, thinking. There isn’t a lot to go on yet. Ronald Avery appears to be an average guy, not the kind of person to accumulate enemies, but you can never tell. I’d worked a case once where the vic showed up much like this one, but turned out to be linked to some pretty heavy organized crime. It was the kind of thing even The ONYX Group couldn’t turn its back on.

All right. Where do we go from here? I’m thinking out loud—a bad habit I have sometimes—but apparently Jas thinks I’m asking her.

There are a couple of interesting results in the serology data.

I perk up. What’s that?

One was found in the Pizza Hut pasta meal container located in the kitchen trash. There is a DNA signature that is not showing up in any local database.

Jas’s way of saying it isn’t in her database, but being a personality program, she doesn’t refer to herself with pronouns. It’s in the manual. She also needs my go-ahead to search exterior databases. It’s a security measure, thanks to all the viruses out there. I have to enter a PIN to let her do it. That didn’t come with the program. I set it up myself.

All right. Any speculation?

There’s a pause. This is the first time I’ve asked her to speculate, but doing so is part of her learning process. She’s to be something of a sounding board for me, as well as an active partner in the investigation. It’s one of the reasons I bought this particular program. I don’t like live partners, and unless she’s hacked into—a small but distinct possibility—she’ll be trustworthy. Limited, but trustworthy.

She finally speaks. Insufficient data at this time. It is human DNA, but there is a contaminant in it that did not come from the surrounding environment. It is present only in the pasta meal container.

Could it be something from the restaurant?

"Possible, but not likely. The containers the victim’s meal was in do not have this contaminant. But it is present on the body."

Whoa. This information is like a shot of coffee direct to the vein. Something weird is already going on with this case.

Where is it on the body? Please tell me it’s not in the stomach. That would point back to Pizza Hut.

On the edges of the wounds.

Okay. We’ve got something to work with here.

You said there were a couple of interesting results?

Yes. There were strange animal hairs present at the scene.

Strange…?

Clarify.

I cannot. They are not from any identifiable source.

Wait. You mean it’s not a dog or something?

No.

Two unknowns this early in the case.

As Sherlock Holmes used to say, the game’s afoot.

THE SCHOOL BUILDING where I’m to meet Daniel is well over a hundred and fifty years old, or at least some parts of it are. It’s a hodge-podge of architectural styles reflecting the eras in which they were built. But the old building itself—and the separate, later addition that is the cafeteria/auditorium—dates from the twentieth century.

Or so the plaque out front says, gleaming in the bright spotlight focused on it. The City of Huntsville turned the school into a historic site some twenty-five years ago, along with most of the structures on the original town square and the Governor’s Mansion. I know all this from doing a bit of research after moving here.

The place is quiet at night, with lots of dark shadows for someone to hide in. Traffic noises drift up to me—the building is located on one of the three highest hills in the downtown area—but otherwise, the only sound is that of the cold breeze. It’s occasionally strong enough to stir the American flag and cause the clips to ding the pole.

The main building is built on a square with a courtyard of sorts in the center. Classrooms ring it on two sides, with administrative offices on the front, and the library occupying the rear. Access is gained through covered passages to either side of the admin. A statue of an eagle—its faded paint evident even in the glow of the lights—claims the center of the courtyard, flanked by short, curved cement benches.

Daniel sits on one bench, staring up at the figure, hat shadowing his face, but his eyes gleaming. He turns to me as I enter the courtyard.

Max.

I glance around, trying to pierce the shadows. Maybe a hint of movement back there? I stare, but can’t make anything out.

No further movement. Was it real?

Even with someone like Daniel, who’s never done a thing to show he’s untrustworthy, I’m cautious. I trusted my former partner, too, and it was a meeting a lot like this one where he betrayed me. I carry scars from that meeting, both mental and physical. My hand goes to one on my arm.

If you can’t trust your partner, who can you trust?

Taking a deep breath, I move forward and sit on the bench to his left, giving another quick glance to where I thought I saw something. If Daniel is going to betray me, there’s not much I can do about it. But I’ve known him for years, and I have to trust in that. Or at least give it the benefit of the doubt.

He turns and looks back up at the eagle. This close, the dim lighting shows the end of a broken tail feather, and the yellow paint on the beak is all but gone. The eyes are dark pits, like windows into the night.

Daniel waves a hand to take in our surroundings. I went to school here, you know. Well, not in this building, of course. But Huntsville is my alma mater.

I nod. I’d forgotten. Is that why you moved back here?

Partly. He sighs. I’d like to retire here. Might as well get a head start on it. When the position of chief opened up, I applied and was accepted. He stares right into my eyes. Not a moment too soon, either, considering what happened to you.

I can’t help but grimace. The betrayal, the hearings, the ostracizing… sometimes I find myself wishing I’d kept quiet. The thin blue line still exists, and if you break it—no matter what the reason—you’re not welcome on the good side of it anymore.

But I can’t change the past. I made a decision, and I have to live with it.

I did what I thought was right.

Daniel doesn’t hesitate. You were correct in doing so. I saw the same things you did, but I didn’t have the guts to do anything about it. You should be viewed as a hero, not an outcast.

A thought occurs to me, one that hadn’t during the hearings. It had been so chaotic—what with being sequestered for my own protection, enduring the cold stares of those who were supposed to be my guardians, and worrying someone would make good on their death threat—that thinking of anything beyond the next five minutes was a luxury.

Why weren’t you caught up in it? You were an officer at ONYX, but they didn’t even call you in to testify.

Even in the darkness beneath his hat brim, I can see the grim smile.

"Because I kept my nose clean. I dotted all my is and crossed all my ts, and I didn’t let myself get caught up in the dark side of ONYX. Basically, I covered my own ass. I didn’t take any bribes, and I didn’t go to any of those famous mixers."

That fits in with his character. One of the reasons we’d gotten along, I suspect. And it means there’s all the more reason to trust him now.

So why can’t I?

That couldn’t have been easy.

It wasn’t. You should know that.

I wasn’t as high up as you. That made it simpler. I kept my nose down and did my job. Let all the other guys take the payouts and look the other way. I had to be able to live with myself.

That’s all I did. He pauses. "Are you sure that isn’t what you should have done? Why did you have to go and blow the whistle? Why not move on, get another contract, work for another company?"

Why is he asking this? Didn’t he just say what I did was right?

I don’t like this at all. I stand. If you don’t know that, then I’m not sure why we’re here. I couldn’t live with myself, knowing what ONYX was doing. It wasn’t only at the level I was at. I found evidence it went all the way up. Bribing congressmen, taking bribes from organized crime… hell, guarding drug shipments in South America. You name it, they did it. I wasn’t able to get proof of everything, but I got enough for the FBI. Besides, like I said, I had to live with myself.

I turn and start to walk away.

Wait. Daniel’s voice is urgent.

I stop, turn partway back. I’m not ready to commit to this yet—whatever this is—but a gut feeling tells me to give Daniel a chance. It’s the same gut feeling that told me to blow the whistle, though, and that had mixed results. Most of them not good, at least for me.

But I don’t say a word. The ball’s in his court.

He’s standing, and everything about him is tense. His shoulders are in a straight line, his head erect, and one hand reaches toward me, as if he’s entreating me.

I wasn’t criticizing you. I have to know if you’re still that person after what you went through.

Why wouldn’t I be?

Because some people give up, that’s why.

I like that. No beating around the bush, no rationalizing or excuses. When you’re a cop, that kind of thing tends to fall by the wayside after a while.

I turn back fully. All right. What is it?

He glances around like I did earlier, then lowers himself to the bench. It’s Windward.

Now I’m tense. What about it?

His sigh is loud enough I swear it echoes. "I’m afraid Windward is another ONYX. In fact, it may be ONYX."

I SHIVER AS if an ice cube is sliding down my back. At the same time, my cheeks and scalp heat up and tighten, and I take an involuntary glance around. After a moment, I realize I’m crouching, hand on my gun butt.

I make myself relax.

That’s not possible. They went out of business. All their investors pulled out.

Not all of them. A core stayed around.

I ease back down on the cold bench. How could that happen?

He shrugs. I don’t know. But the method goes as far back as Blackwater. They got in trouble over some shootings in Baghdad in the early days of the Iraq War, and in the next few years reincorporated under two different names—and who knows how many since. These companies do this kind of thing.

What makes you think ONYX did the same thing? The idea is difficult to accept.

Daniel puts something on the bench next to me. Remember this?

I glance down. It’s one of the old ONYX shoulder patches, with the words Oportunidad Neutralización y Extracción—the company motto—outlined in black around the edge. In the center is what looks to be a levitating block of onyx, also in black, all this on a dark yellow background. I’d always thought it was ugly.

Now look at this.

He puts another patch down beside the first—one from Windward. This one shows what looks to be a small sailboat in the lee of a large rock. The words Windward Enterprises surround it, top and bottom, black stitching on a light blue background. Not a lot better, but an improvement over the yellow.

Compare the upper half of the onyx with the rock behind the sailboat.

I slide the two patches closer together and bend over to get a closer look.

With the exception of the sailboat superimposed over the Windward rock, it’s an exact match for the upper half of the onyx. I’ve glanced at the Windward logo and patch dozens of times since I’ve been here, but never really noticed the resemblance.

Never had a reason to.

I stare Daniel in the eye. This isn’t proof.

I know. He takes the patches back, tucks them away. Not in a court of law. But it’s enough to make me suspicious.

I turn away, study the red-brick wall across from me. The edges of the bricks are worn with time, the corners rounded off,