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She moved to the kitchen and frowned towards the trashcan, an afterthought in the corner of the kitchen, benign and overlooked. But it was the least dusty item.
She approached the trashcan, moving cautiously. But it was not the can that caught her eye; it was the edge of a receipt peering out from beneath a crumpled fast-food wrapper.
She extracted the slip of paper, her pulse quickening. Her eyes scanned the print.
"Ammunition," she murmured softly.
The same caliber of ammunition that had been used in the murders.
This receipt was the tangible thread she needed, one that wove Bardem into the tapestry of their case. She refolded the receipt carefully, preserving the evidence that surged with implication.
Suddenly, the silence of the empty house shattered with the shrill cry of her phone. Her heart lurched.
"Blackwood," she answered, voice steady despite the adrenaline that spiked at the intrusion.
"Rachel, it's Ethan." His voice came through, betraying none of his usual light-heartedness.
"Tell me you've got something good, because I just hit—"
"Nothing here," he cut in, his words like ice water down her spine. "Our guy has an alibi solid as granite. He was at a hospital fundraiser for his wife's work, over a hundred witnesses."
"Yeah, well, I've got Bardem purchasing ammunition for a rifle. Some fifties, but also a full box of .308 caliber rounds."
"Shit. I'm coming to you. Any sign of the bastard?"
"He's not here. No car in the driveway. I don't think he's been here for a while."
"Shit, Rach. Are you—"
"Safe? Yes. But this is big." She let the word hang between them, heavy with meaning.
"Need backup?"
"Stay on the line," she answered, tucking the phone between shoulder and ear, freeing her hands to sift once more through the detritus of the suspect's life.
But the traschan was empty otherwise.
"Need to put out an APB," she said quickly. "Bardem's vehicle. Known associates. Anything."
"What's he up to?"
"In his discharge, it shows he was roughed up a bit in the brig," she said. "I'm thinking he took it personal."
"So he's getting revenge?"
"Yeah... looks like."
"What if we talk to his shrink? Said he had psych problems. Maybe the doc knows something."
"Wouldn't tell us if he did. Besides," she said, "from what I read, the two visits he had with a professional were mandated. I doubt he told the shrink anything."
"Shit... Alright. Am I coming to you, or you coming to me?"
"Neither," she said firmly. "You put out that APB."
"What are you going to do?"
"Gonna look around a bit. Haven't checked the garage yet."
