“What do you mean, ‘wrong’?” Lauren demands. “This has plane crash written all over it.”
“The trees are broken the wrong way,” he says as he shows us the phone in comparison with the ones in front of us. “Someone flipped the picture.”
“Flipped the picture, why?” Lauren questions.
Meanwhile, the truth hits me square in the chest. “Because he didn’t die on his way here. He died after he left. Which explains his full tank. He’d already refueled for the trip home.”
“But he never went to see Lucian that day,” Lauren insists. “They keep extensive paper records. I searched those and the digital footage. He wasn’t there.”
“Which means, either someone manipulated those documents, or he flew into a different airport.”
“But where?” I ask, turning to Shawn.
He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. But I know where we’re going next.”
20.Shawn
Angrier than I should be and armed with proof that someone here lied, I march into the Tacoma office of the Washington State Patrol. Beckett is with me, but we left Lauren at a local café so we can keep her out of it as best we can. Right now, no one knows about her. And that’s how it needs to stay.
It’s bad enough that Beckett has a target on her back; I won’t paint one on Lauren, too.
“Can we help you?” a uniform asks as she crosses over, her hair back in a tight bun.
“I need to speak with your captain,” I say.
“Um, is he expecting you?”
“Not yet. But he will want to take this meeting,” I snap.
“Sir, just calm down and?—”
“Hi, Beckett Wallace,” Beckett interjects, plastering a fake smile on her face and offering her hand to the uniform. “Lawyer out of Boston. And this big guy, who is clearly agitated, is homicide detective Shawn Sampson from Seattle PD.”
“Detective Sampson?” The uniform’s eyes widen, and she eyes me with renewed appreciation. “The guy who took downDoctor Glen Dodger two years ago? Even way out here, we heard about that.”
“One and the same,” Beckett replies. She’s trying to keep the peace when I feel like I’m about to go off like a grenade in this place. Dirty cops? To me, they’re the worst of the worst. Monsters disguised as protectors. And even if we don’t have any concrete proof, there are plenty of signs pointing to a cover job.
“Gotcha. I read all about that case, impressive work.”
“Wasn’t just me,” I reply coldly. “Where is your captain?”
“Right here,” a man says.
I turn slowly to face Captain Cary Seymore, whom I’ve never met in person but have heard plenty about. From what I hear, he was an arrogant cop for the South Precinct in Seattle before resigning and taking a job as the Captain for Washington State Patrol’s District 1 office here in Tacoma.
And from what I hear about him now? It’s only gotten worse. We’ve gotten into plenty of jurisdiction arguments with his office.
“Well, Detective Sampson. Nice to see you and put a face to the name.” His hair is white, his mustache the same. His eyes narrow on me though he flashes a smile that’s cold as ice.
I take his offered hand. “We need to talk in private.”
“Sure. We can talk in my office.” He starts back toward it, so Beckett and I follow.
As soon as the door is closed behind us, I start in on him. “What do you know of the Paul Jameson case?”
“I’d have to look into it,” he says. “We deal with a lot of?—”
“Don’t hand me that. I remember every single case I’ve worked. The names of the victims are tattooed on my brain. You and I both know you remember. Especially since it was the first big case you worked after transferring here.”
