Agent Grayson. The so-called Dead Man.
Nolan had had a partner once who had believed in the Dead Man.Don’t mess with the empaths, he’d warned Nolan.Not worth using them for reads, because if you fuck it up, that’s when the Dead Man shows up.
Nolan had scoffed. He had better things to do than believe in urban legends—except this particular urban legend was standing right in front of him.
Grayson had a paper bag in hand, making no attempt to hide what he was doing as he placed it inside his coat. Hazel-brown eyes sized up Nolan but nothing in Grayson’s expression changed. “There weren’t supposed to be any FBI agents at the scene.”
“FBI should be all over this case,” Nolan said. “What areyoudoing here? Because of Senator Hathaway’s anti-empathy agenda?”
“I’m here for lots of reasons.” Despite how the ship bobbed in the rough water, Grayson’s footing never wavered. He nodded at the hatch he’d just closed. “Y’all didn’t search the engine room.”
“Stone’s lawyer was too fast. She threw up every roadblock in the book and a few I think she made up. The SPD’s Detective St. James is working on her.” Nolan gestured at Grayson’s coat. “But I guess that didn’t stop you.”
“Mr. Stone is my coworker, in a sense. This isn’t search and seizure, it’s just stealing.” Grayson didn’t offer an explanation for the paper bag, only stepped toward the door at the back of the yacht.
No fears, his ex-partner had said about Grayson.And no limits. The scariest thing you’ve ever heard of, Agent Grayson’s worse. Don’t get mixed up with empaths. It’s not worth it.
His ex-partner had been an idiot. Grayson was a kid with a bad reputation. Another freak for the circus. Nolan stepped up onto the boat.
The yacht’s entertaining area was still stained with blood, the fancy spread of food and drink still overturned on the floor. The scene had been cataloged and the bodies moved to the morgue, but the yacht remained smeared with the battle scars of the early-morning hours’ inexplicable violence.
Grayson didn’t avert his eyes as he gracefully stepped over the stains on the floor. Maybe a man with a moniker likethe Dead Manwasn’t going to be put off by a little blood. Or a lot of blood.
The bodies had been taken to the morgue, but Nolan had his own personal pictures, the ones he always took at bad scenes in case they could later spark a new thought. Maybe he could offer them in exchange for some goddamn answers.
“If you’re looking for the bodies—” Nolan started.
“I was sent the forensic photographer’s photos. They were enough.” Grayson nodded toward the bloodiest part of the couch, where Hathaway’s body had lain, although his gaze stayed on Nolan. “What’s your theory on cause of death?”
“The MEs are saying the three victims died of drug overdose, strangulation, and traumatic brain injury, respectively.” Nolan counted the deaths off on his fingers.
“I asked foryourtheory.”
Nolan hesitated. “There were two dead men found with Hathaway,” he said, more slowly. “Big ones. Bad ones, with rap sheets and records. Muscle for hire and expensive as hell, because they do time instead of cut deals.”
“They were known for keeping secrets?” said Grayson.
Nolan nodded. “One had the deepest strangulation marks I’ve ever seen—but small, like a petite woman would leave. The other man had four types of cutlery in him, including a shrimp fork through his skull. That takes strength too—but he died second. And the senator herself, well.”
Nolan looked at the couch again, where Hathaway’s body had been. “The MEs’ preliminary report was theorizing drugs. All I saw was blood.”
“Are there any more bodies?”
Nolan huffed. “We foundthree. How many more do you want?”
“Just answer the question, Agent Nolan.”
Watch your tone, Nolan was tempted to say. Ghoulish nickname or not, Grayson was pushing his luck with that attitude. “No,” Nolan said curtly. “We had divers do a search around the yacht.”
Frankly, Nolan had questions of his own. “I heard empaths have been banned from the case. You’re—well, you know.” He gestured uselessly, hoping it conveyedweirdo freak Dead Man.“Do you know anything about the ban?”
“Of course.”
There was a soft chime. Grayson looked down at his phone. His expression didn’t change as he stared at the screen. And then, without explanation or closure, Grayson strode back out onto the aft deck.
Nolan chased after him, climbing down the yacht stairs after Grayson, who’d jumped gracefully down to the dock. Grayson was already walking over the dock, toward the marina, and while Nolan was almost as tall as Grayson, he had to walk at a near-run to keep pace. “I’ve been with the Bureau a long time and never heard of an order like that. Who gave it?”
“I did,” Grayson said, as he strode up the ramp.
