Page 19 of Wrong Way

"I certainly hope that’s the case."

Miles and Vic nodded their thanks as they walked back to their car. Rivera stayed where he was on the asphalt, watching them go.

Miles pulled out of the lot and onto Berkman. The receipt accounted for Rivera on one of the two nights, which was something, but the alibi was thin and uncorroborated beyond a timestamp. A receipt put him at a drive-through, not at home, and didn't eliminate anything. And nothing about the search had produced evidence linking him to the crime scenes.

But the nerves had been real. Rivera's anxiety disorder and his prescription explained some of it, sure. Hell, maybe all if it. A man with a documented history of workplace complaints and a restraining order on his record, confronted by two federal agents at his job site, had plenty of reasons to be visibly uncomfortable that had nothing to do with murder. Miles understood all of that.

He still felt uneasy. The way Rivera's eyes had gone to the street when they first approached had not been the reflex of a man deciding whether to be cooperative. It had been the reflex of a man deciding whether to run. That was a particular kind of awareness, and it didn't come from nowhere.

And as they left the site behind, Miles wasn’t so sure they’d seen the last of Marcus Rivera just yet.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

They were back on Berkman before Vic said anything about the Rivera file. She had been reading on her phone since they pulled out of the construction site lot, scrolling through what Sarah Kim had sent over.

"His medical history is interesting," she said. "The anxiety diagnosis goes back six years. He's been on some form of medication for most of it, not just the Lorazepam. Before that he was on an SSRI for two years. His GP's notes mention chronic stress response, sleep disruption, elevated cortisol." She set the phone in her lap, thinking. "The behavior at Lone Star, the volatility, the erratic episodes…it lines up with someone whose anxiety was untreated or undertreated during that period. That's not a profile for meticulous, patient planning."

"No," Miles said. "It isn't."

"Our killer planned two murders with precision and left zero physical evidence at either scene. He executed modifications to live electrical installations without getting caught or injuring himself in the process. That requires a very controlled mental state over an extended period of time."

"Rivera spent six months arguing with clients and having conversations with himself on job sites."

"Right." She picked the phone back up. "He's still worth keeping on the list until we rule him out completely. But I don't think he's our guy."

Miles had been leaning in that direction since the van search. The receipt helped, but it was the prescription bottle that had crystallized it. A man managing his anxiety with Lorazepam and still barely holding it together at a routine construction job was not the same man who had infiltrated two businesses, modified high-voltage electrical equipment without detection, and walked away clean both times. The profiles didn't fit the same person.

"So where are we?” Vic said. It wasn't quite a question, but more like an admission of feeling stuck.

"We've got a second victim we barely know anything about,” Miles said. “Celestine had seven years of public presence, reviews, and a neighborhood reputation. We could build a picture of her. But what we know of Song we're getting secondhand from a bar manager who knew him as a regular."

"The church," Vic said.

"Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. He was a youth pastor. That's where people actually knew him. It might not give us anything on the killer, but…"

"But it might give us something on Song that connects back to Celestine,” Vic said. “Right now, those two victims have nothing obvious in common, and I want to know if that's true or if we're just not seeing it yet."

“Is the church address in the police report?” Miles asked.

Vic pulled the report up on her phone and nodded. “Yeah. It’s on Lamar Boulevard. I'll pull it up."

It took less than twenty minutes for them to get there. It was set back from the street behind a small parking lot. From the outside it looked like a converted storefront, the kind of narrow commercial space that had once been a record shop or a furniture showroom, with large plate-glass windows across the front fitted with frosted film.

A hand-lettered wooden sign above the door read CROSSROADS COMMUNITY CHURCH in clean block letters, and below that, in smaller type, ALL ARE WELCOME. The interior was visible through the glass panel beside the door, showing exposed brick walls and dark wood pews that looked deliberately reclaimed rather than simply old. A string of Edison bulbs ran the length of the ceiling. It was the kind of church that had clearly thought about how it wanted to present itself, traditional enough in its materials to feel grounded, minimal enough in its decor to feel accessible.

A woman at a small welcome center looked up when they came in. Miles showed his badge and introduced them both, remaining polite but also speaking and moving quickly.

"We're looking into the death of Derek Song," he said. "We'd like to speak with anyone who may have known him well.”

The woman smiled sadly, barely even looking at the badge. "That would be Pastor Gladding. He's in his office right now…speaking to the funeral home and some of Mr. Song’s family and friends on the phone, I believe." She came around the welcome center desk and said, "Let me tell him you're here."

She stepped away, down the hallway and then to the right. She came back a minute later and led them down the same route. The pastor met them at his office door rather than waiting behind his desk—a small touch that Miles appreciated. He was in his late fifties but could probably pull off late-forties on a good day. He had a close-cut gray beard and reading glasses hanging around his neck on a cord, and he shook their hands with both of his in a way that was warm without being theatrical.

"David Gladding," he said. "Come in. I've got coffee if you want it."

“Sounds good,” both agents said nearly in unison as they stepped inside.

His office was small and lined with books, a wooden cross on the wall behind his desk, a framed photograph of what appeared to be a mission trip on the shelf beside it. He poured three cups from a carafe on the credenza and sat across from them.