Page 40 of The Guilty Trial

FBI Field Office

Tacoma, Washington

The break room microwave hummed as Allie watched the paper plate rotate behind the smudged glass. Jason had brought in leftover pizza, hiding it behind his stash of kombucha. He told her it would be safe back there since Eastman would never go near the kombucha.

She leaned against the counter and pulled out her phone, scrolling through emails without really reading them. The team had spent the better part of a week slogging through case files from Sterling and Vance's shared history, and the work was starting to blur together. Financial records, witness statements, prosecution memoranda, all of it blending into an endless stream of paper, names, and dead ends.

The microwave beeped, and she was reaching for the door when Hannah walked in. “I thought I smelled pizza,” She started filling her water bottle at the cooler.

“I brought some over to Victoria last night, and Jason brought in what was left,” she said, pulling out the hot slices. “How's your week going?”

Hannah leaned against the counter opposite her and sighed. “I've been buried in wiretap transcripts for three days straight. You know that trafficking case I've been working?”

“The one that keeps growing?”

“Yep. Started in Portland, and now we're pulling threads in San Francisco and San Diego. Every time we think we've mapped the network, another branch pops up.” Hannah shook her head. “I've got agents in three field offices trying to coordinate, and half the time we can't even get on the same call.”

“Sounds like a nightmare.”

“It has its moments.” Hannah took a long drink from her water bottle. “What about you? Any progress on your end?”

Allie plucked a piece of pepperoni off her slice and considered how to answer. “Honestly, we're spinning our wheels. The victims are connected by several cases, and narrowing it down is taking forever.”

“Ah, yes. The glamorous life of an FBI agent.”

“Right?” Allie snorted, then blew on her pizza in an attempt to cool it down enough to eat. “Leftover pizza and databases for days.”

Allie walked back to her office and caught sight of Eastman in the main aisle. He was crouched over his putting mat with his chrome putter in hand and had some competition this time. Hagan stood at the opposite end with his arms crossed, watching with the expression of a man who had already won and was simply waiting for the formality to conclude.

Eastman lined up his shot with exaggerated care, squinting at the tiny plastic cup fifteen feet away. He drew the putter back and tapped the ball. It rolled straight and true, but pulled slightly left at the last second and grazed the cup's rim without dropping in.

“That's five to two,” Hagan said flatly. He stepped forward, set his ball down, and without any preamble or practice swing, stroked it cleanly into the cup.

“Six to two,” Hagan corrected himself.

Eastman stared at the cup as if it had personally betrayed him. “Best of fifteen?”

“No.” Hagan picked up his ball and walked away, the ghost of a smirk barely visible on his face. Eastman stood there holding his putter like a man who'd just been told his dog didn't like him.

Allie was smiling as she entered her office. She settled in, reviewing more documents from the medical fraud case while trying not to drip pizza sauce on the paperwork. She finished her second slice, folded her paper plate and dropped it in the trash, then gathered up her file so she could join the others in the conference room. Not that she had any news to share. Nothing she had found in the paperwork suggested the kind of deep, personal vendetta that would drive someone to commit murder years later, let alone brand numbers into their victims’ flesh.

She found the open seat next to Jason. “Thanks for the pizza,” she said. “That hit the spot.”

“Thank yourself. You bought it.”

“True. Still, I appreciate you hiding it from Eastman.”

“I heard that,” Eastman called while walking by with his golf club in his hand. Allie didn't look up, but she was smiling.

Marze stood up and crossed to the door of the conference room, closing it so they could get down to work. “I've already spoken with Agents Hartly and Wiggins,” he said. “They've been combing through the environmental crime and financial fraud cases. Nothing’s jumped out at them. They haven’t come across any credible threats or angry defendants with the means or profile to pull off something like this.”

He looked at Jason. “What about the Ponzi scheme?”

Jason shook his head. “Same story. Calder, the guy behind it all, is still serving his time, and his partner cooperated with Sterling. He put me onto his brother, but I tracked him down, and he was in Seattle with a solid alibi. The victims who lost money were mostly retirees, and none of them have criminal histories or any connection to violence. A couple filed civil suits after the conviction, but that's about as aggressive as it got.”

Marze shifted his gaze to Allie.

“The medical fraud seems to be a dead end too,” she said. “I went through every victim impact statement from that trial. People were angry, sure, but not angry enough to kill someone.”