Page 50 of The Guilty Trial

A minute later, they stepped out into the main lobby, where the vaulted ceilings and restored architecture of the old train station opened up around them. Marble floors gleamed under the overhead lights.

Allie spotted Marshall Jake Reeves coming through the entrance. Allie noticed a tightness around his mouth that hadn’t been there before. When he saw them, he changed course and met them near the center of the lobby.

Jason didn’t waste any time. “Your detail was supposed to keep Halloway alive.”

Reeves absorbed the words without flinching, though a muscle jumped in his jaw. “Halloway wasn’t under house arrest, Agent King. He was under voluntary protective custody. It was his choice to give his detail the slip.” His tone was professional, but the tension beneath it was audible. “My team followed protocol. We can’t physically restrain someone who doesn’t want to be protected.”

Allie stepped in before the exchange could escalate. “We’ve been developing a theory about the exhibit numbers. The branding on each victim corresponds to specific exhibits they introduced or authorized during the Torrino trial. Halloway’s number matches the financial ledgers he presented.”

Reeves’s hesitation was brief, no more than a heartbeat, but Allie noticed it. His eyes moved between them, but something behind his expression recalculated before he nodded.

“That makes sense,” he said. “It fits with how deliberate this whole thing has been.”

“We need increased security on Park and U.S. Attorney Thorne,” Allie said. “Whoever is doing this is accelerating. We have no indication that they’re going to stop anytime soon.”

“Already on it.” Reeves straightened his jacket. “That’s why I’m here. I’m coordinating with the courthouse security team and doubling the detail on both of them.” He glanced toward the elevators. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get that set up.”

He gave them a curt nod and walked toward the elevator bank with long, purposeful strides. Allie watched him go. Reeves was a professional doing a difficult job under impossible circumstances. His reaction was understandable.

“This whole case bothers me,” Jason said after the marshal was gone. “Not just Halloway and not just the exhibit numbers. All of it.” He crossed his arms and stared down at the shiny floor. “We’re missing something, Allie. I can feel it.”

She could feel it too. The pieces they had were connecting into a clear picture of a killer working through a list, branding his victims with the evidence they had personally contributed to a prosecution. But the picture felt incomplete.

“Then we keep digging,” she said. “Starting with those affidavits.”

Jason nodded, and they walked toward the exit together. Outside, the air carried the familiar damp chill of a Pacific Northwest autumn, and low clouds pressed against the Tacoma skyline like a lid closing over the city.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

St. Gabriel’s Catholic Church

Portland, Oregon

The drive south on I-5 gave Allie two hours alone with her thoughts, which felt like a gift and a punishment. Rain fell in curtains across the windshield, the wipers beating a steady rhythm as she passed through Olympia and kept going. She kept replaying yesterday’s interview with Sarah Park, turning it over the way she might examine a piece of evidence under bright light, looking for the flaw she knew was there.

Park had been careful, and maybe that was the problem. Every answer had landed right where it needed to, like she’d rehearsed it. When Allie had asked about pressure to adjust witness statements, Park hadn’t denied it so much as redirected, pointing to Judge Vance’s rulings and the appellate decisions as though the court’s approval absolved her of further scrutiny.

Allie crossed the Columbia River into Oregon and followed her GPS off the freeway into a residential neighborhood on the east side, where the houses were older and the streets narrower, lined with mature oaks that had already dropped most of their leaves.

St. Gabriel’s Catholic Church sat on a corner lot, its brick facade darkened by decades of Pacific Northwest rain. A bell tower rose above the roofline, and stained glass windows ran along the side of the nave, their colors muted in the overcast light. A small parking lot held a handful of cars.

Allie found the side door Maria had described and pulled it open. The inside of the small church smelled of lemon cleaner and old wood. She passed a supply closet and a darkened classroom with chairs stacked against the wall and followed the corridor until she reached a fellowship room at the back.

Maria Delgado sat at a folding table near the far wall. Her graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail that accentuated the sharp angles of her face, and she wore a plain sweatshirt and work pants.

“Ms. Delgado?” Allie kept her voice low, matching the hush of the building. She pulled out the folding chair across from Maria and sat down. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

The room was sparse but clean, with a linoleum floor and cinder block walls painted a soft cream. A crucifix hung near the door, and a row of folding chairs leaned against the far wall. The only window was small and placed high, letting in a thin rectangle of gray light.

Maria forced a small, nervous smile while her fingers warred in her lap. “Maria, please. You said it was about the trial.”

Allie nodded. “I’ll be straightforward with you, Maria. Three individuals from the Torrino RICO case have been murdered. Thomas Sterling, Judge Richard Vance, and Bob Halloway.” Allie watched Maria’s face as she spoke each name. “All three were found with numbers seared into their bodies. Those numbers correspond to specific exhibits from the trial.”

Maria’s hands went still. Her breathing changed, a shallow intake that she held for several seconds before releasing it in a trembling exhale.

“Someone is targeting people who were involved with problematic evidence from that case,” Allie explained. “And I need to ask you something directly. It’s about the testimony you provided. When you testified at the Torrino trial, were you completely honest in your testimony?”

Maria’s eyes glistened. She blinked rapidly, but a rogue tear slipped down her left cheek, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. “I tried to be,” she whispered. Her gaze was on the table as if she were looking through it.