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“He’s out of town until Friday.”
J.J.’s nod was noncommittal.
“What?” Jason said. “You think I’m grabbing for straws?”
“I think you don’t like striking out.”
“Nobody likes striking out. That’s not what this is about. I’m not personally invested here. It’s just…”
“Aren’t you? You think Ono was murdered.”
“I do. Yes.”
“But there’s nothing evidentiary to support that. It’s a hunch. Meanwhile, we’ve got cases piling up. You’ve got cases piling up.” He studied Jason and said knowingly, “Speaking of being out of town, Shane Donovan says there’s intel that Shepherd Durrand might be planning to return to the States.”
It was like someone flipped a switch—that flash of excitement, that flare of I knew it.
“Donovan told you that when?”
“This afternoon.”
It was almost physical, that desire—need—to hurry up and close the book on Ono, get this done and dusted so he could take another whack at Fletcher-Durrand, the one that got away, the case that mattered—
Except. This case mattered too. Ono mattered too. He was not closing the book on her until he was confident she had not met with foul play. Too bad if she had been difficult or unlikeable or had even precipitated her own demise. Too bad if it was embarrassing to the family or irritating to her colleagues or frustrating for himself and Russell. This was the job. This was the assignment.
He said mildly, “Then like they say in the movies, we better go, go, go. I need to be able to look Senator Ono in the eyes when I tell him his granddaughter wasn’t murdered. Which means I need to believe it myself.”
