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“But you don’t buy her version,” Beckett remarked.
“Not entirely, no. Vince or someone driving his vehicle with his driver’s license got pulled over less than thirty minutes after the murders. You can’t discount that information like you can’t discount Dr. Deming showing up that afternoon.”
“Maybe these two guys are in it together,” Beckett theorized, flipping the steaks.
“Or maybe Pollock convinced Vince and Deming to participate,” Lucien countered. “There’s still an awful lot to wade through. Yesterday we spoke to Brent Cody about sitting down with Rivkin. We got the okay to set up a meeting.”
“And we plan to talk to Pollock’s old girlfriend, Adelai Lucas,” Brogan added. “She was Pollock’s alibi for the murders. But since they split up, she might have a different story to tell now in 2022.”
Birk nodded. “Often happens. Do you think Rivkin has changed his mind after all these years?”
“About Trey Rescher pulling the trigger? That’s the big question, isn’t it? We don’t want to meet with him until we have more on Vince and Deming. That’s why we were hoping you had plans to keep up the surveillance on Valkyrie.”
“Ongoing as we speak,” Birk tossed out. “I should get an update by the end of the week. But I’m not sure what good it will do. Even if this former girlfriend talks to my man in Johannesburg, will she give us anything on Deming we don’t know already?”
“Maybe she knows where he is,” Brogan said. “That would help if we could ask him about Elliott.”
“And we’d like it if you could work your magic and help us locate Vincent Jarreau,” Lucien urged, finishing his beer and tossing the empty into a nearby trash bin.
“Not a problem. I’ll run the name through the grinder tonight.”
Shivering under the blanket, Brogan held up her glass. “I could use a refill.”
“Now, you’re talking,” Birk stated, picking up a ladle, scooping out more cognac from a crockpot, and topping off her drink.
“Thanks. I still think the key to this entire case is the size thirteen boot print at the crime scene.”
Birk cocked a brow. “There’s a boot print? I don’t remember seeing that in the files.”
“We found it in the photos from Brent Cody that weren’t in the box Pollock gave us.”
“Did Pollock hold back?”
“No, the cop that Pollock bribed held them back,” Brogan explained. “We don’t know who that was. Brent might. But he hasn’t shared that nugget.”
“Yet,” Lucien added.
Beckett took the steaks off the grill while Brogan passed out the blue enamel dinner plates, clunky silverware, and plenty of paper napkins.
They sat around the fire in camp chairs, chowing down on juicy steak, barbecue beans, and tender potatoes with onions.
“I brought the fixings for S’mores. But after a meal like that, I don’t think we need dessert,” Brogan said, patting her stomach and leaning back in her folding chair.
“Maybe later,” Birk declared, holding up the box of graham crackers. “Because who says no to classic S’mores fixed with Hershey’s chocolate squares and marshmallows?”
Lucien held up his beer. “No one in their right mind. Brogan makes the best.”
Giggling, slightly tipsy, she leaned over and asked, “Are you drunk?”
“I’m not cold,” Lucien said, laughing. “How about you?”
Before she could answer, a flurry of wind whipped through the cottonwood trees—a burst of leaves fluttered to the ground. In that debris, she heard footsteps rustling the leaves. A shadow crossed over the pavement where Beckett had parked his truck.
Out of the woods came a figure approaching the fire pit.
In the glow of the firelight, there was no mistake about who it was. Brogan had seen photos of Lyssa Mayfield at eighteen. She cleared her throat. “Uh, guys. We’re not alone.”
Lucien started to get out of his chair but stopped when he saw the image. Birk was about to say something smartass, but he never got the words out.
