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“Did anyone else come here to discuss our mission? Because that’s why I’m here,” Kyle said. Scotty was still surprised the guy was back to work, since he was mourning the loss of his brother. They all were—probably always would—but Kyle had, understandably, taken it the hardest. For a while there, it had looked like he was going to crawl into a bottle and never come back out. He’d even missed Nick’s funeral. Lately, though, he’d started to step up again.
“Sure.” Scotty set his half-empty bottle down on a side table and pushed to his feet. Smack-talking with his buddies was usually his forte, but something about the idea of including Hayley in that kind of conversation bugged him.
“So, Nick’s widow.”
“I ran all the information you gave me on Natalie last night,” Kyle said from inside the condo’s open galley-style kitchen. Scotty kept this place, paid for under an assumed name, as a safe house in case the team needed a place to crash or a hideout while in DC.
“What’d you find, boss?” Scotty leaned against the granite bar top. “I don’t buy for a second that the widow’s dead too.” The minute the words were out, he cringed. He really wasn’t that much of an asshole. At least, he hoped he wasn’t. “Sorry, man. I…we all miss him.”
Kyle met his gaze, then looked away, his voice low. “Yeah.” He walked out into the living room and took a seat in an armchair across from the sofa. “From the intel I gathered, the only evidence to support Natalie’s death is the newspaper article. And the grave. There’s no death certificate, no coroner’s report, no record of any autopsy. I’m not even sure there’s an actual casket buried at that grave site. No funeral home I called could confirm that they’d held any kind of service. To me, it’s looking like someone bought the funeral plot, bought the gravestone, had it installed, and planted the news item with a paper whose staff was either bribed to cooperate or was too lazy to do their due diligence and check their facts.”
“So you think someone faked it? Like Becks?” Scotty sank back into his seat, frowning. “But why?”
“Good question.”
Scotty’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out. Didn’t recognize the number. He held up a finger to the guys as he stood and moved to the opposite side of the room. “Hello?”
“Scotty Devonshire?”
“Who is this?”
“Hayley.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “Red? He glanced over at his buddies, then took another couple of steps away for more privacy. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“I found some footage I think you might be interested in seeing.”
“Cool. When should we meet?”
“How about right now?”
“Seriously?” He frowned and checked his watch. “Where are you?”
“At work. But it’s almost my lunch—and anyway, I’ve told my boss I’ll be doing some fieldwork for this investigation. It won’t be a problem for me to be out of the office. I’ll hop on the Metro and be in your neighborhood in a snap. Just let me know where you want to rendezvous.”
“I won’t even ask how you know my location.”
“I can’t pinpoint you on GPS, but I can get your general vicinity.”
He wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but hearing from her certainly brightened the day. “All right. There’s a pub nearby, McGruff’s. I’ll see you there in ten, fifteen minutes?”
“Sounds good. Bring your team along. I want to meet them.”
“Really?” He’d been hoping for some more alone time with her.
“Yeah. If we’re all going to be working together on this, don’t you think I should meet them? And vice versa.”
It made sense, dammit. “Fine.”
“I know, it’s tough when you aren’t the one with all the good ideas,” she said, and he could tell she was smiling. Before he could come up with something snarky to say back, she added, “I just sent you some still shots to look at in the meantime. See you soon.”
The call went dead, and he squinted at the images flooding his tiny screen.
“You done talking to your latest bae?” Spence said.
“What?” Scotty asked without looking up. The stills had been captured by a security camera and showed a woman at what looked like Union Station. Dark hair, slender build, thrift store clothes that were still somehow chic—Natalie. He checked the time stamp. “Um, guys?”
“Yeah?” Gage said. “What’s wrong? Did some tramp dump your ass again?”
