Dr. Ian West

My sixth-floor office space has been converted to a headquarters.

Luckily, the open-floor plan made this transition easy. I put Charlie in charge of investigating Shaver’s background. Any link, any clue, any connection that could lead us to Porter’s trail goes up on the board.

The giant murder board Mia and Charlie were creating has been removed, set aside to contend with later. After. Once Porter is safe.

I have Mia focused on the jury. She’s my only analyst, and I need her smart brain reading the jury during the trial. If we fail—and we will not; cannot—our only hope remains with Shaver being acquitted.

Eddie was never officially a part of the team, but he has a place with us. Since I can’t be in court, he’s agreed to wear a transmitter so Mia can follow along and give him guidance.

The stage is set.

My stage, that is. To bring Shaver down.

As we know, Shaver likes to stage his scenes, and this hit me harder than anything else. We haven’t proven it yet, but if my theory is right about the staged crime scenes, then every one of Shaver’s victims has a card.

I have a card. That makes me his victim. So where is my staged scene to take place?

My ultimate theory: Shaver is using the whole of DC as his staging ground.

I unroll a paper map across the glass conference table.

“Where did you even find this?” Mia asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a giant map in person.”

Millennials. Which technically, I might be one—but I choose to believe you can grow out of it. Like there’s a right of passage into generation X, and it’s self-reliance.

“At a gift shop.” I circle the downtown area. “We’re going to focus our efforts here.”

Charlie walks over. “Why do you think he’d keep Porter so close? That doesn’t seem smart to me.”

“Because Shaver needs to keep me in line. That means keeping her close enough that his someone on the outside can get me proof of life. He can’t rely on technology, as his communications are being monitored, and he can’t depend on his lawyer.” Smigel hasn’t proven to be a true troll. Not yet. “So he’s relying on physical, tangible missives. That requires for whomever has taken Porter to be in close proximity.”

The logic sounds reasonable. I’m not letting them know that, truthfully, I have no way to know this. It’s conjecture. Two and a half days just isn’t enough time to expand the search radius, and I need to focus my efforts somewhere.

“Charlie, pull up the card on the screen.”

I had Mia enlarge and enhance it so we can see every detail. For now, it’s our only clue. More than that, it’s our map.

I move closer to the screen.

Shaver’s Tarot deck has to be old. I’m no historian, but my guess would be this card is at least half a century past its expiration. The details in the drawing are intricate. Hand painted. And that’s where I’m getting lost, in the details.

“Is that a castle in the background?” I ask Mia.

“According to what I’ve researched, yeah. Every Five of Cups card across all decks presents a castle. Apparently, that’s the cloaked man’s destination, his prosperous future. If he can let go of his past.”

I scrub a hand down my face. “Yeah. I know this. But where is that here?” I point to the map. “Shaver is pathological. With Tillman, his scene depicted her card—down to the eight stab wounds representing the eight swords. If the castle is the destination, that has to be where Porter is being kept. But there are no fucking castles in DC.” I laugh dismally; I’m going to crack.

Mia looks uncertain. “How can you know that? Maybe you’re being too literal. She could be anywhere. All Shaver has to do is label it a castle.”

She’s right. Dammit. “We’re going in circles.” Porter spoke the truth when she said I didn’t evaluate Shaver long enough to get inside his head.

But he made damn sure he was inside mine.

He mentioned Melanie’s accident. He asked about my history with Porter. He was either gathering intel, or gloating about what he already knew. How much information did he glean from Porter? They spent months prepping for his case. A sick hollowness twists my stomach.

“We need someone who knows him. Knows how he thinks.” I nod to Charlie at the computer. “Where’s that asshole crony Lyle Fisher?”

“We weren’t able to flip him,” Mia says, worry creasing her kohl-rimmed eyes. “He could tell Shaver everything we’re doing.”

“And?” I turn to face her. “You don’t think Shaver knows what I’m doing right now?” I check the time on my phone. We’ve already wasted the afternoon. “I have two days left before I have to testify. Fisher is the only person who knows this bastard, who might know where… Dammit.”

“What?” Mia follows me to Charlie’s station.

“It has to be him,” I say. “Shaver could’ve planted Fisher with us to get information. Fisher has to be the one who was in Porter’s apartment.” He took her.

Charlie spins his chair around. “Dr. West, you can ask him yourself. Lyle Fisher is here. In the lobby. I had another interview scheduled for him today.”

My head starts this annoying throb. I press at my temples. “Get him up here.” Then I take hold of Charlie’s chair, making sure he sees the seriousness in my eyes. “How illegal is it to interrogate someone?”

His dark eyebrows pull together. “Like torture?”

“If I have to go that far…”

Charlie looks unsure, as if he’s suddenly seeing his boss for the first time. “If he knows something, we’ll get him to talk.”

“All right,” I say, barely masking the disbelief in my voice. Charlie is my do-gooder. My black-and-white thinker. I’ve never witnessed him skirt the line before, and I have to admit, I’m a little rattled.

As we wait for Fisher, I pace the concrete floor.

The sheer helplessness of the situation feels as if the ground is crumbling beneath me.

“His castle,” I say, thinking out loud. I look up at the screen. I need a focal point. If that damn castle is my figurative destination, I need to make it my literal one, too. “Okay. Let’s pull up Shaver’s financials. I want to know about every piece of property he owns.”

I’ll search every damn place in DC if I have to.

When Fisher enters the office, something snaps in my brain. I know that, medically, this isn’t possible—but the pop happens just the same. My vision darkens, the crash of a wave detonates in my ears. The roar intensifies until all other sounds are too distant to hear as I thunder toward him.

I’m across the office and have the man by his throat. “Where is she? Where are you hiding her?”

There is no fear in his dark eyes. He makes a move toward his pocket, and I seize his arm. “I’m supposed to bring you a message,” Fisher says evenly.

Charlie takes up my side and instructs Fisher to remove his hand slowly. He presents a phone and holds it up for me to take. Heart racing, I release Fisher and accept the phone.

“Hit the Play button,” he instructs.

I stare at the device for a solid beat before glancing between Charlie and Mia. They are both motionless sculptures, waiting for me to press the button. “Don’t let him leave. Tie him up if you have to.”

Then I suck in a breath and start the video.

Porter’s face appears on the shaky screen. My stomach bottoms out. Her hair is wild, mascara smeared beneath her eyes. The footage pans down, as if someone is adjusting the angle, and I glimpse blood-stained bandages wrapping her arms.

Where she was bled.

“West, I’m sorry,” she says, her voice wavering. “I’m alive, but I don’t know where. But I’m okay. Just do the right thing.”

The frame drops. The video ends.

I clutch the phone so hard, the skin covering my knuckles burns. “Where the fuck is she?” I round on Fisher.

He shakes his head, dismissive. “You think he’d tell me? He gave me explicit instructions where to pick up the phone, and where to take it. That’s all. I’m done.” He holds up his hands. “That’s all I had to do, and now I’m out. I’m not testifying. I won’t.”

I start toward him, and Charlie shifts in front of me. “Dr. West, think about this. Shaver wouldn’t send you someone useful.”

I don’t want logic. I want to cause pain. I want this lowlife to bleed. I want him to tell me where Porter is.

“He goes nowhere,” I say, as I circle the office table and refocus on the map. “Where did you get the phone? I want every bit of information your putrid brain can supply, and I want it now.”

* * *

By one a.m., we’ve scoured Shaver’s properties in the downtown area. I made three trips: an apartment complex, a bar, and a gym. All legitimate establishments, with residents and bookkeeping…but no sign of Porter. Fisher confirmed at least two of the businesses are being used to launder money for Shaver’s drug dealings.

Which might help Eddie’s case, but gets us no closer to finding Porter.

By morning, the question has to be asked. Is Eddie willing to throw the case if it’s our only chance to save Porter’s life?

I loathe that I’m the one to put this choice on Eddie, but Porter’s running out of time. If Fisher does know anything, he’s not talking. He won’t turn on Shaver; he claims it’s suicide, and he’s probably right. But I’m officially out of shits to give for thugs. He might not have had anything to do with abducting Porter, but he works for Shaver. He’s going to pay his dues one way or another.

I stand and stretch, then slide on my suit jacket.

“Where are you going?” Mia asks. She’s been going over the footage from the trial today.

One screen displays the brief, panned shots of the jury that Eddie captured with the pinned cam to his tie, and the other screen shows stats on the jurors. Mia’s own grading system for how likely a juror is to acquit versus sentence.

“I need to take a walk,” I say. “Clear my head.”

“It’s late, Dr. West. You should get some sleep.”

“Says the pot to the kettle.”

“I never understood that.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen a kettle.”

“Okay, well if you’re up, take a look at this.” She rewinds the trial footage and plays back Eddie’s cross of Rendell. She’s no longer the defense’s star alibi witness; she’s become a character witness for Shaver.

I know. The irony.

“It’s only the first day, but majority of the jurors show favoritism to Eddie during his questioning.”

Which would be a triumph for day one during any other case. “Who are the holdouts?”

“Well. The woman with a son—” she pivots to her jury profile screen “—Sarah Jenkins. Her son is serving time in juvi for possession. Eddie’s character assassination on Tillman didn’t appear to go over well with her. Her expressions during the cross exposed her sympathy for Tillman.”

I nod slowly. “Any way she’s our jury foreman?”

Mia’s eyebrows draw together. It’s confusing, and difficult, to know which side to pull for. We can’t let Shaver walk free, but his freedom is directly tied to Porter’s life.

Mia shakes her head. “I doubt that. She works two part-time jobs. None of which demand much in the way of decision-making skills. I think she’s under enough stress with family matters.” She frowns. “But, I do have two that I’m leaning toward.”

I brace my hands against the desk and lean closer to the screen. She pulls up two profiles, both I vaguely recall from voir dire. “Jackson and Smith.”

Normally, I’d spend the night before trial studying the jurors’ profiles. But I was with Porter. A blade to the heart.

“Camille Jackson is a tech firm CEO, and a likely candidate. And Andrew Smith, the high school history teacher, has experience in managing large, unruly groups.”

I rub my eyes. “Like teens. That takes patience. An ideal jury foreman.” The others would feel comfortable looking to him. His income isn’t an intimidating insult, and teachers garner respect.

“The thing about Smith is,” Mia says, as she slides to the second monitor, “he could sway either way. He seemed to be buying into Smigel’s opening statement, but was slightly nodding along with Eddie’s cross.” She shakes her head. “Either I don’t have a good read on him, or it’s still too early.”

I pat her shoulder. “It’s still too early,” I say in assurance.

Too early, but not for me. I’m running out of time. Porter’s running out…too fast.

“I’m heading out. You get some sleep. I need your brain focused on tomorrow’s sessions.” I glance over at Fisher, not comfortable leaving Mia and Charlie alone with him. “I’ll take him with me.”

“Be safe,” Mia says, then swivels back toward her monitors.

Once we hit the sidewalk, I turn toward Fisher. “Tell your boss that if he has Porter harmed in any way—” I close my eyes, visualizing the blood-soaked bandages covering her arms “—I’ll end him. Maybe not now, or tomorrow. But I will end him.”

Fisher tilts his head, searching. “You think he’s afraid of death?”

His question jars me. All I can do is stare at the man.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Fisher braces for his walk. “Death is his favorite card, Dr. West. Good luck.”

It might be the dumbest thing to let him walk away, but he’s my only real link to Shaver and, therefore, Porter. He brought the phone, he brought the proof that—for now—she’s alive. My instincts are skewed. My feelings for Porter distort my perception. So I have to trust in some other foreign thing that I used to mock.

Faith.

Maybe not intrinsic faith—but the trust that Shaver will use Fisher again to send a message.

I hurry my steps as I take the shortcut to Porter’s apartment. I insert the key with a sinking feeling pulling at my gut. It seems like years since I was last here, not just this morning. Everything is still the way I left it. I’m not sure if I was hoping for change, for a new sign.

I turn on the lights and illuminate my phone flashlight. During my panicked search this morning, I might have missed something small, something important. Just one piece of evidence that could clue me in to whoever took her and where.

Damn. I should’ve brought Charlie. I need an investigator’s eye. I flip up his contact, then toggle it away, thinking better of waking him. We need more than an eye; we need CSI-type shit. Finger dusting kits. Those special blue lights. Yeah, I’m not so good on the tech side of forensics. Not my department.

Tomorrow.

Porter will have been missing for twenty-four hours by the time the sun hits the sky. That’s the official time I can report it. A thought hits me.

Porter’s firm has to be questioning where she is. Right? Someone there can report her missing, and that’s no violation on my part against Shaver. But who? I’m so out of the loop with her life that I don’t even know who her friends are. What colleagues she’s close with.

Porter has been benched. For at least another week. Will anyone notice her missing?

Someone has to be concerned.

I am. I’m the one who’s missing her. I’m the one who Shaver knew he could manipulate. If for no other reason than his painstakingly meticulous nature, I know Shaver has saw to it that no one is worried about Porter. At least for the next couple of days.

I’m being torn in too many directions, and none of them have a definitive answer.

I enter the bedroom and shine the light around. The cups on the mantel catch the light. They’re still positioned the same. Dread leaks into my soul.

Don’t look.

But I’m compelled, like a magnet pulling me against my will. That’s why I came here, right? Not to find some elusive piece of evidence. I came here to look in those cups and know that, when I take the stand, I have no other choice.

Step by step, I make it to the mantel. I use a tissue to remove the first goblet and peer inside. Empty, except for the remnants. A red wine-like stain lines the silver.

The first day is gone.

A tremor attacks my hand as I remove the second cup, my back teeth clenched. I embrace the anger instead of the pain. The coppery tang of blood hits me before I see the proof.

I nearly drop the cup. Leaning my head to the mantel, I pull in deep, steady breaths. My thoughts are not my own. I’ve become something…other. Desperate to inflict pain.

I’m going to kill him.

The bed is there, and that’s where my body drops, giving up the fight.