For several seconds after Bell told me not to call William, the room seemed to contract around the phone in my hand. Ethan remained on the line, breathing hard from across the street from my building. Ruiz sat beside me, pen stopped above her legal pad. Hayes had already reached for another phone.
I looked at Bell.
“You think my boyfriend’s father was involved in a break-in?”
“I think we have a witness linking him to someone who may have been inside your residence.”
“That is not the same sentence.”
“No.”
“Then say what you actually know.”
His eyes held mine.
“A neighbor saw a man leaving your apartment. She believes she saw that same man months ago in the building with retired Admiral William Brooks.”
There it was.
Fact separated from implication.
I could work with that.
“Ethan,” I said into the phone, “stay where you are.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Do not approach the building.”
“I’m already across the street.”
“Stay there.”
“I heard you the first time.”
Bell asked him for Mrs. Alvarez’s full name and exact location. Ethan gave both.
Hayes left the room.
Ruiz leaned toward me.
“Claire, whatever happens next, you are not leaving here alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I’m always thinking about leaving rooms.”
“That is not reassuring.”
Bell ignored us.
“Does your building have internal cameras?”
“Yes. Lobby, elevators, parking level.”
“Hallways?”
“Only near stairwell doors.”
“What floor?”
“Ninth.”
“Secondary access?”
“Service elevator.”
“Who can use it?”
“Staff, deliveries, residents with key access.”
Bell nodded.
The investigator in him was already building a map.
I was building a different one.
William had visited my building only twice that I remembered.
Once for dinner.
Once months later, when Ethan and I hosted Margaret’s birthday drinks before a restaurant reservation.
Neither visit involved a stranger.
I said so.
Bell asked, “Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Could Admiral Brooks have come when you weren’t home?”
“I don’t monitor the man’s movements.”
“Would he have had reason?”
“No.”
“What about Ethan?”
“What about him?”
“Could he have met his father there without you?”
I stiffened.
Ruiz stepped in.
“Careful.”
Bell’s tone remained even.
“I’m establishing possibilities.”
Ethan heard every word.
His response came through the speaker.
“No.”
Bell turned toward the phone.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my father has his own house.”
That almost sounded funny.
Nobody laughed.
Bell asked, “Does he have a key to Claire’s apartment?”
“No.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Ethan.
“Why did you answer that so fast?”
“Because I’m not going to pretend I don’t.”
Bell asked where the key was.
“On my key ring.”
“Where are you right now?”
“Across from the building.”
“Do not enter.”
“Understood.”
Then Hayes returned.
“Local officers have cleared the apartment.”
My stomach tightened.
“Damage?”
“Front door shows no obvious forced entry.”
“That’s worse.”
“It’s information.”
“Anything taken?”
“Unknown.”
Bell stood.
“We’ll go there after the scene unit finishes initial processing.”
“I’m going too.”
“Yes.”
That surprised me.
He saw it.
“You know what belongs there.”
Ruiz closed her pad.
“And I’m coming.”
Bell looked at her.
“Obviously.”
An hour later, the four of us entered my apartment.
Ethan waited with Mrs. Alvarez near the elevators.
He moved toward me the moment he saw us.
I stopped him before he reached the doorway.
“Not inside yet.”
He looked furious.
“I live here half the week.”
“Which is why I don’t want you stepping on anything.”
His jaw worked.
Then he nodded.
Mrs. Alvarez was wrapped in a cardigan despite the warm hallway.
She looked embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, Claire.”
“For what?”
“I should have called sooner.”
“You called when you noticed.”
“I thought perhaps it was a repairman.”
“You did exactly what you should.”
Her face eased slightly.
Bell approached gently.
“Mrs. Alvarez, can you describe the man again?”
She did.
Mid-fifties or early sixties.
Medium height.
Gray at the temples.
Dark cap.
Navy jacket.
Carried a narrow black bag.
Moved quickly, but not running.
“Had you seen him before today?”
“I think so.”
“With Admiral Brooks?”
She looked at me before answering.
That hesitation mattered.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Maybe spring?”
“Inside this building?”
“Yes.”
“What were they doing?”
“Talking near the mail area.”
“Did Admiral Brooks go upstairs?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did the other man?”
“I don’t know.”
Bell showed her a series of photographs on a tablet.
I stood far enough away not to influence her.
She studied six faces.
Then touched one.
“That one looks like him.”
My pulse changed.
Bell turned the tablet away before I could see.
“Confidence?”
“Maybe seventy percent.”
“Good.”
Not high confidence.
Not identification.
Useful, not conclusive.
Afterward, when Bell moved aside, I asked, “Who was it?”
He hesitated.
Ruiz said, “She is entitled to know what connection you’re investigating if you expect her to identify property.”
Bell exhaled.
Then he showed me the photo.
I did not know the man.
Not visually.
The name beneath the image I recognized immediately.
Thomas Ellison.
I stared.
“Is that him?”
Bell watched me.
“I have never seen this photograph before.”
“Could you have met him and forgotten?”
“I remember Ellison as thinner, younger, wire-rim glasses.”
“Seven years is time.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think this could be him?”
I forced myself not to turn possibility into certainty.
“It could.”
Mrs. Alvarez had seen Ellison—or someone who looked like him—leaving my apartment.
And she believed he had previously been here with William.
Bell asked, “Does that change anything?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I want to know why William was with him.”
“You still shouldn’t call.”
“I know.”
That did not mean I liked it.
Inside the apartment, drawers had been opened.
Not ransacked.
Searched.
Whoever had entered moved methodically.
Desk drawers.
Hall cabinet.
Office shelves.
Bedroom storage.
The metal case location.
I stopped in front of the closet.
The shelf where I kept the case was empty because the case sat at NCIS.
Dust showed a clean rectangular outline.
Bell crouched.
“They knew where to look.”
“Yes.”
Ruiz stood behind him.
“Or they searched until they found the empty space.”
“No.”
I pointed.
“Look.”
A storage box beside it had been moved.
The other boxes remained aligned.
The metal case had been targeted.
Bell photographed the shelf.
“What else was inside?”
“The notebook. Old correspondence. Photos. Flash drive.”
“Flash drive content?”
“I don’t remember exactly.”
“That’s a problem.”
“I know.”
Ethan remained in the hallway until the technicians cleared the main room.
When he finally came inside, he stopped near the kitchen.
His eyes moved over the open drawers.
“That’s unsettling.”
“Yes.”
“Anything missing?”
“I’m checking.”
Laptop remained.
Jewelry remained.
Cash remained.
Nothing obvious.
Then I opened the narrow drawer beneath my desk.
Empty.
I stared.
“What?” Bell asked.
“There was an envelope.”
“What kind?”
“Plain white.”
“Contents?”
“A letter.”
“From whom?”
“Paul Vance.”
Every head turned.
Ethan looked at me.
“You had a letter from him?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“A few months after Meridian.”
“You said he sent a thank-you letter.”
“That was it.”
Bell stepped closer.
“You retained the original?”
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
“Mostly thanks to the crew.”
“Mostly?”
I closed my eyes.
There had been one odd paragraph.
At the time, I thought it reflected trauma.
“He wrote that if anyone ever asked about the delay, I should trust my own memory before anyone else’s version.”
Bell’s expression hardened.
“You did not mention that in the interview.”
“I forgot it.”
“You forgot that?”
“I read the letter seven years ago.”
“Where was it stored?”
“In this drawer.”
“Separate from the notebook.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It was personal.”
Bell looked toward the empty shelf.
“So the intruder knew enough to search both locations.”
“Or found the letter while searching generally.”
“Possible.”
Ruiz crossed her arms.
“Anything else in the letter?”
I searched memory.
“No names.”
“Anything about Ellison?”
“No.”
“Mercer?”
“No.”
“Brooks?”
I opened my eyes.
“Maybe.”
Bell went still.
“What do you mean maybe?”
“I need to remember.”
I walked away from the desk.
Memory did not respond well to pressure.
I pictured the paper.
Cream envelope.
Vance’s handwriting.
Three short paragraphs.
One longer.
Then the last line.
There may still be people above us who understand what happened. One of them may be Brooks.
I stopped walking.
“He mentioned Brooks.”
Ethan’s face changed.
“My father?”
“He wrote that someone named Brooks might understand what happened.”
Bell asked, “First name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Rank?”
“No.”
“Context?”
“People above us. Senior people.”
Ethan looked at me.
“Why didn’t you ever tell Dad?”
“Because I didn’t know Vance meant him.”
“Did you ever ask?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because by the time I met your father, I had forgotten that line existed.”
That sounded impossible now.
But old mysteries shrink when life moves on.
Until they don’t.
Bell said, “That letter is now a priority item.”
“It’s gone.”
“Yes.”
“Then whoever took it knew more than someone hunting for a notebook.”
He did not need to explain.
The notebook contained operational discrepancies.
The letter connected Vance to Brooks.
Someone had removed the one document that might explain why.
My phone buzzed.
Evidence had returned it.
Unknown text.
No number displayed.
A photo attachment.
Bell saw my expression.
“Don’t open it yet.”
He took the phone and handed it to the technician.
Minutes later, the image was displayed on a secured monitor.
A photograph.
William Brooks and Thomas Ellison standing beside a marina.
Date stamp from four months earlier.
They were not passing each other.
They were talking.
The message beneath the image contained one sentence.
ASK YOUR ADMIRAL WHAT HE AND ELLISON WERE PLANNING.
Ethan stared at the screen.
His face had gone pale.
I looked at Bell.
“This sender wants me suspicious of William.”
“Yes.”
“So why provide real evidence?”
“Because real evidence can still be used to create a false conclusion.”
I nodded.
That was exactly right.
Ethan looked at me.
“Do you believe my father?”
The question hurt because there was no clean answer.
“I believe he deserves the truth before I judge him.”
Bell said, “Not yet.”
I turned.
“You cannot keep him from explaining forever.”
“No.”
“How long?”
“Until we know whether Ellison is alive, missing, running, or compromised.”
“Compromised how?”
Bell looked toward the photograph.
“By whoever is frightened enough to steal a seven-year-old letter.”
The apartment suddenly felt smaller.
Then Bell’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Said nothing for nearly thirty seconds.
When he ended the call, his expression had changed.
“What?” I asked.
“Ellison’s car was found.”
“Where?”
“Long-term parking at Reagan National.”
“Did he fly somewhere?”
“No record of a departure under his name.”
“Anything in the car?”
Bell looked at Ethan.
Then at me.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A photograph of Admiral Brooks.”
Ethan went still.
Bell continued.
“On the back, Ellison wrote a date.”
“What date?”
Bell answered.
The date was three days from now.
Below it, one word.
MERIDIAN.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: William Finally Told Us Why He Met Ellison in Secret, and His Answer Exposed a Second Investigation Hidden Beneath the First
The Quiet Detail in Ethan’s Family Dinner Invitation That Told Me His Father Had Already Recognized Something I Never Discussed
Part 9 of 16
