The continuing adventure of Tommy Euro
Previously in Installment Four of The Texas Peace Mission Matter…
The investigation has exposed the truth about Myles Ritter’s death. Clem Degger, a hired killer who entered Goldman Mill on a tourist visa, strangled the young peace educator and staged his death as suicide.
Promised $100,000 for the murder, Degger received only a $25,000 advance. Furious over the unpaid balance, he confessed, knowingly admitting to premeditated murder.
But Degger’s confession raises new questions about the political operatives behind the killing. Tommy Euro, Detective Jaronda Charles, and their colleagues must now establish who arranged the crime—and whether the evidence can expose a larger conspiracy.
Five: The Price of Murder
Goldman Mill — Late June 2022
The confession changed the investigation, but it did not finish it.
Jaronda Charles had a man who admitted murdering Myles Ritter. She had forensic evidence consistent with his account, travel records placing him in Goldman Mill, and financial records showing that he had received a substantial payment before the killing.
What she did not yet have was a complete, independently corroborated account of the people who had ordered it.
Degger had named Eli Danner, referred to Curtis Bell’s company, and mentioned a man named Rodrigo. He had also said he knew of Lance Gray, although he could not establish that Gray had personally instructed him.
The distinction mattered.
Tommy and Nadia Flores spent several days comparing the financial information with the timeline developed by the Gardai. Nadia found that payments connected to Lone Star Heritage Group had passed through accounts associated with people in the Coalition’s orbit. Bell’s company had handled travel-related arrangements, and the money that reached Degger appeared to have originated within the same network.
There were still gaps.
“Money doesn’t come with a little note saying *for murder*,” Nadia observed as she reviewed another set of transactions.
“Somehow I suspected that.”
“What we can establish is that Degger received money, that Bell’s company was involved in his travel arrangements, and that funds moved through entities connected to people associated with the Coalition. We need more records before we can identify everyone who authorized those transactions.”
Tommy examined the dates.
“This payment was made after Myles returned from Dallas.”
“Yes.”
“And before Degger arrived in Goldman Mill.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a pretty interesting coincidence.”
“It’s a lead. Don’t make me sound like Jaronda again.”
Tommy laughed.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
—
The next significant development came from the Dallas side of the investigation.
With the help of USian authorities, Jaronda’s team began identifying people who had been present at the Coalition offices on May 12. Visitor records confirmed that Myles had entered the building. Other records placed Danner and Bell there, along with Lance Gray, who had attended a private meeting that afternoon.
The records did not establish what the men had discussed in the lavatory.
A separate inquiry into Gray’s campaign staff identified Rodrigo as a man who had performed security and logistical work for Gray. Investigators were examining his movements and communications during the period when Myles was in Dallas.
Marisol Vega was asked to review the chronology and provide a fuller statement about Myles’s behavior after the visit.
She remembered the afternoon clearly.
“He came back pale,” she told Jaronda during a recorded interview. “I asked whether he was sick. He said no, but he kept looking behind him.”
“Did he say who was following him?”
“He said he thought a man had been watching him since he left the Coalition building.”
“Did he describe the man?”
“Not well enough for me to identify him. He said he didn’t want to make accusations without proof.”
“Did he say what he overheard?”
“He told me the men were planning to make a peaceful demonstration look violent. He said somebody was talking about people getting hurt, maybe killed, and using it to influence the election.”
Jaronda paused.
“Did Myles say he had recorded the conversation?”
“No. He said he’d been in the men’s lavatory and hadn’t expected to hear anything.”
“Did he tell you he had informed the authorities?”
“He said he intended to report what he knew, but he wanted to write everything down while it was fresh.”
“Did he say why he was waiting?”
“He was afraid of accusing the wrong people. He understood how serious it was.”
Jaronda thanked her.
After the interview, Marisol remained seated.
“Detective, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Did they kill him because he heard that conversation?”
“We’re investigating that possibility.”
Marisol nodded slowly.
“He was trying to prevent people from getting hurt. That’s all he was trying to do.”
“I understand.”
“I hope the people responsible understand it, too.”
—
The Mill Messenger newsroom was still full at eleven-thirty that night, although most of the people working there had been expected home hours earlier. There were coffee cups scattered across the desks, sandwiches nobody had finished, and a television showing an American news channel with the sound turned down. Every few minutes somebody’s telephone rang, and almost every call seemed to introduce another problem.
Editor-in-Chief Georgia Grant stood beside a desk, reading a newly obtained court document while one of her reporters waited for her reaction.
“Where did you get this?”
“The Dallas filing was released this afternoon. Our contact sent it over.”
“And you’ve checked it?”
“Against the court’s public copy. Same document.”
Georgia turned the page. The filing set out the existence of a murder investigation and the allegations leading to Clem Degger’s arrest. A separate on-the-record confirmation from the Gardai established that Degger had subsequently made a recorded statement in Goldman Mill. The substance of that statement remained subject to legal restrictions; neither the newsroom nor its sources possessed a right to the interview simply because the story was important.
“We can report the charge, the arrest, and what the Gardai will confirm,” Georgia said. “We cannot put words in Degger’s mouth that we haven’t independently established.”
She crossed a sentence out of the draft. It had read well, which was part of the problem. It claimed to know more than the reporting could support.
Marcus Vance, the Messenger’s commerce editor, emerged from the adjoining work area with a sheaf of documents. He had been examining the public corporate filings and the business relationships between Lone Star Heritage Group, God & Country Protective Services, and the fundraising network around the Coalition.
“The company registrations hold up,” he told Georgia. “The dates and officers match. But the larger payment trail is still an allegation from the investigation. Our documents establish that the businesses were connected. They don’t establish who ordered a murder.”
“Good. Put that distinction in the sixth paragraph, not in a disclaimer at the end where nobody will see it.”
A reporter approached with a telephone in his hand.
“Danner’s attorney is on line two. He says if we publish anything suggesting the Coalition ordered a murder, they’ll sue us.”
“Have we said the Coalition ordered a murder?”
“Not in the copy.”
“Then don’t put it there. Record his objection, ask him whether his client can explain the business relationships, and give him a fair opportunity to respond.”
Georgia returned to her desk, where the latest version of the story filled her monitor. It was a strong piece of reporting, but she didn’t like the headline. It suggested a connection between Senator Ewing’s campaign and the murder that the available evidence couldn’t yet establish.
“Who wrote this headline?”
A reporter across the room raised her hand. “I did.”
“Come here a minute.”
Georgia pointed to the screen. “Read it as though you know absolutely nothing about the case. What does it tell you?”
“That the senator’s campaign was involved.”
“Can we prove that?”
“We can document that his campaign manager was present at the Coalition offices the day Myles visited. We can document overlapping business relationships. We know the Gardai are examining what those relationships mean.”
“Can we prove the senator ordered Myles Ritter murdered?”
“No.”
“Can we prove Lance Gray did?”
“Not yet.”
“Then we can’t write a headline that invites readers to treat either conclusion as a fact.”
The reporter frowned. “That’s going to make it less dramatic.”
Georgia shook her head. “A twenty-four-year-old peace educator was murdered in his own home, and investigators have traced a substantial payment to the man accused of killing him. How much more drama do you need?”
The young woman looked embarrassed. Georgia wasn’t trying to embarrass her; she knew the lure of a powerful headline better than most people in the building. She also knew what happened when an inaccurate sentence gave the people under scrutiny an excuse to dismiss every accurate one.
The telephone rang again. A statement from the Ewing campaign came through moments later, denying any involvement in Myles Ritter’s death and accusing the Messenger of attempting to influence an American election. Georgia read it while someone across the newsroom tried for the third time to obtain a substantive response from Bell’s company.
“Put the campaign’s response in full context,” she said. “And make sure we’re clear that the money is still being traced. Association isn’t authorization.”
Another reporter had been speaking to the Dallas demonstration organizers. They could establish that volunteers had been injured on May 14 and that the early claims of violence by the peace marchers had been disputed by witnesses. They could not yet tie the provocateurs to Bell’s company. Georgia refused to let the story suggest that they could.
The newsroom’s legal adviser called shortly before midnight. Georgia took the call in her office, carrying the annotated draft with her. The adviser asked about the headline, the sources for the corporate links, the wording of the accusations, and the opportunity given to the people named to reply. By the time they finished, Georgia had crossed out two more sentences and made three others more precise.
When she returned, one of the younger reporters asked whether the story would attract attention outside Goldman Mill.
“If a sitting USian senator’s political circle is being examined in connection with a paid murder committed in a sovereign country, I suspect somebody may notice,” she said.
He grinned nervously. “Right.”
“But we’re not publishing because we want attention. We’re publishing because Myles Ritter was murdered, because there is evidence he was killed for money, and because people deserve to know what investigators have established. The gaps in that evidence are part of the story, too.”
She read the entire article once more. Names, dates, financial relationships, denials, unanswered questions. Outside, the city was mostly quiet. Inside, someone was arguing over a caption, and Marcus was still checking the spelling of a company officer’s surname. Georgia thought of Myles’s father, of the household at Anwer-Farron Farm, and of the young man’s face in the photograph that would appear beside the headline. This would expose his family to another round of painful questions. She wanted to be certain that the public value of what they published justified that cost.
At twelve-seventeen she approved the story.
“Publish.”
For several seconds, nothing remarkable happened. A page refreshed. Someone looked up from a keyboard. The reporters who had worked on the investigation sat perfectly still, staring at their screens as though the story might somehow change if they looked away.
Then the calls began.
The first came from a USian cable news producer asking for Georgia. The second was from an international wire service. A reporter wanted to know whether the Gardai would be announcing additional charges, and someone at the front desk reported that a television crew had arrived outside the building. The newsroom’s own telephone rang again before the first caller had been transferred.
Across the room, the reporter who had drafted the original headline stared at her monitor.
“Georgia?”
“What?”
“The Ewing campaign has issued another statement.”
“Already?”
“They’re calling the article a foreign political smear.”
Georgia took a look. “That’s remarkably quick.”
A photograph of Myles Ritter appeared on the muted television above the desks. Georgia recognized the image and also the strange new sensation of seeing a story her small nation’s newspaper had broken passing through the machinery of international news. Another outlet was already asking questions that the Messenger had carefully declined to answer, as though a lack of evidence were merely an inconvenience.
“Has anyone checked on Paul?” she asked.
“We spoke to him before publication. He knew the story was coming.”
“Good. If he’s called again, don’t leave him waiting.”
The telephone on her desk rang.
“Mill Messenger. Georgia Grant speaking.”
By morning there would be speculation about prizes and professional triumphs. Georgia had no time for any of it. Somewhere among the legal threats, records, and statements was a twenty-four-year-old peace educator who had tried to tell the truth, and other people might still know something about why he had been killed.
She reached for her pen and began writing down the next questions.
—
Lance Gray had summoned Eli Danner and Curtis Bell to a private sitting room in his Dallas residence, where he received them with the relaxed hospitality of a man entertaining old friends. There was a handsome drinks cabinet, a view of the illuminated garden, and a television tuned to a news channel with the sound turned down. Across the bottom of the screen, a headline about the murder of a Goldman Mill peace educator appeared every few minutes.
Gray poured himself a drink and offered one to his visitors. Danner declined. Bell accepted, although he left the glass untouched on the table beside him.
“Gentlemen,” Gray said, settling into an armchair, “we appear to have a problem.”
Danner leaned forward. “Degger confessed.”
“Yes, Eli. I’ve been made aware of that development.”
“He named people.”
“He certainly did.”
Bell shifted in his chair. “The man’s an idiot.”
“He’s an idiot who has apparently managed to remember a remarkable number of details about his employment,” Gray replied. “Which makes him a rather inconvenient idiot.”
“He was supposed to keep his mouth shut,” Bell said.
“He was also supposed to be paid,” Danner observed.
Gray turned toward him.
“Is that a criticism?”
“It’s a statement of fact. Somebody decided to withhold seventy-five thousand dollars from a man who’d committed murder for money. What did you think would happen?”
Gray took a sip of his drink.
“I thought he’d understand that discretion was part of the arrangement.”
“He doesn’t understand discretion. He understands getting paid.”
“Then perhaps somebody should have chosen a better employee.”
Bell stared at him. “You approved him.”
“I approved a solution to a problem. The details of the solution were your responsibility.”
“You knew exactly what he was going to do.”
Gray smiled.
“Curtis, I strongly recommend that you become more careful about what you believe you can establish.”
The room fell silent.
Danner looked toward the television. A photograph of Myles Ritter had appeared beside an image of the Coalition’s Dallas offices.
“This is going to get worse,” he said.
“Quite possibly.”
“The Gardai are following the money. They’ve got the travel records. They’re asking about Rodrigo.”
Gray set down his glass.
“Rodrigo works for a number of people. He’s performed perfectly legitimate services for my campaign. That isn’t a crime.”
“He followed Ritter,” Bell said.
“Did he?”
“You told him to.”
Gray regarded Bell for several seconds.
“I don’t recall making any such statement to you.”
Bell opened his mouth, then closed it.
Danner rubbed his forehead. “We were all there, Lance.”
“Yes, Eli. And if you intend to make statements about what happened in that lavatory, I suggest you consult an attorney before doing so.”
“You’re threatening us.”
“I’m advising you. There’s a difference.”
Gray rose and walked toward the television. He increased the volume just long enough to hear a reporter describe the financial investigation linking Degger’s payment to Coalition-associated interests. Then he muted it again.
“Here’s what is going to happen,” he said. “The Coalition will cooperate with lawful inquiries. God & Country Protective Services will explain its legitimate business arrangements. My campaign will continue doing the work American voters expect it to do. And everybody will refrain from making unsupported allegations about people who have done nothing wrong.”
Bell gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Nothing wrong?”
Gray turned around.
“Curtis, you run a security company. Eli runs a political organization. I run a campaign. Those are three separate enterprises with three separate sets of records and responsibilities. If investigators establish that someone in one of those enterprises committed a crime, that individual will have to answer for it.”
Danner stared at him.
“You’re going to let us take the fall.”
“I’m going to let the evidence speak for itself. Isn’t that what everybody keeps demanding?”
“And if the evidence reaches you?” Danner asked.
Gray’s expression remained pleasant.
“Then I suppose we’ll have an interesting conversation.”
He walked back to his chair.
“Branch is furious, incidentally. He thinks this is some elaborate plot by foreign pacifists to embarrass him.”
“Does he know what happened?” Danner asked.
“Of course not. And I intend to keep it that way. The senator has enough difficulty remembering what he said yesterday without burdening him with information he doesn’t need.”
Bell finally picked up his drink.
“You’re not worried?”
“About Branch? Never.”
“About the investigation.”
Gray considered the question.
“I’m concerned about carelessness. I’m concerned about people who panic. I’m concerned about individuals who suddenly decide that loyalty is an optional virtue.”
He looked directly at Bell.
“Those things worry me considerably more than a newspaper.”
Danner stood.
“I think I should go.”
“By all means. Get some sleep, Eli. You look terrible.”
Danner walked toward the door. Bell followed, but Gray stopped him.
“Curtis. A word.”
Bell turned.
“Don’t contact Rodrigo. Don’t ask anybody to retrieve records, and don’t make arrangements on my behalf. If you have questions about your legal position, speak with your attorney.”
“Is that all?”
“Not quite. You have a family, don’t you?”
Bell’s face tightened.
“Yes.”
“Then I suggest you spend some time with them. It’s remarkable how quickly a man’s priorities can change when he realizes what he stands to lose.”
Bell stared at him.
Gray smiled.
“Good night, Curtis.”
After the door closed, Gray returned to his chair and picked up his telephone.
He had no intention of going to prison for Eli Danner, Curtis Bell, or anybody else. Nor did he intend to surrender a political career that had already brought him within reach of the kind of power he wanted.
He looked at the television again. The photograph of Myles Ritter had returned.
Gray frowned.
The boy had been dead for weeks, and he was still causing trouble.
—
Prime Minister Regina Goldman received a briefing at State Hall.
At thirty-eight, Regina was already an internationally recognized head of government, accustomed to diplomatic meetings, public scrutiny, and the occasional spectacle of a politician discovering that she was considerably harder to intimidate than he had anticipated.
She was also a woman who understood that the rule of law meant very little if governments abandoned it when emotions ran high.
“What’s established?” she asked.
Her advisers reviewed the confession, the medical evidence, the financial trail, and the status of the international inquiries.
“And Senator Ewing?”
“No evidence currently establishes that he authorized the killing.”
“Then we don’t accuse him of authorizing it.”
“His campaign manager is under scrutiny.”
“That’s a serious matter in its own right. But we will distinguish evidence from allegation.”
Regina considered the larger implications.
Goldman Mill had never possessed a military. The nation had been founded in 1890 by people determined to build a society in which peace was not simply an aspiration but a governing principle. Its civilian Gardai protected the public and enforced the law without weapons. The Framework of Absolute Peace rested on total demilitarization, bodily autonomy, and universal equity.
Now a young citizen had been murdered in his own home by someone who had entered the country as an ordinary visitor.
The public was grieving. People were angry. Questions about immigration procedures and public safety had become urgent.
Regina knew that fear could tempt even a peaceful society to compromise its principles.
“We’ll review the entry procedures,” she said. “We’ll make the changes that are justified by the evidence, and we’ll respect the rights of legitimate visitors. We will not respond to a murder by abandoning the country Myles believed in.”
Her advisers agreed.
“Have we spoken with Paul Ritter?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“I’d like to see him personally when he’s ready.”
—
Senator Branch Ewing responded with a statement attacking Goldman Mill’s government, its pacifist philosophy, and its involvement in what he called an internal USian political matter.
He accused Regina Goldman of attempting to interfere in American politics and suggested that Goldman Mill’s institutions were ill-equipped to investigate a crime involving USian citizens.
The statement did not address the financial questions surrounding Coalition-associated organizations.
It did, however, give the news organizations another reason to keep calling.
Gray watched the senator’s televised remarks from his office.
Ewing was doing exactly what Gray expected: making a great deal of noise without contributing anything useful. The senator had once been caught on a hot microphone saying, “This is how we get ’em back into the fields where they belong.” His defenders had spent days explaining that the remark was misunderstood, while Gray had privately wondered why anyone had bothered. The voters who objected were unlikely to support Ewing anyway, and those who approved needed no explanation.
Gray’s secretary entered with a folder.
“Background on the Goldman Mill investigator, Mr. Gray.”
“Thank you.”
He opened it.
Thomas Pax Gomez Euro. Former Gardai officer. Insurance investigator. Peace activist. A substantial history of humanitarian work.
There were photographs of Euro at public events, including one in which he stood beside Goldman Mill’s Deputy Mayor, Endie Connell.
Gray studied the photograph.
He knew who Connell was. Her position in Goldman Mill’s government made her a recognizable public figure, and her professional accomplishments were readily documented. She was also a woman Gray would unhesitatingly classify as Black, whatever complexities of ancestry she might have described herself.
He found the combination irritating.
A Black woman exercising real authority in a sovereign country built on racial equity offended the political assumptions he spent his career promoting. That a man like Euro should be openly devoted to her made him seem, in Gray’s estimation, both contemptible and dangerous: contemptible because he rejected the racial hierarchy Gray took for granted, and dangerous because he apparently meant it.
Gray turned the page.
There was a photograph of Euro and Connell dancing together, both smiling.
He looked at it for a long moment.
“Something interesting?” his secretary asked.
“Just learning about our friends overseas.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Thank you.”
After she left, Gray returned to the photograph.
He disliked Euro’s persistence. He disliked his cheerful refusal to be intimidated. Most of all, he disliked the possibility that the investigator might become an example of a man who could challenge powerful people and survive.
Gray closed the folder.
He would have to remind Mr. Euro that even a peaceful country existed in a world where other people made the rules.
—
Tommy was at Glasshome Finance when his telephone rang.
“Tommy Euro.”
The caller did not identify himself.
“You’ve made a lot of trouble for some important people,” the voice said.
Tommy leaned back in his chair.
“Have I?”
“You should have left this alone.”
“Who is this?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“That’s convenient.”
The caller paused.
“You know, Euro, there’s something almost admirable about a man who believes he can go around asking questions without consequences.”
“Most of the people I talk to seem to survive the experience.”
“Not everybody has your advantages.”
“Which advantages would those be?”
“A nice job. A comfortable home. Friends in important places. A beautiful girlfriend.”
Tommy stopped smiling.
“Go on.”
“Endie Connell. Deputy Mayor. Very accomplished woman. Lives in that nice apartment on Marley Street, near the theater.”
Tommy said nothing.
“She works long hours, doesn’t she? State Hall keeps her busy. But she still finds time to enjoy herself.”
“Who are you?”
“Tell her we hope she enjoys the next show.”
The line went dead.
Tommy remained still for a moment. Then he wrote down everything he could remember about the conversation and called Jaronda.
She listened carefully.
“Did he mention any specific threat against Endie?”
“Not directly. He knew where she lives. He knew where she works. And he wanted me to know he knew.”
“That’s enough to take seriously. I’ll arrange for someone to speak with her and assess what we can establish.”
“I’ll tell her myself.”
“Good. And Tommy, don’t start looking for this man on your own.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
—
Endie was at State Hall when Tommy reached her. She had been reviewing a departmental funding request between meetings, and something in his voice made her close the folder before he finished saying hello. He told her about the call, including the reference to her address and the Grand Theater.
“Have you told Detective Charles?” she asked.
“Yes. She’s arranging a security assessment.”
“Good.”
Tommy took her hand. “Angel, I don’t want you going home alone until we know what’s happening.”
“Darling, I appreciate the concern. But let’s make arrangements based on what we actually know.”
“We know somebody’s watching you.”
“We know somebody wants you to believe that. They may have been watching me, or they may simply have looked up my address and my job.”
“They knew about the theater.”
“I live near a theater. It’s hardly classified information.”
Tommy tried to smile, but he had spent much of the afternoon imagining the stretch of Marley Street between Endie’s building and the Grand Theater, then imagining her walking it alone. He had even considered telephoning Regina, before catching himself. Endie was the Deputy Mayor, his partner, and a woman perfectly capable of speaking to the Prime Minister without his intervention.
“Then stay at Oceanview Pier tonight,” he said. “Until we find out what this is.”
Endie looked at him. “You haven’t asked whether I want to.”
“I thought you would.”
“Did you?” Her voice was quiet, which was more worrying than if she had raised it. “You’ve already decided I’m not going home alone. You’ve decided where I’ll sleep. You’ve decided what’s safe. And now you’re wondering why I’m not thanking you.”
“That isn’t fair. I’m trying to protect you.”
“I know you are. But the Gardai are conducting the assessment, not you. Let’s hear what they recommend before we start rearranging my life.”
“It’s your life I don’t want somebody taking away.”
The words came out harder than he intended. Endie stepped back from him. For a moment he wished he could retrieve them, not because they were untrue, but because he’d made her fear sound like an argument he could win.
“Tommy, I’m frightened,” she said. “Of course I’m frightened. Some stranger called the man I love and talked about knowing where I live. I’ve been thinking about that every time the telephone rings. But I can’t stop being Deputy Mayor, and I can’t make myself safe by giving up every ordinary thing I enjoy.”
He had mistaken her composure for immunity. Now he noticed the unread papers on the table and the way she kept turning her telephone over, as though an unexpected call might arrive at any moment.
“I’m scared too,” he said. “And I don’t like that I can’t do anything about it.”
“You can do something. You can listen to me. You can help me follow the Gardai’s advice. You can believe that I’m capable of making decisions with you.”
He sat down. Endie took the chair opposite instead of coming immediately into his arms, and they spent the next half hour speaking more carefully than they had begun. They agreed to report anything unusual, avoid predictable routines when convenient, and let the Gardai handle anything that looked like surveillance. Endie would decide where to stay from night to night. Tommy would tell her when he was frightened rather than trying to disguise it as an instruction.
“I nearly called Regina,” he admitted at last.
Endie stared at him. “You *what?*”
“I didn’t. I thought about it and stopped.”
“Good, because she has enough going on, and I am perfectly capable of telling her if I need to. That’s a conversation for me to have.”
“I know.”
She reached across the table and took his hand. “I love you, darling. I even love the ridiculous impulse that makes you think you can protect the entire world with your bare hands. But you don’t get to protect me *from myself*.”
He managed a rueful smile. “I believe that was covered at considerable length this evening.”
“It was. We may have to revisit the material.”
“Will there be an examination?”
“Almost certainly.”
Her smile was small and tired. He wanted to kiss her and make the evening easy, but she hadn’t had an easy evening, and neither had he. Instead he asked whether she’d eaten. She hadn’t. They left State Hall together, still disagreeing about some of the practical details, and bought dinner on the way to her apartment. They were quiet as they walked, each conscious of the ordinary pedestrians around them in a way neither particularly liked.
—
Three evenings later, Endie was returning to Marley Flats after dinner with Tommy when she noticed a man standing across the street. They had chosen to walk, as they usually did when the evening was pleasant, and until that moment they’d been arguing amiably about whether Tommy’s next public musical performance should involve a show tune or something mercifully less theatrical.
The laughter caught in Endie’s throat when she saw the man’s coat. He stood beneath a streetlight looking at his telephone, doing nothing anyone could reasonably object to, but her stomach tightened before she could explain to herself why.
She had seen him before.
The previous afternoon, he’d been near the entrance to the building when she left for State Hall. Earlier that evening, she had noticed him outside a shop farther along Marley Street.
He was neither particularly conspicuous nor doing anything that was obviously unlawful. But Endie had spent enough years in public life to recognize when a coincidence deserved attention.
She touched Tommy’s arm.
“Darling.”
“What?”
“Don’t turn around too quickly. There’s a man across the street, near the corner.”
Tommy glanced toward a shop window, using the reflection.
“I see him.”
“I’ve seen him twice before.”
“When?”
She explained.
Tommy’s expression hardened.
“Let’s go inside.”
They entered Marley Flats without approaching the man. Endie checked the door herself before they went upstairs, then called the Gardai while Tommy made a note of the man’s appearance and the places where she’d seen him. As she spoke, she found herself listening for footsteps in the corridor, a habit she disliked acquiring in her own home.
An officer arrived to take their statements. By then, the man had disappeared. Endie described him twice, once to the responding officer and once to the investigator who telephoned later. Each time she grew less certain whether he had looked toward her, and more certain that she would remember his face if she saw him again. Being a careful witness and being frightened turned out not to be mutually exclusive.
The Gardai reviewed what information they could obtain from nearby witnesses and available recordings. They could establish that a man matching Endie’s description had been in the area, but not who he was or whether he had been following her.
Nor could they connect him to Lance Gray.
Jaronda called Tommy the following morning.
“We’re following it up,” she said. “But I don’t want you assuming that every unfamiliar person on Marley Street works for Gray.”
“I know.”
“On the other hand, I don’t want you dismissing it.”
“Believe me, I won’t.”
“And Endie?”
“She’s fine. Angry, mostly.”
“That sounds like Endie.”
Tommy looked across the room. Endie was reviewing a State Hall document while drinking her morning tea, apparently determined to continue with the day she’d planned.
“She doesn’t appreciate being intimidated.”
“Neither do I,” Jaronda said.
After the call, Tommy sat beside Endie.
“I’d feel better if you stayed at Oceanview Pier for a while.”
She considered him.
“Would you?”
“Very much.”
“Then perhaps I will. But I’m not hiding.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not moving out of Marley Flats.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
She looked at him over her tea. “I thought you might.”
“I’ve spent the better part of the week proving I shouldn’t be allowed to make your arrangements.”
“That assessment is still under review.”
He nodded, chastened and amused at once. The argument at State Hall hadn’t been an argument they could finish with a kiss. But he was learning that telling Endie what frightened him was easier, and more useful, than telling her what to do.
She smiled.
“Good. Because I like my apartment.”
“So do I.”
“You’re particularly fond of the bedroom.”
Tommy laughed.
“It’s a very attractive room.”
She kissed him.
“Then perhaps we should make use of yours for a few nights.”
He drew her closer, grateful for her humor and her refusal to let fear dictate their lives.
But when she left for State Hall, he watched until she was safely on her way.
—
The following week, Endie insisted they keep tickets they’d bought for a performance at the Grand Theater. They’d discussed canceling, and Tommy had decided it was a bad idea, and Endie had asked him whether he intended to decide that as well. In the end they went, with the Gardai aware of their plans and no special spectacle made of it.
At intermission, Tommy saw a man in a dark jacket near one of the lobby doors. The man’s hair and height reminded him of the figure on Marley Street. His first impulse was to follow him, and by the time he’d reached the door, he’d missed what Endie was saying. She stopped beside him and followed his gaze.
“Is that him?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
The man turned, greeted another theatergoer, and laughed at something she said. He was older than the stranger Endie had described, and when he faced them Tommy could see he was plainly not the same person. Tommy’s relief was immediate and embarrassing. He had left Endie standing alone in a busy lobby because he’d been more interested in an imagined danger than in the woman he said he was trying to keep safe.
“I was going to follow him,” Tommy admitted.
“I could see that.”
“I’m sorry.”
Endie studied him. “I was scared too, when I saw you start toward the door. I thought you’d recognized somebody.”
“I thought I had. For about five seconds.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“No.”
She took his hand, but her face remained serious. “We’re allowed to be frightened, darling. We’re not allowed to let fear make every decision for us.”
“I know.” He glanced toward the stage doors. “I’ve been watching everybody except you.”
“Then stop. I’m right here.”
For the rest of the evening he tried to be present for the performance, and largely succeeded. He still glanced over his shoulder when they left. Endie noticed, of course, but said nothing. They continued the precautions they’d agreed on, kept their reports to the Gardai factual, and refused to invent a suspect where they had no evidence. What had changed wasn’t that the fear had vanished. It was that they had begun to recognize the ways it was trying to govern them.
Next: The Conclusion — Home to Goldman Mill
The murder of Myles Ritter has shaken a nation devoted to peace. The investigation has drawn international attention, and powerful men have reason to fear what may come next.
But Tommy Euro has another reason to return to Goldman Mill. Someone he loves is waiting for him.
The case has changed lives, exposed terrible wrongdoing, and revealed the courage of a young man who refused to look away.