GOLDMAN MILL

TOMMY EURO AND THE TEXAS PEACE MISSION MATTER

A Goldman Mill Detective Adventure

A Tommy Euro Mystery

—

INSTALLMENT ONE

The Insurance Investigator

Goldman Mill — May 23, 2022

Paul Ritter had come to Glasshome Finance because he wanted someone to listen.

He was a widower, a respected pharmacist, and a man who had spent much of his adult life learning to keep his emotions under control. That afternoon, however, sitting across from Thomas Pax Gomez Euro, he was having difficulty doing so.

“My son did not kill himself,” Paul said.

Tommy had heard the sentence before. During his five years with the Goldman Mill Gardai, and later as an insurance investigator, he had learned that the certainty of a grieving parent was neither proof nor something to dismiss. Sometimes families understood things the first official account had overlooked. His responsibility was to listen and find out.

“Tell me about Myles.”

“He was twenty-four. He taught peace education, especially to children and young people. He helped them learn to resolve conflicts without violence. He believed people could do better, and he wanted to give them the tools to prove it.”

Paul looked down at his hands.

“He loved life. He had plans. He was happy. And he was worried about something when he came home from Texas.”

“When did he go?”

“May ninth. Dallas. He was working with a progressive organization, doing nonviolence training and supporting a peaceful demonstration. He came home a week later.”

“Did something happen while he was there?”

“He called me and said he’d discovered something troubling. He wouldn’t explain it completely. He wanted to be sure of his facts.”

“Did he mention any names?”

“The America First Christian Dominion Coalition. That’s the name I remember.”

Tommy wrote it down.

“Did he think he was in danger?”

“I asked him. He said he didn’t think so. But after he came home, he was distracted. He’d start telling me something and then stop, as though he were trying to decide how much he should say.”

“Did he leave notes?”

“I’ve been going through his papers. I don’t know what some of them mean.”

“We’ll look at them.”

Paul leaned forward.

“Mr. Euro, I know how this sounds. A father refusing to accept what happened to his son. But Myles would never have taken his own life. He believed in what we are trying to build here. He believed in being alive.”

Tommy closed his notebook.

“I can’t promise what I’ll find, Mr. Ritter. But I can promise I won’t accept an explanation simply because it’s convenient.”

Paul’s expression softened.

“That’s all I’m asking.”

—

Myles Pax Ritter had lived in his own small flat at Anwer-Farron Farm, where Nasir Arwen and Sage-Beth Farron grew sorghum and raised their children, four-year-old Molly and two-year-old Barney. Myles wasn’t a tenant in the ordinary sense. He was part of the family, sharing meals, helping with the farm, and taking an affectionate interest in the children.

Nasir had found him dead on the morning of May 20, after Myles failed to appear for breakfast.

The preliminary classification had been suicide by hanging, but the Gardai had continued examining the circumstances. Glasshome Finance had received a claim under Myles’s insurance policy, and the classification had implications for its handling. Kevin Glasshome, who had served in the Gardai himself, assigned Tommy to investigate.

Kevin had made the boundaries of the assignment plain before Tommy met with Paul. Their conversation took place with the claim documents open between them on Kevin’s desk. The death benefit was significant, and the wording of the policy made the cause of death relevant to how the claim would be handled. Paul was a grieving father, not an opposing party, and Kevin intended him to be treated with respect regardless of the outcome.

“We need an honest determination, Tommy,” Kevin told him. “If the evidence says suicide, we have to apply the policy as written. If it says homicide, we have to act on that instead. What I don’t want is a grieving parent made to feel that an insurance company would rather be right about paperwork than right about his son.”

“And if I find evidence of a crime?”

“It goes to the Gardai. You’re not there to investigate a murder on their behalf. You’re there to establish the facts relevant to the claim, and to pass along anything the police need to know. I’ve walked on both sides of that line. It’s easy to forget where it is when you care about the people involved.”

Tommy knew Kevin was right. He also knew himself well enough to suspect the reminder might become necessary.

Detective Jaronda Charles was leading the criminal inquiry. Tommy knew her well; they had worked together during his years in the Gardai, and their friendship had survived his move into insurance investigations.

She met him at headquarters with a folder and a familiar expression.

“You’ve been talking to Paul Ritter.”

“He came to Glasshome.”

“I thought he might.”

“What’s bothering you?”

“Several things. Sit down.”

She took a single page from the folder and put the rest aside. It was an authorized summary of the medical examiner’s preliminary findings, prepared for the insurer’s determination of the cause of death. The scene photographs, interviews, and other investigative material remained in the Gardai’s file.

“You get this,” she told him, tapping the page. “You don’t get the whole investigation. If you have evidence we haven’t seen, bring it to me. Otherwise we each do our own jobs.”

“Understood.”

Tommy studied the summary. “The rope mark doesn’t account for the deeper injuries.”

“No. The examiner found hemorrhaging in the neck muscles and injuries consistent with pressure from hands. The findings don’t fit the hanging described in the preliminary report.”

“Could there have been a struggle before he hanged himself?”

“We considered that. But the other findings don’t support it. The examiner believes Myles was already dead when the rope was placed around his neck.”

Tommy looked up.

“Somebody strangled him and staged a suicide.”

“That’s where the evidence is pointing. We still have to establish who did it.”

“Paul was right.”

“He was right to insist we look harder. That doesn’t mean we get to skip the evidence.” Jaronda paused, looking at the page in Tommy’s hands. “I wish I’d pushed harder on the discrepancy the day the first report came through. We hadn’t finished the examination, but I let that preliminary label sit there longer than I should have.”

“Jaronda, you were still investigating.”

“And Paul was still living with the word *suicide*. That’s not the same thing.”

Tommy had no clever answer for that. It was one of the things he respected about her: she did not save her strictest standards for other people.

He smiled.

“You haven’t changed.”

“Neither have you. You’re still going to ask questions I can’t answer.”

“Only the interesting ones.”

Jaronda closed the folder.

“Then here’s one. Why would somebody murder a twenty-four-year-old peace educator in his own home?”

Tommy thought of Paul’s face.

“I intend to find out.”

—

That evening, Tommy met Ari Lieber and Roger Davenport at Champions, the sports bar near Miller Stadium in Embassy District.

Ari, Goldman Mill’s Public Media Director and husband of Prime Minister Regina Goldman, had known Tommy since interviewing him in 2014 about his humanitarian work in Ukraine. Roger, who ran Mohandas Manufacturing, had been a friend and mentor since Tommy’s university days. Between them, the three men had accumulated enough shared experiences to dispense with formalities.

“Insurance investigation?” Roger asked. “I thought that job involved people exaggerating water damage.”

“It does,” Tommy replied. “Sometimes considerably.”

Ari shook his head. “You’ve always had a knack for finding trouble.”

“Trouble finds me. I’m approachable.”

“You certainly approach a dance floor like you own it,” Roger said.

“That’s because I usually do.”

Ari grinned. “Speaking of dancing, Roger, did you see who’s on *Strictly* this season?”

Tommy pointed at him. “Careful.”

Roger laughed. “Relax. Your secret’s safe with us.”

Tommy’s subscription to the BBC’s *Strictly Come Dancing* was a treasured guilty pleasure. He had taught fellow teenagers to dance during his Peace Scout years and had earned one of his Scout ribbons by teaching ballroom dancing to senior citizens at Peace Rose, a Goldman Mill residence. He still loved a good dance floor, but preferred to keep the extent of his television enthusiasm between trusted friends.

“Endie knows,” he said.

“Of course Endie knows,” Ari replied. “That woman knows everything about you.”

“Not everything.”

Roger raised an eyebrow.

Tommy took a drink. “And we’re leaving it there.”

They talked about Roger’s manufacturing contracts, Ari’s broadcasting schedule, and the extraordinary demands of public life that came with being married to Regina Goldman. Eventually Ari returned to the case.

“I interviewed Myles once,” he said. “Peace education for young people. Earnest, but funny. I liked him.”

“Paul’s devastated,” Tommy said.

“Understandably.”

“I’ve met parents who lost children before. It never gets easier to watch.”

Roger regarded him. “Don’t carry the whole thing by yourself.”

“I won’t.”

“You’ve got Jaronda?”

“Of course.”

“And Endie,” Ari added.

Tommy smiled.

“Especially Endie.”

When they parted, Tommy promised Roger they’d get together again soon.

“And tell Ari I’m buying the next round at Denton’s,” Tommy called after him.

Ari turned around. “I’m standing right here!”

“I know. Saves me a telephone call.”

He headed home to Oceanview Pier with the case on his mind and the familiar comfort of knowing he had people who cared about him.

Endie Connell, Goldman Mill’s Business Administrator and Deputy Mayor, was one of them. They had been together for more than a year, and he had no intention of letting a difficult investigation make him forget how fortunate he was.

He called her before bed.

“Hello, Angel.”

“Hello, darling. How was your evening?”

“Roger accused me of being a menace to the dance floor.”

“He’s a perceptive man.”

“I thought you’d defend me.”

“I’ll defend your character, Tommy. Your dancing speaks for itself.”

He laughed. They talked for nearly an hour about State Hall, her latest budget meetings, and the possibility of spending the following weekend together without a single official obligation.

Neither knew how far the Ritter investigation would take him.

—

INSTALLMENT TWO

A Father’s Certainty

Anwer-Farron Farm was busy when Tommy arrived. There were fields to tend, household chores to finish, and two small children whose needs did not diminish because the adults around them were grieving.

Sage-Beth greeted him at the door. She looked tired but welcomed him warmly, and Nasir joined them in the kitchen.

They talked about Myles over tea.

“He could make almost anything into a game,” Sage-Beth said. “If Barney didn’t want to put his toys away, Myles would invent some elaborate competition, and suddenly the whole room would be clean.”

Nasir smiled. “He was less successful at persuading Molly to eat vegetables.”

“She liked vegetables,” Sage-Beth corrected. “She just didn’t like being told to eat them.”

“An important distinction,” Tommy said.

“Myles understood that distinction.”

They laughed softly. It was the first easy laughter the house had heard in days.

Tommy asked about the four days between Myles’s return from Texas on May 16 and the discovery of his body.

“He was distracted,” Sage-Beth said. “He’d be helping with something, then suddenly stop and look out the window. I asked whether something had happened in Dallas. He said there were people who wanted to hurt the peace movement.”Did he name anyone?”

“Not to us.”

“He said he had to be careful,” Nasir added. “I thought he meant careful about what he said publicly. I didn’t imagine somebody might come here.”

Tommy asked Nasir to describe the morning he found Myles. Nasir had already given Detective Charles a formal statement, so Tommy didn’t make him repeat every detail.

“He hadn’t come to breakfast. I knocked. Called him. Eventually I went inside.” Nasir looked down. “I wish I hadn’t had to see him that way.”

Sage-Beth reached for his hand.

Molly appeared in the doorway carrying a little wooden toy with a loose wheel.

“Is Tommy finding out about Myles?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” her mother said. “He’s helping us find out what happened.”

Molly walked directly to Tommy.

“Myles was going to fix this.”

She held out the toy.

Tommy crouched beside her. “May I have a look?”

She handed it over. The wheel had slipped off its axle, but the damage was minor. Tommy worked it back into place and tested it on the kitchen floor.

“There we are.”

Molly rolled it toward Barney, who squealed and reached for it.

“He fixed things,” she told Tommy.

“So I hear.”

“And he read to us.”

“What did he read?”

“Stories. Sometimes he made them up.”

“Was he good at making them up?”

Molly nodded emphatically. “Very good.”

Tommy glanced toward Sage-Beth, whose eyes had filled with tears.

“Maybe sometime you’ll tell me one,” he said.

Molly took her toy back. “I will.”

After the children returned to their play, Nasir walked Tommy around the farm. He showed him the sorghum fields and the little flat where Myles had lived. The Gardai had completed their initial examination of the scene, but Tommy was interested in understanding the household’s routines and how a stranger might have approached without attracting attention.

Myles had trusted people. That was part of what made him a good peace educator. It was also something a person with murderous intentions could exploit.

—

Paul Ritter lived in a townhouse on Jalan Etika in Fernandez District. When Tommy arrived later that afternoon, Paul had spread his son’s papers across the dining table.

There were workshop notes, correspondence from Dallas, and handwritten observations about the America First Christian Dominion Coalition.

One page contained several names.

Eli Danner. Curtis Bell. Rafael Ortiz.

Beside Danner’s name, Myles had written: *Ask about security arrangements.*

Beside Bell’s: *Who is paying?*

Another note referred to a peaceful demonstration planned for May 14 and the possibility of people deliberately provoking violence.

“Did Myles ever tell you he was investigating these people?” Tommy asked.

“He said he was asking questions. I told him he ought to leave political intrigue to the journalists.”

“What did he say?”

Paul smiled sadly. “He said peace educators had to understand the forces working against peace.”

Tommy studied the papers.

Myles hadn’t been collecting gossip. He had been trying to establish a pattern: who was financing an operation, who was handling security, and why people associated with an organization opposed to the peace movement were paying such close attention to a peaceful demonstration.

“May I make copies?”

“Take whatever you need.”

“I’d rather leave the originals with you until Detective Charles arranges to receive them properly.”

Paul nodded. “Whatever helps.”

Before Tommy left, Paul stopped him at the door.

“There’s something I want you to understand. Myles wasn’t trying to become famous. He wasn’t looking for a fight. He believed in what we are trying to build here.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

Tommy considered the question.

“I think I’m beginning to.”

—

The next morning, Tommy met Jaronda to compare the papers with the Gardai’s findings.

“Danner and Bell,” she said, reading the names. “I’ve heard both from the Texas contacts.”

“Paul found them in Myles’s notes.”

“Anything tying them directly to his death?”

“Not yet. But Myles was looking at their money and security arrangements.”

Jaronda examined the photocopies.

“We’ll need the originals documented and the Dallas contacts interviewed. If this crosses into the United States, we’ll have to coordinate through the proper channels.”

“I can interview people about the claim and Myles’s travel,” Tommy said. “I can’t compel anybody to speak.”

“And I’m not going to give you confidential statements so you can persuade them you have police authority.” Jaronda spoke without rancor, but she meant it. “If you find something useful, I want it. If I need information from you, I’ll ask for it through the appropriate channel.”

“I know.”

“And Tommy?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t confuse somebody being unpleasant with somebody being a murderer.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She gave him a skeptical look.

“All right,” he admitted. “I might dream of it. I wouldn’t put it in a report.”

Jaronda smiled despite herself.

Tommy left with a clearer sense of the problem. Myles had been investigating something in Dallas. Somebody had followed him, or at least discovered where he lived. A stranger might have entered Goldman Mill, murdered him, and left.

The question was whether those events could be connected by evidence rather than suspicion.

—

That evening, Endie invited Tommy to dinner at her floor-through apartment in Marley Flats, Downtown, on Marley Street near the Grand Theater and Sing Out, Louise.

They had met at State Hall more than a year earlier. She had been working on the national budget, and he had come in on an insurance matter involving the Finance Ministry. What should have been a brief professional conversation had turned into an hour discussing everything from public administration to music.

Tommy had spent the following six months watching for opportunities to see her again. Endie eventually tired of waiting for him to act and asked him out herself.

Their first date at Float Inn had changed both their lives.

Now, as he arrived at Marley Flats, she greeted him with a kiss and a look that suggested she had already decided the evening would involve very little discussion of government finances.

“How’s the case?” she asked as they settled down to eat.

“Complicated.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“It’s still true.”

“Very reassuring.”

He told her about Paul and the Anwer-Farrons, keeping confidential details to himself. She listened carefully.

“You’re fond of those children already,” she observed.

“They’re good kids. Molly reminds me of why I liked working with young people.”

“You still do.”

“Not as often as I’d like.”

“Then perhaps you should change that.”

He reached across the table and took her hand.

“Perhaps I should.”

Later they walked along Marley Street. Music drifted from Sing Out, Louise, where Endie had once discovered, during a piano-bar evening, that Tommy knew an astonishing number of show tunes and possessed a beautiful baritone voice.

“You still owe me another song,” she said.

“I’m saving my voice.”

“For what?”

“A special occasion.”

She slipped her arm through his.

“I’ll think of one.”

For a while, they walked without discussing the investigation at all.

—

INSTALLMENT THREE

The Texas Connection

Marisol Vega arrived at Red Emma’s Bookstore and Coffeehouse in Goldman Mill Centre a few minutes before Tommy. By the time he joined her, she had already ordered her usual non-dairy green tea matcha latte and found a table away from the busiest part of the room.

Red Emma’s was a franchise of the venerable Baltimore radical collective, and its presence in Goldman Mill had long been a source of satisfaction to the country’s activists, writers, and freethinkers. Tommy liked the place. So did Marisol, who had spent much of her adult life finding practical ways to turn political convictions into useful work.

At thirty-four, she managed the Armchair Activist call center at the Justice Center. She had studied peace at Pax University, specializing in satyagraha, with a minor in psychology, and cheerfully described herself as a militant pacifist. Her short, spiky blond hair and lively manner made her easy to recognize.

“How’s Chance?” Tommy asked as he sat down.

“Busy teaching people how racism works and why they ought to stop participating in it. Same as usual.”

“Sounds like worthwhile work.”

“It is. Two years married, and I still learn something from that man every day. And about picking socks up from the floor.”

She smiled slyly and took a sip of her matcha.

“Now. Tell me what you need to know about Myles.”

“I understand you worked with him in Dallas.”

“I did. He was a good dude, Tommy. Really good. He believed in people, even when they gave him plenty of reasons not to.”

“Tell me about the demonstration.”

Marisol explained that the Dallas organizers had invited peace educators to conduct nonviolence workshops ahead of a large public demonstration on May 14. She had gone to help train volunteer coordinators in nonviolent responses to provocation and to assist with communication among the participating groups. Myles had been particularly effective with younger volunteers.

“He could get a room full of people who disagreed about everything to work together,” she said. “He didn’t preach at them. He asked questions until they started listening to each other.”

“Where did the Coalition come into it?”

“They were organizing opposition. Publicly, it was speeches, prayer rallies, press conferences, all the usual stuff. But there were people around the demonstration who seemed more interested in creating trouble than expressing an opinion.”

“Did Myles identify any of them?”

“He started asking about the security people. On May twelfth, he went over to the building where some of the Coalition’s Dallas operations were being coordinated. He said he wanted to learn whether they had plans to interfere with our demonstration.”

“Did he have an appointment?”

“Not that I know of. He thought somebody might talk to him if he presented himself as a curious peace educator instead of an adversary.”

Tommy frowned. “That sounds risky.”

“It was. I told him so.”

“What happened?”

“He came back looking awful.”

Marisol set down her cup.

“I asked him what was wrong. He said he’d heard something in the men’s lavatory that he wasn’t supposed to hear. He wouldn’t tell me everything. He said there were powerful people involved and that he needed to get his notes somewhere safe.”

“Did he say he was followed?”

“Yes. He thought somebody had watched him leave the building. I offered to go with him to the authorities, but he said he needed to understand exactly what he’d heard first.”

“Did he give you any names?”

“Danner. Bell. And he mentioned a third man, somebody important to Senator Ewing’s campaign. I don’t think he knew the man’s name.”

“Did he describe him?”

“Not clearly enough for me to identify him. Myles was frightened, Tommy. I’ve never forgotten that. He was trying so hard not to show it.”

“Did he tell anyone else?”

“I don’t know. We had workshops to run, and he kept working. But he was different afterward. He was watching doors and windows. Every time his telephone rang, he looked at it before answering.”

“Did he ever say what the men were planning?”

“He said they wanted a peaceful demonstration to become violent. Not because they opposed violence, but because violence would help them politically.”

Tommy looked at her.

“That’s a serious accusation.”

“I know. So did Myles.”

Marisol leaned forward.

“He wasn’t making it up to get attention. He was trying to find out whether what he’d overheard was a real plan or three men talking big. And he wanted evidence before he accused anyone.”

Tommy thought of the notes on Paul Ritter’s dining table.

*Ask about security arrangements.*

*Who is paying?*

“What happened at the demonstration?”

“There was trouble. Not as much as we’d feared, but enough. A few men started pushing people near the edge of the crowd. One volunteer was knocked down. Somebody shouted that our people had started it, and before anyone could establish what happened, there were clips all over the internet.”

“Did the police identify the men?”

“Not all of them. The organizers documented what they could, and there were witnesses who disputed the claim that our people started it. But the headlines were already out there.”

“Did Myles see it happen?”

“He did. He helped get the injured volunteer away from the crowd. Afterward he said it looked like exactly what he’d overheard in the lavatory.”

“Did he have proof?”

“Not enough. That’s what bothered him.”

“Was anybody seriously hurt?”

“The volunteer had a concussion. Several people were treated for minor injuries. It could have been much worse.”

Marisol looked down at her cup.

“Senator Ewing went on television the next morning talking about violent radicals. Myles was furious. Not because the senator criticized us. Because people had been hurt, and the people responsible were using it to score political points.”

Tommy made another note.

“Did he ever say he had a recording of the conversation?”

“No. He said he’d been in a stall and hadn’t expected to hear anything.”

“Did he report what he heard?”

“He wanted to. But he was afraid of accusing the wrong people. He said he needed to write everything down while it was fresh.”

Tommy thanked her and asked for the names of the Dallas organizers who had worked most closely with Myles. She gave him two contacts and offered to help with anything else he needed.

As they stood to leave, she touched his arm.

“Find out what happened to him, Tommy.”

“I intend to.”

“And don’t let them turn him into some poor, helpless kid who wandered into the wrong place. Myles knew what he believed. He stood up for it.”

“I won’t.”

—

The Dallas trip required coordination. Kevin Glasshome approved Tommy’s travel because Myles’s activities and contacts there were directly relevant to the disputed insurance determination. Detective Charles told the Gardai’s USian counterparts where Tommy would be, but she made no request that they treat him as an officer or share protected criminal evidence with him. His appointments had been made as a private investigator acting for the insurer, and everyone he approached was free to decline.

He arrived in Texas in early June with his luggage, briefcase, copies of the notes Paul had permitted him to use, and several appointments. Kevin’s instructions were clear: find out what could be learned lawfully, identify people who might speak to the proper authorities, and do not mistake a refusal for evidence of guilt.

His first conversation was with Rafael Ortiz, a man whose political sympathies lay firmly with the America First Christian Dominion Coalition.

Ortiz was affable. He had a broad smile, an easy conversational manner, and a talent for making even an uncomfortable interview feel like a chat between old acquaintances.

“You came all the way from Goldman Mill?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“Never been there. Heard of it, though. Little peace country, isn’t it?”

“We do our best.”

Ortiz chuckled. “Well, you’ve come to the wrong part of Texas if you’re looking for everybody to agree with you.”

“I’ve noticed.”

They talked about the demonstration, the counterprotests, and the various organizations involved. Ortiz described himself as a supporter of traditional values and said he had helped with local outreach.

“Did you know Myles Ritter?” Tommy asked.

“I saw him once. Young guy, looked like a relic from the summer of love. Needed a serious haircut. Asked a lot of questions.”

“What questions?”

Ortiz smiled but didn’t answer immediately.

Tommy waited.

“I don’t know what happened to that kid,” Ortiz said. “But he was poking around in things he didn’t understand.”

“What things?”

“Politics. Money. People with influence. You know how it is.”

“Maybe he understood the things better than you thought.”

Ortiz didn’t answer.

Tommy changed the subject, asking about the security arrangements for the demonstration and the relationship between the Coalition and outside contractors.

Ortiz became less conversational.

“Those arrangements weren’t my department.”

“Whose department were they?”

“You’d have to ask the people running the operation.”

“Eli Danner?”

Ortiz looked at him for a moment.

“Mr. Danner’s a busy man.”

“I imagine he is.”

When they parted, Ortiz shook Tommy’s hand and wished him a pleasant stay in Texas.

Tommy had the distinct impression that the man’s friendliness ended precisely where his loyalty to the Coalition began.

—

Curtis Bell was considerably less welcoming.

Bell ran God & Country Protective Services, a security and logistics company that had provided services to Coalition-associated events. He had ignored Tommy’s first two requests. On the third, Tommy identified himself, stated the purpose of the insurance inquiry, and enclosed a copy of the questions he wished to ask. Bell finally called back. He wanted to know whether the Goldman Mill insurer had found anything about the May demonstration, and he agreed to a ten-minute meeting at his office. Tommy recognized the calculation: Bell had no intention of helping him, but he wanted to measure the danger posed by the questions.

“Goldman Mill,” Tommy said when Bell asked where he was from.

“Never heard of it.”

“That’s all right. Most people have. It’s a country; you must have skipped school when they covered it in geography.”

Bell didn’t smile.

Tommy opened his notebook.

“I’m investigating the death of Myles Ritter. He was in Dallas in May, asking questions about the security arrangements for a peace demonstration.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Interesting. His notes contain your name.”

“People write down all sorts of things.”

“True. Did your company provide security for the Coalition?”

“We provide services to clients. I don’t discuss client arrangements.”

“Did those services include personnel assigned to observe the peace demonstration?”

“That’s privileged business information.”

“Were any of your people instructed to provoke confrontations?”

Bell’s face hardened.

“Watch what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m asking a question.”

“Then ask somebody else.”

Tommy closed his notebook.

“Thank you for your time.”

Bell stood.

“Mr. Euro, I don’t know how you people do things in your little country, but here we don’t appreciate outsiders coming around making accusations.”

“Neither do we. That’s why I’m asking questions.”

Bell showed him the door.

Out on the pavement, Tommy stood beside the parked cars for several minutes, replaying the interview. Bell had given him almost nothing, and Tommy had been pleased with his own geography joke for roughly three seconds. After that, he’d watched the man’s face close. He had made a point when he should have made room for an answer.

He called Jaronda from the hotel lobby.

“How did Bell take your questions?” she asked.

“About as well as you’d expect.”

“Meaning?”

“He threw me out.”

“Did he tell you anything useful first?”

“Not much.”

“And how did you leave it?”

Tommy hesitated. “I may have suggested he’d neglected his geography lessons.”

There was a silence at the other end of the line.

“Tommy.”

“I know.”

“You went there to get information, not win an argument.”

“He was being a condescending bastard.”

“And now he’s a condescending bastard who won’t answer your calls.”

Tommy rubbed his forehead. She was right, and he had known it before she said anything. “I let him get under my skin.”

“Then learn from it. You don’t have a badge anymore, and even when you did, it didn’t give you a license to annoy witnesses into silence.”

“That’s a rather harsh assessment.”

“It’s free professional development. Your employer ought to thank me.”

He laughed despite himself. “Will you let me buy you lunch when I get home?”

“If you bring something useful back from Dallas.”

“That is a very high standard for lunch.”

“Get used to it.”

He ended the call feeling a little less pleased with himself and considerably clearer about what he needed to do next.

—

That evening, Tommy called Endie from his hotel.

“Hello, Angel.”

“Hello, darling. How’s Texas?”

“Large.”

She laughed. “That’s your professional assessment?”

“Preliminary findings. Further research may be required.”

“How’s the case?”

“Moving. Slowly.”

“That’s usually how investigations move.”

“It’s a terrible system. I need you to fix it.”

She laughed again.

He settled back against the pillows and listened as she told him about her day at State Hall. There had been budget discussions, a meeting with Regina, and an administrative disagreement that had consumed far more time than its importance warranted.

“I’m going to propose a law against pointless meetings,” Endie said.

“Wouldn’t that require a meeting?”

“Don’t spoil my evening.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They talked about home, about the possibility of another night at Sing Out, Louise, and about how much they missed each other.

Tommy remembered the evening at State Hall when they’d first met. She had been working on the national budget, and he’d come in on an insurance matter involving the Finance Ministry. They had talked for an hour, about everything and nothing, and he had spent the following six months finding reasons to see her again without quite finding the courage to ask her out.

Endie had finally taken matters into her own hands.

Their first date at Float Inn remained one of his happiest memories. Dinner had become a walk along the pier, and the walk had ended with a kiss beneath the moonlight. They had gone home to his place at Oceanview Pier and made love. The next morning, after showering and changing, Endie had texted Regina to say she was on her way to State Hall. Tommy had insisted on escorting her home to Marley Flats before she went to work, a gesture that had amused her and pleased her in equal measure.

Now he was hundreds of miles away, listening to her voice through a telephone.

“I wish you were here,” she said.

“So do I.”

“Come home soon, darling.”

“As soon as I can.”

When they ended the call, Tommy remained on the bed, thinking about her.

He lay back and stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, he would find Danner. Tonight, he would dream of being in Endie’s loving arms.

—

**Dallas — May 12, 2022**

Three weeks earlier, Myles Ritter had stood in the corridor of a Dallas office building, trying to decide whether to leave.

He had come looking for information about the America First Christian Dominion Coalition’s plans for a peace demonstration. A receptionist had told him that the person he wanted to see was unavailable. He had thanked her and started toward the exit, then stopped at the men’s lavatory before leaving.

He was in a stall when three men entered.

The first voice belonged to Eli Danner, the Coalition’s executive director. Myles recognized it from public meetings and recorded interviews.

The second man was Curtis Bell, whose security company had been providing logistical support for the Coalition.

The third voice was unfamiliar.

“We need to be clear about what happens,” Danner said. “The demonstration is going to be peaceful unless somebody changes that.”

“Then somebody changes that,” the third man replied.

Myles froze.

Bell spoke next. “The people on the ground understand the assignment. They’ll be in the crowd before things get started.”

“And once the trouble begins?” Danner asked.

“Everybody sees what they expect to see,” the third man answered. “A bunch of radicals who can’t control themselves. The cameras catch the chaos, the networks run it, and Branch gets to spend the next month telling voters what happens when you let these people take over.”

Myles heard the sound of water running.

Danner wasn’t satisfied.

“You’re talking about people getting hurt.”

“I’m talking about winning an election.”

“Those aren’t the same thing.”

“They are when you know how to make one serve the other.”

Bell said something Myles couldn’t hear.

The third man continued. “We don’t need the whole crowd involved. A few people who know what they’re doing, a confrontation that gets out of hand, and enough confusion for the public to draw the wrong conclusion. The rest takes care of itself.”

“And if somebody gets killed?” Danner asked.

“If some commie croaks along the way, that’s their small contribution to making America great again.”

Bell chuckled.

Danner gave him a scathing look, and the laughter stopped.

There was a silence.

“Do you have a limit as to how far you’ll go?” Danner asked.

“Please. Why do you think I have a home in the Caymans? One day, I’m gonna be president.”

“I believe it,” Bell said.

Danner sounded increasingly uncomfortable. “Does Senator Ewing know about this?”

“Branch doesn’t need to know. He’s a blowhard with a talent for television. His job is to stand in front of the cameras and tell everybody he’s saving civilization. My job is to make sure he wins.”

Myles had heard enough.

He waited until the conversation seemed to be ending, then flushed, opened the stall door, washed his hands, and walked toward the exit. His heart was pounding, but he kept his expression neutral.

The three men were standing near the sinks.

Danner looked startled. Bell glanced toward him.

The third man watched Myles closely.

Myles gave them a polite nod.

“Afternoon.”

Nobody answered.

He walked out into the corridor, resisting the urge to run.

Inside the lavatory, Danner and Bell looked at each other. Danner had begun to sweat.

The third man frowned.

“I think that one will be giving to the cause.”

He took out his telephone.

“Rodrigo. You see that longhair in the corridor near the northeast men’s room? Get a tail on him and keep me informed.”

He ended the call and turned toward the other two men. His frown became a grin.

“I got this, fellas.”

The third man was Lance Gray, Senator Branch Ewing’s campaign manager.

And Myles Ritter had just become a problem he intended to solve.

—

INSTALLMENT FOUR

The Man Who Was Paid

Dallas — May 14, 2022

On the morning of the demonstration, Myles Ritter discovered that the trouble he had heard discussed in the Coalition’s lavatory was much harder to identify in a crowd than it had been in three men’s voices. There were families carrying homemade placards, young volunteers distributing water, older people who had traveled several hours to attend, and counterprotesters calling across the street. People disagreed about nearly everything except their determination to be heard.

Marisol found him beside the volunteer table, showing a teenage marshal how to speak firmly to someone who was shouting without shouting back. Myles demonstrated with such solemn exaggeration that the teenager laughed, and even Marisol, who had been awake since before dawn, found herself smiling.

“You’re supposed to be taking a break,” she told him.

“I am. This is my break from worrying.”

“Does it work?”

“Not especially.”

She studied him. He hadn’t been sleeping well since the visit to the Coalition building, and he still wouldn’t tell her everything he had heard. He’d promised to write a full account, and she intended to hold him to it. For now, though, the volunteers needed them. She handed him a bottle of water and went to check the people gathering at the intersection.

The first commotion came from the edge of the demonstration, where a knot of men had been trading insults with participants. A volunteer raised both hands and tried to put space between them. Myles could see the young man being shoved backward, the placards tilting, the sudden jostling of people who had not come looking for a fight. He reached the edge of the crowd just as the volunteer went down.

“Give him room,” Myles called, holding an arm out to keep the people behind him from pressing forward. “Please. We need to get him some help.”

The volunteer was conscious but dazed. Marisol appeared with another organizer, and together they guided him away from the crush toward the first-aid area. Someone nearby was already shouting that the peace marchers had attacked the counterprotesters. Another person was filming, holding a telephone high enough to capture the pushing but not the minutes of deliberate provocation that had preceded it.

Myles helped the injured volunteer sit down and stayed until a medic arrived. He was shaking when he stood up, though he couldn’t have said whether it was anger or fear. A few minutes earlier he’d been joking with a teenager about the difficulties of keeping one’s temper. Now he had watched people get hurt and heard strangers begin rewriting what had happened before the injured man had even been examined.

By the afternoon, clipped footage was spreading online with captions about violent radicals. The following morning Senator Branch Ewing would use the disturbance in a televised speech, declaring that peaceful Americans had been assaulted by an unruly mob. Myles watched the first clips with Marisol and recognized the ugly logic of the conversation he’d overheard.

“Someone did this on purpose,” he said.

Marisol looked at him. “You believe that because of what you heard on Thursday?”

“Yes. But believing it isn’t enough. I need to find out who those people were, who paid them, and whether I can prove any of it.”

“Then please don’t try to do it alone.”

Myles nodded. He meant to take her advice. He had a return flight to Goldman Mill on Monday, people at home who would help him think, and notes he could put in the hands of someone with the authority to investigate. He was relieved, at least, to know that the volunteer would recover. He had no way of knowing that someone had already decided he wasn’t going to get the chance to tell his story.

—

**Dallas — Early June 2022**

Eli Danner proved considerably harder to reach than Rafael Ortiz or Curtis Bell.

His office declined Tommy’s first request for an interview, failed to respond to the second, and finally offered a brief telephone conversation with a Coalition representative who seemed to know remarkably little about the organization’s own activities.

Tommy persisted.

On the third day, Danner agreed to meet him at the Coalition’s Dallas office. He’d had Bell’s account of the insurance investigator’s visit and had been receiving inquiries from more than one quarter about the May demonstration. Meeting Tommy gave him a chance to learn what the insurer had found without committing himself to anything. Tommy suspected as much. It was not cooperation, but at least it was a door opened a few inches.

Danner was a carefully dressed man with the bearing of someone accustomed to making decisions and expecting other people to carry them out. He greeted Tommy politely, offered him a chair, and looked at his watch before they began.

“I understand you’re investigating a death,” Danner said.

“Myles Pax Ritter. He was twenty-four, a peace educator from Goldman Mill.”

“Tragic business.”

“It is.”

“I understand the authorities classified it as suicide.”

“That classification is being reconsidered.”

Danner folded his hands.

“And what does that have to do with my organization?”

“That’s what I’m trying to establish. I have no power to demand anything from you, Mr. Danner. If you’d rather not speak with me, I won’t misrepresent my position.”

Danner regarded him. “Very conscientious of you.”

“Glasshome has a claim to determine, and Myles’s movements in Dallas may help explain the circumstances of his death. That’s why I’m here. Myles was asking questions about your security arrangements before he died. His notes mention you, Curtis Bell, and several other people associated with the Coalition.”

“We receive inquiries from political opponents all the time.”

“Did you meet him?”

“I meet hundreds of people.”

“He visited this building on May twelfth.”

“Did he?”

“Shortly before returning to Goldman Mill.”

Danner looked at him steadily.

“I don’t recall the young man.”

“Would you remember someone who overheard a conversation in the men’s lavatory that he wasn’t supposed to hear?”

The question produced a small change in Danner’s expression. It was gone almost immediately.

“I don’t know what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m trying to understand why Myles believed people connected with the Coalition were planning to manufacture violence at a peaceful demonstration.”

“That’s an outrageous accusation.”

“Then you’ll want to help me establish that it isn’t true.”

Danner rose.

“Mr. Euro, this interview is over.”

Tommy stood as well.

“One more question. Who is Lance Gray?”

Danner stopped.

“Senator Ewing’s campaign manager. You can find that information in any newspaper.”

“Was he involved in planning security for the Dallas demonstration?”

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Gray.”

“I intend to.”

Danner walked him to the door without another word.

—

Lance Gray was unavailable.

His campaign office offered no appointment, and a written request for comment received a response saying that Gray had no knowledge of Myles Ritter’s death and regarded any suggestion of campaign involvement as baseless.

Tommy read the response twice.

He had not accused Gray of anything. He had asked whether Gray was present at the Coalition’s Dallas offices during Myles’s visit and whether he had participated in discussions about the demonstration.

The answer had addressed neither question.

Tommy sent the correspondence to Jaronda.

“Interesting,” she said when they spoke later.

“Isn’t it?”

“Interesting isn’t evidence.”

“I know. But he answered a question I didn’t ask.”

“Keep the correspondence. We’ll see whether it becomes useful.”

—

Back in Goldman Mill, Kevin Glasshome had arranged for Tommy to work with forensic accountant Nadia Flores.

She was a methodical investigator whose specialty was following money through corporate structures designed to make the destination difficult to identify. Kevin had worked with her before and trusted her judgment.

Nadia spread several documents across the conference table.

“Let’s start with what we can prove,” she said.

“Always a promising beginning.”

“Lone Star Heritage Group received payments from accounts associated with people connected to the Coalition. Some of those funds moved through other entities before reaching individuals and companies involved in travel arrangements.”

“God & Country Protective Services?”

“Among them. Bell’s company billed for logistics and related services. We’re comparing those arrangements with the records of people who traveled to Goldman Mill in May.”

Tommy studied the documents.

“Anybody interesting?”

“One name has attracted attention. Clem Degger. Arrived May eighteenth, departed May twentieth.”

“The day Myles was found.”

“Yes. And a payment of twenty-five thousand dollars appears to have reached Degger through an intermediary shortly before his trip.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money for a two-day holiday.”

“It is. But don’t write murder in the margin just yet.”

He smiled. “You sound like Jaronda.”

“Then she’s probably a sensible woman.”

Nadia pointed to another page.

“There’s something else. The ownership structures overlap with people involved in Coalition fundraising and campaign consulting. That doesn’t make the organizations interchangeable, and it doesn’t establish that the senator knew anything. It does give investigators a set of financial relationships to examine.”

“Can we identify who authorized the payment?”

“Not yet. We can establish where it traveled. Authorization is another question.”

Tommy sat back.

Myles had written *Who is paying?* beside Curtis Bell’s name.

Now the question had become considerably more important.

—

The financial records gave the Gardai something they had lacked at the beginning of the investigation: a name they could connect to Myles Ritter’s death through more than speculation.

Clem Degger had entered Goldman Mill on May 18, 2022, using a two-day tourist visa. He departed on May 20, the morning Nasir Arwen discovered Myles’s body. Immigration records established those movements, and additional evidence placed Degger in the vicinity of Anwer-Farron Farm during the period in which the medical examiner believed Myles had been killed.

A payment of twenty-five thousand dollars had reached Degger shortly before his trip. It had passed through financial intermediaries connected to Lone Star Heritage Group, whose transactions were being examined alongside those of Curtis Bell’s God & Country Protective Services.

With evidence supporting a homicide charge, Goldman Mill’s prosecuting authorities sought Degger’s arrest and return to the country where the murder had occurred.

The request went through the established channels for international criminal cooperation. Texas authorities arrested Degger on a warrant arising from their investigation of the arrangements made on American soil, while Goldman Mill submitted a formal request for his extradition. The relevant USian federal authorities reviewed the request, and Degger was brought before a court where he was informed of the charges and his right to challenge the proposed transfer.

He met privately with an attorney.

After receiving legal advice, Degger elected not to contest extradition. His decision was recorded before the court, and the transfer was authorized through the appropriate legal process. The waiver shortened proceedings that otherwise might have taken considerably longer.

There was no promise of immunity, no agreement to reduce the charges, and no suggestion that his cooperation would guarantee him a particular sentence.

When he arrived in Goldman Mill under Gardai supervision in late June, he was placed in lawful pretrial custody pending further proceedings. His attorney remained involved, and the arrangements for questioning were reviewed before Detective Jaronda Charles conducted the recorded interview.

There was another aspect of the case that attracted international attention.

Goldman Mill’s criminal justice system was founded on rehabilitation rather than retribution. Its highest punishment was deportation or banishment, not imprisonment for the remainder of a person’s life. Pretrial detention was available when necessary to protect the public or ensure court appearances, but the country did not regard vengeance as a legitimate purpose of sentencing.

Degger’s case presented an unusual circumstance. He was a foreign national accused of deliberately entering Goldman Mill to commit murder and then returning to the jurisdiction where the crime had been organized.

Under an agreement reached with the appropriate Texas and USian authorities, a conviction in Goldman Mill would result in Degger’s banishment and transfer to Texas. There he would face separate criminal proceedings arising from the alleged planning and commissioning of the murder on Texas soil. The Texas courts would determine the consequences under their own laws.

Goldman Mill would establish whether Degger had murdered Myles Ritter within its jurisdiction. It would not attempt to dictate the outcome of a Texas prosecution.

The contrast between the two approaches to criminal justice was considerable.

Texas was not known for viewing punishment with the same philosophy as Goldman Mill.

Degger’s attorney had explained that distinction to him.

Whether he fully appreciated it was another matter.

—

Degger was not the sort of killer who appeared in detective novels as an impeccably dressed professional with an elaborate code of conduct.

He was a petty opportunist who had grown up around violence, spent much of his adult life drifting between dubious schemes, and discovered that some people would pay for things decent people refused to do. He was neither particularly clever nor especially disciplined. What he possessed was a willingness to hurt somebody for money and a remarkable capacity to convince himself that doing so made him important.

He had come to the attention of people around the Coalition through criminal acquaintances and occasional work connected to private security. He boasted about his toughness, his willingness to take risks, and his supposed ability to handle delicate assignments.

The people who recruited him did not need a sophisticated assassin. They wanted someone who could travel without attracting much attention, carry out a killing without a firearm, and leave before anyone understood what had happened.

Degger had assured them he was their man.

He had been promised one hundred thousand dollars.

Twenty-five thousand arrived in advance. The remaining seventy-five thousand was supposed to follow once the job was completed.

It never came.

By the time the Gardai began examining his finances, the advance had largely disappeared into gambling, cocaine, and expensive encounters with women. Degger was broke, furious, and convinced that the people who hired him had made a terrible mistake by cheating him.

Jaronda Charles recognized an opportunity.

—

The interview was conducted in a room at Gardai headquarters, with a recording of the proceedings made available for subsequent review. Detective Jaronda Charles sat across from Clem Degger. His attorney occupied a chair beside him, and another Gardai officer was present to maintain the record.

Degger looked irritated.

Before asking about Myles Ritter, Jaronda confirmed his identity, the time and place of the interview, and the presence of his lawyer.

“Mr. Degger, you’ve been informed of the allegations against you. You’ve also been advised that you have the right to remain silent, that you are not required to answer my questions, and that anything you choose to say may be used as evidence in criminal proceedings. Do you understand those rights?”

“Yes.”

“Have you had an opportunity to consult privately with your attorney?”

“Yes.”

“And are you willing to answer questions today?”

Degger looked at his lawyer.

“I told her I wanted to talk.”

His attorney leaned toward him.

“Mr. Degger, my advice remains that you should not discuss the allegations without further consideration.”

“And I told you I want to talk.”

Jaronda waited while the attorney confirmed that her client understood the consequences of his decision. Degger insisted that he did. His willingness to answer questions was recorded, and the interview proceeded with his lawyer present.

“Let’s talk about Myles Ritter,” Jaronda said.

“Let’s talk about the seventy-five grand somebody owes me.”

“We’ll come to that. Did you kill Myles Ritter?”

Degger leaned back.

“You people don’t understand business.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“You do a job, you get paid. That’s how business works.”

“What job did you do?”

He looked at her as though the answer ought to be obvious.

“The Ritter job.”

“What did that involve?”

“Taking care of him.”

“Taking care of him how?”

Degger sighed.

“Lady, you gonna make me spell out every little thing?”

“Yes.”

He glanced at his attorney again, who said nothing.

“I killed him.”

Jaronda’s expression did not change.

“How?”

“With my hands. I got close enough to him, grabbed him, and squeezed until he stopped moving.”

“Where?”

“At his place. That little farm.”

“How did you get inside?”

“He opened the door. I told him I needed to talk to him about something from Texas. He knew there was trouble coming. I guess he thought I had information.”

“And after you killed him?”

“I made it look like he did himself in. Used a rope. Figured people would see that and stop asking questions.”

Jaronda asked him to describe the scene. She did not supply details or suggest answers. Degger gave an account that included information not publicly released, which investigators could compare with the physical evidence.

“Who hired you?” she asked.

“Danner’s people set it up. Bell’s people handled the arrangements.”

“Did Eli Danner personally instruct you to kill Myles Ritter?”

“He made it clear what needed doing.”

“Those aren’t the same words.”

“I knew what the job was. They knew what the job was. Nobody was paying me a hundred grand to deliver flowers.”

“Who identified Myles as the person you were supposed to kill?”

“Danner’s people had everything. His name, where he lived, the whole thing. Said he’d heard something he wasn’t supposed to hear.”

“Did they tell you what he’d heard?”

“No. Just that he was a problem.”

“Did anyone explain how they knew where he lived?”

“Something about a campaign guy and somebody named Rodrigo. I didn’t know him.”

“Did you meet Lance Gray?”

“No.”

“Did he give you any instructions?”

“Not personally.”

“Do you know whether Senator Ewing authorized the killing?”

“Never met the senator. Don’t know what he knew.”

Jaronda returned to the payment.

“How much were you promised?”

“A hundred thousand dollars. Twenty-five up front, seventy-five when the job was done.”

“And how much did you receive?”

“Twenty-five.”

“What happened to the rest?”

“They stiffed me.”

“Did you contact the people who arranged the payment?”

“Of course I did. They stopped answering. Then somebody told me the arrangement was finished, like that meant I didn’t have to get paid.”

“Why are you telling us this now?”

“Because they cheated me. I did my end. They didn’t do theirs.”

His attorney shifted in her chair.

Jaronda allowed a moment to pass before speaking again.

“Mr. Degger, I want to be certain that you understand what you’ve told us. You’ve admitted that you traveled to Goldman Mill with the intention of killing Myles Ritter, that you killed him, and that you tried to make his death appear to be suicide.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

“And you understand this is an admission to premeditated murder?”

“Yes.”

“You understand that you may be convicted on the basis of this admission and the other evidence?”

“Yes.”

“You also understand that Goldman Mill’s highest sentence is banishment, and that the arrangements for your return to Texas would place you within the jurisdiction of courts that may impose very different penalties?”

His attorney spoke before he could respond.

“We’ve discussed that with my client. I’ve explained the potential seriousness of the proceedings in Texas, including the possibility of a lengthy term of imprisonment.”

Degger shrugged.

“Fine. I’ll go to prison. Roof over my head, three meals a day. Probably end up running the place anyway. I know how to handle people.”

Jaronda regarded him.

“You killed a twenty-four-year-old man who taught children how to resolve conflicts without violence.”

“So?”

“He had a family. People who loved him.”

“Everybody’s got somebody.”

“Do you regret killing him?”

Degger looked annoyed.

“I regret doing business with people who don’t pay their bills.”

Jaronda made a note.

“Is there anything else you want to tell us?”

“Yeah. Find out where my seventy-five thousand dollars went.”

“Mr. Degger, you understand that you have no lawful claim to payment for committing murder?”

He gave her a look of genuine exasperation.

“Lady, I know they’re not gonna send me a check. I just want everybody to know they cheated me.”

The interview continued long enough to establish his chronology, clarify his dealings with the people who recruited him, and identify information that could be independently verified.

When it concluded, Jaronda confirmed on the recording that Degger had been questioned voluntarily, with counsel present, and that he had been given opportunities to consult his attorney throughout.

—

Tommy did not automatically receive the recording because he’d once served with Jaronda. The prosecutor had approved a controlled review of the portions bearing directly on the cause of death and the insurer’s outstanding claim, after the applicable disclosure safeguards had been considered. He was not permitted to copy the material, circulate it, or use it as a shortcut to witness interviews. Information about the ongoing investigation that was not relevant to the claim remained restricted.

When Jaronda came into the review room, he was still sitting in front of the monitor.

“He knows he’s confessing to murder,” Tommy said.

“He’s been told repeatedly.”

“He knows Texas could put him away for the rest of his life.”

“Yes.”

“And he’s doing it because somebody cheated him out of seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“Apparently.”

Tommy shook his head.

“I’ve met some petty people in my life. This fellow may be in a class by himself.”

Jaronda set a folder on the table.

“Don’t mistake the confession for a complete account, though. He’s angry, and he has every reason to shift responsibility toward people who didn’t pay him.”

“You’ve got the physical evidence.”

“And the travel records. And the payment. His description of the scene is consistent with what the medical examiner found. But every allegation he makes about Danner, Bell, Rodrigo, or Gray has to be tested separately.”

Tommy looked at her.

“Especially Gray.”

“Especially Gray.”

—

That evening, Tommy called Endie.

“Hello, Angel.”

“Hello, darling. How’s the case?”

“We found the man who killed Myles.”

Endie was silent for a moment.

“Are you certain?”

“He confessed. Jaronda’s checking every detail, but the evidence is strong.”

“I’m glad Paul’s finally getting answers.”

“So am I.”

“Does that mean you’re coming over?”

“That’s exactly why I called.”

“Then I’ll put the kettle on.”

“I was hoping for a kiss, too.”

“You may have to negotiate.”

“I’m very good at negotiations.”

“I know, darling. I’ve seen you work.”

They laughed, and Tommy told her he would be there shortly.

He had spent enough time thinking about the people who wanted to hurt others. He wanted to spend the evening with somebody who reminded him why his work mattered.

 

INSTALLMENT FIVE

The Price of a 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.

—

## INSTALLMENT SIX

### Home to Goldman Mill

**Goldman Mill — July 2022**

The investigation did not end with Clem Degger’s confession.

Jaronda Charles and her team continued working with their international counterparts to establish the full chain of responsibility. Nadia Flores pursued the financial records. Investigators examined communications and travel arrangements involving people associated with Eli Danner, Curtis Bell, and Lance Gray.

The evidence against Degger was substantial. He had confessed, supplied details consistent with the forensic findings, and identified the arrangements that brought him to Goldman Mill.

His case was proceeding through Goldman Mill’s courts, where he would be tried under the country’s laws and afforded the protections available to every accused person. If convicted, the agreement governing his banishment and transfer to Texas would come into effect, subject to the necessary legal orders.

The broader conspiracy required further investigation.

Danner denied authorizing a murder. Bell maintained that his company had provided legitimate logistical services. Gray’s representatives dismissed suggestions that he had been involved in wrongdoing, and Senator Ewing insisted that neither he nor his campaign had anything to do with Myles Ritter’s death.

The Gardai continued to distinguish what could be established from what remained to be proved.

For Tommy, the insurance investigation had reached its central conclusion. Myles Ritter had not taken his own life. The original classification of suicide could not stand, and Glasshome Finance had the evidence necessary to reconsider the claim on its proper basis.

But there was one more visit Tommy wanted to make.

—

Paul Ritter welcomed him into his townhouse on Jalan Etika.

They sat in the living room, where photographs of Myles occupied several shelves. In one, he was a smiling child with unruly hair. In another, a young man stood among a group of peace educators, his arms around two friends.

Paul followed Tommy’s gaze.

“He was always making friends,” he said. “Even when he was little. We’d go somewhere, and by the time we left he’d know everybody.”

“Sounds like him.”

“He could be stubborn, too.”

Tommy smiled.

“I’m beginning to suspect that.”

Paul poured tea.

“I’ve been reading the Messenger. I know the investigation isn’t finished.”

“No. Detective Charles and her team have more work ahead of them.”

“But you found out what happened to my son.”

“We found the man who killed him. And we found evidence that he was paid to do it.”

Paul nodded slowly.

“For a while I thought I was going mad. Everybody kept telling me the evidence pointed to suicide. They were trying to be kind, I suppose. But I knew Myles.”

Tommy listened.

“He had difficult days, like anybody,” Paul continued. “But he loved being alive. He loved those children at the farm. He loved his work. He believed in what we ARE trying to build here.”

“I know.”

“He wasn’t a fool, Tommy. He knew the world could be cruel. He just refused to believe cruelty had to win.”

Tommy looked at the photographs.

“I wish I’d known him.”

Paul smiled sadly.

“I think you’d have liked each other.”

“I think so, too.”

They talked for a while longer. Paul asked about the investigation and the people still under scrutiny. Tommy answered what he could and was careful not to promise outcomes that depended on evidence yet to be gathered.

When he stood to leave, Paul accompanied him to the door.

“Thank you,” Paul said.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes, I do. You listened when I needed somebody to listen. You took my son seriously.”

Tommy shook his hand.

“Myles mattered, Paul. He still matters.”

Paul’s eyes filled.

“Yes,” he said. “He does.”

—

At Anwer-Farron Farm, Sage-Beth was outside with Barney when Tommy arrived. Nasir was working nearby, and Molly was sitting on the grass with the wooden toy whose wheel Tommy had repaired.

She spotted him immediately.

“Tommy!”

He crouched as she came running toward him.

“Hello, Molly.”

She held out the toy.

“It still works.”

“I can see that.”

“Myles used to fix things.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“He fixed lots of things.”

“I bet he did.”

Molly considered him for a moment.

“Are you going away?”

“I’m going home.”

“Will you come back?”

Tommy looked toward Nasir and Sage-Beth, who were watching from a short distance away.

“I’d like to, if that’s all right with your family.”

Molly nodded as though the matter had been settled.

“You can help with Barney.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“He’s little.”

“I noticed.”

“And he gets into things.”

“That sounds like a very important responsibility.”

Molly smiled.

Tommy spent some time with the family before leaving. Nasir showed him how the sorghum was coming along, and Sage-Beth told him about the children’s latest adventures. They spoke of Myles, too, but not every conversation returned to his death.

That was something Tommy appreciated.

Myles had been part of their ordinary happiness. Remembering him ought to include some of that happiness.

As Tommy prepared to leave, Molly ran after him.

“Tommy?”

“Yes?”

“Will you tell me stories about Myles?”

He looked at her.

“I’ll tell you the ones I know. And maybe you can tell me some, too.”

She nodded.

“Okay.”

He waved goodbye and headed home.

—

Jaronda had asked Tommy to stop by Gardai headquarters before he completed his final report to Glasshome Finance. There were documents she wanted him to review, but he suspected she had something else on her mind.

He was right.

“There’s something you need to understand about Lance Gray,” she told him when they were alone.

“I know he’s involved.”

“No. You believe he’s involved. I believe he’s involved. The distinction matters.”

Tommy sat forward.

“We know Gray was at the Coalition offices that day. We know Myles heard a conversation involving Danner, Bell, and another man. We know Rodrigo worked for Gray. And we know Myles was followed.”

“We have evidence placing Gray in the building. We have Marisol’s account of what Myles told her. We have evidence that Rodrigo worked for Gray. What we don’t have is a reliable witness or a recovered communication establishing that Gray ordered Rodrigo to follow Myles or passed his identity and address to the people who arranged the murder.”

“Danner knows.”

“Danner isn’t talking. Bell’s lawyers are advising him not to talk. Degger never dealt directly with Gray.”

Tommy rubbed his forehead.

“So Gray walks away.”

“For now, he remains free. That isn’t the same as being cleared.”

“He’s a dangerous man, Jaronda.”

“I agree. But we can’t charge somebody because we’re convinced he’s dangerous.”

“What about the phone call to my office? The man outside Endie’s apartment?”

“We’ve documented both incidents. We haven’t identified the caller, and we haven’t established who the man on Marley Street was working for. We can’t honestly attribute either incident to Gray.”

Tommy was quiet.

“Somebody wanted me to know they could reach Endie.”

“Yes. And we’re taking that seriously.”

She leaned back.

“Gray is accustomed to operating through intermediaries. That can make it difficult to establish individual responsibility. It doesn’t make him untouchable. People who work for him have their own interests, their own records, and their own reasons for cooperating when circumstances change.”

“You think somebody might eventually talk?”

“I think investigations sometimes take longer than the people involved expect. The evidence against Degger is substantial. The questions surrounding Danner and Bell aren’t going away. And our interest in Gray hasn’t ended.”

Tommy nodded.

“What should Endie and I do?”

“Continue the precautions you’ve already agreed to. Report anything unusual. Don’t confront someone you suspect is following you. And don’t let your concern for Endie persuade you to go looking for Gray yourself.”

He smiled faintly.

“You’ve always been very good at telling me things I don’t want to hear.”

“It’s one of my better qualities.”

“Along with being annoyingly thorough.”

“Precisely.”

Tommy stood and collected his papers.

“Thanks, Jaronda.”

She walked him toward the door.

“Go home, Tommy. Endie’s waiting.”

He smiled.

“That’s the best advice you’ve given me all week.”

—

The immediate alarm over the stranger on Marley Street had subsided, but neither Tommy nor Endie considered the matter closed. The Gardai had reviewed sensible precautions with them; Endie continued her work at State Hall and went home to Marley Flats when she wished, and Tommy had stopped mistaking his own fear for authority over her decisions. They still had uneasy moments, and sometimes they still argued. That was part of what it meant to take a threat seriously without giving the unknown caller the power to dictate their lives.

When Endie arrived at Oceanview Pier that evening, Tommy was waiting for her.

He had barely opened the door when she stepped into his arms.

“Hello, darling,” she whispered.

“Hello, Angel.”

She kissed him.

“Now,” she said, looking into his eyes, “can we have an evening that doesn’t belong to Lance Gray?”

Tommy smiled.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

He kissed her again, and she drew him inside.

He had spent much of the past several weeks listening to people describe loss, violence, and fear. Now he was holding the woman he loved, feeling the warmth of her body against his, and realizing how much he had missed the simple pleasure of being together.

He brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

“Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?”

“Not nearly often enough.”

“Then I’ve been neglecting my duties.”

“Terribly.”

He kissed her again.

For a while, neither was particularly interested in conversation.

Later, they lay together beneath the covers, talking quietly as the evening settled over Oceanview Pier.

Endie rested her head against his shoulder.

“How’s Paul?”

“Better than when I first met him. Not happy, of course. But he knows the truth now.”

“And the family at the farm?”

“They’re managing. The children keep everybody busy.”

“Molly?”

Tommy smiled.

“She wants me to come back and help with Barney.”

“That sounds like an invitation you ought to accept.”

“I intend to.”

Endie lifted her head.

“You know, darling, I think you’ve acquired another family.”

“I might have.”

“Good. You have a lot to give them.”

He thought about Molly’s promise to tell him stories about Myles.

“I hope I can be useful.”

“You already have been.”

He kissed her forehead.

They talked about the case a little longer, then turned to other things. Endie told him about the latest developments at State Hall, and Tommy described his conversation with Ari and Roger at Champions.

“Roger still thinks I’m a menace on the dance floor,” he said.

“Roger is entitled to his opinion.”

“And Ari is threatening to tell everybody about *Strictly*.”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

He smiled.

“You’re a wonderful woman, Angel.”

“I know.”

She leaned over and kissed him.

“Are you going to spend the whole evening talking about work?”

“I could be persuaded to discuss something else.”

“Could you?”

“I’m a very reasonable man.”

She laughed, drew him closer, and kissed him again.

Round two was on.

—

**The Cayman Islands — July 2022**

The house overlooked the Caribbean, with broad terraces, pale stone floors, and windows that opened toward a private stretch of beach. Lance Gray had bought it several years earlier, when his political consulting work began producing the kind of income that made discretion as valuable as comfort.

He liked the Cayman Islands.

The weather was agreeable, the company could be selected carefully, and the distance from Washington and Dallas provided an opportunity to think without the constant interruptions of political life.

He was sitting on the terrace when his telephone rang.

“Gray.”

The caller was an attorney who had been keeping him informed about the investigation.

“There’s been another request for records.”

“From whom?”

“Investigators working with the Goldman Mill authorities. They’re pursuing the financial relationships between the Coalition and the security contractors.”

“Anything new?”

“Not that I’ve seen. Danner’s lawyers are being cautious. Bell’s people are nervous. Degger continues to insist he was cheated.”

“Degger will spend the rest of his life complaining about seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“Quite possibly.”

“And my position?”

“There’s no charge against you. No evidence I’ve seen establishes that you authorized the murder. But the inquiries are continuing.”

Gray watched a boat moving across the water.

“Then let them continue.”

“You should understand that this isn’t necessarily over.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

The attorney hesitated.

“Lance, I’d advise you not to underestimate the Goldman Mill investigators.”

“I don’t underestimate them. That’s why I pay you.”

He ended the call.

For several minutes, Gray remained on the terrace, enjoying the breeze and the view.

Then he opened a folder that had arrived earlier that day.

Inside were several pages of publicly available information about Thomas Pax Gomez Euro: his years with the Gardai, his work for Glasshome Finance, his public involvement in peace education, and his connection to Goldman Mill’s Deputy Mayor.

There was also a photograph of Tommy and Endie attending a public event.

Gray studied it.

He had learned a great deal about Tommy Euro during the investigation. The man was persistent, personable, and apparently possessed of an irritating conviction that powerful people ought to answer questions just like everybody else.

Gray found that attitude tiresome.

He turned to the photograph of Endie.

She was smiling at something Tommy had said.

He remembered seeing her picture before, and remembered his own irritation. A Black woman in a position of authority, beloved by a man who seemed entirely untroubled by the racial distinctions Gray considered fundamental to the proper ordering of society. The couple represented everything he despised about Goldman Mill: a country in which people refused to recognize the hierarchies he believed gave the world its structure.

He could imagine the senator’s supporters making sport of the relationship, but Gray had no interest in making a public spectacle of his prejudices. Publicly, he was a polished political professional who understood how to speak in phrases that gave his audience permission to supply the uglier meanings themselves.

Privately, he saw no reason to disguise his contempt.

He set the photograph down.

His telephone rang again.

This time the caller was a man who occasionally performed discreet research and logistical work for him.

“Anything else you need, Mr. Gray?”

Gray looked at the folder.

“Not at present.”

“Should I close the file?”

“No.”

There was a pause.

“Understood.”

Gray picked up his drink.

“Keep me informed.”

He ended the call and returned his attention to the sea.

He had a campaign to run, a senator to manage, and ambitions that extended considerably beyond either.

Thomas Euro and Endie Connell were not his immediate concern.

But Lance Gray had a long memory.

And he was a patient man.

—

EPILOGUE

The Myles Pax Ritter Peace Festival

Goldman Mill — 2026

Four years later, Tommy Euro still thought about Myles Ritter.

The investigation had changed his life in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He had entered it as an insurance investigator, responding to a father’s insistence that the official explanation for his son’s death was wrong. He had followed the evidence to Texas and back, helped uncover a murder-for-hire operation, and found himself confronting people whose political influence extended far beyond the little country he called home.

But when he thought about Myles, he seldom thought first of the investigation.

He thought about a wooden toy with a loose wheel, a little girl who wanted to know when Myles was coming home, and a family on a sorghum farm that had welcomed a young peace educator into its household.

He had kept his promise to Molly.

Over the intervening years, Tommy had become a regular visitor to Anwer-Farron Farm. He helped Nasir with occasional chores, shared meals with the family, and became the sort of honorary uncle who could be counted on to appear at birthdays, listen to children’s stories, and take seriously the things that mattered to them.

Molly was eight now. Barney was six, old enough to ask questions about a young man he remembered only dimly, if at all.

Molly considered herself the family authority on Myles.

“He was very good at fixing things,” she informed Barney one afternoon.

“So is Tommy,” Barney replied.

“Yes, but Myles fixed things before Tommy came. And Tommy promised he’d keep helping us.”

Tommy, who was sitting nearby, looked up.

“Did I?”

Molly nodded with complete confidence.

“Well, then,” Tommy said, “I suppose I’d better keep my promise.”

“You’d better,” Molly agreed.

Nasir laughed.

—

The Myles Pax Ritter Peace Festival had become an annual event in Goldman Mill.

The first had been held in 2023, the year after his death. The people of Goldman Mill had decided that the country’s only murder victim deserved to be remembered not merely with mourning but with a celebration of the principles to which he had devoted his short life.

The nation came together for the observance, with public institutions, community organizations, families, and volunteers contributing to its activities. There were workshops on nonviolent conflict resolution, music, community meals, activities for children, and opportunities to learn about the work of peacemakers around the world.

It was an occasion for remembrance, certainly. But it was also a celebration of life.

Paul Ritter attended every year.

So did Nasir, Sage-Beth, Molly, and Barney.

And so did Tommy and Endie.

At the fourth annual festival in 2026, Molly took Barney by the hand and led him toward a display about Myles’s work as a peace educator.

“That’s him,” she said, pointing to a photograph.

Barney studied it.

“He lived at our house?”

“Yes. He had his own little flat, but he ate with us and helped with everything.”

“Did he play with me?”

“All the time. You were little.”

“I’m not little.”

“You were then.”

Barney looked at the photograph again.

“Was he nice?”

Molly seemed almost offended by the question.

“He was wonderful.”

Tommy, standing beside Endie, smiled.

Molly continued explaining everything she remembered about Myles: the stories he told, the games he invented, the way he could make ordinary chores interesting, and the little things he fixed around the house.

Some of her memories had become mixed with stories she’d heard from her parents. Others were unmistakably her own.

Barney listened with the attention of a younger brother who knew that his sister had decided something important needed to be explained.

After a while, he turned toward Tommy.

“Did you know Myles?”

“Not while he was alive,” Tommy answered.

“Then how do you know about him?”

“Your family told me. His father told me. And I learned a great deal about him when I was trying to find out what happened.”

“Was he brave?”

Tommy considered the question.

“Yes, Barney. I think he was very brave.”

“Why?”

“Because he tried to help people, even when doing the right thing was difficult.”

Molly nodded approvingly.

“That’s what I told him.”

Tommy smiled.

“And you were right.”

—

Later, as the festival continued around them, Tommy and Endie found Paul Ritter standing near a gathering of peace educators.

Paul had grown older, as everyone had. His grief had not disappeared, but it had found a place among the other things that made up his life.

He greeted them warmly.

“Good to see you both.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Tommy said.

Paul looked toward Molly and Barney, who were now involved in an activity with other children.

“Myles would have loved this,” he said.

“He certainly would,” Endie replied.

Paul watched the children for a moment.

“You know, when we started talking about a festival, I wasn’t sure I wanted it. I thought it would be too painful, having everybody talking about him.”

“And now?” Tommy asked.

Paul smiled.

“Now I look forward to it every year. I see those children learning the things Myles wanted to teach them. I hear people laughing. I hear music. I see the country he loved doing what it was founded to do.”

He paused.

“That’s how I want him remembered.”

Tommy put a hand on his shoulder.

“That’s how he deserves to be remembered.”

Nearby, Molly called for Tommy.

“Uncle Tommy! Come here!”

He looked at Paul, who was smiling broadly.

“Duty calls,” Tommy said.

“Go on. Don’t keep her waiting.”

Tommy crossed the grass toward the children. Endie followed, laughing when Molly immediately assigned him a role in whatever elaborate activity she and Barney had devised.

The festival continued around them, full of music, conversation, food, and the ordinary happiness of people enjoying one another’s company.

In 2027, Goldman Mill would hold the fifth annual Myles Pax Ritter Peace Festival. By then, Molly would be nine, Barney seven, and there would be more stories to tell.

Myles had been twenty-four when somebody decided his life was expendable.

He had believed in peace, in the possibility of a better world, and in the continuing work of building one.

He had not lived to see what became of his final act of courage.

But his message had been heard.

And in Goldman Mill, it would continue to be heard.

**THE END**