Last to Die

of him. In his early sixties, probably on the cusp of retirement, he’d long ago lost his boyish figure as well as most of his hair. But judging by that penetrating stare, there was still a cop’s brain behind those eyes, and he was sizing up Jane and Frost before he committed to the conversation.

“I’ve been wondering when someone would finally come asking about that case,” he said.

“And here we are,” said Jane.

“Hmph. Boston PD. You just never know which direction this thing is gonna twist next. You folks hungry?”

“Yeah, we could eat,” said Frost.

“I just spent a very long week with my vegan daughter in Tallahassee. So you can bet I’m not here for any frigging salad.” He picked up his menu again. “I’m going for the porterhouse. Twenty ounces with a loaded potato and stuffed mushrooms. That should make up for suffering through a week of broccoli.”

He ordered his steak rare, and another martini. His week in Tallahassee, thought Jane, must have been quite the ordeal. Only after he took a sip of his second drink did he seem ready to get down to business.

“You read the whole file?” he asked.

“Everything you emailed us,” said Jane.

“Then you know what I know. At first glance, it looked like just another small aircraft accident. Single-engine Cessna Skyhawk goes down shortly after takeoff. Debris scattered across a wooded area. Pilot was described as a real nitpicker about safety, but you know how it is. It’s almost always human error, either the pilot’s or the mechanic’s. I didn’t get involved in the case until I got the call from NTSB. In the recovered debris, they’d found signs of penetration by high-velocity fragments. That led them to test for explosive residue. Don’t quote me on the chemistry details, but they used liquid chromatography and mass spectrometry. Found something called hexa-hydro blah blah blah. Otherwise known as RDX.”

“Research Department Explosive,” said Frost.

“So you did read the report.”

“That part interested me. It’s used by the military and it’s more powerful than TNT. Mix it with wax, and you can shape it. It’s part of what makes up Semtex.”

Jane looked at her partner. “Now I know why you wanted to be a rocket scientist. So you can blow stuff up.”

“And that’s exactly what happened to the Yablonskis’ little Skyhawk,” said Parris. “It got blown up. The RDX was lit up via radio control. Not a timer, not altitude-triggered. Someone was on site, saw the plane take off, and pressed a button.”

“So this was not a mistake,” said Jane. “Not the wrong plane.”

“I’m almost certain the Yablonskis were the intended target. That’s probably not what you heard from Neil’s NASA colleagues. They refuse to believe anyone would want to kill him. I never bothered to enlighten them.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what we heard from Dr. Bartusek,” said Jane. “That it had to be a mistake. That Neil had no enemies.”

“Everyone has enemies. But the kind who play around with RDX?” He shook his head. “We’re talking scary shit, military-grade explosives. Scary enough to make me wonder if …” He suddenly stopped as the waitress brought their meals. Compared with the huge slab of meat on Parris’s platter, Jane’s seven-ounce filet and Frost’s chicken breast looked like appetizers. Only after the waitress had left did Jane prompt Parris to finish his sentence.

“It made you wonder what?” she asked.

“If I was the next one who’d turn up dead,” he muttered, and shoved a dripping chunk of meat into his mouth. Bloody juices pooled on his plate as he cut another chunk, took another gulp of his martini. Jane remembered what he’d said on the phone earlier that afternoon: I’d rather not meet at my residence. She’d thought it was merely to keep his job separate from his personal life. Now his statement had an ominous new meaning.

“This scared you that much?” she said.

“Damn right.” He looked at her. “You’ll start to understand if you keep chasing this.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know. I’ll never know if I was being paranoid and imagining things. Or if there really was someone tapping my phone. Tailing my car.”

“Whoa.” Jane laughed. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.” He set down his knife and fork and stared at her. “That’s why I’m glad you came with your partner here. Someone to watch your back. I’m old school enough to think ladies need to be looked after, even if they’re cops.”

“Looked after?” Jane said to Frost. “You’ve been falling down on the job.”

“Detective Parris,” said Frost, “where do you think this, uh, threat is coming from?”

“I can hear it in your voice. You don’t believe me. But you’ll find out soon enough. So here’s my advice: Keep looking over your shoulder. Everywhere you go, pay attention to the faces, and you’ll notice some of them start to look familiar. The guy in the coffee shop. The gal in the airport. Then one night, you’ll notice the van parked outside your house. The van that just stays there.”

Frost shot a glance at Jane, and it was not missed by Parris.

“Yeah, okay. You think I’m nuts.” He shrugged and reached for his martini. “Just keep digging and things will start squirming out of the mud.”

“What things?” said Jane.

“You’ve probably already got ’em stirred up, just by coming here and asking questions.”

“Having to do with Neil or with Olivia?”

“Forget Olivia. Poor gal was just in the wrong plane at the wrong time.” Parris waved at the waitress and pointed at his empty martini glass. “If you don’t mind,” he called out.

“You think the motive was professional?” asked Frost.

“When you rule out jealous lovers and pissed-off neighbors and greedy relatives, you’re kind of down to the workplace.”

“You know what his research was at NASA, right?”

Parris nodded. “Alien life. Word is, he and his buddy Brian Temple thought they might’ve found it, even if no one at NASA will go on the record and say it.”

“Because they’re suppressing it?” asked Frost. “Or because it’s not true?”

Wyman leaned forward, his face flushed from the alcohol. “You don’t get blown up when you’re wrong. It’s when you’re right that things get dangerous. And I have a feeling …” He suddenly stopped, his gaze fixed on something behind Jane. She started to turn, and he whispered: “Don’t.”

“What is it?”

“Guy with glasses, white shirt, blue jeans. Seated at six o’clock. I think I saw him at a highway rest stop two hours ago.”

Jane let the napkin slide off her lap onto the floor. She bent to pick it up and caught a look at the man in question, just as a woman with a toddler in hand slid into the booth beside him.

“Unless they’re hiring three-year-olds as spies,” said Jane, straightening, “I don’t think you need to worry about the guy with the glasses.”

“Okay,” Parris admitted. “So I got that one wrong. But there’ve been other things.”

“Like vans outside your house,” she said, voice neutral.

He stiffened. “I know how it sounds. When this started, I couldn’t believe it, either. I kept fishing for a logical explanation, but stuff kept happening. Voice mails got lost. Things on my desk got moved, files went missing. That went on for months.”

“And it’s still going on?”

Parris paused as the waitress returned with a third martini. He stared at his drink, as if weighing the wisdom of dumping any more alcohol into his bloodstream. At last he picked it up. “No. The weird stuff stopped happening around the same time the case ran out of steam. Government agencies we were working with—NTSB, FBI—told me their investigation was at a standstill. I guess they had other priorities. It all went quiet. The strange vans went away, and my life went back to normal. Then, a few weeks ago, I heard from the New Hampshire police about the