She leaned back to address Angelina as the doctor inspected the stiffening remains.
“So we know whoever is after Dad, they’re sending more people. They know he’s alive.”
Angelina nodded. “No doubt, thanks to Martisha. They could know almost anything.”
Shee looked at Cough. “How’s Mick?”
His attention absorbed by the horrific wound on the stranger’s neck, the doctor was slow to answer. “Um...oh. He’s fine. I changed out his IV. His medical cabinet was locked but I had a spare. I’ll give you guys a crash course on what to do until you can hire a new nurse.”
Angelina shook her head. “How can I bring someone else into this death trap? I need you to stick around.”
Cough turned, eyebrows lifted. “Because it’s okay for me to stay in the death trap?”
“Just a couple days? Until we figure things out?” Angelina took his hand and held it to her chest. “Please? For me?”
Cough glanced at Shee, his cheeks coloring.
“Fine.” He pulled his hand back and returned his attention to the neck wound.
Angelina turned away and winked at Shee.
Shee smiled and stood. “Let’s find out who this guy is and then we have to find this William.” She traded places with Cough as the doctor rounded the bed to inspect Beatriz.
“It looks like he stole Batman’s utility belt,” said Angelina, motioning to the collection of gadgets strapped around the dead stranger’s middle.
Shee rifled through his pockets until she found a small, black leather wallet. Flipping it open, she pulled out a license.
“Roger Cooper,” she read. Behind it, sat another—same man in the photo, different name. Shee frowned, imagining someone rummaging through her things, post mortem.
This feels familiar.
“He’s got a second license. Tyler Vale. Both with Miami addresses. Either ring any bells?”
Angelina shook her head.
Shee tossed the wallet on the stranger’s chest, noticing a folded piece of paper tucked in his belt. She slipped it out and unwrapped it, catching a glimpse of a familiar newspaper clipping before it fluttered to the ground. A piece of Loggerhead stationary remained in her hand.
“That’s the clipping we saw at Viggo’s,” she said, pointing as Angelina stooped to retrieve it. “It was missing when we went back.”
“What’s in your hand?”
Shee scanned the sheet. “It’s a letter from Dad to Viggo, asking him to come here.”
Angelina peered over her shoulder. “One of Mick’s invites. It’s how he builds his army of do-gooders.”
“You mean his Navy of do-gooders.”
“Beatriz was Army.”
Shee grunted. “Oh. I didn’t know Dad had gotten so liberal in his old age.” Her gaze dropped to the bookshelf tucked in the corner. A tall, leather-bound book sat shuffled with others, unremarkable, but her skin still crawled at the sight of it.
Why does that look so familiar?
“Where’s the other shooter?” asked Cough. He had his black bag open on the bed and stood with a pair of long tweezers in his hand, the tongs clamped on what looked like a crushed bullet.
Shee eased past Angelina, heading for the bookshelf.
“Hm?” She heard Angelina ask as she slid the red book from the shelf.
“Beatriz took one in the chest. Not enough to kill her, necessarily,” said Cough.
“There’s a second in her head,” said Angelina.
“I saw that. The problem is, what blew out the back of her skull isn’t the same thing I just pulled out of her chest.”
Shee held the red book in her hands, staring at the cover. Her limbs felt cold.
“Where did he get this?” she asked.
“What?” Angelina sounded annoyed. “I can’t talk to both of you at the same—”
Shee held up the tome. “It’s a Naval Academy Lucky Bag Yearbook.”
“So?”
“I need to know how it got here. It’s mine.”
“Oh excuse me.” Angelina rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Your father probably gave it to him.” She turned back to Cough and then, scowling, bounced back to Shee.
“Wait—you didn’t go to the Naval Academy.”
Shee flipped through the book, feeling as if her fingers knew where to go. It fell open to the spot she’d been seeking. A tucked piece of torn sketch paper marked the page.
“It was research.” Shee pointed to the photo of a brown-haired young man in a plebe first class uniform.
“You two are missing the importance of what I’m saying here,” said Cough, still standing with the bullet in his tongs.
Shee plucked out the page marker. At first, she’d assumed it was her marker from long ago, but the lined paper was too familiar. She flipped it over to find a pencil sketch of the plebe she’d identified.
No.
Shee dropped the book into the cushioned chair and snatched Captain’s portrait of William from the top of the bookshelf. Unfurling it, she raised the sketch of the plebe to the bottom.
The tear fit perfectly.
“Look.” Shee held up the sheets so Angelina could see. “They’re the same person.”
“But that’s William. And that’s—” Angelina’s gaze dropped to the opened year book on the chair.
She gaped. “You’re saying William is—”
“Ladies!” Cough barked the word, shaking the bullet in his tongs. “Someone else killed Beatriz. The second shot is a different caliber.”
Angelina blanched. “William found her. ”
Shee tossed the sketches on Tyler Vale’s shins as she turned for the door.
“Mason’s out looking for him.”
&&&
Chapter Forty-Eight
Two Years Ago
Scotty Carson sat in the hard wooden chair as the Master-at-Arms chained his wrists to the interview table. On the opposite side of the desk sat a familiar man, though Scotty couldn’t place him. He wore civilian clothing but his posture and choice of haircut smacked of military. Retired, Scotty guessed, considering he appeared to
