“Ever loyal,” Shaw said to Ganz as they sat in the same county-jail interview room where Shaw had met Chiarra. He shook his head. “Hard to believe Anders would stick his neck out so far.”
“They’ve been friends since school.” Ganz shrugged. “Maybe once you get in the habit of looking after somebody, it’s second nature.”
“So what’s the likely outcome?”
“For Rohner? He’s remained in the United States—voluntarily, his lawyers keep shouting—for the past few weeks. But the pressure’s on to either file charges or let him travel to attend to his business. Once he does”—Ganz made a flying gesture with one hand—“I think we’re looking at a Polanski thing here. He’s committed no crimes in Europe. He’ll stay there as long as he can avoid extradition, which is forever.”
“And Anders takes the whipping,” said Shaw.
“What I hear, the prosecutor’s not looking to tie Anders to any of the homicide charges that Hargreaves is facing. Or even the theft of the chemical sample from Avizda. That was all Chen Li, and we know he’s in the wind. The most Anders will likely face is purchase of stolen property, maybe conspiracy to commit cybercrime and industrial espionage. He’ll make a deal and serve a few years in minimum security. Rohner’s got some top-flight attorneys running interference for him.”
“None as good as you.”
“Hold on the praise until I get you out of here,” Ganz said. “And I’ll do it. Least I can do after . . . you know. Linda. You got the filthy worms responsible.”
“My pleasure.”
Ganz smiled grimly. “I know you’re not kidding when you say that. Sometimes I wish I coulda been there.” He set his files into his briefcase and closed the latches. “But better I leave that kind of mayhem to you.”
Shaw agreed.
It took three more days to get him sprung. Ganz made the ultimatum to the Justice Department that if they wanted Shaw’s testimony on Anders and Hargreaves, they had to start treating him like a source instead of a suspect. The Feds subsequently swatted down any state intentions for Shaw. No one made a fuss. New York didn’t give a damn about Shaw’s break-in at Paragon, not when it had led them to a trove of bigger goodies.
Even Kanellis didn’t seem to mind seeing Shaw go loose. The detective had his moment in the sun as the guy who’d turned Morton informant and brought the whole case to light. He’d even shaved properly for press appearances, a couple of which Shaw had caught on the communal room TV. Shaw suspected that Lieutenant Guerin had coached him some.
Shaw signed for his street clothes—a set that Addy had dropped off weeks before; the mud-covered gear he’d been wearing at the island was considered evidence—and left the jail via the main entrance on 5th Ave. He shielded his eyes from the sun as he walked past the odd chunks of artwork in green mosaic, sculptures that always reminded him of board-game pieces.
Hollis was waiting outside, sitting on a marble border by the steps. Karla Haiden stood beside him. She was dressed for the early-August heat in a soft turquoise skirt and white blouse. Her red hair had been cut since he’d last seen her. Tortoiseshell clips held the locks back on each side.
“Sorry for the surprise,” she said.
“Speak for yourself,” said Shaw. “It’s good to see you.”
“I’m going for coffee,” Hollis said, standing and pointing a thumb uptown. “This place makes me nervous.”
Karla and Shaw began to walk down James Street. Shaw had a feeling of unreality, seeing the sky after so many days of incarceration. He took a long breath. It was midmorning. The temperature still in the seventies but promising to creep up a degree every few minutes.
“How are you?” Karla said.
“Better. There are a lot of interviews and other court dates in my future. But it looks like I’ll be on the right side of the courtroom.”
“Me, too. I’m going back to New York. The DA’s office wants me to give a statement about James and to tell what I know about some of the other Paragon operations.”
“Any charges?”
“No. Not yet anyway.” Karla sidestepped to let a dog walker with half a dozen canines straining in happy frenzy pass on the sidewalk. “Since I was the first of Paragon’s people to come forward, that seems to have bought me some leeway. My attorney is making it official. State’s evidence.”
They reached the broad plaza that wrapped around the western side and corners of the county administration building. Karla angled left, and they strolled onto the plaza’s tiles. The nine-story building had a honeycomb motif on its exterior walls, like a hive built by especially severe bees. They sat on one of the low, square benches. Karla folded her hands, almost primly.
“When do you leave?” said Shaw.
“Today. That’s why I asked Hollis to bring me along. I just wanted to see you, even for a minute. Do you know what you’ll do, after . . . ?” She motioned back toward the jail.
“Get on with work. Make my apologies where I have to.”
“Like I’m doing now.”
“I don’t need any amends,” he said. “Are you going to be able to keep your PI license?”
Karla tilted her head. “I’d have to fight for it.” Her indecision clear.
“You’re good at the job. The Abramses said so. Maybe they’d even help you get on your feet.”
“I hadn’t even thought of Ronald and Lorraine. God.” She exhaled. “I’m not sure I could face them.”
“One battle at a time,” said Shaw.
“Battles.” Karla leaned against his arm. “I heard most of the story about what happened on the island from my lawyer and what I could piece together from the news. It’s horrific. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“A visit I don’t want to repeat. But unless Rohner rebuilds that damned pavilion, I won’t have to worry about it.”
Shaw joked, but more than one night during the past month he’d lurched awake in his cell, thinking the helicopter was crashing through the shattered spires once more. This time he could only stand and watch as it plunged toward him. He would stay awake after the dream, totaling the butcher’s bill. The men on the island who’d died by his hand, directly or not, weighed against the crimes they had committed. It never came out even. He never expected it to. Living with whatever remorse he might feel was a learned skill.
“Will you come back?” he said.
“Yes. I want to.” She smiled. “We can take another train ride. A better one this time.”
“And you can catch me up on news from the Revolutionary War.”
“All the latest dispatches. Just give me a little while to put my life in order. Then . . .”
“Who knows?”
“I like that,” she said. “The potential of it. Who knows.”
Karla stood up. When he did the same, she stayed close and tilted her head up. He kissed her, softly, with more warmth than heat.
“I’ll see you again,” she said, and walked out of the plaza to continue down the street. Shaw watched until she was no longer in sight. She hadn’t looked back.
Probably the right idea, thought Shaw. When he left himself, a few minutes later, he kept his eyes on the road ahead.
EIGHTY-FIVE
Hollis and Addy had joined forces on a welcome-home celebration for Shaw. Perhaps guessing that he’d prefer calm to raucous, they kept the guest list highly selective. Half a dozen people aboard the Francesca as she made lazy circles off Golden Gardens Park, just outside the marina. The surface over the shallow fathoms tranquil enough even for Addy’s touchy equilibrium.
Shaw took a spell at the helm on the open flybridge, freeing Hollis to usher everyone away from the galley. Addy and Paula Claybeck moved into the aft section, not pausing in their conversation. This was the first time the two women had met. They’d quickly discovered a shared love of midcentury jazz and were comparing which albums had gotten them started.
Wren stood at the bow with Cyndra. They leaned over the rail, watching the boat’s prow slice gently throu
gh the water. Every few moments Cyn looked up to scan the bay. Earlier she’d seen a harbor seal poke its sleek head above the surface, and she was alert for a reappearance.
Wren saw Shaw looking and smiled. She said something to Cyndra and walked to the stern of the boat and up the steps to join him. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and rested her head against his back.
“That’s good,” said Shaw, reaching with the hand not on the helm to hold her wrist. “Let’s just stay here for a century or two.”
She hummed contently. “We’d get hungry after a while.”
“Cyndra can throw us fish.”
They stood, feeling each other breathe, as the Francesca completed another gentle circle. Shaw didn’t have to move the wheel from ten degrees off center. He might have set the autopilot, but it was more enjoyable to do the work, such as it was, for himself. Peaceful.
“I thought I might lose you,” Wren said. Her words almost submerged beneath the thrum of the engine.
“If I went to prison?” Shaw felt her nod against his shoulder. “You still wouldn’t have lost me. But I get it. That’s a long time to be apart.”
“A terrible feeling. As though my heart was rehearsing for the time when you wouldn’t be there anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It would be devastating if you went to jail. But not only because you would be trapped.” Wren moved to his side without releasing her arms from around him. He laid his own arm over her shoulders. “I’d feel just as sad if we were in different cities.”
He looked at her, at the golden flecks in her eyes.
“You’re staying?” he said.
“I’m staying. The herbalist puts down roots.” She smiled. “Whatever happens with us happens. I know our relationship is unusual. No reason to make it more difficult by moving apart. At least not until you’re sick of my company.”
“We’re talking centuries again,” said Shaw.
He kissed her. The boat went off course. He let it.
“Besides,” she said when they resurfaced, “I’ve always wanted my own house.”
“Shame,” he said. “I had six million dollars just a few weeks ago. The FBI made me give it back. We could have bought something with turrets.”
“Darn your laws.”
“Worth it to be here.”
“Yes. Worth everything to be here.” Wren grasped the helm. “You’ll get plenty of me later. Go talk with Cyndra. She could use as much time as you can spare for a while.”
“Yeah.”
Shaw kissed her again. He stepped up on the dash and over the stubby windscreen to the cabin roof and in three quick bounds ran down the front slope of the cabin to Cyndra at the bow rail. Hollis’s indignant shout thundered from the galley. Cyn grinned at the acrobatics.
“Spot any more seals?” he said.
“Nope. Some fish jumped over there. Why do they do that?”
“Hunting for food, mostly. Or trying not to become food.”
“Weird. Like if we jumped into a lake and it spat us back out again.” She scraped a fingernail on the rail. “Noah and I broke up.”
Shaw knew Noah’s name, barely. Hadn’t known that Cyn was dating him, or for how long. Her pink dye job had grown out and faded, leaving her blond hair almost silver at the ends.
“You’ve had a tough summer,” he said.
Cyn kept looking at the water, her profile to Shaw. She was wearing a life vest at Addy’s insistence, one more suited for a full-grown adult, and it hung on her like a parka.
“Worse than mine, I think,” said Shaw. “I had a portion of the blame and the responsibility. Some measure of control. You just had to go along with whatever happened.”
She didn’t answer. There was a splash from off the starboard side. Neither of them turned to see what had made the sound.
“When Dono went to prison, I was younger than you. You know that. He got out after a year or so, but it seemed like much longer.” Shaw shrugged. “I was so mad and scared that I made this kind of shell around myself. I think there are still pieces of it left now. Maybe always.”
He exhaled. “I was mad at Dono for getting busted and scared that I’d have to survive without him somehow. All shit I could have told anybody at the time, if anyone had asked. But what I was really frightened of was that Dono would forget about me. That even if he got out of prison, he’d be a different person by then and he wouldn’t want some kid around anymore.”
Cyndra’s jaw twitched. Not quite a nod but getting there.
“That’s not us,” Shaw said. “Ever. Promising you I’ll never get in trouble again would be false. You’re too smart to believe it anyway. But you can be certain that whatever happens, I’m with you and Addy. For good. I’d be lost without you guys.”
She turned, and he saw that she was crying after all. The tears had restricted themselves to her left eye, as if allowing her that privacy until she was ready.
“You okay?” he said, putting his arms around her.
“Uh-huh.”
“You want to tell me anything?”
She held tight to him, which was plenty.
The boat had come around to face north again in its circle. Long past where Shaw could see, over many other landforms, was the island. Burned and scarred and patient. Waiting until the humans and their attempts at shaping it to their needs had gone, so it could return to what it truly was.
“You want food?” said Shaw after another few moments.
“Yeah.” Cyndra wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
“Cool,” Shaw said. “Go on below if you want. I’ll keep an eye out for your seal buddy.”
“I forgot. Hollis said I could go swimming tonight.”
“It’ll be freezing. Summer or not.”
“I don’t care. It’s not too late, is it?”
Shaw looked out over the deep water, endless and powerful.
“Not from where I’m standing,” he said.
Author’s Note
My standard disclaimer: This novel is fiction, which means I get to make up anything and everything, including but not limited to businesses real or imagined, jurisdictions, history, or anything else that might keep the story moving, keep the lawyers bored, and keep potentially dangerous information where and with whom it belongs.
The most obvious fabrication herein involves the COVID-19 pandemic and its aftermath. Island of Thieves was written during the first eight months of the quarantine. I was overly optimistic in assuming that our lives would be largely back to normal by the following summer, when the book is set. But as I type these words we’re still in the early stages of vaccinations across the world. Since mentions of the pandemic in the book are few, I hope readers will forgive my wishful thinking. Here’s to all of us emerging from this terrible time stronger and wiser.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, a sincere thanks to everyone who has read one of my previous Van Shaw novels and sent me words of encouragement via email or social media. I love meeting readers in person and online. So if you enjoy this book—or have a question—please shoot me an email at: [email protected] and say hello. You’ll be among the first to know when my next work is coming out and receive other fun news and fan extras.
No one is an island. My love and gratitude to the people who helped me conquer Island of Thieves.
Lisa Erbach Vance of the Aaron Priest Literary Agency, for her unwavering support and astute advice.
Lyssa Keusch at William Morrow, whose editorial insights and enthusiasm make every page stronger.
Caspian Dennis of the Abner Stein Agency, our top op in the UK.
And the brilliant team at Morrow who makes it all possible: our publisher par excellence, Liate Stehlik, Kaitlin Harri, Amelia Wood, Sophie Normil, Maureen Sugden, Bob Castillo, David Palmer, Andrew Clark, Richard Aquan, Amy Halperin, Nancy Singer, and Mireya Chiriboga. It takes a lot of dedicated professionals to put a new novel on shelves both physical and virtual;
it’s my privilege to work with such talented people.
And appreciation to those who lent their time, knowledge, and advice. As ever, the cool stuff is theirs, any mistakes are mine.
Jessica Watts, CQA ASQ, for her invaluable guidance in the plot points involving molecular chemistry and research and innovations in that field. In the interest of speeding the story along, I had to distill some complex concepts. Jessica made sure that I didn’t boil away the flavor along with the fat.
Christian Hockman, BCO 1/75 Ranger Regiment, for details on military life and tactics. Christian has always had my six when it comes to giving Van a soldier’s mindset.
CDR Ed Weisbrod, USN, Ret., for keeping the book’s helicopters in the air until the story demanded they come down to earth. Any pilot error is solely the fault of the characters in question.
Mark Pryor, author of the wonderful Hugo Marston mysteries, for lending his legal expertise as an assistant district attorney. Even Ephraim Ganz would think twice about facing off with Mark in a courtroom.
Jamie Mason, acclaimed author of The Hidden Things and other thrilling novels you should race to read, for her advance perusal of the manuscript and sound story advice.
Kristie Foss, friend and fellow conspirator, for her guided tour of the hidden side of Pike Place Market.
Amy, Mia, and Madeline: Even after a year and counting of quarantine—with a writer, no less—you’re somehow still thriving and confident. Clearly you can accomplish anything. Thanks for bringing me along for the ride. I love you.
About the Author
A native of Seattle, GLEN ERIK HAMILTON was raised aboard a sailboat and grew up around the marinas and commercial docks and islands of the Pacific Northwest. His debut novel, Past Crimes, won the Anthony, Macavity, and Strand Critics awards and was also nominated for the Edgar, Barry, and Nero awards. After living for many years in Southern California, he and his family have recently returned to the Emerald City and its beautiful overcast skies.
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