Page 74 of Knox

Three hours later, as the sun began to drop through the towering Manhattan buildings, they were looking at the recent morgue photo of one Bradley Harris.

“How was he killed?” Knox said as he leaned over the computer.

Rayburn sat on the table in an interrogation room. “We’re still investigating. We found him beaten to death in an alley near the halfway house where he was rooming.”

“The same halfway house that Russell listed as his address. Where he hasn’t shown up at for three weeks.”

Rayburn nodded.

Knox got up, and now he wanted to utter the word that Tate let slip earlier.

“Listen. I’ll call—who was it you mentioned?”

“Torres. He’s with the San Antonio FBI.”

“Yeah. I’ll send him Russell’s picture. See if it matches anyone at the arena. In the meantime, I think this is a dead end.”

Knox whirled around, just stared at Rayburn, who lifted his shoulder.

“Seriously? Kelsey is living with what this man did to her. Every. Single. Day. It’s in her head, in her life. And now he’s loose and we haven’t a clue where he might be?” He swept up Russell’s file, grabbed his mug shot, laid it on the table, and snapped a shot with his phone. “I’m not leaving New York City until this guy is found.”

He left the rest of his intentions to himself. Because he wanted to do a lot more than talk.

Tate followed him out into the night, the air pungent with the day’s trash, cigarette smoke, the raucous sound of traffic. Across the street, a pizza joint beckoned, his stomach nearly as angry as he was.

Tate had said nothing so far, and now he glanced at the pizza joint, shrugged, and went in.

They ordered, then sat down at a table with their slices.

Tate pulled out his cell phone. Put it on the table.

“Hoping AJ will call?”

“I’m not holding my breath.” Tate folded his pizza like a sandwich. “But Glo keeps texting me. Nonstop for three days. I told her that we were fine, but she’s…”

“In love with you.”

Tate looked at him, frowned. “Hardly. She is…she’s my boss.”

“Whatever.” And it was the first smile he’d gotten from Tate in three days.

As if Glo might be able to sense their conversation, a text rattled his phone. He picked it up, swiped. “What—?”

Knox leaned over. “What’s going on?”

“They’re setting up to play at some gig tonight.”

“What—and you let them go?

“Take a breath—no! They went without my permission, but it’s local.”

“Where?”

“Montana—in Mercy Falls. Apparently, Benjamin King set it up. It’s impromptu, and King has his own security, I’m sure. Glo says it’s low-key, just a couple songs at a local bar and grill.”

“Should we be worried?”

“Probably not, but I’m not thrilled. The sooner we track down Russell, the better.” Tate turned his phone around and showed Knox a picture of Kelsey and Glo decked out in jeans, boots, and T-shirts that said Pony Up. The next one had Kelsey at the mic, her smile curving around her words.

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