Page 7 of Lost Hope

“He gave me a key.” Reinhardt spread his hands slowly. “Look, we can explain?—”

“Let me guess,” Quinn cut in. “You got here awful fast for local law enforcement. Which means someone important made a call. Which means you’re not telling us everything either.”

Maya kept her expression neutral. He was fishing for information, and doing it skillfully.

“We’d appreciate it if you’d come back to NCIS with us,” Benson said. “Answer some questions about Mr. Sullivan’s activities in the past twenty-four hours.”

“Not happening.” Quinn’s stance shifted subtly. “We’ve got nothing to hide, but we’re not going anywhere until we know Tank’s body is handled properly.”

Quinn checked his phone, a quick glance that seemed rehearsed. Reinhardt murmured what sounded like a prayer, but his eyes stayed sharp, scanning the perimeter. Maya had seen that look before—not prayer, but communication. These men were waiting for something.

The local sergeant approached, holding his radio. “Just got word from dispatch. We’re to clear out, leave it to NCIS.”

“Perfect timing,” Quinn said softly, exchanging another look with Reinhardt. “Actually, you know what? We’ll come in. Voluntarily. After your crime scene team processes everything.”

The way he emphasized ‘voluntarily’ made it clear he knew exactly what legal authority they did and didn’t have. Maya couldn’t shake the feeling they were agreeing because it suited some agenda of their own.

“Wait outside,” she told them firmly. “Both of you. You’ve contaminated this scene enough already.”

Quinn’s mouth quirked in that dangerous half-smile. Under other circumstances, it would have been breathtaking. “Yes ma’am.” He headed down the stairs with fluid grace, Reinhardt following.

Their immediate compliance only heightened her suspicion.

While the local cops packed up, she moved through the condo with measured steps, Benson’s camera clicks providing an irregular rhythm behind her. The scene felt wrong in a way that went beyond her training, beyond even her father’s meticulous lessons. Something spiritual, her mother would have said. She shoved the thought away. She dealt in evidence, not intuition.

The kitchen gleamed like a showroom display. No dishes in the sink, no takeout containers, not even a coffee mug left out. The living room had the same artificial precision—magazines aligned perfectly on the coffee table, remotes arranged by size.

“When’s the last time you saw a guy living alone keep house like this?” she murmured.

Benson grunted, snapping photos. “Military guys can be neat.”

“This isn’t neat. This is sanitized.”

Back in LA, she’d caught three staged suicides where the cleanup crews had done the same thing—stripped away every trace of personality, leaving behind a sterile perfection that screamed cover-up.

Still, none of this would have been noticeable from outside. What had Quinn and Reinhardt seen that made them break in?

She continued searching. The hall bathroom gleamed like a hospital room. No towels hung crooked, no toothpaste residue in the sink. Maya remembered her father drilling into her the importance of personal habits—they told you who someonewas, how they lived. And more importantly, how they died. The absence of those habits often spoke louder than their presence.

She paused at the office doorway, that sixth sense she’d developed on the force screaming a warning. The room beyond held answers, but something told her she wouldn’t like the questions they raised.

The scene that greeted her confirmed every instinct. The condition of the body suggested he died about twenty-four hours ago, give or take. Probably not long after he broke into that base computer. The body was positioned too perfectly, the weapon placement textbook. She’d worked enough real suicides to know death was rarely this tidy. Her last case with LAPD had been similar—a “suicide” that turned out to be a professional hit meant to silence a whistleblower.

Subtle details hit her. The wear pattern on the chair didn’t match how Sullivan was sitting. The angle of the weapon contradicted the blood spatter. Small things, things her father had taught her to notice, things that had made her the youngest detective in Pacific Division.

Car doors slammed outside. While she watched through the window, two NCIS crime scene vans arrived as the last patrol car pulled away. Quinn and Reinhardt waited next to Benson’s SUV, their relaxed poses betraying years of tactical training. Every few minutes, Quinn would check his phone, then share some wordless communication with his partner. Reinhardt’s lips moved in what looked like prayer, but his eyes never stopped scanning their surroundings.

Van doors opened, the crime scene unit quickly donned Tyvek coveralls. Maya didn’t figure there was much else for her to accomplish inside, so she headed down the stairs. The team would need room to work their magic. Benson was just completing his update when she reached the group. After quicknods, the team headed upstairs, leaving her alone with Tom, and the two glowering SEALs.

Tom nodded at his plain wrap SUV. “I’ll take them in. You can get preliminaries from the crime scene crew and follow me in.”

“Sounds good. Send me those photos. Something about this scene isn’t sitting right.”

Her partner gestured toward his SUV. “Let’s get this done.”

“We’ll follow you in,” Quinn said, nodding toward their Jeep. “Got some sensitive equipment we need to secure first.”

Maya caught the look that passed between the two men—something more than just concern about gear. “That’s not protocol.”

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