Page 321 of The Black Trilogy

“Yes, I do. It’s not the first time he’s sent me a birthday present, and I recognise his writing. And he says he hopes I get closure like he did. He got his closure with death.”

Nate’s sideways glance told me more questions were coming. “I’m intrigued—how do you know so much about Garcia? Or know him at all, for that matter? He’s not the type of person who’s easy to cross paths with.”

“I did a job for him once.”

Nate groaned. “I take it this was one of your ‘special’ jobs that didn’t go through Blackwood?”

“It mostly did. Only one part stayed off the books.”

“Drugs related?”

“No, not at all.” After recent events, I figured Nate had a right to know. “It was eleven years ago. Do you remember Robert Frost?”

“The congressman’s son? The one who turned out to be a serial killer?”

“The one and only. His fourth victim was a college girl called Camilla McKinley. Happy go lucky, nineteen years old, her whole life ahead of her. Top of her class in biochemistry. They found her naked body in a disused storeroom at Virginia Tech three weeks after she died.”

“I remember that. The cops screwed it up, didn’t they? Lost some of the evidence.”

“And that’s when we got hired to investigate.”

“Didn’t you point the finger at Frost, but he hung himself before you got a chance to pass our files over to the police?”

“That’s what it said in the report I filed, yes.”

“I get the impression there’s a ‘but’ coming?”

“I used a teeny bit of poetic licence in what I wrote. My report said Camilla’s stepfather hired me, but the client was actually her real father. I knew him as Edward Graydon.”

“I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

“I didn’t find out until later that Edward Graydon was Eduardo Garcia.”

“How much later?”

“When I met him to present my findings. I spent a month pretending to be a college student, but it didn’t take long to finger Frost as the culprit. He may have been rich and handsome, but there was something cold about him. He gave me the creeps, and that’s not easy to do. When we went on a date, he left me in the car while he paid for gas, and I found a pair of gloves, a knife and a length of rope in his glove compartment. Most guys that age would have a condom and some breath mints.”

“That’s hardly conclusive, though.”

“Most guys wouldn’t have six perfectly preserved pairs of women’s breasts in their freezer either, which was what I found when I poked around his house. That was enough for me.”

“Fair enough. I’ll give you that one.”

“So after that, I flew to Colombia to tell Edward what I’d found, and that was when I met Eduardo. Even back then, he travelled abroad as little as possible. He believed because Frost was the son of a congressman, and because that congressman was well known for being a devious git, there was a good chance sonny-boy wouldn’t get everything he deserved. And I agreed with him. It wouldn’t be the first time someone rich or famous got away with murder—just look at that ex-football player.”

Another groan. “I think I know where this is going. I take it Frost had a little assistance with his suicide?”

“Someone as arrogant and self-centred as he was would never have contemplated killing himself.”

“Did Black know you killed Frost?”

“He had the feet end when we chucked him over the balcony.”

“I might have guessed. And you’ve kept in touch with Garcia since then?”

“Yes.”

“Care to elaborate?”

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