Victor Strand was a ghost. Not the kind of ghost who lived in the shadows, but the kind who hid in plain sight, wearing a badge and a suit and a smile that had been manufactured in the finest law schools money could buy. Carver pulled his file from the state attorney general's database and spread it across his desk like evidence from a crime scene, which in a sense it was.
Victor Strand. Age fifty-two. Special Investigator, Office of the Attorney General. Assigned to the Medicaid Fraud Task Force in 2019. Transferred to the Special Prosecutions Unit in 2021. Commended for exceptional service six times. Recommended for promotion by then-Attorney General Marcus Chen, who had been appointed by Governor Hartley in 2017 and had served as Hartley's personal attorney before that.
The connections were all there, hidden beneath layers of bureaucracy and routine paperwork. Strand had been Hartley's man inside the attorney general's office for years. He had been assigned to investigate the Southgate fraud precisely so he could control the investigation. And when Elena Maris had gotten too close, he had been the one to silence her.
"His current address is in Bethel," Webb said, reading over Carver's shoulder. "Arlington Heights. The nice part of town. He lives in a four-bedroom house with a swimming pool. Married, two kids, both in private school."
"On a government salary?"
"Apparently his wife comes from money. Old money. The kind that doesn't ask questions."
Carver pulled up Strand's employment history. Before joining the attorney general's office, Strand had worked for a private law firm that specialized in healthcare litigation. Before that, he had been a federal prosecutor in the Eastern District. Before that, he had clerked for a judge on the state supreme court. His record was spotless. His credentials were impeccable. He was the perfect public servant, the kind of man who would never be suspected of anything.
"He's still employed," Webb said. "He's still working in the Special Prosecutions Unit. He's been sitting there the whole time, watching us investigate the murder he committed."
"He thinks he's safe. Hartley is being impeached, Thorne is in custody, Dreyer is dead. Everyone who could implicate him is gone."
"Except Lassiter."
"Except Lassiter."
They drove to Bethel as the morning sun climbed over the rooftops, the snow melting into gray slush on the streets. The attorney general's office was in a modern building downtown, all glass and steel and the kind of impersonal efficiency that made Carver's skin crawl. They took the elevator to the fourth floor and asked for Victor Strand.
The receptionist's smile flickered. "Mr. Strand is in a meeting. Can I ask what this is regarding?"
"Murder," Carver said.
The smile disappeared entirely.
They waited in a conference room with beige walls and a plastic plant that had been collecting dust for years. Twenty minutes later, the door opened and Victor Strand walked in.
He was exactly the kind of man his file described. Tall, trim, with silver hair and a face that had been designed to inspire trust. He wore a charcoal suit and a tie the color of dried blood. His handshake was firm, his eye contact steady, his voice calibrated to the precise frequency of someone who had spent his entire career convincing people that he was on their side.
"Detectives. I'm sorry for the wait. My schedule is a nightmare this week."
"We understand," Carver said. "You're a busy man."
"Always. What can I do for Ashwick PD?"
"We're revisiting the Elena Maris murder. New evidence has come to light."
Strand's expression did not change. Not a flicker. Not a twitch. He was good. "I thought that case was closed. Dreyer was the killer. The Collectors killed Dreyer. The impeachment committee has all the evidence."
"The impeachment committee had most of the evidence. But there are always loose ends." Carver pulled out a photograph and slid it across the table. It was a still from Lassiter's video diary, showing Lassiter looking directly into the camera. "Do you recognize this man?"
Strand picked up the photograph. His fingers were steady. His breathing was even. "Alan Lassiter. He used to work here, years ago. Before my time, mostly."
"He was disbarred in 2018."
"Yes. A tragic case. He was a good prosecutor, from what I hear. Made some bad choices."
"He's been working with Elena Maris. He was her legal advisor. He helped her draft the lawsuit against Southgate."
"I didn't know that. I wasn't involved in the Southgate investigation personally. I was on the task force, but my work was administrative."
Carver nodded. "Mr. Strand, where were you on the night of November 3rd?"
Strand's expression remained neutral, but something shifted behind his eyes. A calculation. A recalibration. "November 3rd. That was the night Elena Maris was killed?"
"Yes."
"I'd have to check my calendar. I've been traveling a lot this year. Conferences, depositions, that sort of thing."
"We can wait."
Strand smiled. It was a professional smile, the kind that had been practiced in mirrors and refined over decades. "Detective, I feel like I'm being interrogated. Is there something specific you're accusing me of?"
"We're not accusing you of anything. We're just asking questions."
"Asking questions is what we do," Webb added.
Strand leaned back in his chair. "I think I should consult with an attorney before answering any more questions."
"That's your right," Carver said. "But I should tell you, we have a witness who places you at the Southgate clinic on Wicklow Avenue on the night of November 3rd. We have a witness who says you were there after Lawrence Dreyer left. We have a witness who says you killed Elena Maris."
The silence that followed was the loudest thing Carver had ever heard. Strand's smile had finally disappeared, replaced by something cold and watchful.
"Who is this witness?"
"Alan Lassiter. He recorded a video confession before he disappeared. He described everything. The car you drove. The time you arrived. The insulin you used. He said he confronted you. He said you threatened to kill him if he talked."
Strand was silent for a long moment. Then he laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "Alan Lassiter. A disbarred prosecutor who spent time in prison. A man with a documented history of lying and suppressing evidence. And you're taking his word over mine?"
"His word, and the testimony of Viktor Cross, who saw your car in the parking lot. And the forensic evidence, which we're reexamining. And the phone records, which we've subpoenaed. And the employment records, which show you were assigned to the Southgate investigation and had access to all of Elena Maris's filings."
"That's circumstantial. None of that proves I killed anyone."
"Maybe not. But it's enough for a warrant. And once we have a warrant, we'll search your house and your car and your office. We'll find the insulin. We'll find the note. We'll find whatever else you've been hiding for the past two months."
Strand stood up. "This conversation is over. If you want to talk to me again, you can do it through my lawyer."
"Who's your lawyer?"
"Marcus Chen."
The name hit Carver like a punch to the gut. Marcus Chen. The former attorney general who had appointed Strand to the Special Prosecutions Unit. The man who had been Hartley's personal attorney. The man who was now in private practice, defending the very criminals he had once prosecuted.
"Chen is representing you?"
"He's an old friend. And a very good lawyer." Strand straightened his tie. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
He walked out of the conference room, leaving Carver and Webb alone with the plastic plant and the beige walls and the growing sense that they had underestimated their enemy.
"Marcus Chen," Webb said. "The former attorney general. The one who built the task force that was supposed to investigate Thorne."
"The one who made sure the investigation never went anywhere. The one who protected Hartley for years." Carver stood up. "We need to find Lassiter before Strand does. If Strand knows Lassiter is alive, he'll send someone after him."
"Lassiter said he was going to a cabin in the mountains."
"There are a thousand cabins in the mountains. We need to narrow it down."
They drove back to the Bethel Legal Aid Society and spent the afternoon going through Lassiter's files. Miriam Okonkwo helped them, pulling records and correspondence and anything that might indicate where Lassiter had gone. Most of his clients were from the Flats, people who had been cheated by landlords or denied benefits or wrongly evicted. He had taken their cases pro bono, working eighteen-hour days for no pay, as if he were trying to make up for every sin he had ever committed.
"He was a good man," Miriam said. "Whatever he did before, he was trying to be better."
"People can change," Carver said. "But the past doesn't disappear."
Buried in a folder labeled "PERSONAL," they found a property deed. It was for a small parcel of land in the mountains, purchased three years ago under the name of Lassiter's deceased mother. The address was a rural route number in a county that was mostly national forest.
"That's it," Webb said. "That's the cabin."
They drove north as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. The roads grew narrower and more treacherous, the snow deeper, the trees thicker. Carver drove while Webb coordinated with the state police, requesting backup that might or might not arrive in time.
"Strand knows we're coming," Webb said. "He's going to call Chen. Chen is going to call Hartley. Hartley is going to call whoever he has left."
"Hartley is under house arrest. His phones are monitored. His visitors are logged. He can't do anything without the whole world knowing."
"Hartley is still a former governor with decades of connections. He has people we don't know about. People who haven't been caught."
"Then we'd better get there first."
The cabin was at the end of a dirt road that wound through pine forest so dense that the sky disappeared. It was a small structure, built of logs and stone, with a single chimney that was sending a thin plume of smoke into the cold mountain air. Someone was inside.
Carver parked a hundred yards away and they approached on foot, their weapons drawn. The snow was up to their ankles, the silence broken only by the sound of their breathing and the distant cry of a hawk.
The front door was open.
Carver's heart sank. He had seen too many open doors in the past month. They never led anywhere good.
They entered the cabin slowly, clearing each room with the precision of men who had done this too many times. The living room was empty. The kitchen was empty. The bedroom—
Alan Lassiter was sitting in a chair by the window, looking out at the forest. He was alive. But barely.
He had been beaten. His face was swollen and bloodied, his hands bound with zip ties. A syringe lay on the floor beside him, empty. The same insulin. The same lot number. The same signature.
"Mr. Lassiter," Carver said, kneeling beside him. "Can you hear me?"
Lassiter's eyes fluttered open. "He was here. He was here when I got back."
"Who?"
"Strand. He found me. I don't know how."
"Where is he now?"
"Gone. He said he was going to finish what he started. He said he was going to kill everyone who knew the truth."
"Who else knows?"
Lassiter's eyes closed. "The list. In my pocket. He took it. He knows who they are."
Carver reached into Lassiter's pocket and found nothing. The list was gone. Strand had it. Strand knew the names of every witness who could tie him to the murder.
And somewhere in the city, Strand was hunting them down.
"How long ago did he leave?" Carver asked.
"An hour. Maybe less."
Carver called for an ambulance and then called Webb. "Strand has the witness list. He's going after everyone who can testify against him."
"Who's on the list?"
"I don't know. But we need to find out before he does."
Lassiter's eyes opened again. "Miriam. Shaniyah. Odette. Darius. Everyone who helped Elena. Everyone who knows the truth. He's going to kill them all."
Carver felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders. The case had never been about one murder. It had been about a system that killed people and the people who tried to stop it. And now the system was striking back, one last time, trying to erase every trace of resistance.
"We need to go," he said. "Now."
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