Page 35 of The Guilty Trial

“What was his relationship with Richard like?”

“Close. Eric idolized him. Richard was the older brother, the successful one—or so everyone thought. Eric worked some dead-end job, lived in Richard's shadow. When everything fell apart, I think Eric took it personally. Like the prosecution wasn't just attacking Richard, it was attacking him too.”

It wasn't much, but it was more than he had an hour ago. “Any idea where Eric is now?”

“Seattle area, I think. Or he was last I heard.” Brennan shrugged. “Like I said, we haven't kept in touch. Richard and I weren't exactly friends after everything came out. He blamed me for testifying, even though he was the one who brought me into the scheme in the first place.”

“Did Richard ever express anger toward Sterling or Vance from prison?”

“Again, I wouldn't know. We haven't spoken since the sentencing.” Brennan hesitated, but then added, “But if I had to guess? Yeah. Richard never took responsibility for anything. It was always someone else's fault. The investors were greedy, the regulators were incompetent, and Sterling was overzealous. Richard probably spends every day inside building up this narrative where he was the victim.”

“Anything else you can think of?” Jason asked him. “Anyone else Richard was close to? Friends, business associates, family members who might've felt wronged?”

Brennan hesitated, then shook his head slowly. “No. Richard didn't have a lot of friends. The people in his life were either marks or accomplices. Eric was really the only family he had left—their parents died years ago. As for associates, most of them scattered when the indictment came down. Nobody wanted to be associated with the guy who stole millions from retirees.”

Jason pushed off the doorframe. “Appreciate your time, Mr. Brennan. If you think of anything else, give me a call.” He handed over a card, which Brennan took with both hands, as if it were something fragile. He looked like a man who'd just been told the storm he'd survived might be changing course and circling back around.

As Jason walked back through the showroom, a salesman tried to catch his eye near a display of financing options, but Jason kept moving. Outside, the pennant flags snapped overhead, their cheerful colors garish against the gray sky.

He slid into the driver's seat and sat for a moment, staring at the flapping banners but not really seeing them. He considered the Kowalskis’ gratitude and Brennan's relief and remorse. Two different perspectives on the same case, and both of them colored by time and survival. Together, they agreed that Sterling and Vance had done their jobs well and had treated people with dignity even when the law didn't require it.

Jason started the engine, needing to do something to feel like he was making progress. They were moving, but it felt glacial. There were just too many cases, too many victims. Too many threads to follow, and each one led to more questions than answers.

Eric Calder was a name now, so that meant a potential lead. But how many other Eric Calders were there? How many siblings, parents, friends, and business partners felt wronged by the justice system? How many of them were angry enough to kill?

Their unsub was out there, and they were still chasing shadows, trying to find one name in a sea of people who had reason to hate the justice system.

Jason thought about Allie, about the team back at the office poring over case files, cross-referencing victims, looking for patterns. They were all good at this. In his estimation, they were the most competent team he could imagine. But even the best could miss something when the field was this wide and the connections this tangled.

He pulled onto Pacific Avenue, heading back toward the office. Traffic was light, and the road stretching ahead was a gray ribbon. He'd run Eric Calder's name through the system as soon as he got back and see if anything shook loose.

But he wasn’t holding his breath.

Chapter Nineteen

Lakewood, Washington

He sat in the old sedan, parked several houses down from the house he was observing. The street was quiet, lined with maple trees and modest homes that all looked the same in the growing darkness. Through the front window, shadows passed behind drawn curtains. The man was inside with his family while a U.S. marshal's vehicle sat conspicuously in the driveway.

The security detail complicated things, but it did not make them impossible.

He opened the small leather journal resting on his lap, its cover worn smooth from constant handling. He clicked his pen three times before touching it to paper. The ritual steadied his hands. The handwriting that emerged was meticulous, every letter formed with identical precision.

18:47 - Marshal arrives. Black Suburban. Male, approximately 6'2”, 210 lbs.

19:03 - Interior lights on. Kitchen visible through east window.

19:15 - Blinds drawn in living room. Movement continues.

This was his third night observing, documenting the rotation schedule with the patience of a naturalist observing migration patterns. The marshals changed shifts at six-hour intervals. The one currently inside would remain until midnight, when a second marshal would arrive in an identical vehicle. The exterior lighting had blind spots on the north side of the property, near the gate that led to the backyard. The neighbor's motion-sensor light was broken.

He recorded everything in neat columns.

The information was good but not yet complete.

A number pulsed in his mind, a steady rhythm that had been building since midafternoon. Twenty-two…twenty-two…twenty-two. It demanded acknowledgment. He could feel it behind his eyes, a pressure that would only ease when the work was complete.

He checked his watch: 19:22. The precision of the digits soothed him briefly. He closed the journal, aligned it perfectly with the edge of the passenger seat, and started the car. He pulled away from the curb without any haste, signaling at the stop sign even though no other vehicles were present.