Chapter 16 - WHAT THE PHOTO DIDN’T PROVE.
Alexander wanted the man in Evelyn Mercer’s photograph identified before sunset.
He did not get what he wanted.
Detective Ortiz spent an entire morning explaining why.
“We have a face.”
“Partial.”
“Enough?”
“Maybe.”
“Run it.”
“We are.”
“Then?”
“Then we wait.”
Alexander stared at her.
“I hate that word.”
“I know.”
They sat inside a small interview room at the police department.
Ortiz had enlarged Evelyn’s photo.
Dark-haired man.
Approximately fifty.
Dark jacket.
Guest credential.
Wrist object resembling—possibly—a Vanguard-style token.
Possibly.
Alexander hated that word too.
“Could it be a watch?” Ortiz asked.
“Yes.”
“Could it be a key fob?”
“Yes.”
“Could it be another challenge coin?”
“Yes.”
“Could it be Vanguard?”
“Yes.”
“Does photograph prove that?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Alexander leaned back.
“Enjoying this?”
“A little.”
He almost smiled.
“What does it prove?”
“The man was standing with Conrad Vale and Margaret Bell at 11:17.”
“Correct.”
“That he had a black object with silver detail near his wrist.”
“Correct.”
“That Chloe may remember him touching it.”
“Correct.”
“That he later took her phone?”
“Grant says he did.”
“Which is testimony, not photo.”
“Yes.”
“That he attacked her?”
“No.”
“That Conrad sent him?”
“No.”
“That he knows me?”
“Not proven.”
Ortiz nodded.
“Now we can work.”
Alexander hated her because she was right.
Julian called five minutes later.
“I identified him.”
Alexander looked at Ortiz.
“Speaker.”
He put Julian on.
“Name?”
“Marcus Dane.”
Ortiz began writing.
“Age?”
“Fifty-two.”
“Background?”
“Former military contractor.”
Alexander felt cold.
“Branch?”
“Army. Then private logistics.”
“Vanguard?”
“No official membership.”
“Connection?”
Julian paused.
“He worked for Meridian Tactical Logistics.”
Alexander stared at the table.
Vale.
“Owned by Conrad?”
“Vale Meridian held a minority investment.”
“When?”
“During Vanguard deployment cycle seven.”
Alexander remembered.
A desert base.
Unmarked cargo flights.
Contractors who handled equipment, fuel, housing, communications.
People outside the unit who still saw more than normal civilians ever would.
“Did Dane interact with us?”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“Records are incomplete.”
“Who hired him?”
“Contract company.”
“What did he do?”
“Security liaison.”
Alexander looked at Ortiz.
“That could explain how he knew title.”
“Could.”
Ortiz emphasized the word.
Julian continued.
“There’s more.”
“Of course.”
“Dane now works private security.”
“For?”
“Vale Meridian Holdings.”
Alexander closed his eyes.
There it was.
A legitimate connection.
No conspiracy required.
Conrad Vale employed a man whose earlier contracting work placed him close enough to Vanguard to know Alexander’s old title.
That still did not prove why he was at Hawthorne.
Ortiz asked, “Official role Founders’ Night?”
Julian answered.
“Executive protection for Conrad Vale.”
Alexander looked at her.
That explained his presence beside Conrad.
Still did not explain Chloe.
Ortiz asked, “Any record Dane used driver name Daniel Kerr?”
“None.”
“Where is he?”
Julian paused.
“Vale Meridian says he’s on leave.”
Alexander laughed once.
“Of course.”
Ortiz continued.
“Travel?”
“Unknown.”
“Phone?”
“I don’t have lawful access.”
Alexander looked at Julian’s name on screen.
“Good.”
Julian ignored him.
“I can provide employment records and public filings.”
“Send them to Detective Ortiz.”
“Yes, sir.”
They ended the call.
Ortiz sat back.
“Now we have something.”
“Dane.”
“A name.”
“Employed by Vale.”
“Yes.”
“Knew Vanguard.”
“Could have.”
“Was at event.”
“Yes.”
“Could be fourth man.”
“Could be.”
Alexander exhaled.
“Still hate you.”
“Healthy.”
That afternoon, the case shifted again.
A valet from Founders’ Night contacted police after seeing Evelyn Mercer’s photo on local news.
His name was Sam Patel.
Twenty-three.
Graduate student.
He worked valet because his assistantship stipend did not cover rent.
Another Hawthorne contradiction.
Students passed through rooms with people whose annual income could buy apartment buildings, then parked their cars for tips.
Sam had dashcam footage.
Not because he was investigating anything.
His personal car was parked near the south service road, and the dashcam automatically recorded movement.
At 11:28 P.M., the camera captured a campus security cart.
Driver unclear.
Passenger seat empty.
On the rear platform sat a dark bag.
Chloe’s backpack.
Alexander recognized the yellow ribbon tied around one strap.
She had put it there because three students owned the same model.
At 11:34, the cart returned.
Bag gone.
That was significant.
Police had previously believed Chloe’s bag disappeared during the assault.
Now there was evidence campus security transported it after she left the conference center.
Ortiz obtained another warrant.
Maintenance areas.
Security storage.
Lost property.
At 7:40 P.M., she called Alexander.
“We found the bag.”
“Where?”
“Maintenance cage beneath Bellamy.”
Alexander went still.
“How long?”
“Unknown.”
“Logged?”
“No.”
“Contents?”
“Wallet. Notebook. Charger. Makeup. Student ID.”
“Phone?”
“No.”
“Laptop?”
“No.”
“What notebook?”
Ortiz paused.
“A small blue one.”
Alexander remembered Chloe’s spreadsheet.
Tip calculations.
“Anything inside?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Names.”
“Whose?”
“Bellamy workers. Students. Administrators.”
“Vale?”
“Yes.”
“Dane?”
“No.”
“Ward?”
“Yes.”
Alexander felt another piece lock into place.
“What did Chloe write?”
Ortiz hesitated.
“She kept dates.”
“Of what?”
“Incidents.”
“What kind?”
“Workers being sent home. Tips missing. Donor complaints. Student workers told to use service entrances.”
Alexander closed his eyes.
Chloe had been building a pattern.
Not a criminal case.
A student’s notebook.
Observations.
Questions.
Small unfairness recorded because nobody else seemed interested.
Ortiz continued.
“One page is torn out.”
“Which?”
“Last.”
“Any indication what was there?”
“Indentation.”
“Can recover?”
“Forensics may.”
Alexander looked toward Chloe’s hospital room.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“Evidence bag inventory.”
“What about it?”
“Somebody signed the backpack into campus security at 12:05 A.M.”
Alexander’s attention sharpened.
“Who?”
“Officer Nathan Brooks.”
Alexander frowned.
“Brooks says he never saw the backpack.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“We showed him the signature.”
“And?”
“He says it isn’t his.”
Alexander stared at nothing.
Missing footage.
Missing notebook.
Laptop in Reeve’s office.
Backpack hidden under Bellamy.
Now a forged security signature.
Somebody had not merely tried to control a scandal.
May you like
Somebody had tried to create a paper trail after the fact.
And they had chosen the name of the one officer who was already frightened enough to run.
