Free Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three by M Mayle Page A

“Fingerprints?”
    “Yes ma’am. Prints from the knife match latents lifted at the scene from a doorframe in the garage and from the driver’s side of the vehicle you were in.”
    “How about the nursing home, any matches there?” Laurel says.
    “We’re still workin’ on that, ma’am, and it’s gonna be a while. Lifting partials and the sheer process of elimination could take as much as a week. Individualization always takes time and so does matching up with prints on file.”
    “Very well. Please go on and please don’t call me ma’am.”
    Grillo resumes, mixing terse with tedious and repeating much that’s already known. Laurel is about to call him on this when he departs from the tired script.
    “We’re in contact with the Bureau,” he says and waits for a reaction he doesn’t get. “The FBI,” he says as though they might think he meant the Bureau of Indian Affairs or the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. “Special Agent Byron Bell is heading up a team that’ll coordinate with L.A., New York, Northern Michigan, and London, if it comes to that.”
    “London? London, England?” Colin says.
    “Yeah. The writer guy I was put in touch with . . .” Grillo fumbles a small notebook from a side pocket. “Brownell Yates,” he reads from the notebook. “Yates is convinced there’s some kinda tie-in with the drug death of your buddy, Rayce Vaughn. The Bureau don’t even wanna hear about it. Neither does the local task force, for the most part, so we’ll just have to see what develops there.”
    “Brownell Yates,” Colin says. Why’s that bloody name familiar? Do I know him?” He targets first Laurel, then Nate before Amanda answers.
    “He wrote that insightful magazine piece about you after the Concert for Rayce,” she says. “And before that, he approached Nate with data supporting Nate’s and my belief in the existence of a disgruntled avenger of Aurora’s honor.”
    “I’m glad you brought that up,” Grillo says to Amanda. “These beliefs of yours—something’s missing in that write-up—in all them color-coded charts and graphs and timelines you furnished. I’m doin’ you a favor to point this out now because you can bet your sweet bippy the Feds’ll jump on it.”
    “I’m not getting you.” Amanda bristles at the perceived criticism.
    “I know what he’s getting at,” Nate says. “In all your meticulous documentation he’s unable to find the one single incident that put me over the edge—made me into the paranoid, nursemaid I became after Colin’s accident. And, oddly enough, if the detective hadn’t broached the subject today, I would have. Because of the blood connection.”
    Amanda, who was bristling a minute ago, is now close to cringing. Nate looks as pained as he was when his injuries were fresh. Colin displays mild annoyance, and Grillo appears ready to wait as long as it takes.
    “Very well,” Laurel says into the void, “I’ll bite. What’s the blood connection?”
    Nate repositions himself in his chair, fusses with the sling supporting his left arm, clears his throat.” I started to make the connection when I saw what had happened to David,” he says. “When I saw the incredible amount of blood that was spilled and compared it with the lesser amount I saw on Aurora’s mutilated body. A trickle by comparison.”
    Grillo holds up a silencing hand. “Wait a minute. Lemme make sure I’m following,” he says. “By Aurora, you refer to the first Mrs. Elliot.”
    “Right,” Nate says.
    “And you’re referring to the condition of the body when—according to documentation supplied by you—you were first on the scene of the ’eighty-four road accident that claimed her life.”
    “Yes. That’s the incident you’re looking for. The incident I’ve spoken of only once since.”
    “I’m all ears,” Grillo says.
    “The decapitation . . . I believe everyone here knows that Aurora Elliot was decapitated.” Nate bounces questioning glances