Our job is to find those mistakes.

Chen pulled out the rental agreement, a photocopy from the original case file, Desert Roads Auto Rental.

According to the business licensing records, it was owned by a man named Raymond Howell.

He filed for bankruptcy in late 1998 and shut down operations in January 1999.

Convenient timing, Webb noted.

Did the original investigation look at him? Chen flipped through the file.

There’s a note here.

Detective Ramirez, the lead investigator in 1997, interviewed Howell twice.

Once right after the disappearance, once about 3 months later.

Howell claimed he didn’t remember anything unusual about the rental.

Said Thomas Brennan came in, filled out the paperwork, took the car, and that was the last he saw of him.

Is Howell still alive? I checked.

He’s 73 years old, living in a retirement community in Scottsdale.

I think we should pay him a visit tomorrow morning.

Webb nodded, then tapped the photograph of the marked map found in the car.

This bothers me.

If someone forced them off the planned route, why leave a map showing where they were going? Maybe they didn’t expect the car to ever be found, Chen suggested.

8 ft underground in an abandoned rest stop area.

If not for that construction project, it might have stayed buried for another 50 years.

Or maybe the map was meant to mislead us, Webb said.

Show us heading north to Flagstaff when they actually went somewhere else entirely.

Chen considered this.

The medical examiner is running toxicology on what remains she can test.

If Thomas or Daniel were drugged, that might tell us something about how they were controlled.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming email.

Chen opened it and felt her pulse quicken.

Preliminary DNA results confirmed match for Thomas and Daniel Brennan.

Webb let out a long breath.

At least Elena will have that certainty.

There’s something else, Chen said, reading further.

The ME found fibers on the clothing remains, synthetic material, possibly from rope or restraints.

Both victims hands were bound at the time of death.

The implications settled over them like a weight.

Thomas Brennan and his 12-year-old son had been tied up and murdered, their bodies hidden away in a makeshift grave.

This hadn’t been a quick act of violence.

It had been planned, deliberate, cruel.

We need to rebuild the timeline, Webb said.

What do we know for certain? Chen pulled out a legal pad and began writing.

July 18th, 1997.

Thomas and Daniel left their home at approximately 9:30 am The flight was scheduled to depart at noon.

Sky Harbor Airport is roughly 40 minutes from their house in normal traffic.

They had plenty of time.

The rest stop where the car was found, Webb continued.

How far is that from their house? about 25 minutes in the opposite direction of the airport.

If they were heading to the rest stop instead of the airport, that suggests either Thomas deliberately drove there for some reason or someone else was driving the car.

The car? Chen mused.

It was a rental.

How did the killer know they’d be in that specific vehicle? Webb leaned forward.

That’s the question, isn’t it? Either the killer followed them from their house, which seems risky in broad daylight, or they knew in advance what car Thomas would be driving, which brings us back to the rental company.

Chen said someone at Desert Roads Auto Rental could have known what vehicle was rented, when it would be picked up, where it was going.

We need a list of everyone who worked there in 1997.

Webb said employees, mechanics, anyone who had access to rental information.

Chen was already typing, pulling up archived business records.

I’ll request employment records from the state.

If Howell kept any documentation from the bankruptcy, we might get lucky.

They worked in silence for the next hour.

Chen making calls and sending emails while Webb reviewed the original case file page by page, looking for details that might have been missed or dismissed 29 years ago.

The building grew quiet around them as other detectives went home to their families, but Chen barely noticed.

She had learned early in her career that the first 72 hours after a break in a cold case were crucial.

After that, the urgency faded.

Other cases demanded attention and momentum was lost.

“Here’s something,” Web said suddenly.

In Detective Ramirez’s notes from the initial investigation, he mentions that Elellanena Brennan told him Thomas seemed distracted the morning of the trip.

Not worried exactly, but preoccupied.

Distracted how? She didn’t elaborate.

But what if Thomas knew something was wrong? What if someone had contacted him, threatened [clears throat] him, forced him to deviate from the plan? Chen reached for her phone.

I’ll call Elena tomorrow.

see if she remembers anything more specific about his behavior that morning.

There’s also this, Webb continued, pointing to another section of the report.

The rental company told police the car was picked up at 8:00 am on July 18th, but Elena says they didn’t leave the house until 9:30.

Where was Thomas for that hour and a half? Chen felt a chill run down her spine.

That’s a significant gap.

If he picked up the car at 8 and didn’t leave home until 9:30, where did he go? What was he doing? We need to check his phone records from that day, Webb said.

See who he called, who called him.

I’ll request them tomorrow, Chen said, making a note.

Though getting records from 1997 might be challenging.

Webb stood, draining the last of his coffee.

Get some sleep, Sarah.

We’ve got a long road ahead of us and we need to be sharp.

After he left, Chen sat alone in her office, staring at the photographs of Thomas and Daniel Brennan.

The official photos from 1997 showed a handsome man in his late 30s with kind eyes and a gentle smile.

His arm around a grinning boy with his father’s same eyes, same smile.

Father and son caught in a moment of ordinary happiness, neither of them knowing that their time together was measured in hours.

She thought of Elena Brennan going home to an empty house, finally knowing the worst after years of terrible uncertainty.

Chen had worked homicides for 15 years, had seen the damage violent death inflicted on those left behind.

But there was something particularly cruel about this case, about the deliberate concealment, the years of false hope, the calculated cruelty of letting Elena wonder and search and never know.

Whoever had done this had robbed her of not just her husband and son, but of 29 years of her life.

29 years of being unable to grieve properly, to find peace, to move forward.

That kind of prolonged suffering required a special kind of malice.

Chen gathered the files, locked them in her desk, and headed home.

But sleep, when it finally came, was troubled by dreams of silver cars buried in the desert and the sound of a 12-year-old boy calling for help that would never arrive.

The next morning, Chen and Webb drove to the Sunny Vista Retirement Community in Scottsdale.

The facility was pleasant and well-maintained with desert landscaping and walking paths winding between low stuckco buildings.

A receptionist directed them to building C, apartment 214, where Raymond Howell resided.

The man who answered the door looked older than his 73 years, stooped and frail, with liver spotted hands that trembled slightly as he held the door.

His eyes were roomy but sharp, and they narrowed suspiciously when Chen and Webb showed their badges.

“Mr.

Howell, I’m Detective Chen.

This is Detective Webb.

We’d like to ask you some questions about Desert Roads Auto Rental.

” Howell’s face went pale.

That was a long time ago.

May we come in? He hesitated, then stepped aside to let them enter.

The apartment was small but neat, decorated with the impersonal furniture that came standard with assisted living facilities.

Howell gestured to a small couch and took a chair across from them, moving slowly as if his bones hurt.

Mr.

Howell, you may have seen the news, Chen began.

3 days ago, we recovered a vehicle that had been buried near an abandoned rest stop on Interstate 10, a silver Toyota Camry that was rented from your company in July 1997.

Howell’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair.

I remember the man and his son who disappeared.

Thomas and Daniel Brennan, Webb said, you spoke with detectives in 1997 about the rental.

I told them everything I knew.

Howell said, his voice defensive.

Which wasn’t much.

The man came in, rented a car, and I never saw him again.

[clears throat] “We’d like to go over that day again,” Chen said gently.

“Sometimes details come back with time.

Things that didn’t seem important before.

” Howell was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant.

I remember he seemed nervous, kept checking his watch, looking out the window.

I figured he was just worried about missing his flight.

Did anyone else interact with him? Webb asked.

Other employees, customers? I had a kid working for me then.

College student worked part-time doing paperwork and cleaning cars.

Michael something.

Mike Foster, that was his name.

Chen and Webb exchanged a glance.

Do you know what happened to Michael Foster? No idea.

He quit about a month after that car went missing.

just didn’t show up one day, never called, never came back for his final paycheck.

I was going to report him, but then everything fell apart with the business and I had bigger problems.

Did Foster have access to rental records? Chen pressed.

Would he have known what car Thomas Brennan was driving, where he was going? Howell thought about it.

Yeah, he did the paperwork sometimes when I was busy.

He could have seen the rental agreement.

How old was Foster at the time? 20, maybe 21.

Phoenix kid going to community college.

Webb made notes while Chen continued, “Mr.

Howell, did anything unusual happened in the days before or after the Brennan disappeared?” “Anything that stuck with you?” Howell’s eyes shifted away from hers, and Chen felt her instincts sharpen.

“He was holding something back.

” “Mr.

Howell,” she said quietly.

Two people are dead, a father and his 12-year-old son.

If you know something, anything, now is the time to tell us.

The old man was silent for so long that Chen thought he might refuse to answer.

Then finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

About a week before it happened, I got a phone call.

Middle of the night, maybe 2 or 3:00 am, a man’s voice asking about upcoming rentals.

Wanted to know if I had any cars going out for long trips that week.

Chen leaned forward.

Did you tell him? I hung up on him.

Thought it was some kind of scam or robbery setup.

But the next night, he called again.

This time, he said if I didn’t cooperate, bad things would happen to my business.

Howell’s hands were shaking now.

I told him to go to hell and hung up.

But then the Brennan disappeared and I wondered, “Did you tell the police about these calls in 1997?” Webb asked, his voice hard.

Howell shook his head miserably.

I was scared.

My business was already struggling, and I thought if the police started investigating me, it would finish me.

I convinced myself the calls weren’t connected, that it was just a coincidence.

Did you recognize the voice? Chen demanded.

No, he didn’t sound old or young, just normal.

But there was something about the way he talked real calm, like he was ordering a pizza instead of making threats.

Chen stood, barely containing her anger.

Mr.

Howell, you withheld critical information in a double homicide investigation.

Information that might have saved lives or led us to a killer 29 years ago.

I know.

the old man whispered.

I’ve known it for 29 years.

It’s why the business failed, why my wife left me, why I can’t sleep at night.

I’ve been waiting for someone to come ask me about it again, hoping I’d get a chance to finally tell the truth.

Webb was on his phone, already requesting a formal statement.

Chen paced the small living room, her mind racing.

Someone had specifically targeted the Brennan, had called the rental company asking about long trips, had known in advance that Thomas would be traveling with his son.

The calls, she said, did they come from a blocked number? I don’t know.

This was 1997 before caller ID was common.

I just answered the phone and there he was.

And you’re certain it was a man? Yes.

Deep voice like I said, calm.

As Webb arranged for Howell to come to the station to give a formal statement, Chen stepped outside into the Arizona Heat.

Pulling out her phone, she called the tech unit and requested a deep dive into Michael Foster, the college student who had quit without notice right after the Brennan’s vanished.

“Check everything,” she told the analyst.

“Current address, employment history, criminal record, social media, everything.

I want to know where he is and what he’s been doing for the last 29 years.

” When Webb joined her outside, his expression was grim.

This changes everything.

This wasn’t random.

Someone planned this, targeted the Brennan specifically.

But why? Chen said.

Thomas Brennan was a civil engineer.

By all accounts, he was a quiet family man with no enemies, no debts, no criminal connections.

Why would someone target him and his son? That’s what we need to find out, Webb said.

And I think Michael Foster might have the answers.

Michael Foster’s last known address led Chen and Webb to a modest apartment complex in Tempe.

But according to the current tenant, Foster had moved out in 2003.

The property manager, a harried woman in her 50s, scrolled through ancient computer records and shook her head.

No forwarding address.

He left about 6 months before I started working here.

I can check with the owner, but I doubt he kept records from that far back.

Back in the car, Webb’s phone rang.

He listened for a moment, his expression darkening, then thank the caller and hung up.

That was the tech unit.

They found Michael Foster.

Where? Maricopa County Jail.

He’s been there for the last 11 years, serving 25 to life for seconddegree murder.

Chen felt a jolt of electricity run through her.

Who did he kill? His girlfriend beat her to death in 2015 during an argument.

The prosecution painted him as having a history of violence, though most of his priors were assault charges, bar fights, that kind of thing.

Nothing before 1997, Webb checked his notes.

Clean record until 2001.

Then it starts assault, domestic violence, escalating pattern of violent behavior.

Chen pulled back onto the road, heading toward the jail.

Let’s find out what Michael Foster knows about July 18th, 1997.

The Maricopa County Jail was a sprawling complex of concrete and razor wire, baking under the relentless desert sun.

Chen and Webb went through security and were led to an interview room where they waited while guards brought Foster from his cell.

The man who entered the room bore little resemblance to the 20-year-old college student he’d been in 1997.

Michael Foster was now 50 years old.

His face weathered and hard, his arms covered in prison tattoos.

He moved with the careful awareness of someone who had learned to watch for threats from every direction.

When he saw the detectives, something flickered in his eyes.

“Fear,” Chen thought.

“Or maybe recognition.

” “Michael Foster,” Chen said as he sat down across from them, his hands cuffed in front of him.

“I’m Detective Chen.

This is Detective Web.

We’re investigating a cold case from 1997.

” Fosters’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t know anything about anything from 1997.

You worked at Desert Roads Auto Rental that summer, Webb said.

You quit without notice in August 1997, right after a father and son disappeared while driving one of the rental vehicles.

I was a kid.

I quit a summer job.

So what? Chen slid a photograph across the table.

Thomas and Daniel Brennan smiling at the camera, alive and unaware of what was coming.

So 3 days ago, we found their bodies.

They’d been murdered and buried for 29 years, and you quit your job right after they vanished.

Foster stared at the photograph, and Chen saw his throat work as he swallowed.

I didn’t kill anybody back then.

You can check.

I didn’t have any record until years later.

But you remember them, Chen pressed.

You remember the Brennan? A long silence.

Then Foster looked up and there was something haunted in his eyes.

Yeah, I remember.

Tell us what you remember, Webb said quietly.

Foster was quiet for so long that Chen thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then finally, he started to speak, his voice low and rough.

I was working the desk that morning when Brennan came in to pick up his rental.

Nice guy, polite.

His kid was with him, excited about some trip they were taking.

I processed the paperwork, gave them the keys, and they left.

That was it.

Except it wasn’t, Chen said.

Because something happened.

Something that made you quit a month later without even collecting your final paycheck.

Fosters’s hands clenched on the table.

A week after they disappeared, a man came to the rental place late afternoon near closing.

He wanted to rent a car, but there was something wrong about him.

[clears throat] The way he looked at me like he knew something.

“What did he look like?” Webb asked, leaning forward.

“Tall, maybe six, too.

Dark hair, lean build.

He had these eyes, these cold eyes that just looked right through you.

” He asked about the Brennan.

Said he’d heard about the disappearance on the news.

Wondered if the police had found anything yet.

Chen felt her pulse quicken.

Did you tell the police about this man? Foster shook his head.

He told me not to.

Said if I talked to the cops, bad things would happen.

Said he knew where I lived, where my mom lived, where I went to school.

I was 20 years old and scared out of my mind.

So I kept my mouth shut.

But you quit.

Webb noted.

Yeah.

I couldn’t stand being there anymore, knowing something was wrong, knowing I should say something, but being too afraid.

I thought if I just left, moved on, it would all go away.

His voice cracked.

But it didn’t go away.

It never went away.

Is that why you turned violent? Chen asked.

The guilt? Fosters’s eyes met hers.

And she saw genuine pain there.

Maybe.

I don’t know.

I started drinking, got into fights.

Everything just got darker and darker until I couldn’t see my way out anymore.

And then I did something I can never take back.

Webb pulled out a notepad.

This man who came to the rental place.

Did he give you a name? Yeah.

He said his name was David Martin, but when I looked him up later after I’d had time to think about it, I couldn’t find anyone by that name matching his description.

I think it was fake.

Did he rent a car? No.

He looked around for a few minutes, asked his questions, then left.

But before he went, he did something strange.

He took one of our business cards from the counter and wrote something on the back of it.

Then he put it in his pocket and left.

Chen exchanged a glance with Web.

Did you see what he wrote? No, but I remember thinking it was weird taking our card and writing on it like that.

Did this man have any distinguishing features? Scars, tattoos, accent? Foster thought for a moment.

He had a scar on his left hand between his thumb and index finger.

Looked like an old burn mark, like he’d grabbed something hot.

Chen made a note.

Did you ever see him again? No, but about 2 weeks later, I got a phone call.

Middle of the night, it was him.

I recognized his voice.

He said, “You made the right choice staying quiet.

Keep it that way.

” Then he hung up.

“And you never reported any of this.

” Web said, his voice hard with frustration.

“I was a kid,” Foster said, his own voice rising.

“A scared kid who didn’t know what to do.

You think I don’t regret it? You think I haven’t spent the last 29 years wondering if I could have saved them if I’d just been braver?” Did Raymond Howell know about this man’s visit? Chen asked.

Foster shook his head.

He’d left early that day.

It was just me closing up.

That’s why the guy came then.

I think he knew I’d be alone.

Chen sat back processing this new information.

They now had a description of a potential suspect, albeit 29 years old.

A tall man with dark hair and a distinctive scar using the name David Martin who had taken a threatening interest in the Brennan’s disappearance.

Michael,” she said quietly.

“If we showed you photographs, do you think you could identify this man?” “Maybe, it’s been a long time.

But those eyes, I’d remember those eyes.

” As they prepared to leave, Foster called out to them, “Detective Chen, those people, the father and son, did they suffer?” Chen turned back.

“Yes, they did.

” Fosters’s face crumpled.

“I’m sorry, God.

I’m so sorry.

I should have said something.

I should have helped.

Yes, Chen said coldly.

You should have.

Outside in the scorching parking lot, Webb loosened his tie and shook his head.

A potential suspect from 29 years ago using a fake name.

This is going to be like finding a ghost.

We have a physical description and a distinctive scar, Chen said.

And we know he was familiar enough with the area to stake out the rental place to know when Foster would be alone.

This wasn’t someone passing through.

This was someone local, someone who knew the area well.

Someone who called Howell ahead of time asking about long-distance rentals, Webb added.

Someone who planned this carefully.

Chen’s phone rang.

It was the medical examiner’s office.

she answered, listened for a moment, then felt her blood run cold.

“What is it?” Web asked when she hung up.

The me finished the detailed examination of Daniel Brennan’s remains.

“Marcus, that 12-year-old boy didn’t die the same day as his father.

” Web stared at her.

“What?” Based on the decomposition patterns and some preserved tissue samples, the ME estimates Daniel died at least a week, possibly 2 weeks after Thomas.

Thomas Brennan was killed on or around July 18th, 1997, but Daniel Brennan was kept alive for days, maybe weeks, before he was murdered.

The implications hit them both like a physical blow.

Thomas had been killed quickly, but his son had been taken somewhere, held captive, kept alive for some unknown purpose before finally being murdered and buried with his father’s body.

We need to tell Elena, Webb said quietly.

I know.

Chen felt sick.

But first, I want to know why.

Why kill the father immediately, but keep the son alive? What was the purpose? They drove back to the station in silence, each lost in their own dark thoughts.

When they arrived, Chen found a message waiting from the tech unit.

They’d pulled phone records from the Desert Roads Auto Rental for July 1997, and there were indeed two calls placed to the business in the early morning hours of July 11th and July 12th, exactly as Howell had described.

Both calls had originated from a pay phone in Phoenix, less than 2 mi from where the Brennan had lived.

Chen stared at the address, her mind working.

The killer had been in the Brennan’s neighborhood, watching them, planning.

This wasn’t random.

This was targeted, specific, personal.

But why? What had Thomas Brennan done to attract the attention of a killer? And why take his son? She pulled up Thomas Brennan’s background file, reading through it again with fresh eyes.

Civil engineer, employed by Meridian Design Group for 12 years.

Married to Elena for 15 years.

No criminal record, no debts, no known enemies.

A quiet, ordinary life that had ended in extraordinary violence.

Webb appeared in her doorway.

I’ve been thinking about the timeline.

If Daniel was kept alive for up to 2 weeks, that means he was still alive when Elena was frantically searching for them.

When she was filing missing person’s reports and calling hospitals, her son was somewhere still breathing, still hoping someone would find him.

Stop, Chen said, unable to bear the thought.

We can’t think about it that way or we’ll go crazy.

We have to think about it that way, Webb insisted.

Because understanding what happened to Daniel might be the key to understanding why this happened at all.

The killer didn’t just want Thomas dead.

He wanted something from that boy.

Something worth keeping him alive for days in whatever hell he was trapped in.

Chen’s desk phone rang.

It was the front desk.

Detective Chen, there’s someone here to see you.

Says it’s urgent.

Name is Patricia Vance.

Did she say what it’s about? She says she has information about the Brennan case.

She saw it on the news.

Chen and Webb exchanged glances.

Send her up.

5 minutes later, a woman in her mid60s entered Chen’s office.

Patricia Vance was well-dressed and composed, but Chen could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands gripped her purse.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Vance said as she sat down.

“I almost didn’t come.

I’ve spent 29 years trying to forget what I saw.

But when I heard they found those poor people, I knew I had to finally speak up.

” “What did you see, Miss Vance?” Chen asked gently.

Vance took a deep breath.

July 18th, 1997.

I was driving on Interstate 10 heading east out of Phoenix.

It was around 10:30 in the morning.

I saw a silver car pulled over near the old Desert Vista rest stop, the one that closed down years ago.

There was another car parked behind it, a dark blue sedan.

I remember because I thought maybe someone was having car trouble.

Chen’s pulse quickened.

Did you see anyone? Yes, there were two men standing by the silver car talking to the driver.

At the time, I thought they were just good Samaritans helping someone.

But then, as I passed, I saw something that’s haunted me ever since.

What was it? Vance’s voice dropped to a whisper.

One of the men had his hand on the back of a boy’s neck.

The boy was standing very still, like he was afraid to move.

And the look on that child’s face, the terror.

I’ve never forgotten it.

But I was already past them, and I convinced myself I was imagining things, that I was being paranoid.

I drove on and tried to forget about it.

“Why didn’t you report it?” Web asked.

“I did,” Vance said, her eyes welling with tears.

2 days later, when I heard about the missing father and son, I called the police.

I told them what I’d seen.

But the detective I spoke to said they’d already checked the rest stop and found nothing.

He thanked me and said they’d look into it, but I never heard anything more.

I thought maybe I’d been wrong, that it wasn’t connected.

Chen felt a cold fury building in her chest.

Do you remember which detective you spoke to? I wrote it down.

I kept the note all these years.

Vance pulled a small yellowed piece of paper from her purse.

Detective Lawrence Garrett.

Chen took the paper, her mind racing.

Lawrence Garrett had retired in 2003, but she could track him down, find out why this crucial tip had been dismissed or ignored.

Ms.

Vance, can you describe the men you saw? One was tall, dark-haired, thin build.

The other was shorter, stockier.

I didn’t get a good look at their faces.

I was driving past too quickly.

But the tall one, he had this way of standing, very still, very controlled.

It gave me chills.

The cars, Webb interjected.

Can you describe them in more detail? The silver one was a sedan, pretty new looking.

The dark blue one was older, maybe from the 80s.

It had a dent in the rear bumper.

I remember that.

Chen showed her the photograph of Thomas and Daniel Brennan.

Could this have been the father and son you saw? Vance studied the photo, her hand trembling slightly.

Yes.

Yes, that could have been them.

The boy had dark hair like that.

And the man, the way he was standing in the photo, it matches my memory.

After taking Vance’s full statement and contact information, Chen and Webb sat in stunned silence.

Someone saw them, Webb finally said.

Someone saw them being abducted in broad daylight, reported it to the police, and nothing was done.

We need to find Lawrence Garrett, Chen said grimly.

And we need to find out why he ignored this tip.

Lawrence Garrett lived in a quiet neighborhood in Mesa, in a house with a well-maintained lawn and a vintage truck in the driveway.

When he answered the door, Chen saw a man in his early 70s with the kind of weathered face that spoke of too many years seeing humanity’s worst.

His eyes narrowed when he saw their badges.

“I’m retired,” he said flatly.

“We know,” Chen replied.

“But we need to talk to you about a case from 1997, the Brennan disappearance.

” Something flickered across Garrett’s face, too quick for Chen to identify.

Fear, guilt.

He stepped aside reluctantly and let them in.

The house was neat, but sparse, decorated with photographs of grandchildren and a few commendations from his years on the force.

Garrett gestured to a worn couch and took a recliner across from them, his body language defensive.

“What about the Brennan?” he asked.

You were one of the lead investigators, Webb said.

We’re reviewing the case and we found some inconsistencies in how certain tips were handled.

That was almost 30 years ago, Garrett said.

I don’t remember every detail of every case.

Chen pulled out her notebook.

July 20th, 1997.

A woman named Patricia Vance called in a tip.

She’d seen a silver car pulled over near the Desert Vista rest stop on the morning of July 18th with two men and a boy who appeared frightened.

Does that ring any bells? Garrett’s jaw tightened.

Vague.

We got dozens of tips on that case.

According to Ms.

Vance, you told her you checked the rest stop and found nothing.

Chen pressed.

But according to the case file, no one actually searched that location until 3 days later.

Why did you lie to her? I didn’t lie, Garrett said, his voice rising.

We did a preliminary check.

There was nothing there.

A preliminary check? Webb’s voice was hard.

A woman reports seeing what could have been an abduction in progress at a specific location, and you did a preliminary check.

Garrett stood abruptly.

You don’t know what it was like back then.

We were overwhelmed, understaffed.

That case had media attention, tips coming in from every direction, most of them worthless.

We did the best we could with what we had.

“Sit down, Mr.

Garrett,” Chen said coldly.

“We’re not done,” Garrett remained standing, his hands clenched at his sides.

“If you’re here to blame me for not solving a 29-year-old case, you can get out of my house.

” We’re here because 3 days ago, we found Thomas and Daniel Brennan buried at the exact location Patricia Vance told you to search.

They’d been there the whole time.

While you were dismissing her tip, while you were doing your preliminary check, a 12-year-old boy was being held captive somewhere, still alive, still able to be saved, and he died because nobody looked hard enough.

The color drained from Garrett’s face.

He sank back into his chair as if his legs had given out.

“What?” The medical examiner estimates Daniel Brennan was kept alive for 1 to two weeks after his father was murdered, Webb said.

Which means if someone had properly investigated Vance’s tip, if someone had searched that rest stop thoroughly in the first few days, we might have found him in time.

Garrett looked like he might be sick.

I didn’t know.

I swear to God, I didn’t know.

Why didn’t you search? Chen demanded.

A credible witness puts them at that exact location, and you ignored it.

Why? Garrett was silent for a long time, staring at his hands.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

Because I was told not to.

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Explain, Webb said.

The day after Vance called, I was planning to take a team out to search the rest stop area thoroughly.

But that morning, I got called into the captain’s office.

Captain Frank Morrison, he’s been dead for 15 years now.

He told me to focus my resources elsewhere, that the rest stop tip was probably nothing, that we had more promising leads to follow.

And you just accepted that? Chen asked incredulously.

Morrison was my superior officer, Garrett said, his voice thick with something that might have been shame.

And he wasn’t just suggesting it.

He was ordering me to drop that line of investigation.

Did he say why? No, but I’d worked under Morrison for 10 years.

He was a good cop, or so I thought.

If he said to focus elsewhere, I figured he had his reasons.

Webb leaned forward.

Did you ever ask him about it later? After the case went cold, once about a year later, when we still had nothing, I brought up the rest stop, suggested we should go back and search more thoroughly.

Morrison shut me down hard, said I was wasting my time chasing ghosts, that the Brennan had probably left the state voluntarily.

Garrett’s hands were shaking now.

I knew it didn’t make sense, but I let it go.

God help me.

I let it go.

Chen felt a chill run down her spine.

“Someone inside the department interfered with the investigation.

Someone in a position of authority deliberately steered you away from the one lead that might have saved Daniel Brennan’s life.

” Morrison was dirty? Web asked.

“I don’t know,” Garrett said miserably.

“After I retired, I heard rumors.

” “Nothing concrete, just whispers about Morrison having debts, maybe taking money from people he shouldn’t have.

But he died before anyone could prove anything.

Who else knew about Vance’s tip? Chen asked.

Who else might have known you were planning to search the rest stop? The whole unit would have known.

We had morning briefings where we discussed active leads.

Maybe 15 20 people would have heard me mention it.

Chen’s mind raced.

If Morrison had deliberately sabotaged the investigation, someone had gotten to him.

someone with enough money or influence to buy off a police captain to ensure that Thomas and Daniel Brennan’s bodies remained hidden.

[clears throat] “We need the names of everyone who was in those briefings,” she said.

“Everyone who worked the case, everyone who had access to the investigation,” Garrett nodded slowly.

“I can try to remember, but some of those people are dead now and others scattered across the country after they retired.

” “Try anyway,” Webb said.

“Every name you can remember.

” As Garrett began writing, Chen stepped outside to make a call.

She reached the tech unit and requested a full background check on Frank Morrison, deceased captain of the Phoenix Police Department.

Financial records, known associates, anything that might explain why he would deliberately sabotage a murder investigation.

When she returned inside, Garrett had filled two pages with names.

Chen took the list, scanning it.

Most of the names meant nothing to her, but one near the bottom made her pause.

Victor Brennan, she read aloud.

Same last name.

Relation.

Garrett looked up.

Thomas Brennan’s older brother.

He was a lawyer.

Came in a few times to push us on the investigation, see if we had any updates for Elena.

I included him because he was around asking questions.

Chen felt something click in her mind.

Did Victor Brennan have access to case details? Did he sit in on any briefings? No, not officially, but Morrison sometimes talked to him privately, gave him updates as a courtesy since he was family.

Where is Victor Brennan now? Garrett frowned.

I don’t know.

He stopped coming around after about 6 months.

I assumed he moved away or just gave up hope.

Back at the station, Chen pulled up everything she could find on Victor Brennan.

The records painted an interesting picture.

Victor had been a corporate lawyer for a large Phoenix firm until 1998 when he’d abruptly left the practice and moved to Seattle.

He’d worked there for a few years, then dropped off the grid entirely around 2004.

No tax returns after 2004, the tech analyst told her.

No employment records, no credit card usage, no property ownership.

It’s like he vanished or died.

Webb suggested if he died, there’s no death certificate on file anywhere in the country.

Chen stared at Victor Brennan’s driver’s license photo from 1997.

He bore a strong resemblance to his brother Thomas, the same kind eyes and gentle features.

But there was something else in his expression.

Something harder to define.

A sadness maybe or a weariness.

Let’s talk to Elellena, Chen said.

Find out what she knows about her brother-in-law.

They found Elellena at home, her sister Clare sitting beside her on the couch.

When Chen and Webb arrived, Elena’s face showed the strain of the past few days.

She’d been told that her husband and son’s bodies had been positively identified, but Chen had held back the worst detail.

The fact that Daniel had been kept alive for days or weeks.

Now, looking at this woman who had already suffered so much, Chen found herself dreading what she had to say.

“Mrs.

Brennan, we need to ask you about your brother-in-law, Victor.

” Elena’s expression shifted.

Something guarded entering her eyes.

“Victor? Why? When did you last see him? It’s been years.

20, maybe more.

After Thomas and Daniel disappeared, Victor was very involved in trying to find them.

He pushed the police, hired private investigators with his own money, did everything he could, but after about a year, he just stopped.

He told me he was moving to Seattle for work, and we lost touch.

“Did he ever seem strange to you?” Web asked.

Did anything about his behavior stand out? Elena thought about it.

He was devastated by their disappearance.

Thomas was his only sibling, and they were very close.

Victor took it hard, maybe even harder than I did in some ways.

He became obsessed with finding them.

Obsessed how? Chen pressed.

He would spend hours going over police reports, mapping out theories, following leads that the police had dismissed.

He barely slept.

His wife left him because he wouldn’t let it go.

Elellena paused.

“Is Victor in trouble?” “Do you think he knows something about what happened?” “We’re just trying to locate everyone who was involved in the original investigation,” Chen said carefully.

“Do you have any contact information for him? Any way to reach him?” “No, like I said, we lost touch years ago, but his ex-wife might know where he is.

Her name is Denise Brennan, though she probably went back to her maiden name after the divorce, Denise Carver.

Back in the car, Webb pulled up records for Denise Carver.

She still lived in Phoenix, worked as a real estate agent.

They called her office and were told she was showing a property, but would be available in an hour.

While they waited, Chen’s phone rang.

It was the medical examiner.

Detective Chen, I have preliminary toxicology results on Daniel Brennan’s remains.

There were traces of bzzoazipines in his system, specifically dasipam.

Someone was drugging that boy, keeping him sedated.

Chen closed her eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea.

What about Thomas Brennan? No drugs in his system, just blunt force trauma to the skull, consistent with being struck from behind with a heavy object.

He would have died quickly.

At least Thomas had been spared knowing what would happen to his son, Chen thought.

At least he hadn’t lived to see Daniel drugged and kept captive.

They met Denise Carver at a coffee shop near her office.

She was a polished woman in her late 50s with expensive highlights and the kind of professional smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

When Chen and Webb identified themselves and explained why they were there, the smile vanished entirely.

Victor,” she said, her voice flat.

“I haven’t spoken to him in 15 years.

We’re trying to locate him,” Chen explained.

“He was involved in the investigation into his brother’s disappearance, and we need to ask him some follow-up questions.

” Denise laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Good luck with that.

Victor Brennan is a ghost.

He disappeared almost as thoroughly as his brother did.

” “What do you mean?” Web asked.

Denise stirred her coffee, not drinking it.

After Thomas and Daniel vanished, Victor lost his mind.

Not all at once, but slowly, methodically.

He quit his job, cashed out his retirement accounts, spent every dime on private investigators and psychics and anyone who claimed they could help find his brother.

He stopped sleeping, stopped eating.

He would stay up all night making charts and graphs, convinced there was some pattern he was missing.

When did you divorce him? 2000.

I couldn’t watch him destroy himself anymore.

I tried to help, but he wouldn’t listen to anyone.

She looked up at them, her eyes hard.

But here’s the thing.

Right before we split up, Victor started talking about a theory he’d developed.

He said he’d figured out what happened to Thomas and Daniel.

He said he knew who was responsible.

Chen leaned forward.

Did he tell you who? No, he said it was better if I didn’t know.

He said knowing would put me in danger.

Denise’s hand trembled slightly on her coffee cup.

A week later, he emptied our bank accounts and left.

I got divorce papers in the mail 6 months after that, already signed.

I never saw him again.

Did he ever mention a Captain Frank Morrison? Chen asked.

Denise’s eyes widened.

Yes, he hated Morrison.

said Morrison had sabotaged the investigation, that he was covering for someone.

Victor was convinced Morrison was dirty, but he couldn’t prove it.

Did he ever mention anyone else? Any names of people he suspected? There was one name he mentioned a few times.

David something.

David Martin, maybe.

He said, “This David Martin was the key to everything, but he could never find any trace of him.

It was like the man didn’t exist.

” Chen and Webb exchanged glances.

David Martin.

The fake name Michael Foster had been given by the man with the scar.

Miss Carver, Chen said carefully.

If Victor contacted you now, if he reached out for any reason, we need you to call us immediately.

Why? What’s happened? We found Thomas and Daniel’s bodies.

They were murdered and buried near an old rest stop.

We’re working to identify their killer.

The color drained from Denise’s face.

Oh god.

Victor was right.

He was right all along.

After they left the coffee shop, Chen and Webb sat in the car piecing together what they knew.

“Victor Brennan figured something out,” Webb said.

“Something big enough to make him abandon his entire life and disappear.

” “And Morrison was dirty,” Chen added.

“He deliberately sabotaged the investigation, steered Garrett away from the rest stop where the bodies were buried.

” So, the question is, who paid Morrison to interfere? Who had that kind of money and influence? Chen’s phone buzzed with an email from the tech unit.

The subject line read, “Frank Morrison Financial Records, urgent.

” She opened it and felt her blood run cold.

Marcus, look at this.

In August 1997, one month after the Brennan’s disappeared, Frank Morrison deposited $25,000 in cash into his personal savings account.

No explanation, no documentation.

A payoff, Webb said.

And look at this.

There were three more deposits over the next year.

10,000 in November 1997, 15,000 in March 1998, another 10,000 in July 1998, $60,000 total, all in cash, all unexplained.

Someone paid him to bury the investigation.

Webb said, “The question is who?” Chen scrolled through the rest of the financial records, looking for any other anomalies, and then she found it.

A single check written by Morrison in September 1997 made out to someone named Gerald Voss for $5,000.

The memo line read, “Consultation services.

” “Who is Gerald Voss?” she wondered aloud.

Webb was already typing on his phone.

After a moment, he looked up, his face grim.

“Gerald Voss owns a construction and excavation company, Voss Industries.

They specialize in large-scale earthmoving projects.

The implications settled over them like ice water.

Morrison paid an excavation company owner $5,000 2 months after the Brennan disappeared, Chen said slowly.

An excavation company that would have had the equipment and expertise to bury a car 8 ft underground.

We need to talk to Gerald Voss, Webb said, already starting the car.

Right now, Voss Industries occupied a sprawling compound on the outskirts of Phoenix, surrounded by chainlink fencing and filled with heavy machinery.

Excavators, bulldozers, dump trucks painted in faded yellow.

Chen and Web pulled up to the main office, a modular building that looked like it had been temporary 20 years ago and simply never replaced.

The receptionist, a young woman with bright pink nails, looked up from her computer with a professional smile.

“Can I help you? We need to speak with Gerald Voss,” Chen said, showing her badge.

“It’s urgent.

” The smile faltered.

“Mr.

Voss is in a meeting right now.

Can I tell him what this is regarding?” “Tell him it’s about Frank Morrison.

” The receptionist picked up the phone, spoke quietly for a moment, then hung up, looking slightly pale.

He’ll see you now.

Second door on the right.

Gerald Voss’s office was utilitarian, walls covered with blueprints and project photographs.

The man himself was in his early 70s, powerfully built despite his age, with calloused hands and the kind of deep tan that came from decades working outdoors.

He stood when they entered, his expression carefully neutral.

Detectives, I have to say, I’m surprised to hear Frank Morrison’s name after all these years.

He’s been dead what, 15 years now? 16.

Webb corrected.

But we’re not here about his death.

We’re here about money he paid you in September 1997.

Voss’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

That was a long time ago.

I don’t remember every transaction from nearly 30 years back.

Chen pulled out a copy of the check.

$5,000.

The memo says consultation services.

What kind of consultation? I’d have to check my records.

Please do.

Chen said her voice hard.

We’ll wait.

Voss held her gaze for a moment, then moved to a filing cabinet.

He made a show of searching through folders, but Chen noticed his hands were steady.

Whatever nervousness he felt, he was controlling it well.

“Here it is,” Voss said finally, pulling out a folder.

Morrison wanted advice on a residential project.

He was thinking of buying some land, needed to know about excavation costs, soil stability, that kind of thing.

Residential project, Webb repeated flatly.

Frank Morrison, who lived in a modest house in Glendale his entire life, suddenly needed large-scale excavation consultation.

That’s what he said.

I gave him some estimates, some advice.

That’s all.

Chen leaned forward.

Mr.

Voss, 3 days ago, we recovered a vehicle that had been buried 8 ft underground in the desert.

It had been there since July 1997.

Inside that vehicle were the murdered remains of a father and his 12-year-old son.

Something flickered in Voss’s eyes.

Fear, Chen thought.

Definite fear.

I don’t know anything about that, he said.

But his voice had lost some of its certainty.

The burial site was near the old Desert Vista rest stop, Webb continued.

It would have required professional equipment to excavate a hole that deep to lower the vehicle into it to fill it back in without leaving obvious traces.

the kind of equipment your company specializes in.

I’ve never buried a car in the desert,” Voss said, his voice rising slightly.

“If that’s what you’re implying, you’re way off base.

” “We’re not implying anything,” Chen said.

“We’re stating facts.

Frank Morrison paid you $5,000 2 months after a double homicide.

A homicide [clears throat] that required exactly the kind of expertise your company provides.

” Voss stood abruptly.

If you’re going to accuse me of murder, I want a lawyer present.

Otherwise, this conversation is over.

We’re not accusing you of murder, Chen said calmly.

Not yet, but we are investigating a payoff Morrison made with money he received for sabotaging a police investigation, and that payment went to you.

So, either you tell us what you did for Morrison, or we get a warrant and tear through every record you have until we find the answer ourselves.

” The silence stretched out.

Voss remained standing, his hands clenched at his sides, clearly weighing his options.

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