Page 114 of Riptide
"Nobody's scapegoating anyone." Tyler's voice was mild but firm. "I'm following evidence. That's what I do."
"Sorry. You’re right. I know." Gabe gestured toward the disturbed gravel, the scuff marks on the rail. "Blaire Mitchell made a career out of destroying people's lives. She had dozens of victims—maybe hundreds. Any one of them had motive."
"You have names?"
"Some. There's a man in Seattle, Marcus Webb—she was bleeding him for years. A woman in Portland, Jessica Forsythe—her brother killed himself after Blaire exposed him." Gabe paused. "And there's Michael Thorne, the man who attacked Cara two nights ago. He built Blaire's surveillance system. She blackmailed him into it."
Tyler's eyebrows rose. "Sounds like you've been busy."
"Cara's team has been investigating Blaire since she showed up in town. They have resources, connections. They've dug up more in two weeks than I could have found in six months."
"Cara's team." Tyler made a note. "Tell me about them."
Gabe hesitated. This was dangerous ground—revealing too much could put targets on all their backs. But holding back would look like obstruction.
"Former military. Former law enforcement. Tech specialists. They're good people who got pulled into this because they care about Cara." He met Tyler's eyes. "They didn't kill Blaire Mitchell. They were with Cara all night, waiting for the axe to fall."
Tyler was quiet for a long moment, gazing out at the water. A gull wheeled overhead, crying into the wind. One of the forensic techs called out something about a fiber sample, and another tech jogged over with an evidence bag.
"Here's what's going to happen," Tyler said finally. "I'm going to interview Cara Sweet and her witnesses. Verify alibis. If everything checks out, she's not my primary focus." He fixed Gabe with a hard look. "But you're out of this investigation. Officially. You're too close."
"I understand."
"I mean it, Gabe. No freelancing. No parallel investigations. You have information, you bring it to me. That's how this works."
"Understood."
Tyler held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded and tucked his notebook away. "I'll be in touch. And Gabe?" He paused. "I hope you're right about her."
Gabe watched him walk back toward the forensics van, barking orders at the techs, already shifting into full investigation mode. A good cop doing a hard job. Gabe trusted him—as much as he trusted anyone.
But trust only went so far.
He turned back to the overlook one last time. The wind had picked up, whipping the crime scene tape into a frenzy of yellowagainst the gray sky. Below, the tide rose, foam swirling around the base of the rocks where Blaire had died.
Gabe checked his watch. Nearly four o'clock. Tyler's forensics team would be here for hours yet, combing through gravel and guardrails, looking for physical evidence.
But physical evidence wouldn't tell them who Blaire had come here to meet.
For that, Gabe needed information. Files. Records. The digital trail Blaire had left behind.
He strode back to his truck, mind already racing. Tyler had told him to stay out of the investigation. And officially, he would. He wouldn't interview witnesses. Wouldn't contaminate crime scenes. Wouldn't do anything that could compromise the case.
But reviewing the information Cara's team had already gathered? Running background checks on known associates? Combing through public records for connections?
That was just a concerned citizen doing his homework.
The sooner he found the real killer, the sooner Tyler could close this case and move on. The sooner any investigation into Cara's background—or her friends'—would become irrelevant.
Gabe started the engine and headed back toward town.
39
"Two names keep coming up."Tom turned his laptop so the others could see. "I've been digging into Blaire's victim files—the ones we pulled before her system went down. Cross-referencing geographic proximity, recent contact, financial desperation."
Cara sat at the table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea she'd made but couldn't drink. Reagan had stopped pacing near the stairs. Wade leaned against the whiteboard where they'd mapped out everything they knew about Blaire's operation.
Piper had been sent home. Tom had insisted, and for once she hadn't argued. Even teenage determination had its limits.
