Page 107 of Flint’s Strike

I don’t question the process. I know from experience this is how he spots patterns no one else would even think to look for.

At the far end of the conference table, Eliot pulls out his earbud with a wince. His left ear is bright red, and he rubs behind it for all of two seconds before his phone chirps with another incoming call. A heavy sigh heaves his shoulders. Wincing, he pushes the small Bluetooth device back into place, and answers.

“Two more inspectors out of Brownsville? Great. What about the Lubbock office? I need their arson investigator and both of their inspectors.” After another minute, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course I want the four guys from El Paso. But if you ain’t gonna put them on a plane, they won’t be worth shit to me. It’s a nine-hour drive.”

I turn back to my laptop, working through the next line in the file I’ve named “Charlie Kessler: An Unauthorized Biography.” Some days, a little levity is the only way to survive this job.

I’ve been at this for hours, following every breadcrumb Kessler has ever left behind. Addresses going back ten years. Rental applications. Disconnected phone numbers. Credit reports. Hell, I even pulled his birth certificate to get his mother’s maiden name. So far, every path I’ve gone down has led exactly nowhere.

His sister in Waco cut me off before I could finish introducing myself. She hasn’t spoken to Charlie in ten years. A landlord from eight years ago remembered him because he trashed the place and then threatened to sue to get his security deposit back.

Carol—Apex’s HR coordinator—got a copy of the court order and finally took our call. She thinks Charlie started working there when the company was incorporated eight years ago, but she’s only been there half that time. I felt sorry for her when she told me how disorganized the records were when she started. The exhaustion in her voice was bone-deep and almost…sad.

I can’t do much more tonight. None of us can. We’re all running on fumes, and tomorrow is going to be hell.

I glance back over at Eliot. We haven’t had a second to talk since this morning, and I doubt we’ll get one any time soon. He’s got two hundred and three buildings to inspect. And now, in addition to an arsonist to catch, Nate and I are investigating a fraud scheme that’s grown bigger than a bluebonnet in April.

I have no idea when—or if—he’ll tell me what was bothering him last night. And I won’t push him. He’s got enough on his plate.

One more rabbit hole. That’s all I’m letting myself go down tonight. Calling folks after eight p.m. doesn’t usually leave them eager to help.

Denise Colby tagged Kessler in a SocialGram post from the Texas State fair three years ago. From what I’ve been able to gather, she broke up with him less than a month later. I dial, then slip out of the conference room, notebook in hand, so I won’t disturb Nate or Eliot.

Denise answers on the second ring. “Department of Public Safety? Why are you callin’ me so late?”

“Ma’am, this is Captain Parker Elmore with the Texas Ranger Division. I’m trying to track down one Charlie Kessler.”

“Charlie? That fuckin’ dirtbag slept with my best friend while I was visitin’ my mama down in Texarcana. If I knew where he was....” She huffs. “Well, you’d be able to find his gravestone.” After a breath, the pitch of her voice rises even higher. “That was a joke. Mostly.”

I bite back a smile. Angry people are often the most honest. “Since he’s not six feet under, Denise, I still need to find him. Is there anythin’ you can tell me about where he liked to go when you were dating? Did he like to fish? Hunt? Camp?”

Her laugh is so loud, I wince. “Charlie’s favorite hobby was drinkin’ beer while the football game was on. Don’t think he could’ve told you the score to save his life.”

“Well, thank you for⁠—”

“Now, wait just a minute,” she says, her voice softer now. “There was this one time he dragged me out to a cabin for the weekend. Said he was gonna teach me how to hunt deer.” She sighs, the sound weary. “I hated it. Nothin’ that cute deserves to be dinner. But he said the cabin belonged to a cousin who never used it. That help you any?”

“It might. You remember where the cabin was?” I pin the phone to my ear with my shoulder so I can press my notebook up against the wall.

“Just east of Bastrop. It didn’t even have plumbing. That idjit expected me to pee in an outhouse in November!”

I let myself have one brief chuckle. “That sounds…unpleasant.”

“Is Charlie in trouble?” Denise asks.

Shit.

“Because I wouldn’t be upset if he was. My best friend— No, former best friend… Well, you got any idea how hard it is to get through a break-up without your bestie?”

“I...I’m so sorry, Denise. That must have been awful for you.” I might not understand the woman’s pain, but I know what it’s like when your support system disappears. “I can’t talk about an active investigation. But right now, all we want to do is ask Charlie some questions.”

“Oh. Well, if he ain’t home and he ain’t at the cabin, you can always call Hailey Ruston. Maybe she knows where he is. If you do, tell her Denise says, ‘Go to hell.’”

The call ends, and I write Hailey’s name at the bottom of the page. My eyes are gritty and my back aches. I want a beer and a couple hours of sleep.

I turn, scanning the bullpen. It’s almost empty now, only a couple of the newer sergeants on the night shift sitting at their desks working on paperwork.

AJ’s office light is still on. Shit. Grace is gonna dress him down when he gets home.