Agents Lisa Hamilton and Phil Greene arrived a few minutes later, carrying steaming coffees and a box of Krispy Kreme donuts that they set in the middle of Dyson’s desk. Nate accepted the coffee gratefully and dumped sugar into it. He stood to allow Agent Hamilton and Kia to take the only chairs available, while he and Greene leaned against the wall.

Hamilton slid a silver-and-blue DEA badge across the desk to Nate, the metal gleaming in the light. “Keep that with you,” she said. “You’ll need it in addition to your detective’s shield when on task force duties.”

Nate fingered the badge, a strange feeling settling over him. Pride. And also guilt. Like he didn’t deserve it or something, which was dumb. He’d worked hard for this.

“We’re really happy you decided to join us. And we get Detective Sharpe too, it seems.” Hamilton handed Kia a badge. “Let’s get started. We’ve had a few developments.”

She moved her coffee out of the way and slid a photo across the table. “The substance in the baggie found at Mr. Martinez’s house tested as oxy and fentanyl powder. We found fingerprints from a woman named Violeta Williams.”

“Santiago Martinez’s girlfriend?” Nate asked.

“Unknown, but that is the current assumption.”

A very young woman stared back at him from the picture. Long, dark hair and glittering, angry eyes; a colorful tattoo of thorny red roses climbed her right arm, disappeared under her sleeve, then reappeared at her throat.

“Violeta Williams works at a restaurant in Seattle, but she’s been off the past two days. We know she was at the house with Santiago Martinez at some point. What we don’t know is if she’s the one who killed him.”

Agent Greene spoke up. “According to footage from the restaurant’s security cameras, she was last seen leaving with a man. Want to wager a guess who it was?”

Nate took a giant bite of his donut, raspberry jam oozing into his mouth. He licked his fingers. “I’m not a betting man, but I’d put money on Ben Hardman.”

Greene grinned, his teeth very white against his dark skin. He fingered his Burberry tie. “Maybe you should become a betting man, then.”

CHAPTER 11

“MOMMY, CAN I GET a lightsaber?” Josh asked.

He was lying on a hospital bed attached to about a million lines snaking out of his body into a special machine that was extracting his T-cells. He seemed more curious than upset about the needle in his arm.

“Don’t you already have one?” I asked.

“Yeah, but I want one with lights and stuff so I can do battle with the Empire.”

I smiled. Josh had started calling the leukemia the Empire. “Sure, we’ll get you a lightsaber.”

Josh turned to the lab tech. “You’re really going to turn my blood cells into mini Millennium Falcons?”