Near Miss

Chapter Five: Exchange

Rhiannon's time in driver education had not gone well. She'd been seventeen when she'd started- old enough by most standards, and much too old in the opinions of most of her acquaintances- but right from the beginning, everything had gone wrong: flat tires, fender benders, general incapability, and more than a few cases of simple fatigue. After much frustration and a perfectly adequate amount of complaining, Rhiannon had finally managed to earn her license; even so, she still hated having to drive anywhere.

Thankfully, it was only a short trip to the police station, and most of it could be accomplished by driving on the freeway. Rhiannon let her fingers tap on the wheel as she eased the car around gentle curves, concentrating mostly on staying in her lane as she watched the road through half-closed eyes.

Even if she didn't want to admit it, the freeway was quite convenient. The police station was quite the commute by any other mode of transport, and it just wasn't worth wasting all that time to avoid a scant few minutes of driving.

As she drove, Rhiannon let herself consider the facts of the case.

Malachi had left work at 9:27 P.M., according to Eirie's estimate. He'd been found dead at 9:50, killed in a bike crash, in an area that was forty minutes away by bike. Rhiannon considered the possibilities: either Eirie was mistaken about when he'd left work (someone could have messed with the restaurant clocks, Rhiannon thought, or maybe just planted that idea in her head); the man who had worked at the restaurant and the man who had been killed in the bike crash weren't the same person (perhaps someone was impersonating Malachi at work, and had something to hide?); or, in what seemed to Rhiannon the most likely possibility, Malachi hadn't gotten there by bike. He'd driven most of the way, then started cycling for some unknown reason.

Rhiannon wasn't willing to fully dismiss the possibility that Malachi's death was an accident. But she felt strongly that there was something suspicious about the circumstances. Even if it turned out to be entirely innocent, she wanted to figure out who was lying and why.

But first, she needed permission.

No, not permission, she corrected. She needed a beginning.

When she'd solved the Hathaway murder, she'd had an advantage from the start: she knew what all the clues were. Detective Knapp had kept her informed, and she'd known the contents of all the interviews. She'd had something to work with, at least. In this case, all she could do was propagate theories until she found one that fit. That is... unless she was able to track down the suspects, and interview them.

Eirie had already been a good start. Rhiannon hadn't been able to learn much important information from her, but she understood the general gist: Malachi hadn't been acting strange, and Eirie was willing to swear that he'd left work at 9:27. What's more, Rhiannon understood something else: these were the only two pieces of information that interested the police. Everything else had been readily dismissed.

Rhiannon pulled into the parking garage, took a ticket, and jolted to a stop in the nearest available space. She checked to make sure her keys were in her pocket, sucking in a breath.

It was only a short walk to the police station.

The first thing she noticed was the lettering- silver and well-polished, but mostly blocked by a tree which had been planted directly in front of the building. Letting her eyes trail up the facade, she wondered what was behind the rows of identical windows. Labs? Offices? Practice areas?

She stepped inside and walked straight up to the main desk.

The nameplate, carefully polished, read NINA MOROW. It was set at a neat angle which from Rhiannon's point of view did an excellent job of reflecting the bright fluorescent lights set between the ceiling tiles. Eyes watering, she blinked.