I was on the road at the time, and I estimated that I was still three-quarters away from the shore. At this time, the lights of the Range Rover were on, illuminating most of the distance in the final sprint. On the breakwater about a hundred feet high, Tristen Greer stopped, like a deer in front of a car's headlights. He was all black, and his face was covered with a tan ski mask. I took a step forward and put my hand on my arm. It's Alex.
Our eyes met, and then we all left. When Triston climbed the last granite boulder, I felt my right foot hit the monument hard. Then something strange happened, the lights moved from the Range Rover. The off-road vehicle reversed on the beach, stopped, spit out the sand, and then hurried towards the clever figure. Kevin is ready to drive a Range Rover to overtake Triston Glenel. Priceless.
The Range Rover nearly hit him before hitting the cliff. Tristen ran to the car, jumped on the hood, and bounced himself into the woods under the cliff.
A minute later, Alex and I reached the Range Rover. I yanked open the door of the passenger seat, and a cloud of smoke burst out. The children are between shock, hysteria and marijuana. The girl in the passenger seat looked at me and smiled hysterically, "Look, guys, it's Pooh."
I woke up on Alex's sofa. The night ended tragically. No child loses more brain cells in a car accident than they use joints to heat up a Range Rover. They fled back to their respective homes, and Alex and I drove along the frontage road for nearly three hours before we broke up. I mean, if he left by boat, how did he come back, and why did he come back? I need some lucky charms. I didn't find any lucky charms. Instead, I grabbed a peach and looked at the clock on the oven. It was 7:45 in the morning.
I took the acid and walked to the front door. There are three other newspapers, but there is no Tribune. I threw these three papers on Alex's porch and checked the damage to the Range Rover. One of the headlights was hit in disbelief, and the other headlight was in good condition, except that it was not connected to the car itself. I put the headlights on the sarcophagus of the trunk/car parts and got into the driver's seat.
I found a Dunkin Donut shop in downtown Waterville and walked in. The "Bangorri" and "Portland Herald" are full, but the "Waterville Tribune" is vacant. I ordered a large cup of coffee and two icing doughnuts, and then asked the clerk if there was a tribune hidden in the back. I gave him a ten-dollar bill, and he handed me a superb "Waterville Tribune."
Walking out of the Dunkin Donut Shop, I flipped through about 10 different pages until I found the front page. I spit out my coffee and splashed the paper all over.
I read this article, tore it to about ten pieces, and threw it into the wind. A few people gave me ferocious eyes, ** Throwing trash is not a taboo in Maine, it is simply barbaric. Speaking of barbarism, I want to scalp Alex Tum. How can she do this? Both literally and symbolically. Most newspapers are delivered and printed at ten or eleven in the evening. Alex and I didn't get to her house until almost two o'clock, and she had to write that article. Alex didn't mention the disappearance of the eyes, let alone the chase. None of these are mentioned in the article. Alex is not like someone who conceals information from her readers. Why is she backing down
I was stumped. I still wanted to kill her, but I was stumped.
At 8:0 in the morning I drove into the parking lot of the Federal Building. Without too much noise, it will become like this within an hour. All other media across the state are reporting on Tristen Greer while drinking coffee and eating doughnuts, just like me.
I pushed the door of the meeting room, and all the conversation stopped. Caitlin, Todd, Wade, and Connor each have a "Tribune" spread out on the big redwood. Why do I think my zipper is broken every time I am in this room? I checked and there are no flies. Buttons. When Todd interrupted my treasure hunt, I was checking my wallet for my Kenneth Cole receipt. He opened the newspaper gently in case I forgot to notice that the table looked like the floor of a hamster cage.
Todd spat, "Can you tell us how Alex Toums wrote this story?"
"No." I want to find my Kenneth Cole receipt.
I have put all the receipts on the table now. Kenneth Cole's receipt must be somewhere here. It is yellow, absolutely yellow.
Caitlin thought she should try. "Have you told Alex Tums about Ashley Andrews?"
"Yes." Really relieved. I put Huang Sè's Kenneth Cole receipt in my back pocket and looked up.
Caitlin looked confused. "Yes, did you tell Alex about Ashley Andrews? Or, yes, you found the damn receipt you were looking for?"
Good question. "Uh, the second one."
I collected all the receipts, poured myself a cup of coffee, and then pulled a chair across from the four of them. I made eye contact with Connor and asked him, "Where were you last night?"
"I'll be there as soon as you leave. You drove by me."
I don't remember driving past his Camaro, but I have other things to do. I don't like that Gillis hasn't spoken yet. He leaned back on the swivel chair, looking like he was fermenting. This is not a good sign. I put those pranks and good Scotch whisky behind the bar, and said, "I remember Todd asked my neighbors if they saw a boat, and I replied, because behind my house is a huge area of water. It’s called the Atlantic Ocean. Do you think it’s not feasible for someone to park a boat on the beach and drag a woman into my house? Do you think it’s fucking impossible?"
They all nodded, except Todd.
I kept the rhythm, "Well, there was a boat floating near the coast on the night Jennifer was murdered. My informant called me at 10:0 last night and informed me that the same boat was docked. I was there at the time. Alex Toums’s family blamed her for the ruthless article she wrote when the call came in. Alex overheard our conversation, and the next thing I knew was she took it out A truncated shotgun said she was going to the lighthouse with me. What qualifications do I have to argue with her? I mean, she has a truncated shotgun."
Caitlin, Connor and Wade rolled their eyes. Todd's parents didn't choose to roll their eyes to upgrade the software, and he stood motionless.
I narrated the rest of the story relatively accurately. I don’t have to give false testimony about how Alex wrote this story, because I don’t have the slightest illusion. I don't know how Tristen Greer left by boat and managed to wipe Ashley's eyes.
Wade returned the chair to its original position, resting his elbows on the table. He said: "Well, you didn't lie about the eyes. I talked to the forensic doctor before and they found traces of eye tissue on the lens of the lighthouse. Ashley's fingerprints were also checked in the file. . It’s her. After the match was confirmed, we contacted her parents in Tuscany. They wanted to hold a funeral here."
When you are admitted to the criminology department, you will be fingerprinted and entered into the national database. I thought they would check her fingerprints, but her death made my throat very uncomfortable. There is a big difference between 99% certainty and 100% certainty about something. Hearing the words "it's her", the 1% disappeared. Now I am very angry. I think best when I am angry. I said, "That's how I see it. Two people have died so far. Tristan is dating and killed them at the exact date and time we found out last year."
Wade said coldly: "He changed his habits. Andrews didn't have an r. He didn't spell PRESCOTT. What do you think he is doing now?"
"He is obviously pursuing the woman in my life. The name is not important. And he also strikes the same popular rìzi a year ago."
Gleason commented: "Who are we and when. These are two of the three. Where is the only mystery?"
Connor added an insightful anecdote, "If we protect someone, we don't need to know where."
Wade nodded and walked to a white board at the end of the room. He erased my irrelevant dribble on Monday and picked up a red marker. "Thomas, we need a list of all the women you have been in contact with in the past five years."
For the next hour, I kept thinking about every woman in danger. I think this is a bit too much. Until Triston Greer killed a woman who was not on the list. That is a fatal injury under 6 feet.
Half an hour has passed, and her name has not yet appeared on the blackboard. I'm pretty sure I won't say it, and she doesn't seem to be too keen to say it. Connor finally said: "Caitlin."
Caitlin and I looked at each other, and I felt like a disciple of Peter. I didn't hear the rooster report, when Connor snapped his fingers and said, "Alex, put Alex Toums on the list."
Caitlin cast a look at him, enough to make a man twice his size gaunt. I refrained from laughing. It's better to be Peter than Judas.
Alex's name is the last on the list. Having said this, I came up with twenty-seven different women, and I think they might be on Tristen Greer’s assassination list. Or change a name that my colleagues in the special team thought might be on Tristen Greer’s assassination list. (To be continued) (End of this chapter)