Chapter 41
The soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a flickering, uneven glow across the cramped FBI office. The room carried the stale smell of old coffee and the weight of long hours. Roscoe’s desk, cluttered with a mess of files and forgotten notes, bore signs of his current obsession—a half-finished sandwich, cold coffee in a chipped mug, and a paused video of Zorro’s death on his glowing laptop screen. Above the desk, in contrast to the disorder, hung his boxing championship belt, polished and gleaming—a reminder of a younger, stronger version of himself. Next to it, an old photograph caught the dim light: a younger Grant Roscoe, lean and clean-shaven, grinning beside his former partner, Diego de la Vega, back in their days with the sheriff’s office. It was before Roscoe had grown the walrus mustache that now defined his face.
Across from him, Grayson’s desk was tidy, almost too neat, the sign of a man who kept his inner chaos well hidden. Behind his chair, the walls were decorated with the weight of his past—war medals arranged with precision, his Green Beret commendations framed and perfectly aligned, a symbol of discipline and a history he rarely spoke of. Grayson lounged back in his chair, his feet propped on the desk, arms folded across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk curling his lips. His eyes flickered between Roscoe and the frozen image on the screen. “You’re still on this, huh?” Grayson’s voice cut through the stillness, smooth and amused, the disbelief barely masking a deeper wariness beneath his relaxed demeanor.
Grayson’s eyes lingered on the frozen frame of the video—Zorro, mid-air, just before the sniper’s bullet connected. His smirk deepened as he shifted in his chair, the fabric creaking slightly under his weight. “You’re still stuck on this, huh?” His tone was light, but there was an edge to it, a calculated amusement meant to needle Roscoe, to push him off balance. Grayson scratched at his jaw, glancing briefly at the Green Beret medals on the wall behind him, as if they silently affirmed his authority in all things combat-related. His boots, worn from years of fieldwork, rested comfortably on the edge of his desk, a sharp contrast to Roscoe’s tense, hunched posture. “I figured after seeing Andreas walk around perfectly fine last week, you’d finally let this Zorro thing go. The guy’s no vigilante, Roscoe. You’re chasing ghosts.” Grayson’s grin widened as he watched for Roscoe’s reaction, knowing exactly how to poke at his partner’s stubborn resolve.
Roscoe’s fingers tapped impatiently on the desk, his eyes still glued to the screen, the frozen image of Zorro mid-leap. The light from the laptop flickered across his weathered face, casting deep shadows under his brow. “It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, his voice gruff but steady. “Zorro gets taken out by a sniper, no body turns up, and everything just stops? No fallout? No clues? That doesn’t happen. Someone’s covering something up.” He finally tore his gaze away from the screen to glance at the old photograph on his wall—him, younger, beside Diego de la Vega. Diego’s easy smile felt like a distant memory now, and the nagging feeling in Roscoe’s gut that something was wrong had only grown stronger since Zorro’s disappearance. “I’m telling you, Grayson. Something’s off. And I’m not just going to drop it because you think I’m chasing ghosts.”
Grayson let out a short laugh, leaning back further in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. “Chasing ghosts is well and good, partner. It’s literally our job,” he said, his grin widening, though his eyes watched Roscoe closely, a flicker of tension buried beneath the teasing. “But at least pick a ghost that makes sense. Andreas de la Vega? The guy’s very much still alive, in case you forgot. You saw him, what, a couple weeks ago? And Zorro, according to that video you’ve got on repeat, isn’t.” He pointed lazily at the screen with a flick of his hand, as if to drive the point home. “So unless you’ve got some theory where Andreas is suddenly capable of being in two places at once, I’d say you’re spinning your wheels. You really think a Marine’s going around in a cape and mask, jumping rooftops?”
Roscoe’s fingers stilled, his hand hovering just above the desk as he absorbed Grayson’s words. For a moment, he considered the logic—Andreas was alive, and Zorro wasn’t. But the explanation felt too neat, too convenient. He glanced back at the old photo of himself and Diego, his jaw tightening. Diego had been more than just a partner; he’d been a brother. And Andreas—well, Andreas was his responsibility now, whether Grayson saw it that way or not. Roscoe shook his head, frustration creeping into his voice. “I’m not saying Andreas is out there wearing a cape,” he said, his voice firmer now. “But there’s more going on here than what that video shows. Zorro disappears, and everyone just moves on like it never happened? No body, no gear turning up, no leads. It’s too clean. You don’t just erase a man like that, especially someone like Zorro.” His eyes flickered back to the video, the screen still frozen on Zorro mid-leap, just before the sniper’s bullet hit. “Something’s not right, Grayson. You know it, and I’m not dropping this until I figure it out.”
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Grayson raised an eyebrow, the smirk never leaving his face as he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his desk. “Roscoe, without the mask and the hat, nobody would know who the hell Zorro was anyway,” he said, his tone casual but sharp. “The guy’s probably sitting in the morgue right now, just another John Doe brought in with a fatal gunshot wound to the heart. Some homeless dude probably found the body, swapped outfits, and now Zorro’s gear is either sitting in a pawnshop or on some idiot who thinks it’s Halloween.” He shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. “It’s LA, man. Stranger things happen every day.” Grayson’s eyes flicked to Roscoe’s, his expression hardening just enough to show that he wanted this conversation over. “You’re chasing shadows, partner. There’s nothing here.”
Roscoe’s eyes narrowed, the lines around his mouth deepening as he leaned forward in his chair, letting Grayson’s words sink in. “You think I haven’t checked?” he shot back, his voice quiet but firm. “I’ve talked to my guys on the street. Nobody’s seen anything, no gear, no weird sales, nothing that could’ve belonged to Zorro. I’ve been through every pawnshop in the area, and there’s not a single sign of his stuff turning up. No sword, no cape, no mask. It’s like he just vanished.” He paused, his gaze locking onto Grayson, challenging him. “If some homeless guy switched outfits and pawned it, it would’ve surfaced by now. But it hasn’t. And that’s why I’m not buying your neat little theory.”
Grayson exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as if Roscoe’s persistence was almost amusing. “Alright, Sherlock,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So, you’ve checked the pawnshops, talked to the street rats, and came up with zilch. Doesn’t change the fact that without a body, without a mask or a sword turning up, we’ve got nothing. Hell, even if Zorro’s gear is sitting in some junkie’s closet, what’s that gonna prove? Dead is dead. And as far as the city’s concerned, Zorro’s six feet under.” He leaned back again, folding his arms across his chest, his eyes scanning Roscoe’s face for any sign of hesitation. “You’re chasing a ghost, Roscoe. I don’t know what you’re hoping to find, but you’re not going to bring him back.”
Roscoe let out a low, gruff harumph, pushing back from his desk with a scrape of his chair against the worn office floor. Without a word, he stood and walked to the narrow window, the blinds rattling slightly as he pulled it open. The cool air outside rushed in, carrying the distant sounds of the city below. Roscoe reached down to the outward-facing box fan, flicking it on with a practiced flick of his wrist, the hum of the fan filling the silence between them. He moved slowly, deliberately, back to his desk, his hand slipping into the drawer to retrieve a sleek metal case. With a smooth flick, he pulled out a thick cigar, pressing it between his lips. He lit a match, the scratch of sulfur breaking the stillness, and brought the flame to the cigar’s tip, the first puff of smoke swirling lazily around him. His back to Grayson, Roscoe didn’t need to say anything—his frustration was clear enough in the ritual of lighting the cigar, the way the smoke curled out the window, and the firm set of his shoulders.
Grayson chuckled, the sound low and dry as he leaned back in his chair, letting Roscoe’s silence hang in the air for a moment before speaking again. “Aren’t you getting a little close to Maria for her son to be your top suspect?” His voice carried a teasing edge, though there was something pointed underneath. “I mean, you’ve been over there a lot lately, sharing dinner, keeping her company... You sure you’re thinking straight about this?” Grayson’s grin widened, clearly enjoying the shift in topic. “Might make things a bit awkward, don’t you think? You can’t exactly arrest her kid and show up for family dinner the next week.” He tapped his fingers lightly on the edge of the desk, his eyes flickering with amusement as he watched Roscoe’s back, waiting for a reaction.
Roscoe took a long drag from the cigar, the smoke curling through the open window as he turned back toward Grayson. “Yeah, well, while you’re busy cracking jokes, we still don’t have any damn leads on who the hell this Puppet Master is,” he growled, the frustration clear in his voice. “The media’s already calling him a serial killer after ten scenes, and we’ve got nothing. No patterns, no suspects, no motive.” He walked back to his desk, the weight of the case pressing on his shoulders as he sat down, the cigar dangling between his fingers. “And the guy’s not just picking off civilians—he’s not afraid to go after cops either. LAPD Detective James Four Winds and his wife were found dead in their home, while their kid slept upstairs.” Roscoe’s eyes darkened as he leaned forward. “And you want to know the part that makes my skin crawl? Dispatch says Four Winds called 911 himself. Apparently, he sounded almost… happy about it, like he knew he was being murdered and didn’t give a damn.”