Beta Credit for all chapters to the fabulous Aurora2020.


Veronica sits in her silver Toyota outside her apartment reading the obituaries from yesterday's newspaper. Empty coffee cups and trash line the footwell, a mountainous peak of files teeter on the passenger seat. She spent last night asleep in her own bed, for the first time in a week, buried under those files. They lay on top of her like a paper fortress, laptop open, snapping away at the keys, searching, finding, researching. Evidence. Physical, touchable evidence that she could let her brain draw invisible lines between. Another puzzle to solve, another asshole to find, another dollar to make.

There is a buzzing sound coming from somewhere in the car. She looks around but can't see anything, unsurprised by the presence of insects festering in the mayhem. She would get to the mess tomorrow, if she had time. But she never had time anymore. Everything gets pushed to the next day, then the next, until it is eventually ignored. There weren't enough hours in the day, or maybe there were, and she just wished there weren't.

The bluetooth picks up a call, it's Keith. Her heart rate increases seeing his name, tapping the call accept button.

"Hey."

"Hey," His tone is dry.

"Is everything okay?"

"It's ten am."

"Yeah, I'm just driving now," she lies, "Why? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Someone might come in," he says.

Veronica nods but doesn't reply audibly. Keith no longer meets with clients.

She burrows below the passenger seat for the box of granola bars, but finds it empty. She groans, throwing it back in the pile.

"Veronica, are you there?"

"Yeah, yeah, be there in ten."

He hangs up without another word.

In the absence of breakfast, Veronica finds some gum and shoves it in her mouth before pulling out onto the road. She drives in silence, listening to the drone of tire revolutions on asphalt.

The buzzing returns, she feels her blood pressure spike with it. A bee pulls around the side of her headrest, barreling past her ear, and flies into the windscreen repeatedly with gusto. Veronica swats at it. Unperturbed, it hovers back beside the glass, checking for further exits. She opens her window, hoping that the wind will suck it out, but the bee seems oblivious to the change in cabin pressure. Veronica reaches down, rifling through the pile of garbage on the floor, narrowly missing the tail end of a truck. She comes back up with the empty granola bar box. Without a second thought, she pummels the bee with the cardboard box, and it explodes against the windshield, a smear of black with flecks of yellow. She celebrates by throwing the box back onto the trash pile.

Pulling into the empty parking lot at the front of Mars Investigations, Veronica drags the handbrake and leaves the remains of the bee right where it met its fate. By tonight, its innards would be solidified, baked in the Californian sun.

Mars Investigations 4.0 now sits in a 70s brick strip mall, sandwiched in between The Pleasure Chest , a 24-hour sex shop and Family Pho, a questionable Vietnamese soup establishment that has its meat delivered in unrefrigerated graffiti laced trucks. Veronica would report them if their Spicy Beef Noodle wasn't so suspiciously delicious.

She collects the stack of files, balancing it on her hip and makes her way to the front of the office. Ricky sits outside, watching her battle the pile, long legs draped across the pavement so you would have to either step over him, or walk into the parking lot to get around him. He wears a blue hoodie, black sweats and sneakers that we're probably white a decade ago. He inclines his head to Veronica and extends two fingers in the universal symbol for cigarette.

"Don't smoke, Ricky"

"Got a light?"

Nope. Just like yesterday, and the day before it.

"Fuck off, move to another spot," she snaps. He's a part of the decor in their little corner of hell, she's not sure that clients could find the office if it wasn't for Ricky's continual presence by their front entry, like a junkie doorstop.

Ricky just turns his head to the side, ignoring her, patiently awaiting his next fix.

Flipping through her wad of keys one handed, she slides up the roller shades one by one; they spool themselves above in a clanging racket. The bell above the door chimes festively as she pushes it open to the least festive place on the planet. Maroon stained carpet and a chapped leather seat in the tiny 'waiting area', a dark and unwelcoming hole, despite the large windows. The combined smell of damp and brewing master stock permeates from next door. Behind the waiting area, the office was separated into three pokey rooms off a hallway with a small bathroom, a kitchen in the back provided access to a rear access door surrounded by dumpsters. It was an embarrassment. They had become the embodiment of a seedy PI agency. At the start they were clean, fresh, different, convinced they'd shaken the stereotype. But now, they had molded themselves into the stereotype. Like breeds like, and while they were known for their tenacity in solving cases, the only cases that came their way now were the bottom feeders, at bottom feeder rates.

Veronica walks through the waiting area, past Keith's 'apartment' which comprises an unused office space with a double bed inside. The room has no window as it's flanked by The Pleasure Chest to the right. Keith claims he doesn't mind, it saves him paying rent in an apartment that he would hardly frequent anyway. The rowdy patrons next door keep him company at all hours through thin asbestos wells held together with multiple coats of peeling teal paint.

She dumps the stack of files in her office and keeps walking to find Keith behind his desk. He's fighting with a pen which apparently will not work, or hands that will not work, she can't tell the difference anymore.

"Give up, get another pen," Veronica leans against his door frame.

"But it's my favorite."

She rifles through her bag, pulls out a pen, identical to his, and throws it at him. It slides across the desk and hits his chipped coffee mug. Veronica wonders if there is actually any coffee in it today.

He clicks the end and tries it, grumbles and shrugs. They're in perpetual rivalry, battling over who can be madder at the world. Today, the crown probably goes to him, he kind of has the corner on the market now.

"Any appointments?" she asks, like he's her secretary.

Keith shakes his head, "How was last night? Get anything on McHenry?"

"Only a visit to The Greek Tavern, alone, no Patricia in sight."

He sighs at another night of wasted time, face back down in his notes.

"I'm getting some breakfast, you want?"

Keith motions to the coffee beside him like he's all set.

Veronica shrugs and wanders into the kitchenette, rifles through the cupboards and finds some moldy bread, then some Pop Tarts. She checks the expiration date, like that would even matter, before ripping open the foil and depositing them in the toaster and putting on a pot of coffee. She exits the kitchen a few minutes later, mug in hand and strawberry Pop Tart balanced between her teeth. The bell chimes and Mac walks through the door. Veronica's face lifts in the nearest it comes to a smile now and nods to her office, Mac follows her in. She opens her mouth, letting the Pop Tart fall on the desk.

"Well, this is a pleasure, I gotta be honest, my normal ten thirty is a beefy mid-fifties man with a wife who's banging the hot yoga teacher."

"Admit it, Veronica, you love those cases, get to use your super lens on the yoga teacher's ripped abs."

"Only doing my job," Veronica collapses into her seat, Mac takes the client chair, crossing her legs in a form fitting knee-length skirt. She notices how tired Veronica looks, shadows of gray below her eyes, but lets it pass unremarked.

She reaches across the desk and pokes at Veronica's broken Pop Tart, "Nutritious snack?"

"Breakfast of champions," Veronica replies, and Mac chuckles.

Veronica takes a bite, "To what do I owe the pleasure of a daytime visit?"

Mac spends twelve-hour days in a twentieth-floor office in the city, working as a Systems Analyst for a large accounting firm. She despises the monotony of the work but enjoys the benefits of decent pay and autonomy the role provides. So naturally, Mac moonlights as an associate to Veronica's side-hustle, where they each do what they do best, finding information, finding people.

Mac stands and walks to the door, closing it.

"How thin are these walls?"

"I think this place used to be a brothel, I doubt it's been soundproofed," Veronica says, alert now, leaning toward her friend.

Mac looks around the room, "Gross, that explains a shower in an office building, and the smell."

Veronica turns her hand, urging Mac to get to the point, the reason for the uncharacteristic daytime visit.

"I think I found something for you," She rifles through her briefcase and hands Veronica a single piece of paper.

NOTICE OF $100,000 REWARD OFFERED BY THE LOS ANGELES COUNTY BOARD OF SUPERVISORS

Notice is hereby given that the Board of Supervisors of the County of Los Angeles has established a $100,000 reward offered in exchange for information leading to the apprehension of Joseph Moyer for the heinous ambush shooting of two Los Angeles County Sheriff Deputies, while sitting in their patrol vehicle at the Coffee Pavillion, Burbank on September 14, 2013, at approximately 5:29 a.m. One officer perished in the attack, the other was seriously injured.

Joseph Moyer was captured on surveillance footage making the attack and a 9mm OZ9 pistol was found nearby bearing his fingerprints.

Known Aliases:

Joe Moyer, Joseph Robinson and Alexander (Lex) Durham.

Do not approach the suspect. Suspect is dangerous and may be armed.

Si no entiende esta noticia o necesita más información, favor de llamar al (323) 523-5588.

Any person having any information related to Joseph Moyer whereabouts is requested to call Sergeant Luke Mitchell at the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department, Homicide Bureau at (323) 523-5588 and refer to Report No. 900-04513-5423-051.

Veronica stops reading, "We already looked into this one, it was a dead end."

Joseph Moyer was their white whale, the one they'd sat up late at night and delved into time and time again only to encounter one roadblock after another to his whereabouts. It piqued their interest with a rare reward in that it didn't require the apprehension of the wanted person, only the disclosure of his location. The involvement of two police officers meant the compensation was significantly higher than was the norm.

Mac shakes her head, "I went a little further, I think it's got potential."

Veronica takes a sip of her coffee and looks at the page again, waiting for Mac to continue.

"You remember that suspected sighting of him in Red Lodge?"

Veronica nods. There were countless reported sightings. One hundred thousand dollar rewards tend to procure all manner of claims for a fugitive's whereabouts. Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco, eating a lemon gelato, a bank in San Antonio, shopping at wholefoods in Tulsa. The Red Lodge tip was the only one that had made the news, accompanied by a blurry still from security footage. It could be Moyer, it also could be Nicholas Cage.

"Well, I ran a title search in Carbon County."

"And…" Veronica interrupts.

"And I found something. One of his aliases Lex Durham purchased an acreage in Montana, six months after the murders."

Mac pulls out a black and white photocopy of a driver's licence and Veronica leans over it. A vanilla blond tendril falls across her eyes and she swipes it behind her ear.

"This is the Washington State Licence Lex Durham used as ID with the escrow agent," she then places a large mugshot beside it, "and this, is Joseph Moyer."

The same square face, jowls with deep cheek lines, a nose like a retired football player and a birthmark, a small line, just under the left eye.

"Shit," Veronica leans in even closer, "it's him."

Veronica and Mac had stumbled upon these rewards for information six months earlier after another botched attempt at a bounty. Mac's boyfriend, Luke, regards them with nothing more than a raised eyebrow as he watches Seinfeld reruns and lets them overtake his dining table as they brainstorm different avenues for finding their latest person of interest. At the end of an episode he will pull himself from the couch and cook them a chilli-laden Pad Thai, which they consume, heads down, as he flicks the television back on. While they trawl through county after county of rewards offered and try to find a link, any link. Something, somewhere that they can uncover. A strictly out of work hours endeavor, imperative that Keith was kept in the dark.

"Wait," Veronica snaps her head up from the photos, "You waited a week to tell me this?"

Mac unfolds a large map of southwest Montana, covered with sharpie lines of red zig-zagged borders not dissimilar to a jigsaw puzzle. She points to a dark green patch, "This is the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, part of Custer National Park, just shy of a million acres of peaks and forest. North of Yellowstone, it's mostly in Montana, some of it flanks the north of Wyoming."

Then her manicured finger points to a small outlined border beside the green, in the shape of a U.

"This is the property, one hundred and fifty acres. Look around it. On the east, it's surrounded by just over 50,000 acres of private land and on the west is the national park, virtually impassable, no walking paths, no trails, we're talking sheer granite cliffs."

"Okay."

"Notice anything?"

Veronica looks closer, but doesn't note anything significant. "No."

"There are no roads to his property. It sold ridiculously cheap because it's inaccessible, completely land-locked. There is no electricity cabling there, no phone reception or freshwater access."

"So maybe he bought it and doesn't live there? Do murderers make investments and hope for returns?" Veronica says, looking back over the driver's license image of him. Black and white, his pale blue eyes not lost in photostat translation.

"I thought that too, then I checked out some satellite images."

"Legally, of course?" Veronica asks with a grin.

"Of course!"

They both laugh mirthlessly.

"And?"

She pulls out the image. In a thick of varying pixelated greens and browns, there is a large square gray object between the trees.

"What is this, a cabin, a shed?"

Mac shrugs, "But look, whatever it is, it's changing." Beside it she places another photo, one is dated 2017, the other in 2019. Between the two years, the gray mass has grown, extending out to the west.

"He's building something."

They both pause and stare, compelled by the grainy images.

"It's not enough for a reward," Mac says, "It could be anyone there, the LAPD aren't going to go out of jurisdiction and hike to a remote property with no actual evidence that he is there."

Veronica nods, Mac can see her booking flight tickets in her head.

"So, how do we get here?"

Mac hesitates for a moment, "Well, I found all this out last week. But I didn't tell you, because I knew you'd be on the first plane out to the middle of nowhere and end up lost with exposure out in the wilderness."

Veronica smiles at her friend's accurate assumption, "So, what's changed?"

Mac pulls out another piece of paper, gently placing it in a perfect square on Veronica's plywood desk. A deed of ownership, 51,000 acres owned by Logan Echolls. She looks back at the map, the U shape surrounding Lex Durham's and runs her hand across the expanse of land.

"What the…?"

"Yep."

They both pause, staring at it.

"He's your in," Mac says.

"Logan Echolls is my in?" Veronica scoffs.

"He owns the land, Veronica, it's better than nothing. He knows you, you can use his property to access Moyer's, all you need to do is get close enough, get some photographs. Take them back to the LAPD and they will do the rest and you get your cash."

Veronica stands, paces around the room, she knows it's not that easy, rewards are only paid on convictions. But from the information on the reward notice, they have physical evidence linking him to the crime, the murder of a police officer no less, a speedy trial would ensure a quick conviction and payday.

"Logan probably doesn't even live there, you know millionaires, famous people, they have a house in every state," says Veronica, mulling the swirling questions in her mind.

Mac never misses a beat, "He lives there. Rock Creek Ranch, he runs cattle and rehabilitates horses, a regular John Wayne."

Veronica scrunches her nose, "You've gotta have the wrong Logan Echolls. He was living in LA, wasn't he? Granted, I haven't seen his name in the tabloids for the last few years."

"It's him," says Mac with authority.

"I barely had a dozen conversations with him in high school."

"Veronica, you helped him once, he will remember that."

She laughs bitterly, "Considering the outcome, he'd hardly forget it."

"Exactly."

Veronica eyes the map laid out before glancing back over the notice, hovering over the $100,000 reward. Her fingers twitch at the amount of money, but she won't allow the elation to creep to her face. The stack of files beside her, spousal cheating cases, low-level fraud at $300 - $500 a pop. Chump change, barely enough to warrant rolling out of bed in the morning, that's if she goes home at all and doesn't fall asleep in her car again surveilling another cheating asshole at another shitty hotel.

"What will you tell Keith?" Mac asks, knowing that Veronica will proceed with or without Keith's approval.

"Leave it with me."


After hours of furious google searching and planning, Veronica realizes she hasn't heard or seen Keith since this morning. She hides away the maps and heads to his office, opening the door without knocking, he glances up from his ancient laptop. Veronica sidles up to his desk, leaning over him, reading the screen.

"You spelled their wrong, it's t-h-e-y-apostrophe-r-e."

Tremorous fingers suspended mid-air, he jerks and snaps the laptop shut to give Veronica a shadow of the fatherly stare he had patented when she was five.

Working together for so many years, their relationship had ceased to be that of a father and daughter. They were more like prison mates, lining up on the daily to receive their lumps of mash on steel trays. Lifers, hardened and cold, passing each other in halls with an incline of the head. It was easier to see Keith that way for Veronica. She pushed him away and, in turn, pushed herself out of her own body, cauterized from the inside. Numbing herself from the inevitable, a constant reminder each time she looked at him.

He stares at her, penetrating, "When are you leaving?"

She pauses, hesitating to answer, "You heard?"

"I'm not an idiot Veronica, I know you do bounties on the side, I know you're chasing rewards."

"It's not like I've got many other options right now."

"Let it be known, I think this is a bad idea. I don't like it. It's dangerous and stupid, but I realize that's really you're favorite concoction of things to be. You are an adult and you are going to ignore what I say, much like you have been doing since you were fifteen, so really I'm not sure why I even waste my breath," when he finishes the sentence he's actually out of breath, ironic in the saddest of ways.

Veronica feels the tug of compassion in her chest, that her father is only concerned for her welfare, but she slams it down with a clenched fist and draws herself back to reality.

"I'll get Cliff to come by and help you while I'm gone, Mac can come by too. We'll just close up the front doors and you can only take phone consults," she offers.

"It's not about that Veronica, I can take care of myself."

She eyes him skeptically.

"We aren't in a position to be fussy, dad and you know it." She points a finger to the 'pile', the basket that sits atop a rusted green filing cabinet in the corner. The pile doesn't lie. If you could tell a horror story, one that would send chills down the spine of any low to middle income American, you would start with that pile. An anthology of bills. The top few layers contained the usual red 'last reminders' on electric, rent and phone. When you delve deeper, past the rejected insurance paperwork, the maxed out credit cards, you reach the folder section. This is where the fun really begins, imaging bills, medical bills. Medical bills so big you know a lifetime of PI work wouldn't even scratch the sides. They were five years past sold houses and second mortgages, all lifelines exhausted.

"What if you can't find him? What then?" he looks at her, not the pile.

"Then I come home again and I pull out my camera and I take more photos of Mark McHenry fucking Patricia Abraham."

"And what if you can find him, Veronica? What if a fugitive murderer who lives in the middle of nowhere finds a lovely, young woman taking photos of him in his secret location, what happens then?"

She shakes her head, "You know I'm careful, I've been doing this for years."

"Veronica, you are lots of things, but I would never describe you as careful."

He sighs, long and protracted, looking to the warped ceiling for answers.

"This conversation is over, Dad. I'm going to work out the logistics, but if everything lines up, it's happening."

"I'll find a way to make it work, Veronica," Keith pleads, but he won't look at the pile, too frightened to make direct eye contact.

"I'm 33 dad, I'm past being able to gloss over the fucking nightmare we're living in with 'we'll make it work', the problem is we're not making it work, we haven't been in years! "

"Veron..."

"NO!" She yells, silencing him, "I'm doing this, it's happening. I will go to Montana and I will find Joseph Moyer and I will come back and will personally cash a check for one hundred thousand dollars and I will knock that whole top layer off that pile."

Keith's head drops in a state of confounded lethargy and he pushes himself out from the desk. He has exhausted the fight in him and Veronica knows it. A few years ago, he might have persisted, dragged this out into a fatherly battle that would rage and incite even Duc Nguyen next door to raise his eyebrows. But Keith Mars was tired, more so than Veronica. What little of his hair left had gone white, the lines on his face heavy, ligaments limp, straining to hold skin to the bones. He looked like someone pulled a skeleton out of a biology classroom and folded it in half.

Keith takes the hand rim of his wheelchair with swollen, yellowed knuckles and pulls himself silently out of the room.

Veronica looks at the pile. The bills could wait. They would be there tomorrow, next week, next year, probably the next decade. She had no intention of that one hundred thousand dollars going towards the pile.

It was going to go towards Keith's treatment, whether he liked it or not.