White Space Season 2

death.
    Sure, Bruce Henderson went into the woman’s house and killed both her and her son before turning his gun on himself, but it seemed too convenient . It sang in the right key, but in the same way those software singers at the top of the charts sounded a little too perfect. Even in the best of those songs a listener could tell when the voice wasn’t real.
    Houser hated conspiracy theories. As a cop, and private investigator, he’d consistently seen that things rarely rose to the level of complicated schemes. Most people, and organizations, were too stupid, and too ineffectual, to design, let alone maintain, elaborate machinations. Most often cases were solved by the simplest, most obvious of answers. A woman was found dead in her home — the husband or ex, was guilty nine times out of 10. Elaborate mysteries were for online serials and Hollywood.
    But something about the island, its missing people, the sudden eruptions of violence, its security force, and the cameras on every fucking street corner, all lent credence to any number of possible conspiracies. Houser loved solving a good mystery, almost more than anything else.
    He wondered if maybe Henderson had something to do with whatever was on the missing flash drive. It was possible he had gone to Heller’s house, not out of vengeance for his son’s death, but for some other reason relating to the drive. Maybe he was what had Liz Heller so spooked?
    As Houser turned the idea, searching for holes, it quickly grew leaky. According to the news, Henderson went to the house just after the shootings, and tried to attack Alex Heller with a bat. Clearly the man had snapped long before trading his bat for a gun. Perhaps it was as uncomplicated as his being upset about Roger Heller shooting his kid. Shit made sense.
    He was also pints past sloshed at the time of the murders, with a blood alcohol level of .21. And a habitual drunk. Cassidy saw him getting plastered at Shipwrecked, not too long before he tore off toward the Hellers. Alcohol plus anger plus loaded weapon usually equaled something awful — a simple equation that made more sense than any plots Houser might write inside his mind.
    As he watched Milo’s house, waiting for something, Houser started feeling stupid, like he was looking for a mystery that wasn’t really there. It was just after noon, for all he knew the kid was sitting in his room playing a video game with no intention of leaving for the remainder of the day, and maybe the day after that. Houser was likely wasting time on a hunch whose probability dimmed by the minute.
    Houser’s Web surfing turned up nothing useful on Stephen or Beatrice Anderson, other than her ridiculous spending, so he decided to do a bit of digging on Milo himself before calling it quits and driving from the cove. He turned his eyes to the tablet, swiped a finger across the glass, and started his search.
    Houser looked up from the first page of potential results to check on the house, just as Milo’s front door exploded open. The kid ran to the side yard, swung onto his bike, already leaning against the garage, then shot like a rocket from driveway to street.
    Shit.
    Houser tossed his tablet on the floor, gunned the Blacklander, and pulled out from the curb, hoping like hell he could trail the kid without being seen. That, of course, would depend on whether Milo kept to the main streets, or went off road into any of the many thickets surrounding the area.
    Houser followed the kid, keeping his distance and hoping Milo wouldn’t turn around and see the slow-moving truck behind him. Fortunately for Houser, the kid kept his eyes in front. He was also hauling ass, so Houser was able to maintain a reasonable speed, rather than going suspiciously slow. Still, he was going leisurely enough that a few impatient drivers decided to pass him. Mercifully, none honked.
    Unfortunately for Houser, just as their road split in two, Milo chose a third direction, pedaling off straight into the woods. The truck’s GPS showed nothing but woods sprawling all the way to the island’s northeastern coast. It didn’t seem as if Milo was taking a shortcut to somewhere, but rather, the woods were his destination.
    What the hell?
    Houser pulled the Blacklander to a stop where Milo rode in. No natural bike path, just a wall of dirt and trees. He wondered if the kid figured out he was being followed, then made for the woods to disappear, maybe surface on the other side and ride without a