Swarms of people had gathered around Hijos Pub, forming a thick crowd that resembled a pool of water surrounding a swaying boat. The atmosphere was a mix of soft murmurs, loud police sirens, and the distant chirping of birds.

As he approached the entrance, Preston recognized Officer Duncan Wesonga in his uniform. Duncan was a patrol officer from the Traffic Station along Kenyatta Road. He was tall, with a broad chest that made him hard to miss. A yellow cordon line had been set up across the entrance to keep people out of the pub. The words on the yellow tape read: "DO NOT ENTER. CRIME SCENE."

Preston lifted the cordon, slightly bending his back and head as he stepped over the blinding shade of yellow.

"Duncan," he said, extending his hand from the pocket of his black khakis for a handshake. Officer Duncan took his hand and shook it - firm, calloused hands, cold and damp, Preston imagined it was due to the chill outside.

"Officer, not a good night today. Isn't it?" Officer Duncan said, scanning the crowd with sharp eyes.

Preston asked, "How many are inside?"

"Just one dead."

"Officers?"

"Two. Officer Nathaniel from Patrol Base and Officer Rita Angari from GCU." Noting Preston's raised brow, he added, "The control called in at the Department. She must have been around because she arrived earlier at the crime scene."

Officer Rita Angari was Michael's partner back at the General Crimes Unit.

Preston mouthed a thanks before pushing his frame over the threshold. As he entered the pub, the strong smell of sweat and spilt alcohol overwhelmed him. He felt his stomach turn and swell at the same time.

The place was in complete chaos. Bar stools had been knocked down on the tiled floor and slivers of glass were scattered everywhere. Although it appeared as if a fight had taken place, Preston suspected that the mess was a result of a stampede caused by the gunshot as the loud popping sound hit the low roof.

Preston caught both Officer Nathaniel and Rita by the cant of the pub. He watched his steps as he inched closer to them, careful not to catch a splinter up his thin-soled shoes. Then he saw the man on his back on the ground. Lifeless. Lying in a pool of blood. Stiff as wood. Blood-streaked clothes. Penetrative trauma of the neck. Large open hole. Shattered artery. He must have choked on his blood. A quicker way to die compared to an open wound.

The man's long face had taken a discoloured appearance, almost dark blue with swollen lips. The eyes were something else. Wide open. White as snow. Glazed. Almost fearful of death itself.

"How long has he been dead?" Preston asked, surprising Nathaniel and Rita as they were not aware of his presence.

Rita stole a glance at Preston before returning her attention to the man and replied, "It's been about twenty minutes. The coroner is on his way here."

Preston then asked, "Do we have any identification for the victim?"

Rita quickly handed a small brown leather wallet to Preston, but he noticed a few bloodstains on it and refused to touch it.

Rita sighed heavily and said, "The victim's name is Ezra Khayi, and he was thirty-five years old."

"What about the shooter? Was he identified?"

"He was seen wearing a ski mask just before the shootout. Afterwards, he must have blended in with the crowd because no one saw the masked man again," said Rita Angari.

"Pretty bold move," Nathaniel's voice piped up. "He could still be out there, watching the scene unfold. That's how these killers usually operate. They get a thrill out of watching their handiwork."

Preston considered Nathaniel's words. What if that was how Diane Rucho's killer had acted? What if there was never a knock on the door? What if the shooter had been waiting for her inside the house, silently? But Preston couldn't recall any signs of forced entry. Maybe the shooter knew how to pick a lock. Or maybe he had a spare key.

Big Ted.

Preston asked, "Do we have any witnesses we can talk to?"

"Officer Edward's daughter says she was talking to the victim just before he was shot."

"What did they talk about?"

"She wouldn't say." Officer Rita pulled her long raven hair from the side of her neck to her back. "She asked for you. I think she might have some information, maybe even a clue about what happened here. I'm not sure, but I feel sorry for her. First her father's accident, then the burglary, and now this. It must be traumatic."

At the mention of the burglary, Preston suddenly asked, "Did you know the whole thing was a setup?"

"About it being a trap for Gary Wako? Yes, I did."

"And you thought it was okay to lie to the family about the real intention?"

Rita shrugged. "We all have to do what we believe is right to get justice."

Preston looked around the pub. "Where is she?"

"Outside, near the patrol car," Officer Nathaniel replied.

After taking one final glance at the deceased man, Preston quietly exited the pub. The patrol car was parked just a short distance away from the establishment. Sandy was leaning against the passenger door, with her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes fixed on the ground.

She didn't notice Preston's presence until he was standing right next to her. He reached out his hand and touched her shoulder, and when her gaze met his, he felt his heart start. He wanted to embrace her and reassure her that everything would be okay. He gently squeezed her shoulder and asked, "Are you okay?"

There was no response.

More silence ensued.

Sandy's eyes wandered back down to the gravel-covered ground. Preston pondered if it was too soon to start questioning her. Inside the car, he saw Cynthia lying in the passenger seat.

"He kept looking behind him," Sandy suddenly spoke up.

"What do you mean?" Preston inquired.

"The man kept glancing behind him as if he was being watched."

"What were you and the man talking about before the gunshot?" Preston asked.

Sandy was restless, moving her feet against the ground. "Earlier, I discovered a photo of a man in my father's phone gallery. I could tell that the photo had something to do with the case because it was taken just a few days before the accident. The photo was taken at this very location. So, I came here to find him and figure out why my father had a photo of him."

"What did he say when you asked him about the photo?" Preston inquired.

"He told me that my father spoke to him and kept asking him if he knew Diane Rucho. But he said he didn't know her. He never met a Diane Rucho ten years ago."

"When he kept looking behind, did he seem afraid?"

"Yes, I would say he was terrified."

"Did you see what he was looking at?"

"No, the pub was crowded. I only saw lots of people."

"Did he explain why your father believed he must have known Diane?"

Sandy took a moment to respond. "I never got the chance to ask him that. He was in a hurry."

"Was he rushing to go somewhere else?"

"Not exactly. It was more like he didn't want to be seen with us. He had warned us earlier not to be there, not to talk to him." Sandy's voice trembled. She parted her lips as a tear rolled down her cheek. "This...this is all my fault, Preston. I killed him."

Preston felt something stir inside him. His heart beat loudly in his chest and the hollow of his throat ached painfully. He wished this had never happened. If only he could tell her that it was all just a bad dream. But this was far from it. A man had been killed. He held her shoulders tightly, hoping to ease her pain and mend his own from watching her breakdown. "No, it's not your fault. Don't blame yourself. You couldn't have known this would happen."

"But I caused this," Sandy whimpered. Her hand wiped at the tear.

"I need you to stop thinking like that," Preston said, releasing his grip on her shoulder and opening the passenger door. He gently tapped Cynthia's cold hand until she woke up.

"I'll drive you both home," he said.

As they left the pub, Preston mulled over the man's connection to the case. What did the man know that was worth killing for?