The Goodbye Man. Jeffery Deaver

scrolled down to the link and clicked on it. He was directed to the site’s home page.

       THE OSIRIS FOUNDATION

       Where the Yesterday Is the Key to a Better Today and a Perfect Tomorrow™

      Are you depressed, grieving because of losing a loved one, anxious, troubled, lonely, overwhelmed? Are you plagued by regret and the bad decisions you’ve made?

      The Osiris Foundation may be just what you’re looking for. We’ll teach you to make fundamental changes in your approach to life so that you’ll find the happiness, contentment and comfort you deserve. You’ll never be troubled again.

      Our program, called the Process™, is an intensive three-week course at our beautiful mountainside camp in Washington State. The Process™ brings together traditional spiritual teaching and modern medical and psychological methods. It’s helped hundreds of people achieve a happy and contented life.

      Read the testimonials of those who have successfully completed the Process™ by clicking here: Testimonials.

      Contact us for an application by clicking here: Applications.

      About our founder and director: Master Eli created the Osiris Foundation four years ago. Orphaned at a young age, he graduated from prestigious schools and pursued a successful career in business. But he was troubled by all the suffering and discontent he saw around him: both professional and personal. He sold his businesses and traveled the world, studying philosophy, theology, medicine and science. From those experiences, he developed the Process™. Master Eli oversees the training at the Osiris Foundation camp from May through September. In the fall and winter months, he travels to the Far East, meditating, and studying with renowned spiritual leaders.

      Mack’s email continued:

      Eli is probably David Ellis, 41. His internet presence is largely scrubbed too. No web or social media imprint I could find. But corporate and government filings link him to the limited liability corporations that own the Foundation. History of real estate development and running brokerage houses in Florida and California but no records of filings since the inception of the Osiris Foundation. No criminal record.

      He read the promo piece again and recalled the uniformed crew in the van parked on the ridge where Adam had died. Smelled like a cult.

      An impression borne out by another link Mack had included: to an article from The San Francisco Daily Times. The story was about cults preying on the vulnerable for money or sex, or simply because the leader was hungry for the power that comes from adulation and obedience.

      The piece was long, and the author dissected a number of cults. There was a mention of the Osiris Foundation, though a very brief one.

       Some organizations appear to be cults, as they have charismatic leaders, demand absolute loyalty, teach spiritual or emotional advancement and require significant financial commitment. However, they are so shrouded in secrecy that it is impossible to say exactly what they are: predatory cults taking advantage of the vulnerable and gullible, or legitimate self-actualization groups. Among these are Way-Forward and the Thompson Program, both of which are in California, and the Osiris Foundation, in Washington State.

      Shaw decided to call the article’s author, Gary Yang, and see if he could tell him more about the Foundation. But when he scrolled to the next page of Mack’s email he read:

      Note that Yang was killed in a robbery outside his town house in the Mission District of San Francisco.

      The death had occurred one week after the article had appeared.

       Never accept coincidence at face value.

      Shaw put a connection between the reporter’s death and the article at forty percent, high enough that he felt it was worth looking into. He went online and called up news stories about the crime. Yang’s killer was Harvey Edwards. He’d shot Yang after demanding his wallet. Then he fled. He was subsequently shot to death by police. A day laborer at the time of the robbery, Edwards had a troubled past, including criminal convictions for assault, burglary and drug possession.

      On the surface, the murder seemed to be a typical mugging gone bad. Shaw wasn’t convinced. Why shoot someone who’d cooperated and handed over his cash? He did some more searching. He found next to nothing about Edwards, only several social media photos from years ago. The killer wasn’t what Shaw had expected. Not a sullen or shifty visage, not a glare of suspicion and anger. He was good-looking, athletic, cheerful of expression. The images were of him on a beach somewhere, squinting into the sun, smiling. An attractive blonde sat beside him.

      Shaw was about to log off when he froze.

      In the photo Harvey Edwards was wearing a necklace. It was a thin black cord, and from it dangled a piece of jewelry: a purple infinity symbol.

      The logo of the Osiris Foundation.

       16.

      Tom.”

      Shaw was sitting at the banquette of the Winnebago, speaking to his friend, the former FBI agent Tom Pepper.

      The man asked, “We still climbing Two Wolves Face? Weather permitting.”

      “Weather? Don’t you worry,” Shaw replied. “I’ll hold the umbrella for you”

      “Haw.”

      The three-hundred-foot cliff, in the Sierra Nevada chain, had been on their free-climb to-do list for some time, and they’d planned it for August.

      Shaw said, “Need the name of another detective.”

      “Tacoma?”

      “No. This one’s in San Francisco.”

      “Hmm. Lot of homicides out there. Lot of detectives. You know, Colt, you’d think, being so pretty, the Bay, the bridges, Ghirardelli Square, all those old hippies singing Jerry Garcia, nobody’d want to tap anybody.”

      Shaw explained about the journalist.

      Pepper grunted. “Now, that pisses me off. Free press has to stay free. And alive.”

       “I need the lead detective.”

      “Give me five.”

      Shaw brewed a cup of coffee. He made the beverage as he always did: the old-fashioned way, boiled water poured through a filter. Capsules were not his favored technique; convenience always comes at a price. He added some milk. One sip, two. Pepper called back with a name and number. Shaw wrote it down, thanked his friend. A third sip, then he punched the number into his phone.

      “Detective Etoile.” A rich, vibrating baritone. Shaw imagined that that voice could shake confessions out of suspects within a dozen words.

      “This is Colter Shaw.”

      “Oh, Mr. Shaw. Yes, your associate, Tom Pepper, just called.”

      Associate. Somewhat true. Shaw let it stand.

      “This’s about the Gary Yang murder?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Mr. Pepper said you’re a private investigator.”

      This too was close enough. Shaw said nothing about his reward-seeking work.

      “Detective, can I ask how the murder happened?”

      “It was pretty straightforward. Plenty of witnesses. The victim was approached outside his townhome, robbed and shot. The suspect fled. Responding officers cornered him in a convenience store. He didn’t surrender. There was a firefight. He was killed. No one else was injured.”

      “Edwards had no history of violent crime?”

      “No history of arrests or convictions