My Sister's Grave

by Robert Dugoni

  “Can I help with something?” she said.

  He waved her off, pulled two mugs from a cabinet and dropped in tea bags, making small talk. When he opened the refrigerator door, she saw mostly empty shelves inside. “I don’t keep much in the house. I don’t get many visitors.”

  “I should have called,” she said.

  “But you were afraid I might not wish to speak to you.” He peered at her over the top of his mottled lenses. “I’m old, Tracy. I don’t see or hear too well anymore, but I still read the newspaper every morning. I don’t imagine you came by to ask about my garden.”

  “No,” she said. “I came by to talk to you about the hearing.”

  “You came by to see if I really was too sick to testify.”

  “You look like you’re getting around all right.”

  “You have good days and bad days when you get to be my age,” Finn said. “And you never can predict which it’s going to be.”

  “How old are you, Mr. Finn?”

  “Please, Tracy, I feel like I’ve known you since you were born. Call me DeAngelo. And to answer your question, I’ll be eighty-eight in the spring.” He rapped knuckles on the counter. “God willing.” He fixed his eyes on her. “And if not, I’ll get to see my Millie, and that’s not a bad thing, you know.”

  “Edmund House was your last trial, wasn’t it?”

  “I haven’t seen the inside of a courtroom in twenty years, and I don’t intend to ever see one again.”

  Steam whistled from the spout of the kettle, and Finn shuffled about to fill both mugs. Tracy declined cream or sugar. Finn set the mugs on the table and sat across from her dunking his tea bag. The mug shook when he raised it to take a sip. “Millie’s health had already been in decline. I hadn’t intended to take any more trials.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Judge Lawrence asked me to defend Edmund House as a favor. No one else would. When the trial ended, I came home. Millie and I thought we’d share a few years together, do those things we’d put off because I was always in court. Travel a bit. Life doesn’t work out the way we plan, does it?”

  “Do you remember the trial?”

  “You want to know if I did my best for that young man.”

  “You were a good lawyer, DeAngelo. My father always said that about you.”

  Finn gave her a wry smile. Tracy could not help but think it held a secret—and the knowledge that no one was going to force an eighty-eight-year-old man with a bad heart and emphysema to testify. “I have no guilt or misgivings about how I handled that matter.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “We’re not always entitled to the answers.”

  “Why not in this instance?”

  “Because the answers can be hurtful.”

  “My family’s gone too, DeAngelo. It’s just me.”

  His gaze lost focus. “Your father always treated me with respect. Not everyone did. I didn’t come from one of those prestigious law schools and I’m not exactly cut from the textbook image of a trial attorney, but your father always respected me and he was so very kind to my Millie. I appreciated that, more than you will ever know.”

  “Enough to throw your final case if he asked?”

  It had always been her theory that her father, not Calloway or Clark, had orchestrated Edmund House’s conviction. Finn didn’t flinch. He placed his hand atop hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. Finn’s hand was small and spotted with age. “I’m not going to try to dissuade you from what you’ve come back to do. I understand there is a part of you that clings to your sister and to a different time. We all cling to that time, Tracy, but it doesn’t mean we’re going to get it back. Things change. As do we. And many things changed the day your sister disappeared, for all of us. But I’m so very glad you stopped by this afternoon to visit.”

  Tracy had her answer. If Finn had been part of a conspiracy to frame Edmund House, he would take it to his grave. They made small talk about Cedar Grove and the people who’d lived there for another twenty minutes. Then Tracy pushed back her chair. “I appreciate the cup of tea, DeAngelo.”

  Finn walked her through the mudroom to the back door, and she stepped out onto the small porch, feeling the discrepancy between the warm house and the cool air and smelling the rich odor of the fertilizer DeAngelo had been adding to the soil. She thanked him again, but as she turned to leave, he reached out and rested his hand on her arm.

  “Tracy,” he said. “Be careful. Sometimes our questions are better left unanswered.”

  “There’s no one left to hurt, DeAngelo.”

  “But there is,” he said, and he gave her that gentle smile again as he stepped back and shut the door.

  Tracy picked at a carton of chicken in black bean sauce with chopsticks. Reams of paper, yellow legal pads and trial transcripts, lay strewn across Dan’s kitchen table. They’d taken a break to eat and to watch the evening news. Dan had muted the sound while they talked.

  “He didn’t even disagree with me,” Tracy said, recounting her conversation with DeAngelo Finn again. “He just said he had no guilt or misgivings.”

  “But he didn’t say he defended him to the best of his abilities.”

  “No, he definitely didn’t say that.”

  “We don’t really need him to prove he did not defend House to an acceptable standard,” Dan said, reading an article on the front page of the Seattle Times on the impending hearing. The Times had run a comprehensive story, along with Sarah’s senior year class picture, a twenty-year-old photo of Edmund House, and a more recent photograph of Tracy. The Associated Press had picked up the story and run it in dozens of newspapers across the country, including USA Today and the Wall Street Journal.

  “There was something more there, Dan.” She spiked her chopsticks in the carton and sat back. Rex padded over and stuck his head in her lap, a rare sign of affection. “You need some attention?” she asked, rubbing his head.

  “Careful. He’s a master manipulator. What he wants is some chicken.”

  She scratched Rex behind the ears. Sherlock, not to be left out, attempted to nuzzle Rex out of the way. “Are you still thinking about opening with Calloway?”

  Dan folded the newspaper and set it on the table. “Right out of the chute.”

  “My guess is he’ll feign a lack of memory and refer you to his testimony at trial.”

  “I’m counting on it. I intend to pick apart his testimony.” Dan snapped his fingers and pointed, and the two dogs dutifully went into the family room and lay on the rug. “The more he evades answering my questions the better. I just need to pin him down and let the testimony of the other witnesses discredit him. And if I can get under his skin, he might just say more than he otherwise would.”

  “He does have a temper.” She glanced at the television. “Hang on. That’s Vanpelt.”

  Maria Vanpelt stood on the sidewalk outside the Cascade County Courthouse, the bronze letters on the sandstone visible over her right shoulder. Dan followed Tracy to the couch, picked up the remote, and hit the “Mute” button as Vanpelt strolled toward the courthouse steps while noting how she had been the one who “broke” the story of Tracy Crosswhite’s involvement in securing Edmund House a hearing.

  “She makes it sound like Watergate, doesn’t she?” Dan said.

  At the base of the courthouse steps, Vanpelt pivoted and faced the camera. In the background, Tracy detected multiple news vans parked along the street nearest the courthouse entrance, staking out territory.

  “It seems it is not just Edmund House on trial here, but the entire town of Cedar Grove. The question remains—what really happened all those years ago? The disappearance of a prominent doctor’s daughter. A massive search. The dramatic arrest of a paroled rapist. And a sensational murder trial that may have put an innocent man behind bars. Neither side is talking tonight, but we’ll all know soon enough. The hearing of Edmund House begins tomorrow morning, and I’ll be there, inside the courtroom, bringing you u
p-to-the-moment reports on the day’s events.”

  Vanpelt looked one last time over her shoulder to the courthouse before signing off.

  Dan muted the television again. “It looks like you’ve managed to do what no one else could.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Make Cedar Grove relevant again. It’s been mentioned on every news show and in every major newspaper in the country. And, I’m told, every hotel between Cedar Grove and the courthouse is full. People are renting out rooms in their homes.”

  “I think she’s got more to do with that than I do,” Tracy said, referring to Vanpelt. “She’s wrong about the trial having been sensational, though. I remember it as almost boring. Vance Clark was methodical and plodding, and I recall DeAngelo as competent but subdued, like he was resigned to the outcome.”

  “Maybe he was.”

  “In fact, I remember a strange detachment by the whole town, as if no one wanted to be there but felt an obligation to attend. I’ve often wondered if my father had something to do with that also, whether he made some calls so the judge and jury would see the support for Sarah and the impact the crime had on the town.”

  “Like he wanted to ensure the jury didn’t hesitate when it came time to sentence House.”

  She nodded. “He didn’t believe in the death penalty, but he wanted House to get life without parole. I remember that. But he seemed more detached than anyone.”

  “How so?”

  “My father was a note taker. I remember he’d take notes of even casual phone conversations. During the trial he kept a notepad on his lap, but he never wrote a single word.” Dan glanced at her. “Not one,” she said.

  Dan ran a hand over a day’s growth of stubble on his chin. “How are you holding up?”

  “Me? I’m fine.”

  He seemed to give her answer consideration. “You never let your guard down, do you?”

  “I don’t have a guard up.” She stepped to the kitchen, clearing cartons from the table to make room so they could get back to work.

  Dan leaned against the counter, watching her. “Tracy, you’re talking to a guy that had his guard up for two years so no one would see how much my ex-wife had hurt me.”

  “I think we should concentrate on the case and psychoanalyze Tracy some other time.”

  He pushed away from the counter. “Okay.”

  She set down a carton. “What do you want me to say, Dan? Do you want me to go to pieces and break down and cry? What good is that going to do?”

  He raised both hands in mock surrender, pulled out his chair at the kitchen table, and sat. “I just thought it might help to talk.”

  She stepped toward him. “Talk about what? Talk about Sarah’s disappearance? Talk about my father putting a shotgun in his mouth? I don’t need to talk about it, Dan. I lived it.”

  “All I asked was how you’re doing.”

  “And I said I was fine. Do you want to be my psychiatrist, too?”

  His eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t. I don’t want to be your psychiatrist. But I would like to be your friend again.”

  Dan’s answer caught her off guard. She approached where he was sitting. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because what I feel like is your lawyer and that’s causing me enough ethical turmoil. Be honest. Would you have given me the time of day if I hadn’t told you I was a lawyer that day at Sarah’s funeral?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it isn’t personal.”

  “I know. You’ve made that clear also.” He opened his laptop.

  She moved her chair closer to his and sat. She’d known this moment would come, when they would try to clarify their relationship. She just hadn’t thought it would be the night before the hearing. But now that it was before them, she saw no reason not to get it said and done. “I didn’t want to give anyone in Cedar Grove the time of day, Dan. It wasn’t just you. I didn’t want to be back here.”

  He typed, not looking at her. “I get it. I understand.”

  Tracy reached out and put her hand over the keyboard. Dan sat back. “I just want this to be over,” she said. “You can understand that, can’t you? Once it’s over, then I can move on with my life, all of my life.”

  “Of course I can understand it. But Tracy, I can’t guarantee you that’s going to happen.”

  His words had an uncharacteristic edge and she realized the stress Dan was also enduring. He’d borne it so well Tracy had forgotten that tomorrow morning, he was not just stepping into a courtroom, but one that would likely be filled with a hostile audience and media throng, and doing so on behalf of a childhood friend who had been on a twenty-year quest for that moment.

  “I’m sorry, Dan. I didn’t mean to put any undue pressure on you. I know this has been stressful, especially living here again. And I know there are no guarantees.”

  He kept his voice soft. “Judge Meyers could deny House a new trial. He could grant it. Either way, you could be no closer to knowing what happened than you are right now.”

  “That’s not true. The hearing will expose the inconsistencies. It will make public what I’ve known privately all these years, that things at the first trial were not as they seemed.”

  “I’m worried about you, Tracy. What are you going to do then? What if you still can’t convince anyone to reopen the investigation?”

  She’d asked herself the same question many times, but she still didn’t have a ready answer. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the window, causing Rex and Sherlock to raise their heads, ears perked and faces curious.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged and gave him a wistful smile. “There, I said it. Okay? I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m trying to take this one day at a time, one step at a time.”

  “Can I give you a suggestion, from experience?”

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  “The first thing you need to do is stop blaming yourself for what happened.”

  Tracy closed her eyes and felt a lump in her throat. “I should have driven her home that night, Dan. I never should have left her alone.”

  “And I kept telling myself, if I’d been home more, my wife wouldn’t have been sleeping with my partner.”

  “It’s not the same thing, Dan.”

  “No, it isn’t. But you’re blaming yourself for something you didn’t do. My wife broke our marriage vows, and whoever killed Sarah is responsible for her death. Not you.”

  “She was my responsibility.”

  “Nobody took better care of a sister than you, Tracy. No one.”

  “Not that night. I didn’t take care of her that night. I was mad at her for letting me win and I didn’t insist that she come with us.” Her voice cracked. She fought back tears. “I live with that every day. This hearing, this is my way of taking care of her, my way of making up for leaving her alone that night. I don’t know what’s going to happen, Dan, but I need to know what did happen. That’s all I’m asking. After that, I’ll take it from there.”

  Rex got up and padded to the front window, placing his paws on the sash and peering out into the yard. Dan pushed away from the table and out of his chair. “I better let them out.” He started into the family room. “What is it, boy? You need to go out and take care of business?”

  Tracy looked out the window facing the yard. Soft landscape lights lit the flowerbeds and lawn, reflecting in the glass and making it difficult to see the shadow that stepped out from behind the trunk of the tree at the edge of the property.

  “Dan!”

  The front window exploded.

  Tracy knocked back her chair and managed to half tackle, half drag Dan to the floor. She held him down, waiting for additional gunfire. None came. Outside, a truck engine revved. Tires squealed. Tracy rolled off Dan, grabbed the Glock from her purse, flung open the front door, and raced across the lawn. The vehicle had sped to the end of the block, too far for her to catch, too far for her to see a license plate. When it slowed
to take the turn, however, she noticed that only the right brake light lit up.

  When she rushed back into the house, Dan was on his knees with towels, frantically trying to staunch Rex’s bleeding as the big dog’s fur matted with blood.

  CHAPTER 39

  Tracy lowered the tailgate on Dan’s Tahoe while speaking into her cell phone. “This is Detective Tracy Crosswhite, Seattle Homicide,” she said out of habit. Dan slid Rex into the back and handed Tracy the keys. He climbed in with the dog. “I’m reporting a shooting in the six hundred block of Elmwood Avenue in Cedar Grove. Requesting all available units in the area to respond.”

  Tracy slammed shut the tailgate and slid into the cab. “Suspect vehicle is likely a truck headed east on Cedar Hollow toward the county road.” She backed quickly down the driveway, bouncing into the street, tires squealing. “Vehicle’s left rear taillight is out.” She removed the phone from her ear and shouted to Dan. “Where am I going?”

  “Pine Flat.”

  She tossed her phone on the passenger seat and punched the accelerator. Sherlock whined and whimpered. In the rearview mirror Tracy could see him peering over the back seat at his fallen buddy. Dan continued applying pressure to Rex’s wounds, his cell phone wedged between his shoulder and jaw as he carried on his own conversation with the veterinary clinic.

  “He’s bleeding from multiple wounds. We’re about seven to eight minutes away.”

  “How’s he doing?” Tracy yelled.

  “Vet’s going to meet us. I can’t stop the bleeding.” Dan sounded panicked. “Come on, Rex. Hang in there, buddy. Hang in there with me.”

  She turned onto the county road and came up quickly behind a slow-moving van. When it didn’t accelerate, she swerved to pass but had to retreat when she saw headlights. An eighteen-wheel truck blew past, creating a rush of wind sufficient to shake the Tahoe. After it had passed, Tracy swerved into the outside lane, saw no headlights, and stepped on the accelerator again. No sooner had she done so when more headlights appeared around the next turn. She had the pedal to the floor and not much distance between her and the oncoming vehicle. When she’d cleared the van’s hood, Tracy swerved back into her lane, eliciting prolonged honks from both vehicles.