“I understand that you’ve already supplied a statement, if you don’t mind, I’d like to run over things with you once more, and then we’ll get you out of here.”
“Absolutely.”
He nods once. He’s got small, beady eyes but a penetrating gaze. “Any coffee or water before we get started?” His bristly mustache moves in unison with each word.
I lift my styrofoam cup of water just off the counter. “I’m good, thank you.”
Another single-nod. He flips several pieces of paper over the legal pad, onto a fresh page. “You work at the Drunk Pinkie, is that right?”
“Yes. I’m a bartender.”
“The missus and I used to stop in there every once in a while,” he says. “Haven’t been since they changed the name though.”
“I only started about three months ago.”
“New to town?”
I nod.
“Welcome.” He tilts his head at me again. “I want to apologize upfront because I’m sure I’ll be repeating some questions that you’ve already answered. You’ll probably be repeating yourself a bit as well, but that’s all fine and good.”
“Whatever I can do to help.” I pause. “She was around the bar a lot. I feel like I lost a friend.”
“That why you called her the Uber?”
“Yeah. I mean, I would’ve done it for anyone that needed it.”
“And you observed the incident from inside the bar, through the window?” he asks. At first I’m not sure if there’s hostility lurking in his tone. If there is, it’s not showing on his face. Though that may be just as intentional.
“I was closing up when I called her a ride,” I say. “I was waiting for the Uber to pick her up but it all happened so fast, I couldn’t get out in time.”
“Can you describe it?”
“I heard tires skidding to a stop, but when I looked up they already had her surrounded. They covered her mouth and pulled her hands around her back, and then they shot her once in the head. It sounded like the gun had a silencer on it.”
“And at what point did you leave the bar?” He jots a few words on his note pad, barely glancing down. “
“I saw them surrounding her and saw them shoot her, but by the time I ran out they were driving away.”
“How many?”
The scene replays in my head. The way they jumped out the doors, their coordinated and chilling efficiency. “Three. Not including the ones driving the two SUVs, but they never got out.”
“Did you see what they were driving, the make or model?”
I chew my lip and shake my head. “No but it was kind of boxy, like an Explorer or Expedition, maybe an Escalade? I couldn’t tell exactly, in the dark.”
“But there was two of them?” he asks.
“Yes.” My leg twitches. “Both black.”
“And the three individuals you saw, anything identifiable about them?”
“No. I didn’t recognize them, but Mabel had said something about her ex-husband getting shot. Recently, I think.”
Detective Mantra’s eyebrows jump at that. “When?”
“She didn’t really say.”
“I mean when did she mention that?” he asks.
“Earlier tonight.” I envision Mabel as if she’s sitting beside Detective Mantra on the other side of the table, slouched over her drink, dragging her hand through the air as she mumbles. “She was pretty inebriated, but she said that her most recent ex-husband, Earl, I think, was shot and killed.”
“Did she say who did it?”
“I think she hoped it was a prostitute or something. Although she mentioned that Earl owed a lot of people a lot of money. Like it was the reason he was killed.”
The twist of guilt in my stomach has dwindled but not evaporated. I feel thoughts of my dad seeping in, but I’m too focused to let them settle. Which only keeps the guilt alive.
Detective Mantra takes a moment to scribble on his pad. For a second my eyes follow his pen before I pull them up. “Three guys. You could tell they were male?” he asks.
I nod. “They were real big and stocky, all three of them.”
“But nothing about them was particularly unique?”
“No, they were all wearing black with masks. Ski masks, it looked like.”
He flips the page on his notepad. “I’d like you to try and recall everyone that came into the Drunk Pinkie tonight. As many as you can.”
That’s actually not as hard as it sounds.
“I work the bar alone on Thursday nights, starting at eight. Besides me, Mabel was there, obviously. And—”
“What time did she come in?” he asks.
“Half-hour or so after me. Eight-thirtyish.”
He scribbles on his pad, nodding for me to go on.
“There were a few people that left as I was coming in a few minutes before eight.” I close my eyes to conjure up the scene. “Matt and Tucker Miles, we passed each other in the door. They’re regulars. Jim Garthow came in a little before midnight.” Detective Mantra jots down Jim’s name and I notice he circles it. “Those are the names that I know. There were three other guys,” I add, “but they mostly hung in the back at the pool table.” It hits me as soon as I say the words.
Detective Mantra lifts his eyes. “You seen them before?”
I nod. “One looked familiar. Maybe all three of them, I don’t know.” There’s faint adrenaline repulsing through my arms. All three were definitely the size of Mabel’s killers.
“How about Mabel Mathews, she know them?” he asks.
“I don’t think so. In fact, I joked about one of them as a potential husband for her and she didn’t look like she recognized him or anything.”
“Can you describe him for me?” Detective Mantra asks.
“Uh, thick husky guy. Dark short hair, dark eyes.” I notice my hand absently gesturing over my face as I try to think back. “Round chin, I guess.” I don’t know. I wish I could remember more. I’m probably describing a third of the men in Florida.
“Any tattoos? Scars? Piercings?”
I shake my head.
“And the others?” he asks.
I only continue shaking my head. “I don’t remember. Just that all three were kind of stocky.”
He nods. After finishing his sentence, he sets down his pen, then straightens it so that it’s perfectly horizontal on the notepad.
“Mr. Carter,” he says, joining his thick fingers together, “I want to preface this by saying that our officers were only doing their due diligence when this came up. But I’d like to ask a few questions about your past, before you moved to Fort Martin, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay.”
“Starting with your pops. I understand he passed about two years ago,” he says. “Murdered, is that true?”
I nod.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He lets that settle for a second. “Were there circumstances that led to his death?” he asks.
I shut my eyes and take a breath. There’s no point in beating around the bush, especially not here. Hell, they probably already know. And if they don’t, all it takes is a quick phone call to Miami PD to find out.
I open my eyes. “My dad got caught up with a loan shark. And... I don’t know, he was using the money to pay some gambling debts. He had an issue with it, that’s really all I know. My dad was in a tough place for the back half of his life.”
Detective Mantra nods. A nod that says that he did, in fact, already know.
I might as well continue. “The Miami PD thought it had something to do with The Club. They thought the loan money came from them.”
“Do you?” he asks.
Do I? You guys are supposed to be the ones with the answers. You’re the ones that were supposed to catch his killer.
“Probably,” I say, and that’s the truth. “I assume not too many people get murdered for outstanding loan payments. Not unless there’s some shady people involved.”
“You’d be surprised the things
money can make people do. Do you fear for your life?” he asks.
“What?”
“Is your father’s murder the reason you’ve been moving around?” He flips back through a few pages on the legal pad. “Last year you moved over three times. You’ve been here in Fort Martin for the last three months, that’s two months longer than you’ve stayed anywhere else.”
I feel blindsided. Like a dark hole has suddenly opened up between me and Detective Mantra. Like I’m a suspect. Which is absurd.
“I’ve been moving around,” I say.
“For any particular reason?”
I part my lips, but my thoughts are jumping too quickly for me to hold them.
“Yes. I’ve been scared as hell. I was worried that my dad’s murder was connected to The Club, and I didn’t want to be their next target.”
“What makes you think they’re looking for you?” he asks.
Really?
“Because he was killed over a loan that still hasn’t been paid.” I pause. “Like you just said, money makes people do bad things.”
He nods. Those weren’t his exact words, but the point stands. “I apologize, Mr. Carter, I didn’t mean any offense,” he says lightly. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask.”
“I understand.”
“And you sure have donated a lot of your time this evening, or morning, I guess I should say. I hope you know we appreciate it.”
“I still wish I could’ve done something to stop it.”
“We always do,” he says, “believe me. I haven’t fallen asleep in years without thinking of one case or another.” He pauses, his beady eyes looking through me. “It’s a shame that no one was ever nabbed for you dad. The Club is… well, they’re some cruel bastards.” He shakes his head at that.
I nod, pushing down at the feeling rising in my chest.
“If you’d like, I can put you in touch with our Organized Crime Unit,” he offers. “They work closely with the fellas in Miami, especially regarding Club matters.”
I nod my understanding.
“I can also put you in touch with the FBI, if you’d like,” he adds. “They’ve got an office in Miami and we have a pretty good rapport with them as well. Have you spoken with them at all?”
I have. I’ve spoken with a few FBI agents and about five-million officers from Miami PD. All for nothing.
“Yes, I have. I’m sure they’ll contact me if they need me,” I say. “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.”
He nods once, like he did when he first entered. The detective folds the paper back over his notepad and stands to shake my hand. It feels tighter, firmer, than his first.
“You’re free to leave now. Thanks for your time.”
“Of course.” I follow him to the door, stepping through it when he opens it for me.
I’m halfway down the hall when his voice comes again. “And Liam—” There’s something about his use of my first name that takes me by surprise. I and turn around, finding the detective still standing under the doorframe. “—I know you’re a nomadic kinda guy,” he says, “but I’d appreciate if you remained local for a while. Just in case we need to get in touch.” His mustache curves in a half smile.
5
Claire
The second day of waking up in Dad’s empty house is even more suffocating than the first. Yesterday my father’s absence permeated the rooms in eerie unrest—today it’s grotesquely vacant.
The hallways feel wider and longer, the stairs stiff and unsteady, the kitchen food poisoned from interruption. It was Daddy’s food, food he bought and never ate, and now it’s left ominously still in the fridge and pantry. Like all the nutrients and substance vanished along with him.
My mom was the cook. When she died, Alison became the cook, which she embraced without any resentment. That’s Alison. I think the therapist-to-be in her saw the new set of responsibilities as a sort of coping mechanism, while the cop-to-be in me just wanted to punish all the other drunk drivers so that no one could ever again steal someone’s mother in an act of selfish stupidity.
But Mom’s death put a chip on Daddy’s shoulder that he’d never had. I was angry about any potential drunk driver, but Dad was angry about anyone who flirted with the wrong side of the law. Mom did it to him—she was a god-sent woman who made the world better just by living in it. Without her, Dad had an intolerance for anyone who didn’t live with the same desires. Especially people in organized crime.
He detested the idea of people joining together to more effectively harm society. And more often than not, harm society’s most vulnerable members. When he retired three years back, he was head of the Marvel County Organized Crime Unit. But retirement took none of the wind from his sails, mostly because he left without having taken down The Club. The group’s brutal and unrestrained success is another reason Daddy sunk his life into his work. That, and the fact that the empire’s leader, their mastermind known only as Head Honcho, is still reigning free. After over twenty years. And Daddy couldn’t live with—
I kill the thought in my head before finishing it.
He could live with it, technically. In fact, it might’ve been the biggest thing keeping him going. Besides me and Alison, of course.
Even in retirement, he was determined to bring them down. There’s evidence of that all around the house—various folders, newspaper clippings, and a lot of other items that the department collected after his death. His murder.
Dad did not kill himself.
I don’t believe in ghosts, I never have, but if there are trapped spirits of any sort, then his soul is one of them, pleading for help. I’ve refused to believe it from the beginning, but now, alone in his house—the house Alison and I grew up in—I’m sure of it. He didn’t kill himself.
I get up from the couch where I slept (because sleeping upstairs felt like sleeping in a vacuum of death), wander into the kitchen and over to the suicide letter like a magnet. It’s probably the hundredth time I’ve read it now, but doing anything else feels dismally insignificant.
Girls—
It breaks my heart to type this letter, but I have come to a point where I have no other choice and leaving the world without saying goodbye was not an option. I am so sorry.
A father is not supposed to do this. And it goes against everything I believe in, but perhaps that sheds light on the necessity of what I’m about to do. I just can not go on.
Losing your mother took everything from me. Of course I still had you girls, but I had lost the light of my life. Without you girls, this day would’ve come a long time ago.
Her loss destroyed me, but it grew something in both of you. You are both such strong and beautiful woman. I know that my loss is nothing you two can not handle, just as you have before.
Alison, you have devoted your life to helping others. Your mom would’ve been proud of your heart. I know I am.
And Claire, you are a better detective than I ever was. I was good, but you are an incredible asset to the citizens of Florida and wherever else your career may take you. I only wish I had stuck around to see you accept your promotion. Head of the Homicide Department. There is no one better for the job.
I am thankful that I am leaving without leaving words unsaid. You girls have given my life fulfillment, but it is time for me to go.
I love you always.
-Dad
There’s fresh tears in my eyes when I finish. They’re hot in a way that rises warm sorrow in my chest. A single tear falls, landing in a tiny wet circle on the letter. I flick the sheet of paper across the counter, scolding myself for ruining the last relic of my father with my own miserable carelessness. But this note isn’t my father’s.
This note is a lie. A false persuasion of a suicide that didn’t happen.
Yes, he’s dead. Yesterday I saw the recovered body and I touched his cold, lifeless hand. But he did not kill himself. And there’s got to be answers of what actually happened somewhere in this house.
The
department doesn’t take inner-department deaths lightly. They investigated—for two days they locked the whole house down, combed everything, and found nothing. It’s not that there’s a lack of motive; Daddy put a lot of people away, people with bad friends in bad places. But that isn’t the problem.
There was no forced entry, no sign of a struggle or an intruder, nothing missing from the house, no indication of that fateful night being any different than normal. That’s the problem. His death was scrutinized and examined by the whole department, and a murder investigation was never opened. But I didn’t get a chance to investigate initially, and now I do. I’m on indefinite leave from work, and I’m not going back until I have answers.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, engrossed in an absent stare into the living room. And then, as if my gaze is injecting life into the house, the doorbell rings.
I don’t need to check who it is. When we left the funeral home yesterday, Alison said she’d come by around 10:30 AM this morning. She’s backlit by the warm morning sun when I open the door.
Her bold, brown eyes take in my miserable state. Her beautiful hair is laying gently on her shoulders. Alison looks so composed that it nearly betrays the fact that she’s just lost her father. But, again, that’s Alison.
She looks at me for half a second before embracing me in a long, tender hug. She steps in and slips her shoes off, then leads the way into the kitchen and pours us both a glass of water. Alison takes a seat, about to take a sip when she sees the letter.
“Have you been rereading this?”
I nod.
“Oh, Claire.”
“He didn’t write it,” I say. “I know he didn’t.”
A look of disappointment slides over the original empathy on her face. “Claire…”
“Stop, don’t Claire me.” Sometimes nothing sounds better than her trained tone of therapist-sympathy, and sometimes, nothing sounds worse. “Look at this.” I reach for the letter, but Alison drops her palm over it.
She looks at me, pleading with me not to continue where we both know I’m about to go.
A Family Secret Page 3
