“One, there’s no indication that anyone broke in. Not like tonight,” she adds in a murmur to herself. “There’s nothing missing from the house and no sign that any significant commotion occurred. Everything was in its place, but that still leaves open the possibility that he knew whoever killed him and let them into the house. My guess is that they were up on the balcony in casual conversation when his attacker forced him over the ledge.”
Jeez. I imagine the scene playing out. An argument that goes one step too far. One impulsive swing of the fist that turns to jostling. Her dad shoved off the balcony.
“There was also a bottle of whiskey left open on the kitchen counter,” she says. “The department chalked it up as a function of the suicide, and the coroner did confirm alcohol was in his stomach. But to me that also supports the theory that he had a guest. That they were sharing a drink on the balcony together.”
A drunk argument turned deadly accident.
“So it would’ve had to have been a friend,” I say.
She nods, her palms cupped around the mug.
“Do you think it was an accident or intentional?” I ask. “Any of your dad’s friends have a reason to want him gone?” With that, I can’t keep my own dad’s image buried any longer. It fills my mind’s eye.
I’ve always debated whether my dad knew just how much he was playing with fire. Whether he recognized how destructive his lifestyle became. He must have. You don’t seek a loan from The Club unless you’re feelin’ the pressure of your circumstances.
Yet he still spent the money, still gambled it away without any real plan to make amends with the bastards supplying that money. He gave the wrong people several hundred-thousand reasons to want him gone.
Claire draws in a long breath. “I’m not sure,” she says. She sets her mug down on the coffee table, taking a moment to rub the tension out of her temples. I use the opportunity to steal a glance at the time.
It’s 3:05 AM. But I almost wish I could pause the daybreak to spend a few more hours here in the living room, just the two of us.
“The thing is—” She looks up at me. “—it’s not motive that’s the problem. My dad led a Marvel County Special Investigative Division that focused on organized crime. He put more than a few people behind bars, including members of The Club.”
My heart stalls in my chest.
“He made his name trying to take them down,” she adds. “He nabbed a few members off the totem pole, and The Club is known for retaliating. But at the same time, nothing from the scene indicates that they were involved at all.”
She goes quiet, but I can’t respond. I can’t collect words.
“And they’re not the kind of people that would write a suicide note to cover up their work,” she adds after a long beat. “Hell, they’d be advertising that they took out their nemesis in the department.”
I need to say something. But this isn’t about my dad. It’s about hers.
When I center myself, I realize I’m staring absently at her. I flatten my lips. “It sounds like he was a really admirable detective.”
Sounds like he was a much better man than mine was.
“He was,” she says. “And because of that, there are plenty of people with a motive to kill him. But there are not a lot of people who could’ve pulled it off like this.”
“So what about the people that did have the ability to pull it off,” I say, trying to ignore my dad’s image floating in my head like a ghost.
“Well the scene is currently covered with broken glass, caution tape, and a new dead body,” she says. She shakes her head to get rid of her frustration.
A new dead body. The body of the intruder tonight. And on the phone she’d said, ‘The intruder was shot and killed’. Not, ‘I shot the intruder.’ It was someone else. Her sister? I can’t picture that.
Then again, that fight or flight instinct is a powerful influence.
I catch my next question on my tongue out of concern that it would send a wave of torment over her. But she’s a detective. Despite what I’ve endured, she’s undoubtedly experienced a hell of a lot more.
“Who found his body?” I ask, praying that it wasn’t her. “You said he was pushed off a balcony into the ocean.”
She raises a finger, that fervent focus returning to her dark eyes. “His body was found by a good friend of his. His name’s Jim Garthow,” she says. “He was out fishing and happened to see Dad’s body.”
“Jim Garthow?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
I feel my eyebrows furrowed and try to relax them. “I do. He’s a regular at the bar I work at.” And he was there the night Mabel was murdered.
“He’s always been a drinker,” she says without hiding the resentment. “He could’ve been the one who shared that whiskey. He’s a former neighbor. Dad wouldn’t have suspected him.”
I picture Jim’s humble face sitting at the bar. He is a whiskey drinker. Whiskey and water, two ice cubes, light on the first, strong on the second.
What if Jim Garthow was involved in Mabel’s murder after all? I had to give his name to Detective Mantra, but I didn’t actually believe it—that Jim was capable of an organized murder like that.
Theoretically, he fits the description of the men dressed in all black. It didn’t strike me at the time, but he’s not a small man by any means. And he left before Mabel and knew she was there. Even if he wasn’t one of the men that hopped out, he could’ve been driving one of the vehicles.
“Dad never said a bad word about him,” Claire says, “but all it takes is an argument that turned physical. Dad’s body was too ravaged by the water and the rocks for the coroner to tell definitively whether his scratches were defensive wounds or not.”
“What night was this?” I ask.
“What night was he killed?”
“Yeah.”
“Tuesday,” she says. “The exact time was hard to determine, but it happened Tuesday night, body found early Wednesday morning.”
Body found Wednesday morning? Jim didn’t mention anything about finding a body, let alone the body of his friend. Out of all the ordinary conversations I’ve had with him, that would’ve been something worth mentioning.
Was he at the bar Tuesday night?
“What?” Claire asks as I slip into silence.
I pull my eyes up from staring blankly at the floor. “I’m trying to remember whether Jim was at the bar Tuesday night.” The night her dad was murdered.
“He said he was.” Her expression perks. “Do you work at the Drunk Pinkie?”
I nod.
“Was he really there?” she asks.
I close my eyes, trying to replace myself in that night, behind the bar.
“Yes,” I say, opening again. “Yeah, he was.” And I’m sure of it. Jim comes in most days, and Tuesday was one of them. “But only until about 10:00,” I add.
She flattens her lips. “That’s what he said. He told our detectives he was there until 9:45, then went straight home. They confirmed that with your manager, but I thought I’d ask.”
Gina Jackson. The manager and part-owner. And the one that chewed me out for letting Mabel sleep in a booth. She’s always in on Tuesdays.
Did Jim leave the bar that night to go to her dad’s house, where things got ugly?
“Have you ever met his wife Millie by chance?” Claire asks. “She said that he came home to her and they both went to bed. That’s his only alibi after Pinkie’s. You think she’d vouch for him?”
I’ve never met his wife. I’ve also never thought much of the fact that she has never joined him at the Drunk Pinkie. Never once. He’s always there on his own. And really, that’s not all that unusual. Especially considering the frequency in which our conversations tend to revolve around his marriage grievances.
“No, I’ve never met her,” I say. And it’s impossible for me to read into his personal life. Yeah, I’ve heard more than a few of his complaints, but that’s all they are, complaints.
&nb
sp; Claire nods her understanding. “I’m going to check up with him,” she says mostly to herself. “He didn’t seem off last time he was in there, did he?”
I set my mug down on the coffee table and lean forward. “The last time he was in, which was Thursday night, there was a murder outside of Pinkie’s. One of our customers was shot in the street.”
She puts a hand over her mouth.
“Her name was Mabel Mathews, she was kind of a regular,” I say. “And, kind of a friend.”
“Were Mabel and Jim friends?” she asks.
“Somewhat. They tend to come in around the same times. He sat next to her at the bar that night. I talked to them both for a while and he sure didn’t mention anything about finding a body the day earlier.”
“Did he leave with her?”
“No. A little before.”
“Have you told anyone?” she asks.
“Oh yeah. It happened after closing and I was the only witness. I gave a statement at the scene and also went back and answered some questions. They asked for the name of everyone that had been at the bar that night, and I obviously included Jim’s name.”
She nods. “Good.”
“But Claire, listen.” I stop to collect my words. “She was—Mabel’s murder was probably a hit from The Club.”
Claire’s stare turns sharp. “How do—”
“She was outside, sitting on a bench, and two SUV’s pull up, three men hop out, wrap her up and shoot her right in the head.” I’m meeting Claire’s eyes with an equally solemn stare. “They got back in and drove off before I could even run across the street. And that same night, Mabel mentioned that one of her ex-husbands had been shot and killed because of money he owed. Jim was sitting right next to her when she said it.”
My dad’s image has settled so vividly in my head that I’ve given up fighting it. I want to tell Claire—say that my dad was killed in the same way for the same fucking reason. The words are on my tongue. But it’s not the time.
“Did she mention The Club?” Claire asks. “Mabel, I mean.”
“No. But she was smashed. She didn’t really mention any details at all.”
Claire blinks, long and hard again, with another shake of her head. “They’re so brutal,” she murmurs. A long pause. “Do you remember the name of the detective leading the investigation?”
“Mantra,” I say. “Detective Mantra.”
She nods. And as another silent pause creeps in, I decide on exactly how to phrase this.
“Your dad was obviously a nemesis of The Club, and he was friends with Jim,” I say. And Jim Garthow is now implicated in two crimes, two murders, that took place less than forty-eight hours apart. And there’s nothing worse than knowing your father’s killer is still out there, scot-free, but I take a breath—this is the part I don’t know how to say. “I know you just want the answer, but Claire… are you sure that you’re safe?”
She shakes her head without any hesitation. “Someone tried to kill me tonight,” she says flatly. “They broke into my house with a gun and had every intention to shoot me point-blank. It was completely unrelated, but…” She pulls her lips into a flat line and shrugs. “I can handle it.”
I believe that.
I believe in every way, shape, and form that Claire is adept at whatever horrific situation her career can offer, but it’s different when family is involved. And not only that, but the idea of The Club coming after Claire is…
“Do you want to get some air?” she asks, suddenly. “I think the sun is going to start to come up soon.”
I smile at her, and she mirrors it.
“There’s a few chairs on the patio out back,” I say. She stands right after I do. “Here—” I extend my hand. “—let me pour you some more coffee. Black again?”
Her smile grows gently into her caramel-smooth cheeks. “Please.”
“You got it.”
Claire finds her way to back patio without my help as I refill our mugs. And on my way outside to join her, I grab my guitar.
13
Claire
“Hey just want to thank you again for letting me keep ya awake this morning. Your coffee is the only thing keeping me sane and awake right now—I owe you a cup sometime.”
I press send.
After inflating my chest with a breath, I step out from the car and begin toward the Marvel County Police Station. I would’ve preferred to spend some more time at Liam’s, maybe catch a few hours in his guest bedroom, but they have some follow-up questions about the break-in and I have more than a few questions myself.
I called Alison around 9:00 this morning, which went exactly as I anticipated it would. At first she insisted on joining me here at the station, but I convinced her otherwise and said I’d give her another call again when I leave. She also wanted to know where I’ve been, and instead of telling her that I’d just hopped out of the shower and was sitting on the bed of Liam’s guest room with a towel pulled around me, I lied.
I told her that I had been at the station since the incident, helping the other detectives and officers. It’s better for both of them that way. Alison wouldn’t have appreciated that I called Liam instead of her, and Liam doesn’t need to be involved in this mess.
Although sitting and talking with him through the night was more beneficial than anything I could’ve done sitting around the station. The sunrise was beautiful. It was therapeutic, especially with Liam plucking soft melodies on his guitar beside me.
There’s something calming about his presence. Something that feels like an escape.
He’s unassuming, soft spoken and down to earth, not preoccupied with some external façade. And that’s the thing about him; when I look at Liam, I see all of him. Not a carefully manufactured image that’s worn for approval, but him.
And as I swing open the station’s heavy front door, I already wish I was back on his patio.
* * *
Detective Barlow greets me almost as soon as I walk in. He asks how I’m doing, then asks if I’ve had a chance to lie down. Sympathy for me is spreading like a virus throughout the department. It’s spreading much more than I’d like.
My first and only real conversation with Dave Barlow took place at Dad’s retirement party. He respected Dad a lot, not because they’d worked closely together but because Barlow had a genuine appreciation for Dad’s reputation in the department, which in turn gave me an appreciation for him. He’s a little over a decade older than I am, he closed a highly publicized case last year involving a string of break-ins in a seedy neighborhood south of Fort Martin, and that’s about as much as I know about him.
I follow him from the entrance down the hall and into Conference Room 02. The clock on the wall reads 10:30 AM. I grab a styrofoam cup from the top of a stack and pour myself a cup of coffee and take a seat at the long conference table. This Fort Martin station has better coffee than we do in Cardinal Creek.
“Thanks again for stopping by,” Barlow says, filling a cup with coffee for himself. He saunters to the table, pulls out a chair across from me and plops down. “I hate to drag you in here with everything you’re handling right now.”
“No, I appreciate it,” I say.
“I mostly just want to get your account of last night so we can square a few things,” he says. “Get this whole thing off your back.” He levels me in a heavy gaze, letting the room go quiet. “But I’d be remiss if I didn’t offer my condolences for your dad. He left a legacy here that a lot of guys can learn from. I appreciate him for that.”
“Thank you.”
Barlow nods. He leans back, crossing one leg over the other. “I wish you could get a break from this kind of shit.”
I scoff a hollow laugh, shaking my head. “I wish I hadn’t dated a cheating prick.”
He raises a hand in agreement. “We had Cheating Prick in here this morning.” Barlow cocks his head and clicks his tongue. “Real pleasant guy.”
“She really came to take me out, didn’t she?” I ask. “H
is assistant, Anna…”
“Anna Maxwell,” Barlow finishes for me. It sounds wrong, too conventional and proper for someone who emailed erotic photos of herself under the address AnnaAmazing. “It looks that way,” he says.
I only continue shaking my head.
I wonder if Ethan thought about how much damage he might cause while he screwed her. I wonder if he’d even cared at all.
Such a pathetic cliché, the young perky assistant coming onto her boss. And Ethan just let it happen. I wonder if he noticed—or just ignored—the fact that his little promiscuous assistant was dangerously obsessive, or if that only fed his attraction all the more.
He ruined our relationship, obviously, but his carelessness has also led to a young girl losing her life. Ethan caused this.
“How did she know where to find me?” I ask.
Barlow cocks his head again. I can tell it’s a habit of his.
“That’s something Cheating Prick couldn’t explain,” he says. “Or didn’t care to explain, anyway. He only said that she’d been less than polite when he tried to break things off between them.” Clearly that’s Barlow’s phrasing, not Ethan’s. “He said she became a bit obsessive. I guess last night would confirm that,” he says candidly.
I begin shaking my head again, but this time it’s in reaction to Barlow’s reasoning. “I don’t think he ended their relationship,” I say.
“No?”
“I found an email from her last week and she made reference to looking forward to seeing him again soon.”
“He told us he ended their relationship—” Barlow leans forward to check his notes. “—six months ago,” he says. “And that since then, Anna Maxwell has been unable to let go of things.” He says it like reciting Ethan’s own words.
My chest turns to steel. Six months?
Not three or four weeks. Another lie.
“Where are things at between the two of you?” Barlow asks. “He lives in Cardinal Creek, yes? What’s he doing here in Fort Martin?”
A Family Secret Page 8
