“How does Anna fit into this? How did she get that gun?”
“I don’t know,” Claire says. “But my guess is that if Anna was still alive, and if she didn’t do it, then she could tell us who killed Mabel.”
21
Claire
The Fort Martin police department is buzzing with energy. It’s controlled chaos.
This is the same energy I crave when I’m on the job. Not that any detective has a thirst for public madness, but it’s these situations that make us who we are. It’s the opportunity to assist in resolving the forces of evil that keep us going and give us purpose.
But not one of us wants those forces to touch our family.
I glance at the clock high on the wall. I left the hospital a little over an hour ago. Liam should be on his way out soon as well, if he’s not already. He’ll be able to sleep in a normal bed tonight. Although, not in his home.
After his release from the hospital, Officer Colter will take Liam to a safehouse west of Fort Martin. That was an idea that Liam wasn’t too hot on, which had absolutely no bearing in the decision. The idea of Liam returning to his own place, even with an officer assigned to his protection, was out of the question.
Besides, arranging the safehouse was easy. Whether he wants to or not, Liam is on path to become the state’s star witness in a case against The Club. A case that’s long overdue.
They won’t say it, especially not around me, but I’m more than familiar with the challenges of hunting organized crime. The circumstances at hand—two bodies, the murder weapon, a reliable witness—they’re a rare gift for investigators.
I don’t know Officer Gavin Colter. I’ve never worked with him. But when it came time to assign an officer to Liam’s protective duty, Colter was the man that was selected.
He and Liam are close in age, which probably means Colter is relatively new to the unit. Though, now that I consider it, I wonder if people look at me in that way. It would be a wrong assumption.
Yes, I’m young, comparatively. But not untested. Far from it, in fact. Certain situations, certain cases, will baptize you into the job real quickly. As they did to me.
And then there’s my dad. That relation had evened the ground between Barlow and me and almost immediately. Years of differences evaporated under the light of family. The idea that the daughter of Bill Brooks must have some of his wisdom pumping through her veins goes a long way.
Barlow has taken an unusual amount of time to refill his cup of joe. The cheap coffee-maker in the conference room where we’re sitting is empty. But just as I lean forward in my chair to glance down the hall, he appears right outside the wall of windows. He’s on the phone.
He turns, sees my glancing and throws up a finger. I nod. Inadvertently, I glance back at the clock.
I imagine Liam and Colter sitting silently in the car. Then at a table in an empty kitchen playing cards. Safehouses can be excruciatingly boring. Liam won’t even have his guitar. Maybe Colter likes sports.
Barlow apologizes when he returns. It was Detective Mantra on the phone.
“They found the Escalade,” Barlow says. “Dumped it in a vacant lot off Wilkens on the way out of Fort Martin. You were right.” He means that I was right about the potential of them dumping the Escalade, I realize after a beat. And right about the fact that they went south. “Torched it nice and good,” Barlow adds.
“Figures.”
He drops his legal pad flat on the table, plops down in a chair.
We’re back in Conference Room 02, the same room where we’d first discussed the break-in. The same room where he’d offered his condolences for my father. We’re in the same chairs with a world of turmoil having ensued since then.
Barlow is unfazed, unwavering in his focus, puzzled but poised. All the signs of a good detective. A detective that will leave a legacy of his own.
Right now, Detective Mantra is out leading the external aspects of the investigation while Barlow and I remain in the department, working at the web with a different pair of scissors.
Barlow cocks his head in silent thought. I’ve grown oddly appreciative of that subtle mannerism of his. My dad was like that, unapologetically fixed in his own quirks.
I can hear Alison’s voice in my ear—telling me that I’m just projecting paternal traits onto a man who merely fits a similar mold. Barlow isn’t Dad. And that’s true, but I’m thankful for the man that he is.
“Let’s talk about Anna,” Barlow says.
I steal another glance at the clock from the corner of my eye. Alison should be arriving here soon. Liam at the safehouse soon after.
“There’s a reason she’s involved with The Club,” I prompt.
“Doesn’t seem to be family related,” Barlow says. “I spoke with the mom, Tiffany Maxwell. Dad is out of the picture, always was. Tiffany lives in Georgia. Bless her soul, but that woman is not with the rest of us.” He pauses. “I’m sure the death of a child isn’t doing her any favors, but you can see it in her eyes, she’s in a world of her own.”
“Drugs?”
“Could be,” he says. “Almost certainly in the past.”
“So maybe that’s the connection? Anna was supplying product from The Club, maybe even using her mom as a distributer. Access to a different market.”
“If that was the case, then Tiffany Maxwell was thoroughly cheated out of her cut of the profit. By the look of it, she was paycheck to paycheck in the worst way.”
“Where does she work?”
“Wherever will pay,” he says. “That’s the thing, we looked into it, don’t get me wrong, but Tiffany Maxwell holds a job for as long as most people commute.”
I can’t help but sigh.
“Not to mention,” Barlow adds, “there wasn’t a cent that was transferred between Mom and Daughter. I don’t know if there’s some love lost between them, and Tiffany seemed distraught about her daughter’s death, but it wasn’t because she was payin’ the bills.”
“What about Anna, then?” I ask. “Who was paying her bills?”
Barlow blows air out his cheeks. “Anna Maxwell wasn’t looking for money in odd areas, Black & Williams paid her handsomely.”
I scoff. “Of course they did. She was payed to be Ethan’s secretary in the office and in bed.”
“I guess Black & Williams isn’t hurtin’ for cash.”
“Not in the slightest,” I say. “Yet, Anna doesn’t send anything home to her mom who’s barely getting by?”
Barlow cocks his head at that. “That’s something.”
“Dad’s out of the picture, but maybe that’s the missing link?” I let that settle. “Mom had a love interest in The Club, found herself pregnant, had the wits to skip town,” I say. “Gave birth and tried to raise Anna on her own, but Anna grows up and becomes drawn to Dad’s lifestyle. She seeks him out.”
“All right, so Dad’s part of The Club. Brings Anna in on a few odd jobs, one of which is a hit on the daughter of Bill Brooks?” Barlow doesn’t hide his skepticism.
“Or the man himself,” I counter.
Barlow leans back in his chair. “You think Anna broke in to kill your dad first, then came after you next?”
“I think we can’t ignore the possibility. What if this is the connection we’ve been looking for,” I say, knowing full well that what I really mean is the connection I’ve been looking for. “Maybe Anna’s dad is someone who’s connected to The Club and to my dad. It’d give him the means to enter without a struggle, share a friendly drink, push him off the balcony and then type a suicide note to cover it up and allow his daughter the chance to nab me.”
“All right,” Barlow says indifferently. He’s not convinced. “I don’t mind dragging Tiffany back in. We can test the theory against her, but it seems like a lot of risk just to nab a retired detective. Someone who doesn’t even pose an active threat, and his daughter.”
“Revenge,” I say. “My dad took down a lot of them.”
“Then where’s the taunt?�
�� he asks. I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. “The Club was after your dad for a long time back in the day. They finally get him and there’s not a single word about it?”
I don’t answer.
“Not to mention,” he says, “Anna lost her life for it. That was a failed job. Maybe they got your dad, but they didn’t get you. High risk, low reward, and if Anna’s the daughter of a Club member then that’s a hell of a lot to wager.”
Barlow’s not wrong.
“Maybe she wanted to join and this was her initiation?” I propose, doing a poor job of masking even my own doubt.
He shakes his head. “The Club isn’t a gang. Not in the practical sense, anyway. They don’t waste their time with stuff like that. Besides, Anna sure has a cushy lifestyle at risk. If Tiffany is proof of anything, it looks like Anna Maxwell did relatively well considering what she was born into. If that was you, would you throw it all away to follow your dad into a life like that?”
Before I answer, I catch sight of Alison wandering down the hall of the department. She’s intercepted by an Officer I don’t recognize. I stand up. The officer points in my direction, and I wave. Barlow turns.
“I’m sorry, would you mind if I sit down with her alone?” I ask.
“Course not. You want an IR?”
“No, this room is fine.” I almost laugh. I can’t imagine the look on Alison’s face at the idea of sitting in an interrogation room.
Barlow stands up. “Can I get you anymore coffee?”
“No need.” I gesture to my cup on the table.
“For your sister?” he asks.
Alison has never liked coffee. Only tea. “She’ll be all right.”
22
Liam
Everything hurts worse when I stand up. Of course, I don’t stay standing on my own for long. I’m not allowed to do anything on my own, not for the foreseeable future. That’s been made clear. I can’t even go home.
In a wheelchair, I’m rolled down several long and empty halls to an elevator exclusively for the staff. Officer Colter is waiting in his vehicle in the garage at the bottom level. He’s parked directly outside the elevator doors when they open.
An army of nurses wheel me to the passenger side door. I catch a glimpse of their nervous expressions as I push myself up and shuffle into the car. They’ve obviously been made aware of the circumstances. I glance at Colter in the driver seat as a nurse lays a pair of crutches in the back seat before collapsing the wheelchair in on top. I only want the crutches, but I’m not about to say that.
Colter nods at the nurses, shifts into drive, and offers two fingers as a parting gesture. I’ve already forgotten his first name. And how do I even address him? Colter?
Gavin. That’s his name. Though I’ll probably call him Officer. Or nothing—it’s not like there will be anyone else around for God knows how long.
“So, there’s not a chance someone can grab my guitar?” I ask, already aware of the answer. I’m glad to see Colter chuckle a little. It was mostly a joke—I’ve already been told no to returning home, to grabbing my guitar, and even to grabbing a change of clothes. Someone will purchase clothes and drop them off, Colter had said.
I turn to him. “Give me an idea of the budget we’re working with out there. I’d trade a week’s worth of clothes for a cheap little ukulele or something.” I’m joking again, kind of, but still—it sounds obnoxious and egotistic, even to me. There are bigger priorities right now than my damn guitar. But the idea of being indefinitely secluded, with nothing, is daunting nonetheless. I wonder if Colter likes sports?
He looks at me with a thin grin, and I decide to chance the question I’ve been holding back. “How long am I going to be there?”
“We’re out there until it’s safe for you to show your face.” He emphasizes the we part of that.
There’s a heightened finality to his tone that makes me think of The Spider Crabs. We had rehearsal today, which I didn’t make, obviously. I’m barred from using my phone, I can’t even reach Damon to let him know I’ll be away for a while.
Though maybe that’s something better realized out of my absence than a suspiciously vague conversation. What the hell would I even say? No. I’ll disappear in the same way that I showed up. That’s the way it’s always gone.
I have a laundry list of groups that are still wondering what the hell happened to that guy on the guitar, the dude who showed up out of nowhere, then randomly left.
This was a good group, though. Good guys. Damon, especially.
The Spider Crabs. I guess I was never a huge fan of the name.
“Are you a fan of music?” I ask Colter.
He nods while flipping on the blinker. He double checks and then triple checks before making the turn. He’s wearing sunglasses—a classic pair of aviators. But when the eyes behind those lenses glance at the mirrors, they bring a slight twitch of his head with them.
This man is risking his life for me.
I doubt he volunteered for it, but he volunteered for much more when he joined the police. And not long ago, by the look of it.
The topic of music didn’t reap much of a response. I’ve got to play to the crowd.
“How long you been an officer?” I ask. I don’t know whether that’s the right phrasing, but it seems to pass.
“Almost ten years,” he says. And shit. Colter is older than he looks.
“Damn. Got right into, then?”
He nods once. “Went into the academy right out of high school.”
“You like it?”
“Can’t imagine anything else,” he says. That’s the same thing Claire would say. To risk your life, every day, for the betterment of society—I guess you’d need a mentality like that.
“Where you from?” I ask.
“Columbus.” There’s a bit of homegrown pride in his answer.
“Oh yeah?”
He nods while glancing at me, then quickly back to the road. To the mirrors.
“Yeah,” he says, long and drawn out, the first ounce of casual sociability finding its way into his tone. “Born and raised, never saw myself leaving to be straight with you.”
“What was it then?” I ask. “Fort Martin is a far cry from Columbus.”
“Yessss, it is.” He brakes before making another turn, no blinker this time. No cars around us, either. We’re taking the back route out north of Fort Martin. “I like it, though. Good for a family,” Colter resumes after taking a second to scan the street.
Ah. So that’s why.
“You married?”
He nods again. “Five years in September.”
“Wow. Congratulations.” And I mean it sincerely. The guy’s barely older than I am. “Kids?” I ask.
A subtle look flashes across his face, then vanishes. He shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says, indifferently. No doubt a question he’s answered before, a conditioned response that now comes automatically.
“And yourself?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Neither.”
He glances at me for a second longer than necessary. “Never had the desire?” he asks after a beat.
“No, it’s not that,” I say. “A wife and kids don’t really fit well with… this.” I gesture at our circumstances. My wounded leg fixed in an undercover sedan driving somewhere to hide from people that wants me and my every relative dead.
To my surprise, Colter chuckles.
“This has got to be a relief for ya,” he says. Then another light chuckle. “We ain’t headed for the Bahamas, but we’re headed away from the folks hunting you.”
I return a chuckle of my own. “You are right about that.” It’s not my home, doesn’t have my guitar and belongings, but I’m on my way to the one thing I’ve wanted for two years: somewhere I can safely breathe. And it’s all thanks to Claire.
“So what? You pull the short straw or something?” I ask. “How’d you get stuck with me?”
“They wouldn’t ask me if they didn’t trust in me,” he
says. “In that way, I appreciate it.”
I nod. Colter’s a good guy. For however long we’ll be secluded together, I’m sure I could’ve been stuck with worse.
I stretch subtly in my seat, wincing at the pain of flexing my thigh. “Have you been shot before?” I ask.
“Shot at plenty. Never hit, though,” he says. He glances at my leg, then up at me with a quick smile. “And thank God, cause if I ever came home with a leg like yours there is not a chance on God’s green Earth that I’d be allowed to leave again.”
I laugh. “Your wife has a one-strike policy, huh?”
He laughs too. “Somethin’ like that. She hates it—the job, I mean. I think she’d prefer I fixed toilets than do this. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But—”
“But it’s not this.”
“It’s not this,” he echoes.
I let an extended beat pass in silence. “I’m sure she admires it, deep down. And admires you for it. It takes a special person to do what you do.”
“It takes someone who couldn’t stand doing anything else.” He looks at me. “That’s all.”
I smile at that and imagine Claire smiling beside me. I hear a bit of her in each of his responses. “Ya know,” I say, “it’s really—”
A sudden impact to front of the car forces the air out of my chest, cutting my sentence and sending the car skidding. A car hit with us, smashed into the front fender on the driver side. I realize the airbag is inflated in front of me, my nose searing with pain pulsating up my forehead.
I reach for Colter’s arm. Then turn my throbbing head. He appears in my blurred gaze as a bullet shatters his window. The sound of raining glass is fused with more shots. Two pops. Colter’s head falls to the steering wheel.
I feel myself shout, feel the air leaving my throat, but I can’t hear a sound. Only the rush of air as my door opens. A hand reaching to unbuckle my seatbelt. Then I’m dragged from the vehicle.
A Family Secret Page 13
