Brother's Keeper

by Richard Ryker

  The judge’s gaze swept over Brandon, stopping just briefly as their eyes met. They’d only spoken on the phone, so Brandon wasn’t sure if the judge recognized him. There was something familiar about him, but he was sure they’d never met.

  He waited as the court slogged through the docket, everything from personal injury litigation to criminal misdemeanors.

  When the final case had been heard, the judge spoke to Brandon. “Do you have something to bring before the court?”

  Brandon stood, motioning toward the bench. “May I?”

  The judge nodded.

  “How can we help you, officer?”

  “It’s chief,” Brandon said. “Chief Brandon Mattson.”

  Judge Gillman’s demeanor darkened, but he said nothing.

  “Is this on the record, your honor?” his judicial assistant asked. In smaller jurisdictions like Forks, the assistant doubled as a court reporter.

  “No, Kathy. We’re done here.”

  The judge rose and descended from the bench, his long black robe flitting behind him.

  He turned right, down a long hallway. Brandon followed Judge Gillman into his office.

  The judge pulled his black robe off and hung it from the coat rack. He fell into the chair and rested his hands on his stomach. A box frame containing handmade fishing flies adorned the wall above the judge’s desk, next to a sign that read, I’d Rather Be Fishing.

  “Close the door,” he said.

  When Brandon had complied, the judge said, “What do you want, Mattson?”

  “Jack Nygard—”

  He waved a hand at Brandon. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Why are you protecting him?”

  The judge’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a serious accusation.”

  “The only kind I make,” Brandon said.

  The judge scoffed. “Your smart-ass attitude won’t get you anywhere here. The only reason you still have a job is because of that dimwitted mayor.”

  Brandon suppressed a smile at the thought of Mayor Kim defending her recalcitrant chief of police.

  “You’re admitting you’ve tried to get me fired?”

  “Not what I said,” the judge insisted. “But I do believe the officers and citizens of Forks would be better off without you at the helm.”

  “And what have I ever done to lead you to believe I’m not up to the task of managing my department?”

  “Reckless behavior leading to a young woman’s death. Harassing the county’s citizens. Attempting to investigate crimes outside your jurisdiction.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I could go on.”

  “Alisa Nygard jumped from that truck. And she wasn’t innocent. We found her prints all over that car. And the receipt from the morning of the murder.”

  “You consider that enough to convict someone of a crime?” the judge said. “You must have had it easy in Seattle.”

  Judge Gillman had probably never heard a murder case in his life, but Brandon let the insult slide.

  “When I find Erik Olson and get his prints, sure, I’ll have plenty to give the prosecutor for a conviction. Once I lock him in an interview room and remind him the evidence we have. Not to mention what he did to his girlfriend.”

  Judge Gillman bristled in his seat.

  “Your wife is in charge of the Randall family trust,” Brandon said.

  The color drained from the judge’s face, but Brandon continued before he could respond. “And that trust includes the old sawmill where Jack Nygard lives. With your permission. The same Jack Nygard whose car was involved in the murder of a local police officer. My brother. The same Nygard who heads the area’s largest black-market timber trade. And the same man who sent his son to threaten my daughter.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” the judge said, scooting up in his seat. His hand reached for the top drawer of his desk, as if to check it was closed.

  “Which part?” Brandon asked.

  “All of it,” he replied, straightening a stack of case files on his desk. “If there’s nothing more, I’ve got work to do.”

  “I guess that means you won’t give me a search warrant for Nygard’s trailers?” Brandon asked.

  “Keen detective skills,” Judge Gillman sneered. “I can see why you ended up out here in the middle of nowhere. In charge of nothing.”

  Brandon ignored the jab.

  “Because signing a warrant to search your own property. That would be a conflict of interest, wouldn’t it?” Brandon asked.

  “Stay out of this,” the judge warned.

  “Or?”

  The judge stood. “I could call security and have a pair of your colleagues remove you from my office.”

  The last thing Brandon needed was for the sheriff to hear he’d been confronting the local judge.

  It was time to leave before he said something he’d regret. So far, that hadn’t happened.

  He stood and reached for the door handle. He paused, turning back to the judge.

  Gillman’s hand gripped the top drawer of his desk. He slid a key out of the lock.

  Something Brandon had said had put the judge on edge.

  Brandon’s eyes caught on two framed photos over the judge’s shoulder, atop an oak bookshelf. The first showed Sheriff Hart and Judge Gillman holding up a pair of sockeye salmon. Now he realized why the judge seemed familiar. The same photo hung in the sheriff’s office.

  “What are you looking at?” the judge asked.

  Brandon focused his attention on the other photo, hoping to hide his shock at the revelation that the sheriff and Gillman were close buddies.

  The other picture was of the judge, a woman who must be his wife, and two teen girls neatly dressed and a boy of about seven or eight, scruffier and a little off to the side.

  “That your family?”

  His glare honed on Brandon.

  “Yes.”

  “Three kids. That’s a handful,” Brandon said. “Especially for your wife.”

  Brandon could hear the wheels grinding in the judge’s brain.

  “You’re the one who called Marion,” Judge Gillman said. “Asking about the Randall family.”

  Brandon shot him an insolent grin.

  “What the hell are you up to?” the judge demanded.

  “It’s called detective work,” Brandon said. “Even us back country cops know a thing or two.”

  “If you dare call my wife again…”

  Brandon waved over his shoulder.

  “Have an excellent day, your honor.”

  Brandon sat in his SUV, trying to figure out what had just happened. He had gotten nowhere with the judge, except to learn he was apparently best buds with Brandon’s boss, Sheriff Hart. The sheriff and the judge were on the same page: they both wanted Brandon as far away from Nygard as possible.

  People hid things for a reason, usually because they were doing or had done something wrong. Why the judge was protecting Jack Nygard, and as a result, Olson, was still a mystery. With Olson still on the loose, Brandon needed answers.

  He thought back to the judge’s overprotective behavior toward the contents of the top drawer of his desk. If there was a way to uncover what the judge was hiding, that might give Brandon a way around the roadblock the sheriff and Gillman had put in his way.

  In the meantime, he’d have to be even more on guard about concealing his movements from the sheriff.

  Chapter 24

  It was almost noon by the time Brandon got back to the office. He had an update from Josiah about Matthew Nygard, the boy who’d threatened Emma. Josiah had gone to the school to chat with Matthew, but the principal informed him he hadn’t attended class since the day of the incident. The rumor was that he’d gone to Oregon to live with an aunt. Josiah had followed up with local law enforcement and was waiting to confirm the boy’s location.

  He had planned on stopping by his dad’s place to check in after lunch, but he’d promised Jackson he’d help with the Dunn investigation.

&
nbsp; She could probably handle it on her own, but her involvement with homicide was limited to a few cases in her short stint as a detective down in Portland prior to an extended maternity leave. Still, Brandon trusted her intuition and judgement more than anyone else in the department.

  Brandon picked Jackson up at the station and they headed for Sabina’s house.

  “Where have you been all morning?” Jackson asked, rolling down the window.

  “Court.”

  “Up in Port Angeles?” she asked. “You have a case?”

  “Judge Gillman,” he said.

  “District Court? Why?”

  “Had a few words with the judge about my brother’s murder.”

  “What does Judge Gillman have to do with Eli’s case?”

  Brandon hadn’t shared the information he’d learned about the Randall property and the judge’s connection to Nygard. He considered how much to tell Jackson, then decided he could trust her.

  “He owns the land where Nygard is staying,” Brandon said.

  “That’s…interesting,” she said. “And it means he should have recused himself from the question of a warrant.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why not go up to Superior Court for a warrant?” she asked.

  “The sheriff would put the kibosh on that the moment he heard.”

  “What would Sheriff Hart care about Judge Gillman and the Nygard encampment,” she asked. “Besides the politics, I guess. Not wanting to get the judge riled up.”

  “It’s worse than that,” Brandon said. “When I went to his office today, I saw a picture of the judge with Sheriff Hart.”

  “Damn.”

  “He’s hiding something,” Brandon said. “And besides, it’s too late. I’ve already pissed him off.”

  She rolled up the window, talking quieter for no reason.

  “Don’t tell me you threatened the judge.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Chief…”

  “I know. Stupid idea. I’ve got to figure this out,” he said. “My dad is counting on me. Emma too. And Eli.”

  “Well maybe I can handle the Dunn case on my own,” she said. “That would give you more time…”

  “No. This is my job. To support my officers. Mrs. Dunn deserves justice just as much as Eli. He wouldn’t want it any different.”

  They pulled into Sabina’s driveway. There was no sign of her car. The last time Brandon had visited her, she’d signed an affidavit claiming she knew nothing about Todd recording visitors at the Airbnb. Sabina had gone out of her way to proclaim Todd’s innocence in his aunt’s murder, too.

  But she’d hidden her relationship with Todd from the police. Now, they had evidence her husband’s death was more than an accident. It didn’t make her a murderer, but, like her earlier obfuscation and deceitfulness, it cast doubt on everything she’d said about the Todd.

  They stood at the door and knocked while Brandon tried the number Sabina had given him. The home phone rang in the living room.

  “Now what?” Jackson asked.

  “She could be anywhere,” Brandon said. “If she knows we’re on to her.”

  “All she really knows is that we have her on tape having her way with Todd. She denied knowing about the recordings. Sabina doesn’t know our interest in her husband’s toxicology results.”

  “Right,” Brandon said. “As far as she knows, we’re only concerned about Todd.”

  He recalled one of their earlier conversations with Sabina. “She said she works for other homes in the area.”

  “Maybe she’s out at one of them now,” Jackson said.

  “Any ideas how to find out where?”

  “We could go to the Airbnb website and search for homes in Forks.”

  “Can you access the addresses?” Brandon asked.

  “Not necessarily, but if we recognize something…”

  “Right.”

  “Haven’t you ever stayed in one of these places?” she asked.

  “Airbnb? No way,” he said.

  “Why not? Way better than a hotel. And cheaper for the amount of room you get.”

  “And you get to be on a perv’s television set,” he said.

  “The same thing could happen in a hotel,” she countered.

  He twisted the laptop to Jackson. “Search away.”

  After a few minutes, she had a list of vacation homes for rent in the surrounding zip codes, only six nearby. Apparently the trend hadn’t caught on in the Forks area yet.

  She showed him the listings she’d found. He recognized a couple of the houses. One in town. The other not far from his dad’s property. Mrs. Dunn’s was still listed. $150 for the entire house. Per night. Not bad.

  “Let’s try the ones I know,” he said.

  “In the meantime, I have an idea,” she said.

  “What’s up?”

  “I can email the hosts and see if they’re willing to talk.”

  “They’ll respond that fast?” Brandon asked.

  “These are businesses,” she said.

  “If you say so.”

  The first house was an old rambler near the police station. Brandon had never been inside, but had driven past it a hundred times as a kid. They knocked on the door, but no one was home. No sign of Sabina’s car. The second home was in Forks, too. A couple from Canada had answered the door, letting Brandon know they’d be there all week. They weren’t sure who cleaned the home, but were more than willing to give out the owner’s contact information.

  Back in the car, Brandon called the owner and left a message.

  “So far, nothing,” he said.

  “Hold on a sec,” Jackson said, scrolling through the screen. “I got a message back.”

  “You using your own account?” Brandon asked.

  “It’s a lot quicker than setting one up.”

  “You know that could be evidence.”

  “I know,” she said. “Listen. This lady Emma Lawrence rents out a couple of homes in the area. She said yes, she’s willing to talk but is out of town. She employs a woman named Sabina for cleaning. And get this. Sometimes she uses Sabina’s friend for odd jobs.”

  “Todd.”

  “Right,” Jackson said.

  “You got all that just now?”

  “I’ve been chatting with her.”

  “You get the address?”

  She nodded. “She’s okay with us checking the place out. Let’s go.”

  Jackson directed him to the rental. Like the others, there was no sign of Sabina. The last home was further out toward the beaches, almost to the reservation. Brandon was relieved when they found the place just outside the Quileute Reservation. He had a good relationship with the tribe’s chief of police—Brandon had helped him out with a murder case earlier in the year. Still, Brandon didn’t have time to deal with jurisdiction issues on top of everything else that was going on.

  He steered down a long dirt driveway that cut through a stand of trees and eventually opened up into a clearing where there was a one-story log cabin style home.

  Sabina’s car was parked out front.

  Brandon pulled the SUV back down the driveway so it was hidden around the bend and in the shadows of the forest.

  “We’re just asking her a few questions,” he said, climbing out of the SUV. “But if she did murder her husband…”

  “Got it,” Jackson said, touching her pistol reflexively.

  They approached the house from the right, heading for the garage. Brandon crept up to the front porch, Jackson covering the corners.

  A wide window stretched across the front of the home. The horizontal blinds were open.

  “Let’s try the back,” Jackson said.

  Brandon gave her the okay. They crossed the garage door and headed around to the back.

  In the backyard, a hot tub sat covered on a wide deck that sprawled out into a deep green lawn. A sliding glass door led to the patio. Brandon stopped at the first bedroom window—it was open—and peeked inside
. Dark curtains fluttered in the wind. He cocked his head to listen.

  Nothing.

  Then, a figure shuffled down the hallway beyond the bedroom door.

  He slid down.

  “She’s in the hallway,” he whispered.

  Jackson edged to the next window, peering inside. Her eyes widened.

  “No, she’s not.”

  “What is she doing?” Brandon asked.

  “Pulling a step ladder into the room,” she whispered. Jackson peered through the window again.

  “She’s dusting.”

  “With a ladder?” he asked.

  “Probably cobwebs,” Jackson said.

  Brandon suspected Sabina might be worried about something much less innocent than cobwebs.

  “Come on,” he said, motioning her toward the patio. He stood now, knowing Sabina was in the other room. A mop and bucket leaned against the house, just outside the glass door. He slid the door open.

  The scent of lemon Pine-Sol wrinkled his nose.

  He stopped to listen, then whispered, “Watch my back. In case she’s not alone.”

  They crept through the kitchen, careful to avoid squeaking across the still-wet linoleum floor. The room was just down the hallway to the left. He heard the ladder creek under Sabina’s weight. He stepped into the doorway. Sabina had her back to him.

  She finished unscrewing the dome light. The cover came loose and Sabina carefully untangled two wires that led into the ceiling. Reaching into her back pocket, she pulled out a pair of wire cutters and snipped the tiny camera free, tossing it onto the bed.

  She positioned the cover back over the light and secured it in place.

  When she’d descended the ladder, she turned and screamed.

  Brandon touched his holster. “Hands where I can see them,” he said.

  She blinked at him, eyes sliding to the door.

  “Jackson, in here,” he said.

  He told Sabina again, “Hands up.”

  She complied this time, standing still as a statue until Jackson finished patting her down.

  “Out here,” Brandon said.

  Sabina leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed.

  “Why are you here?” she asked. “I told you, Todd has not done anything to Mrs. Dunn.”