Drawn

by Carsen Taite

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come on like that.”

  “Like the hard-assed, suspicious cop you are?”

  “I’m only doing my job.”

  “If you think I could have anything to do with a murder, you’re not doing it well. Seriously, I get why you might want to question me and the rest of the club about the murder in Deep Ellum since we were there right before it happened, but now something else has happened and you show up here and start asking me questions like I’m a suspect? What’s the connection?”

  Claire’s face twisted into a pained expression. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Then I have nothing more to say to you.” Riley pointed to the exit. “Either you go or I will.”

  Claire shook her head and started walking to the door. Riley stared at her back, willing her to leave, but also wishing she could catch a glimpse of the woman with whom she’d shared a meal last night. Too late. She was convinced their comfortable dinner had all been an act designed to get her to open up. But for what reason? Were they trying to pin these murders on her father?

  “Hey,” she called out.

  Claire turned. “Yes?”

  “How did you know I would be here?”

  Claire pulled in her bottom lip like she was considering whether to answer. Finally, she said, “I went by your place to talk to you, but you were in the parking lot getting into your car. I followed you here.”

  “Why?” Riley genuinely wanted to know, but after a few seconds ticked by without a response, she knew Claire wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of an answer. “Okay, let’s see if you’ll answer this. If my last name weren’t Flynn, would you be following me around?”

  For a brief moment, she thought she registered a flicker of regret on Claire’s face, but it was gone before she could analyze what it meant. Claire ducked her head and took the last few steps to the door, leaving Riley to her thoughts.

  “Is everything okay?” Lacy asked, putting a hand on her arm, much the same way Claire had. “Was that a customer?”

  Riley tore her gaze away from the door Claire had exited and looked at Lacy’s hand for a moment before lifting her gaze to meet her eyes. “Everything’s fine. She was looking for someone, but she was in the wrong place.”

  Lacy nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and slowly withdrew her hand. “Happens all the time since we moved to this location. Are you ready to go over the new installation details?”

  What she wanted to do was follow Claire and demand answers. Why was Claire singularly focused on her when it came to these murders? She made a mental note to check with Buster to see if any of the other members of the sketch club were receiving similar attention, but she figured she already knew the answer. Unless their names were Flynn, they were likely being left alone. Right now, in this moment, she had two choices—obsess about things she couldn’t control or focus on her future success. She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, willing the anxiety Claire’s visit had delivered to be gone. “Yes, I’m ready.”

  Now, if she could only get Claire out of her head, she might be able to concentrate on whatever Lacy had in mind.

  Chapter Nine

  Riley drove the short distance from the gallery to the Ginger Man, noting the change in the weather. Yesterday it had been rainy and cold, and now sunny skies and sixty-degree temps beckoned her to be outside sketching. She hoped the nice weather would hold until next Saturday when the sketch club met again.

  Buster was waiting at the bar when Riley walked in, and he raised two pints of beer in the air. “’Bout time. I was going to have to drink both of these myself.”

  Riley took one of the pints and slid into the seat next to him. “I’m thinking you could’ve handled it.” She took a deep drink from the glass and set it down on the bar. Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure how to broach the subject she’d come to discuss. She’d planned to ask him if any of the other members of the sketch club had been approached by the police, but if he asked why she wanted to know, she wasn’t sure how much she was willing to share.

  She took another drink of her beer and decided she was overthinking the topic. “Remember when those cops were in here, wanting to talk to everyone who was in Deep Ellum the day they found that woman who was killed down there?”

  “Sure.” Buster pointed to the booth in the corner of the bar. “We were over there with Natalie.”

  “Right. Do you know who else they talked to? Besides us, I mean.”

  “I gave them a list of everyone in the club, and I told them who was in Deep Ellum with us that day, but I haven’t talked to them since.” Buster cocked his head. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” she answered quickly. Too quickly judging by the dubious look on his face. She spent a second judging how much she had to share to keep him from digging deeper, and then abandoned all strategy in favor of being able to tell someone what she was going through. “I don’t know if I should tell you this.”

  “Trust me, you should. I can see something’s bothering you.”

  “You can’t tell anyone. Not even Natalie.”

  He drew his hand across his heart. “Swear.”

  “I think they think I was involved in the murder or that my father was. They say they’re talking to everyone who was down by the mural that night, but I’m not sure that’s true. And now, I think they’ve found another body, but I don’t know any details, so I don’t know if it has anything to do with the first one, but Detective Hanlon followed me around today, and…” She stopped when she noticed Buster’s eyes widening. “Sorry. Too much, right?”

  “All at once, yes. Let’s back up a sec. Why would they think you were involved?”

  “Well, I was the last one of us at the mural the night Jill Shasta’s body showed up.”

  “Sounds pretty lame to me,” Buster said.

  “Agreed.” Riley hesitated for a minute, unsure if she really wanted to dive into the subject of her father, but she’d already mentioned him, so she took the plunge. “I don’t know if you’ve been keeping up with the news, but my father is Frank Flynn. He was tried and convicted fifteen years ago, but his conviction was overturned, and he was released from prison last month.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Whoa is an understatement,” Riley said.

  “I bet. Yes, I’ve been following that story. But he didn’t do it, right?”

  “Yes. I mean, the court found there were definite problems with the way the case was handled, plus when they finally tested the DNA, it came back as belonging to another guy. The DA’s office has supposedly decided not to try him again, but the judge hasn’t made a decision about whether to declare him actually innocent. It’s all pretty complicated, but the upshot is he’s free for now.”

  “And then a body shows up that makes it look like he might have been involved.” Buster took a drink from his beer. “But I don’t get why they’d be questioning you about it.”

  “Me neither. I mean I was down there that day, but like you said, that’s a pretty lame connection. I get the impression from talking to the detective that there might be some other murder they are linking to Shasta’s death, but I don’t have more details, so I can’t really defend myself.”

  “Hard question—do you think your dad could be involved?”

  “The truth? I have no idea. Do I want to believe that the man who taught me to ride a bike is a cold-blooded murderer? Absolutely not, but I gave up believing I know this guy years ago. A year or so before he was arrested, he had some kind of premature midlife crisis. He started screwing his much younger teaching assistant and doing coke. Now, he seems sober and he’s acting like a model husband, but I don’t know him anymore, and after all these years without a father, I’m not sure I want to.”

  She looked down at her hands where she’d torn the coaster into tiny shreds. “I’m on the verge of getting my big break and I don’t need this distraction.” The topic of distractions brought to mind Claire’s penetrating blue ey
es, staring into hers, when they’d shared dinner at Mia’s and when Claire had confronted her at the gallery earlier. Claire might be the enemy, but Riley couldn’t stop thinking about her, and wishing they’d met under different circumstances. But they hadn’t and Claire Hanlon, the detective, was a danger zone, from which she needed to steer clear.

  “What can I do?” Buster asked.

  She pushed thoughts of Claire away. “I don’t know. I guess I just needed to tell someone what was happening. Someone who wouldn’t judge me for who my father is.”

  “No judgment here. Ever.” Buster paused for a moment. “I could reach out to everyone on the list I gave them and see if they’ve talked to the cops. Maybe they’d have some insights about the direction of their investigation.”

  Riley wanted to say yes because information was power, and right now, she needed to feel like she had some. But she knew this wasn’t just about her. “No, don’t. The cops might think you’re trying to obstruct their investigation. I know I didn’t have anything to do with the murder, and if my father did, then he’s going to have to deal with the consequences of his actions all on his own. It helped just to talk to you.”

  “Anytime, pal.”

  They talked for a bit about her upcoming show, and Riley noted that Buster seemed relieved they’d switched topics. She could hardly blame him, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he viewed her differently now that he knew she was related to an accused murderer. As relieved as she’d been to share her story with him, the telling left her feeling awkward and vulnerable, on edge as she waited for the inevitable questions about what life had been like with her father in prison or now that he was newly released. Each time she had to answer, the words chipped away at the self-esteem she’d built on her own all these years. It was time for the cycle to stop. She refused to be defined by the actions of her father, and the next time she saw Claire Hanlon, she was going to tell her so in no uncertain terms.

  * * *

  Claire pulled up in front of her parents’ house and parked by the curb since the driveway was already full. The sun had almost set, but she could see enough of the outside of the house to notice the debris sticking out of the gutters and tree branches scraping the roof. She balanced two packages in her arms and walked to the door, noting a few other items in disrepair. The door opened as she approached, and her big brother, Ralph, greeted her with a big smile while he took the packages from her.

  “About time you showed up. We’ve been holding dinner and I’m about to pass out.”

  “As if.” She poked a finger at his broad shoulder. “If you didn’t work out so much, maybe you wouldn’t be hungry all the time.”

  “And then I wouldn’t be such a catch,” he said.

  “Who’s a catch?”

  They both turned to see Ralph’s wife, Pia, standing with her hands on her hips. Claire knew her frown wasn’t real. “Ralph fancies himself to be quite the stud. You should probably chain him up at home.”

  “Or let him run free until he gets it out of his system,” Pia said. “I could certainly use a break.”

  Ralph cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m standing right here.”

  Claire and Pia laughed. “Exactly,” Claire said. “Stop talking smack, and we’ll leave you alone. Now, what’s for dinner and where’s the birthday guy?”

  “He’s in the kitchen,” Pia said. She locked arms with Claire, and they headed that way. When they walked into the room, Claire spotted her dad sitting in the breakfast nook. He smiled as she approached, but Claire was certain she spotted a flicker of pain in his eyes when he pushed up from his chair to give her a hug. Today was his sixty-fifth birthday, but he was moving like someone ten years older.

  “If it isn’t my favorite daughter,” he said, keeping up the running joke since Claire was their only daughter. “The detective.”

  Ralph, the football coach, shook his head. They both knew their dad loved them equally, but Claire was the baby and she’d been spoiled since the day she was born. That she was the only child who’d chosen to wear a uniform, even if it wasn’t military, gave her added esteem in her father’s eyes. “Oh, Dad, Ralph does the best he can,” she said. She raised her nose in the air. “Smells like lasagna.” She sniffed again. “And garlic bread. Where’s Mom?”

  “Right here,” her mother said, walking into the kitchen. “Everything’s set up in the dining room, and now that we’re all here, let’s eat.”

  Claire gave her mother a hug. “Be there in two secs. Just going to go wash my hands.” As she left the room, she mouthed to Ralph to follow her, but instead of heading to the bathroom, she detoured to the den.

  “What’s up, sis?” he asked.

  “Does Dad look okay to you?”

  “Well, he is a year older,” Ralph said with a grin. “Seriously, what’s on your mind?”

  She paused for a moment and examined whether she was overreacting to her observations before deciding that it was better to mention her concerns than tuck them away. “He seems like he’s in some pain, and when I drove up it just looks like he’s not keeping the house up the way he used to.”

  “You know, Pia mentioned that too. The gutters, the trees. The fence gate on the right side of the house is leaning pretty bad too.” Ralph frowned. “I was over here last week. I should’ve noticed.”

  Claire play punched him in the shoulder. “I’m a detective. It’s what I do.”

  “I’ll get over here this week and take care of this stuff and the lawn.”

  “Hey,” she said. “It’s not all on you. I’m pretty swamped right now, but I can send over a lawn service to take care of the gutters, trees, and lawn. You fix the fence and check to see if there’s anything else that could use your handy touch. We’ll tell him the extra attention is part of his birthday present.”

  “Deal.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “We better get in there before Mom decides we don’t get any lasagna.”

  While they ate dinner, they all shared fun birthday memories. The Batman cake her mother had attempted for Ralph’s tenth birthday that looked more like a black cat than a superhero, or the surprise party fail when the friend who was assigned to get Claire to her sixteenth birthday party lost track of her at the mall when Claire wandered off to flirt with the redhead who worked at the soft pretzel stand. As they shared stories and laughter, Claire wondered what it would be like to grow up as Riley had, with her father completely out of the picture during her high school years but overshadowing it all with his trial and prison sentence. She couldn’t even imagine, and she gave a silent prayer of thanks she didn’t have to.

  After dinner and presents, Claire leaned over to her father and asked for a moment alone. They walked back to his study, and he invited her to sit on the small sofa across from his desk.

  “I could tell something was up when you came in the house,” he said, walking over to the liquor cart near his desk. “Scotch?”

  A drink would take the edge off, and for a moment, she imagined indulging in the sensation of the amber liquid warming her insides and mellowing the anxiety brewing about the second body, about Riley Flynn, and about how her future rode on solving this case before it got out of hand. But the fix would be temporary, and it would dull her senses. She needed to remain sharp if she was going to solve this case.

  “I see what you’re doing,” her dad said. He poured two glasses, one with three fingers of Scotch and one with half that. He handed her the smaller dose. “A touch won’t kill you, and it might be enough to put the voices at bay long enough to focus on what matters.”

  “How do you always know what I need?”

  “Because I’ve been where you are. In the middle of a case, unable to think of anything else, but having to balance the demands of daily life with those of the job.” He tilted his glass toward hers for a toast. “Thanks for making time for us tonight. I appreciate you being here, although I would’ve understood if you couldn’t make it. Your mother, on the other hand. Well, she thinks the whole fa
mily has to get together for every birthday.” He sighed. “She keeps me grounded. Lord knows, if it wasn’t for her, I might’ve worked twenty-four seven when you and your brother were growing up.”

  “I get it. The compulsion to keep going until you find the answers. It’s not a weakness.” Claire drank a sip of the Scotch, instantly warming to the burn. “I have a chance at a big promotion. Squad commander.”

  Her dad raised his glass. “Something proper to toast. Congratulations.”

  “It hinges on solving the case I’m working on.”

  “The girl they found in Deep Ellum.”

  She resisted correcting the word “girl.” “Yes, but there’s been another. The manner of death isn’t public yet, but it probably will be soon. Another woman, Wendy Hyatt, same MO. Her body was found by one of the bridges downtown.”

  “Serial killer?”

  “Officially, it’s too soon to tell, but I’d bet all the money in all the land it is. Too many details about both crime scenes were similar and well planned.”

  “Any clues?”

  “Yes, but they don’t make sense.” She told him about the drawings, about Riley and Riley’s father. About Bruce’s obsession with putting Frank Flynn back behind bars. “I get why he’s focused on him, but why would Flynn commit a series of murders and leave a clue that led to his daughter. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t.” Her dad frowned. “I love Bruce like a brother, but that doesn’t mean I think he’s always right. Don’t let his baggage about the Flynn case weigh down your investigation. If there’s a promotion to be had, you’ll earn it the right way, not by cutting corners because someone higher up the chain can’t see the forest for the trees.”

  Claire knew his advice was sound, but she couldn’t deny the power Bruce had over her career. Her father had retired as a field agent, never having had an interest in moving into administration at the DEA. While she admired his long years of service, she recognized that he didn’t get her desire to move up the chain of command any more than she understood why he would be content to take orders rather than give them. If she was going to be in Bruce’s position one day, she had to do her time under his control, but Dad was right when he said she didn’t have to cut corners, and she took his advice seriously.