Henry rolled his eyes. “Yes, Stan, you’ve made that quite clear. But it’s your job to keep tabs on your detectives, isn’t it? To know what they’re doing and how an investigation is proceeding?”
Stan’s mouth hinged open, then he sputtered and fumbled his hands over his pockets until he found a pack of gum. He unwrapped another piece and added it to the one already in his mouth.
Henry shifted his gaze to Brett. “Unless French suddenly turned Houdini, he’s clearly not a person of interest.”
“No,” she said. “But he and Nathan Andress recently started writing letters back and forth, and we think French may have given Nathan information pertinent to our case.”
Henry studied her a moment and tugged his mustache. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What information can French possibly have that would get two men killed?”
“He knows who killed my sister.”
Silence filled the room, then Henry leaned back with a heavy sigh, flicking his gaze to the ceiling. “For the love of saints and hell’s angels, Brett. Are you trying to get yourself fired?”
“Sir, I—”
“The Margot Buchanan case is closed,” he said. “The man who killed her is in prison. I brought you on to this team to work new cases, not resurrect old ones.”
“French says he didn’t kill Margot.”
Brett was tired of saying it, tired of defending a criminal, a man who had killed other women, even if he hadn’t killed her sister. She didn’t want to be on his side or grant him any favors. She wanted him to rot in his prison cell, and she wanted to never have to think about him or speak his name for as long as she lived. But Margot’s killer still roamed free. Brett was more certain of this now after talking with French, and she wouldn’t stop pushing for answers, even if it meant using French to get what she wanted.
She explained to Henry about the phone call from Nathan she got the day before his death, about her and Irving’s working theory that Nathan and Zach’s cases were related, that they might have known something about what happened to Margot, and that Danny seemed to be at the center of it all. To prove all of this, they needed to know what Archer French had written in his letters to Nathan.
Stan interrupted her explanation with a snorting laugh, the wad of gum nearly flying out of his mouth. “You can’t be serious. I told you already, Danny has nothing to do with Nathan or Zach. This is a wild goose chase, and we all know it. That bastard French killed Margot, and now he’s screwing with the both of you just for shits and giggles.
“How would you know, Stan?” Irving asked quietly.
“Excuse me?” Stan stopped chewing. His cheeks flamed bright red.
“Your initial investigation wasn’t exactly…” Irving took a moment, trying to choose his words carefully. “Well, I’m sorry to say it, but it wasn’t exactly thorough.”
“Are you kidding me with this bullshit?” Spit flew from his mouth. “I worked my ass off for that case.”
“And yet you let more than a decade go by without making any arrests.”
Stan rose from the chair and jabbed a finger across Henry’s desk. “You’re just going to let him sit there and talk to me like that?” Then he turned his anger on Irving. “After everything I’ve done for you? I’ve had your back since the beginning, and now you’re going to climb up on some goddamn high horse and criticize me.”
“Stan, come on, don’t overreact,” Irving said. “It was a tough case.”
“Damn right, it was a tough case.”
“But you let a few things slide, that’s all I’m saying, and it wouldn’t hurt to go back through and take a closer look to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
Stan’s eyes narrowed to thin slits. He made smacking sounds with his gum as he talked, his jaw working faster with each word. “I can’t fucking believe this. You’ve had over a decade to revisit the Buchanan case if you’d really wanted to, and as many years to undercut me with your own investigation. If you really thought I fucked up that case, why wait until now to say something, huh? What’s changed?” His eyes flicked to Brett, and his lip curled in disgust. “A few months? That’s all it takes for you to turn traitor?”
“Stan,” Irving said, anger rising in his voice.
But Stan brushed him aside. “I hope you’re at least getting something from her in return.”
The innuendo settled ugly between them, but before Brett or Irving or anyone could respond, Stan stormed out. Over his shoulder, he said, “Don’t expect any more favors from me, Irv. You made your bed, now you’re gonna lie in it.”
After he was gone, Henry exhaled loudly and smoothed his hand over his head again. “Are you sure about this? You don’t have any other leads?”
“This is the best we have,” Irving said.
“You know Danny’s working with us on another case, right?” Henry asked.
“Stan told us.”
Henry scratched his mustache and cursed quietly under his breath. “Right. Okay. Do whatever it is you need to do to get these cases closed. I’m sick and tired of hearing about them. I’ll tell our guys in Danny’s crew to keep their eyes and ears open. If they hear anything interesting, you’ll be the first to know.”
Irving stood to leave.
“Brett, hang back, please,” Henry said.
Irving hesitated in the doorway, but Henry dismissed him with a wave.
“Close the door,” Henry said after he left.
Brett did as she was told.
She stood in front of Henry’s desk, waiting for him to say something. Trixie still sat on the floor next to her feet. She was chewing her tail.
Henry studied Brett for several seconds, his expression that of a disappointed father. After what felt like a painfully long amount of time, he leaned his hands on the desk. “Do you know why I was looking for you yesterday?”
“No, sir.”
“You were gone quite a while. What? Ten, twelve hours? It’s a long drive to Salem and back.”
She nodded but said nothing.
“Did you even think about your grandmother before you left?”
“Sir?” The change in topic surprised her. She thought she was going to get a lecture about her poor use of time, or wasting department resources, or going over her supervisor’s head to investigate a shaky lead, not get his thoughts on her personal life.
“You left her alone all day,” he said.
“She’s an adult.”
“She called me a panic. She said you were missing, that she hadn’t seen you in hours and she had no idea where you were. She wanted me to send out a search party.”
Brett stared down at Trixie. The dog looked up at her with worried eyes. Brett shifted her gaze back to Henry. “I told her where I was going before I left.”
“How bad is it?” Henry asked.
When she didn’t answer, he said, “I know dementia when I see it, Brett. I’m not stupid.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Do you know why I offered you a detective position here?”
Brett didn’t want to answer. She could see where this was headed, but he was waiting for her to say something, so she did. “I assume it’s because you needed another detective, and I’m a damn good cop with a lot to offer this department.”
“I offered you this position because I knew it was the only way you’d agree to living in Crestwood. You wouldn’t move here without a job, but, of course, you wouldn’t take just any job. From the way your grandmother talks about you, I knew you’d only say yes to a detective spot, so I gave you a detective spot. Honestly, no, we don’t need another detective. But it’s such a small thing, a title that means very little. I just needed to get you here.” His chair creaked as he shifted slightly forward. “Anita needs someone looking after her. That someone should be you.”
Brett’s mouth went dry. “I am looking after her.”
“Are you?” He tilted his head. The fluorescent lights glinted off the sweat of his brow
. His smile was cutting as he spread his hands over his desk again and said, “Look, I get that you want to make a good impression here. I can appreciate that. But we have a lot of good officers doing a lot of good work. What I need from you is to make sure Anita is safe. And you can’t do that if you’re running all over the place, leaving her alone at the house for hours on end.”
Brett heard Henry’s words as an incessant hum at the back of her head. She was doing the best she could with her grandmother. She was trying. Sure, there’d been a few hiccups, but she was handling it. And nothing terrible had happened. Yet.
“Eli told me he picked Anita up off the side of the highway the other day.” Henry’s voice burst into her thoughts again. “He said she almost got herself killed out there.”
Brett silently cursed Eli for telling Henry when she’d specifically asked him not to.
“You should have come told me the minute something like that happened.”
“She wasn’t hurt.”
“Yeah, thanks to Eli.” Henry sighed. “Brett, let me help. I want to help.”
“How?” She heard the anger rising in her voice but did nothing to tame it. At her feet, Trixie whined. “Amma doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with her. She refuses to see a doctor. She won’t even let me help her. But if you think you can do something different, please, do it. I’d love to see what you come up with.”
“I care about your grandmother, Brett,” Henry said, matching her tone. “Frank was like a father to me, you understand? He’d kill me if he knew I wasn’t looking after her the way he would. He’d want both of us to be doing whatever we could to take care of her and make sure she’s happy and safe. Right now, I think that the best thing would be for you to be home at a reasonable time so you can keep an eye on things. I think you need to start setting up a routine that she can rely on.”
“I’m already doing that. She knows where I am at all times and when I’m coming back. She knows how to find me if she needs me. I can work my cases and take care of her. I’ve been doing it for the last four months without any problems.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “After what happened yesterday, I’m not sure that’s true anymore. There’s no way you can look after Anita properly and be three hundred miles away from her.” He shuffled some paperwork and cleared his throat. “Irving can handle these murder investigations just fine without you. I want you on burglaries, warrants, typing up reports. Basically, I want you at your desk, and when you’re not at your desk, I want you at home.”
“You can’t be serious.” Just when she was getting close to finding answers, he was benching her. “Yesterday was a fluke, a one-time trip.”
He stiffened in his chair, then folded his hands on his desk. “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘yes’ and ‘sir.’” He softened again, rounding his shoulders into a slight hunch, his tone changing too as if he was offering her a favor. “Listen, why don’t you go ahead and take the rest of today off, too, okay? Go home early. We’ve got all the shift coverage we need for tonight.”
A glance at her watch told her it was barely three o’clock. Her shift didn’t end until six, which was plenty of time to help Irving figure out this Archer French situation. She started to argue, but Henry cut her off with a sweep of his hand and pointed at the door.
“Thank you, Detective,” he said, his voice edged with disdain. “I appreciate your cooperation. Oh, and get that dog out of my precinct, please. She stinks.”
Chapter 32
Brett drove circles around town for an hour looking for Jimmy, his car, any sign of him. Trixie rode in the passenger seat with her head hanging out the open window, nose twitching the air, but she proved useless as a search dog.
Before leaving the station, Brett had filled Irving in on her conversation with Archer French the day before, and he’d promised to handle it. She’d hovered at his desk a few more minutes while he called the prison. After several ‘yeahs’ and ‘uh-huhs’ and ‘okay, thanks,’ he hung up. “Apparently, the superintendent has gone home for the day. They’ll have him call me first thing tomorrow morning.”
So that was that. French wasn’t saying a damn thing until he got his extra yard time, which might never happen if they couldn’t convince the superintendent to bend the rules.
Frustrated and not ready to go home, Brett drove slowly through the industrial part of town, double-checking alleyways and open warehouse doors. At some point, she called Eli on the radio. He told her he hadn’t found Jimmy yet, but he was still keeping an eye out. “He’ll turn up,” he said, trying to sound reassuring.
She’d looked everywhere she could think to look. Eli was looking, too. There really wasn’t anything else she could do for Jimmy but wait and hope he turned up soon with a damn good explanation for where he’d been the past two days.
After stopping by the grocery store for candy and dog treats, Brett finally went home. Pistol greeted her and Trixie at the door with excited barks and a wagging tail. She gave each dog a biscuit, and they took off, chasing circles around each other.
Amma appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking flustered. “Whose dogs are these?” She twisted her fingers and fretted as the dogs darted through her legs. “You know your sister’s allergic.” Then she said, “You’re home early.”
“Amma, did you talk to Henry yesterday?”
She thought a minute, then nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
Pistol ran into the kitchen, scratched at the french door, then returned to the living room and pleaded up at Brett.
“When was the last time you let him outside?” Brett asked.
“Outside?” Amma looked baffled. “Won’t they run away?”
Brett went into the kitchen and opened the back door. Trixie and Pistol darted down the porch steps. They peed in the grass, then began to sniff. Brett called the dogs, and they followed her to the beach. They stuck close, wandering a few feet away from her to inspect a patch of grass or nose a broken clamshell, before returning with gentle bumps against her leg.
She walked with the dogs for almost an hour. Wind buffeted from the bay, tugging on her hair. Wisps of clouds darkened to black, gathering in ever thicker layers over the water, swirling more menacing each minute. Her pace quickened as the wind grew fiercer and colder. She whistled for the dogs to hurry. The first raindrops started to fall as they reached the house.
The dogs were quite a bit calmer now. Brett gave Trixie a quick bath to get the worst of the mud off her fur. She inspected her for other injuries besides the cut on her nose but found none. After that, she scooped food into two bowls. She’d bought a small bag of kibble for Pistol the day after she brought the dog home, but if she was going to be taking care of Trixie, too, she’d need to get more food tomorrow. She hoped Jimmy would be back by then.
Brett was scrubbing a pile of dirty dishes when the doorbell rang. The dogs started to bark and howl. Brett wiped her hands on a towel. The doorbell rang a second time, and the dogs barked louder. A thump sounded from upstairs, where Amma had retreated after dinner.
“I got it!” Brett pushed the dogs back with her foot as she cracked open the front door.
“Trick-or-treat!” Three young children grinned at her from behind plastic masks and face paint. They held up pillowcases and stared at her empty hands.
“Oh. Right. One second.”
She grabbed the bowl of candy sitting on the table near the door and tossed handfuls into each pillowcase. Once they were gone, she shut the front door and looked down to find the dogs staring at her expectantly.
“What?”
Trixie wagged her tail. Pistol cocked his head to one side, which exaggerated his already crooked ear.
There was another thump from upstairs and a scraping sound.
Brett glanced at the ceiling. “Amma?”
More scraping, like furniture was being moved, then a clattering sound, like something had spilled. Brett bounded up the stairs, the dogs at her heels. Th
e hatch to the attic was open, the ladder hanging down.
“Amma? Are you up there?” Brett climbed up, hoping she wouldn’t find Amma with the BB gun again. She’d hidden it in her grandfather’s office after the last time.
“Yes, dear, I’m fine. I’m sorry about all the noise. I was feeling nostalgic. I wanted to look at some old pictures, but there are just so many boxes up here. I don’t know what Frank was thinking, keeping all this stuff when he knew I wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing with it after he was gone.” Amma hardly ever cursed.
Brett poked her head into the attic. Amma sat on the floor in a mess of photographs and old cameras. It was the same mess Brett had made the day they found Nathan’s body on the beach. She hadn’t had a chance to climb back up here and finish putting it all away. Amma picked up a photograph and smiled at it. Her cheeks were damp with tears.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” Brett clambered closer to Amma.
She brushed her hand over her cheeks. “Oh, I’m fine. Just remembering. Look.” She held the picture out for Brett. “Wasn’t your mother beautiful?”
It was a photograph of her parents’ wedding. Her mother in a satin dress with long sleeves and a scalloped collar. Her father in a simple, three-piece suit. Amma and Pop stood on either side of them. Her mother looked happy. Her father did, too. It was hard for Brett to remember her parents being anything but shattered. Margot’s death had laid waste to their lives and their marriage. Whatever love they’d had for each other in the beginning had not been enough to keep them from falling apart after Margot died. And whatever love they’d had for Brett had not been enough, either, apparently. Her father abandoned his family to start a new one, not even a year after Margot’s murder. Her mother had gotten drunk and crashed her car into a highway barrier five years later, preferring her own death to a life without her eldest daughter. Brett was nineteen when she buried her mother. Amma and Pop had been at her side then, too, the same way they’d been at her side when Margot died. Amma stoic and straight-backed, dabbing at her silent tears with a handkerchief. Pop had broken, though, collapsing onto a chair as his only daughter was lowered into the earth. He wept loudly, his face lifted to the clouds, and Brett had been embarrassed by his outburst. Now she understood how much courage it must have taken to express his feelings so openly.
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