The Mia Quinn Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  “Are you saying your old man’s an old man?”

  Yes.

  “Of course not, Dad, but the roof has a pretty steep pitch. I can hire someone who specializes in that kind of thing and has special tools and safety gear.” To avoid an argument, Mia switched topics. “Where’s Gabe?”

  “Oh, I told him he could go out with his friends after practice. You’ve got him watching Brooke every day—a boy needs time to be on his own.”

  And what if something had happened to Brooke while her dad was on the roof? “It’s not like I have a lot of choices, Dad.”

  His mouth turned down at the corners. “Oh, Mia, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Mia blinked. When had her dad ever apologized?

  “Don’t worry about it.” She looked past him to the kitchen, where saucepans covered most of the counter. Her kitchen used to smell like chocolate chip cookies and long-simmering stews. Now there were whole weeks when it smelled like delivery pizza and takeout Chinese. “Did you cook dinner?”

  “I tried. I’ll have to admit it was more heating things up. Brooke seemed to like it, though. I can fix you a plate.” He headed for the kitchen.

  “Now you’re waiting on me?” Mia tried to make a joke of it. “Who are you and what have you done with my dad?”

  His face lit up. “I’m glad you noticed. I am different. God is working in me.”

  She wanted to roll her eyes. God was working in her father? All his recent talk about God and church was just her dad trying to find something to do now that he was retired. Without a job at the center of his life, he was lost.

  Her dad had dedicated most of his waking hours to his job as a manager at a packaging company. His retirement funds had been invested solely in company stock. When the company went bankrupt a year after he retired, the company CEO got jail time and her dad had been left with nothing but Social Security.

  Six months ago he had started going to church. Church! Mia couldn’t have been more surprised if he had taken up belly dancing. Now he plopped some broccoli in bright yellow cheese sauce onto a plate. “If you wanted, you could come with me to church sometime.”

  “I don’t know.” Was Peter getting the same sales pitch? Somehow she doubted it. Her brother had even less patience than she did. Mia had joined Scott’s church when they married, but over time their attendance had dwindled to Easter and Christmas.

  “I think the kids would enjoy it. They’ve got special classes for different ages.” He mounded some mac and cheese on her plate. It was slightly more orange than the broccoli’s cheese sauce.

  When Mia and Peter were little, their mom would get them up and dressed in stiff clothes and take them to church—while their dad, more often than not, slept in. He had said it was the one morning he could get a little peace.

  Mia tried to be polite. “I’ll think about it.” She pushed aside dirty plates and sat down.

  “I used to think that if there was a God, He was way off in heaven someplace.” Her dad opened the dishwasher and slid in a dirty dish. “But now I know that God really cares about each of us. Not just in some global way, but down to what we eat and wear. Jesus said that He counted each sparrow.”

  Then where had God been when someone shot Colleen? When Scott lost control of his car?

  Mia took a deep breath. “I appreciate that you feel that way, Dad, but can we not talk about it right now? I have had the most awful twenty-four hours.”

  “Really?” His forehead creased in concern. “What happened?”

  In between bites Mia told him about her phone call with Colleen, how she had gone to her, and how she and Charlie had raced back to the house, sure that something terrible was happening to the kids. “Brooke was having what must have been the worst nightmare I’ve ever seen. She was screaming and fighting, but I couldn’t get her to wake up. It was awful.”

  Her dad nodded. “You used to sleepwalk.” He fit a smeared glass onto the top rack of the dishwasher. “And a couple of times you did that whole screaming with your eyes open thing too.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t remember that.”

  Smiling, he reached past her to grab the dirty plates from the table. “You never did then either. We’d try to talk to you about it, and it was like it had never happened.”

  Mia’s anxiety about Brooke receded a little. “Now Frank wants me to head up the investigation into Colleen’s death. I’m really torn.” She forked up another clump of broccoli and waited for her dad to tell her what to do. He had never been shy about sharing his opinions.

  “I know you’ll make the right decision.” He cleared the last few dishes and then looked at his watch. “I probably should be getting back. The dog will be wondering where I am. Tell Gabe I’ll see him at his game on Friday.”

  Just as he got to the door, Brooke scampered down the stairs and crashed into his legs. She wrapped her arms around his knees. “You know what, Grandpa? We should have a sleepover party!”

  Mia’s dad smiled down at her, his face lighting up. “Not tonight, honey bun. But maybe sometime.”

  Had her dad ever smiled at her like that when she was little? Mia let him out the front door and then picked up the stack of mail to sort through while she ate the rest of her meal.

  Two minutes after he left, tires squealed up outside, followed by a fusillade of honks and shouts. Since when did Gabe have friends who were old enough to drive?

  He slouched into the kitchen carrying a white plastic bag. Mia looked closer at his clothes. His black T-shirt had something silk-screened on the front.

  No. Hadn’t she talked to him about not wearing that shirt to school?

  It was a drawing of a kitten. Printed in block letters above it were the words I hate everyone. Mia knew it was supposed to be ironic, but it did not offer the best impression to the students and teachers who were just getting to know her son.

  “Gabe! Don’t tell me you wore that to school today.” This must be why he had come down bare chested to breakfast and then insisted on riding his skateboard.

  He just shrugged and grinned.

  She didn’t have the energy to be angry. “From now on, I don’t want you wearing that to school.” She held out her hand. “Since your grandpa made dinner, you can give me back the money I gave you for pizza.”

  He shrugged. “I spent it. Sorry.”

  “On what?”

  “Protein powder. I had to use part of my allowance too.” From the bag he pulled out a blue canister and set it on the counter. “But if I drink this twice a day, it will help me get bigger.”

  “Bigger? You’re nearly eye to eye with me now.”

  “Most guys on the team are way bigger than me. Not just taller, but heavier. I need more muscle. You can’t play football if you’re skinny.”

  She was too tired to argue. Later she would have to Google the stuff to make sure it wasn’t dangerous.

  Gabe went into the family room, where she heard him greet Brooke and then turn on the TV. It was the first time Mia had been alone all day, if she didn’t count being in her car. She dished up the last of the macaroni and cheese and sorted the rest of the mail. Redbook for her, Outdoors for Scott (she had to figure out how to cancel it), political mailings, pleas from charities, and then something that looked like a bill, addressed to Scott. The return address was their local post office. She slid her finger under the flap.

  It was a bill for a post office box. But why had Scott had a PO box?

  Scott’s keys were upstairs on their dresser, nestled in the silver dish where he had put his change and keys every night. Hadn’t she seen a small, unfamiliar key on it?

  Still chewing, Mia went upstairs and grabbed his keys. Yes. A small brass key engraved with the number 306. That matched the box number mentioned in the letter. What could be in it? Their post office lobby was open around the clock, even when the counter service was closed.

  She stuck her head into the family room. “Gabe, I need you to keep an eye on Brooke for a second. I have to
run an errand.” He started to mutter, but she kept going.

  Mia told herself she wouldn’t think about what she might find, but still her imagination immediately conjured up images of scented letters from a woman. Maybe even several women.

  Five minutes later she was standing in a hallway-sized space lit by fluorescent lights and lined on both sides by little metal boxes. They reminded her of the mausoleum niches the funeral director had shown her after Scott died.

  She fit the key in the lock and turned it. Her eyes widened. The box was stuffed full. She pinched a dozen envelopes and tugged until they finally came loose, spilling everything on the floor. Leaning over, she gathered them up. Some envelopes were stamped “Third notice” and “Urgent!” in red letters.

  A sudden surge of vertigo made it hard to straighten up without staggering. Bills. All bills. No wonder Scott had been keeping the existence of this post office box a secret.

  Mia was going to lose everything.

  CHAPTER 13

  At 8:35 the next morning Mia stood outside Frank’s office waiting for him to finish a phone call. DeShauna walked in the main door and gave Mia a look that was frankly curious. Mia nodded and then turned her back on the reception area.

  Staring at the dingy beige carpeting, she made a conscious effort to clear her mind. She would not think about how her co-workers might view Frank’s offer or her decision. Or about Brooke’s nightmare on Sunday. Or about Gabe’s obsession with fitting in.

  Mia most especially would not think about what she had learned from Scott’s post office box. She would not think about how the Suburban was actually leased—leased!—for $599 a month. Or how it was already two months in arrears.

  Ever since Scott died, Mia had been paying bills as they came in—gas, water, electric, newspaper, cell phone, Internet. She should have wondered where the credit card bills were, both for the single card she carried as well as the cards she had found in his wallet when it was returned to her. Although she had been vaguely aware that Scott carried more credit cards—she remembered signing a few forms he had handed her over the years—it had been a surprise to see how many there were. Even so, the number of bills stuffed in the PO box was a shock. After she had gotten home, Mia had locked her bedroom door, spread the envelopes out on the bedspread, and methodically made her way through an entire box of Better Cheddars while adding everything up.

  Even though many of the paper bills were duplicates, the ultimate total on the calculator was staggering: $53,727.

  And each time Mia hit the plus sign, it became clearer.

  She had to say yes to Frank.

  It wasn’t just that she owed Colleen justice. She also couldn’t afford to risk her job. Not now. Not when she had to do everything she could to somehow pay off the bills and hold on to the house.

  The house was the key to everything. If she lost it, her family would continue to unravel. If she were reduced to a rental, chances were that the schools in whatever area they could afford would not be nearly as good. Gabe probably wouldn’t be on the new school’s football team. Mia would have to find a new preschool for Brooke. Both kids would have to leave their friends, neighbors, the park just two blocks away . . .

  How could Mia have missed the red flags? Three months before Scott died, her credit card had been declined at the grocery store. Brooke was whining for some of the Wheat Thins that had already been bagged when the clerk loudly announced that her card had been rejected. The woman had looked at Mia with narrowed eyes, as if she were a thief. With a great show of reluctance, she had finally accepted a check.

  When Mia called Scott from the parking lot, he said, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I lost my card last week when I was out of town and had to cancel the account. Sorry. I thought I mentioned it.”

  “You didn’t.” Mia had stared at a small bird with drab black feathers pecking at something in the parking lot. Behind her, Brooke was stuffing Wheat Thins into her mouth. “I feel like I never see you anymore, Scott. Maybe we can start sitting down at night with a glass of wine and catching up on our days like we used to. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know what’s going on with you.”

  “What do you mean, what’s going on?” Scott’s voice had an edge to it.

  “Like how your business is going. You never talk to me about that anymore.”

  “The last thing I want to do when I’m home is talk about the business. We made a deal, right? You take care of the kids and the house and all of that, and I take care of the financial parts of our lives. Well, I’ve kept my part of the deal. And it’s my long hours that make our lifestyle possible. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Now Mia knew the truth behind Scott’s words, that he had been scrambling, robbing Peter to pay Paul, and then borrowing from Perry to pay the interest on the loan from Patrick.

  Since Scott died, there had been one surprise after another.

  None of them good.

  Startling her out of her reverie, Frank called out, “Okay, Mia, come in.” Once again she sat facing the framed photos of his kids. After today, would her kids be as close to her as Frank’s were to him?

  Frank steepled his fingers. “Have you made a decision?”

  “Yes.” Mia took a deep breath. “I’ll take on Colleen’s case.” He started to say something, and she held up one hand. “On one condition.”

  “Condition?” He raised an eyebrow, his expression hovering between amusement and annoyance.

  “We talked about Darin Dane yesterday. I still want to take his case to the grand jury. See if there’s enough evidence for an indictment.”

  “Mia, you’ve got to be practical.” Definitely annoyance. A muscle in his jaw flickered. “If you’re going to investigate Colleen’s death, it will demand your full attention.”

  “I’m not saying we file charges against the people who harassed Darin. I’m saying we let the grand jury decide whether there’s a case. That’s all. Gabe’s the same age as Darin.” She pointed at his daughter’s photo. “We’re talking about a boy only a couple of years younger than Caitlin. And now he’s dead.”

  “Mia, realistically speaking, that’s a waste of resources. We can’t bring that kid back.”

  Was Frank thinking about the department’s record? The best won-lost records did not come from amazing legal work. They were built by cherry-picking only the strongest cases for trial and pleading out the rest. Or, in some cases, never filing charges at all. But the public didn’t understand those nuances.

  “And if it’s a dead end, then I promise you I’ll let it go,” Mia said. “But I am not going to look Darin’s father in the face and say, sorry, those kids may have tormented your son until he killed himself, but there’s nothing we can do. Don’t worry, Frank, I plan on devoting all of my time to figuring out who killed Colleen. I’ll just fit this in the cracks.”

  Frank sighed and nodded, as part of her had known he would. The new Frank was a much more political animal than the man she had met when she first started working at King County. But underneath his worries about resources and perceptions she sometimes caught flashes of the idealistic thirty-year-old she had worked alongside all those years earlier.

  “I still think it’s a waste of time, but as long as you give Colleen’s death your full attention . . .”

  “Of course I will, Frank. But there’s one more thing we still need to discuss. What if I’m called to testify about what I heard on the phone? Do we need a second on this case?” Mia meant a second prosecutor.

  Frank winced. “We’re stretched thin as it is. Also, when it comes to trial we don’t want to look like we’re bigfooting the defendant by having you, Charlie, and your second at the table, not when the defense only has the defendant and his attorney.” He sat back, laced his fingers over his belly, and thought about it. “Actually, I don’t think we need to worry about it. We’re not going to put you on the stand, and why would the defense? The prejudice outweighs the probative value. The death is self-evident, and your testimony might b
e considered gratuitous.”

  Frank was right. Taking the jurors through those last horrible moments would be bound to influence them—which meant no judge would allow it. And even if the judge would, the defense was certainly not going to want to dwell on the gritty details.

  “I guess I’m in all the way then, Frank.”

  “I always knew you would be.”

  There was no point in being annoyed, not when he was right. “How long did you work with Colleen?” she asked.

  “Over twenty years. That’s why it’s just so hard to believe that she’s gone. I mean, you actually heard it happen, so I guess you must believe it. I just keep thinking about how it used to be. Remember? You and Colleen and I, we’re part of the old guard. We remember the go-go years, when Seattle had all that Microsoft and Boeing cash. When even the government could spend money and nobody complained too much.” He made a sound that was a cross between a grunt and a laugh. “Sometimes I miss those days. Things were simpler then. Now there are so many decisions, and whatever I do, somebody’s going to be unhappy.”

  “You mean because you gave me Colleen’s case?” Mia thought of the way people had looked at her yesterday after she emerged from Frank’s office. Looked at her and looked away.

  “There’s that. There’s also being in the public eye. I mean, look at this.” He tapped on his keyboard and then half turned his computer screen so that she could see it. It was a Facebook page, and the profile photo looked like a screen capture of Frank from a video. She guessed he might have been talking. His mouth was open and his eyes half-closed. He looked more than a little crazy.

  He stabbed at the page’s title with his finger. Mia started to read it out loud. “Frank D’Amato is a—” She stopped. “Huh, I thought that word was an obscenity.”

  “Things have changed,” Frank said bitterly. “I’ve heard people use that word on TV. Not even cable. Network.”

  She looked at the comments. Posters called Frank a fat cat and an imbecile and a blowhard. So much naked hate, but much of it hid behind names that were obviously fake, like Scarlett O’Hara.