“Don’t use Dad as an example; he was a workaholic,” she said.
“I’ve felt this way since the first week of law school.”
Dana raised her eyebrows. “Really?” She had also questioned her own decision to go to law school—one she made more to spite her father than to appease him. He hadn’t thought she had what it took to be a lawyer.
“The next thing I knew, I was sitting behind my desk at Dillon and Block, three doors down from Dad in the anti-trust department.” James laughed again. “I hadn’t even taken a class on anti-trust. Dad would hand me a file and go on and on about this and that, and I would just sit there looking concerned, nodding, throwing in a few ‘sons of bitches’ and ‘goddammits.’?”
They both laughed.
James drank from his beer. “At least you had the good sense to work someplace else.”
“I was defiant.”
“Well, so am I. Better late than never. I’m getting out.”
“What would you do?” She hoped her brother would provide them both an answer.
“Teach.”
She laughed, then caught herself when she realized he was serious.
James cradled the plastic cup in his hands, flexing it. “A friend called to tell me that Seattle U has a position to teach legal research and writing and trial advocacy.”
“You’re serious. You’ve looked into this.”
He nodded. “I forwarded my grades and references last week. If all goes well, next fall I could be trading my suits and Ferragamos for khakis and loafers.”
She stared at the coffee table, filled with a sense of loss unrelated to the death of their father.
“Come with me,” James said, perhaps sensing her despair. “Let’s celebrate Dad’s death by getting lives.”
She took a sip of wine. “Right. What would Grant think?”
“Who cares? This isn’t about Grant. It’s about you.”
“He’s my husband, James.”
“Don’t remind me.” He raised both hands. “Sorry.”
She knew her family did not care for Grant, but it was not a topic of discussion. Grant was her husband. “Our mortgage is more than we can afford on both our salaries. We owe a hundred thousand in student loans between us, and our car payments are more than some people’s house payments.”
“Sell it all.” James leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his blue eyes sparkling. “That’s what I’m doing. Sell the cars and the house. With the equity in the house, I can pay almost all cash for something smaller.”
She laughed out loud. “With the equity in our house, we might be able to afford dinner and a nice bottle of wine.”
“You’d be free.”
She didn’t even know what that meant. “We’ve talked about children.”
He sat back. His tone changed. “Really?”
She nodded. “We’ve been married five years, and I’m not getting any younger.”
“Are you getting along better?”
“We’re trying. It’s just the strain of work. It’ll change once we have children. It will give us a new perspective.”
But it had been her brother who gained the new perspective. James sold his home on Capitol Hill, sold his Mercedes, and gave his suits and most of his ties and dress shirts to Goodwill. He dropped his membership at the Washington Athletic Club, stopped dining at expensive restaurants, and rarely spent the $150 greens fees for a round of golf at the private clubs. He liked to joke that he had to quit his high-paying job in order to save money.
“I’m very sorry, I’m late.”
Dana opened her eyes. Detective Michael Logan stood at the bottom of the steps with rain dripping from his umbrella. “I could lie and blame it on traffic, but the truth is I overslept. I got a call in the middle of the night, a murder out in Rainier Valley. It turns out it’s connected with your brother.”
She felt her anxiety rise. “My brother?”
Logan looked up at the sky. “Let’s step inside, out of the rain.” The yellow police tape was still wedged between the door and the jamb. “Do you have a key?”
“No,” she said, embarrassed.
Logan nodded. “The neighbor has one. I’ll be just a second.”
She watched him jog across the lawn to the next house and return moments later with the key. Logan removed the strip of police tape, unlocked the door, and pushed it open, but Dana paused at the threshold.
“We can do this later,” Logan said. “Given what I learned last night, it’s not as urgent.”
Dana faced forward, eyes focused down the hallway, recalling the first time she stepped to the edge of the high dive on the floating pier at Madison Park and tried to convince herself to step off. It wasn’t courage that had caused her to take the step. It was the fear of looking afraid.
“Thank you, Detective. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but there’s no reason to wait. It has to be done, and I’ll be the person who will have to do it.”
“I wasn’t thinking of your brother’s belongings,” Logan said. “I was thinking of you.” The comment surprised her. She turned. He looked down at her with bloodshot green eyes. “I mean per-haps another time—when someone can be here with you,” he said.
Dana shook her head. Then she turned back to the threshold, and stepped across.
Legal briefs were strewn across the table. Several had slipped onto the floor next to James’s leather briefcase. She walked down the hallway, struck with the same odd feeling as when she went into the house across the street from Ford’s Theatre, where Abraham Lincoln had died after being shot. Everything seemed like a prop abandoned on a stage after the final act. Time stood still, a horrible moment forever frozen. A dark stain colored the hardwood floor. Dana turned and covered her mouth.
“Are you all right?” Logan asked.
She took a moment to regain her composure, relying on the part of her that would always be a lawyer—the need to get answers to her questions. “You said a murder in Rainier Valley might have something to do with my brother?”
Logan reached into his pocket and handed her a plastic bag. “The responding detectives think they found your brother’s watch.”
Dana turned it over and read the inscription, nodding. “My father gave us each one when we graduated from law school.” She showed the detective her wrist. “Do they have the man who took this?”
Logan shook his head. “He’s dead. Someone shot him.”
“Who is he? Why would he kill my brother?”
“The man’s name was Laurence King. He was pretty much a career criminal, a thief whose crimes were escalating in violence. He was paroled three months ago.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. Her anger spiked. A released convict. “I know you said my brother was killed during a robbery, Detective, but I’m having a hard time accepting that. Look around; he didn’t own anything of value.”
Logan nodded as if he’d heard the rationalization before. “You’d be surprised. I’ve seen people get killed over a five--dollar dispute. We’re still trying to get all the information we can, but what we know is that King was a two-strike felon. He had a lot to lose if he got caught. He also hung out with a man named Marshall Cole, another petty thief. We think Cole might have been the person who killed your brother.”
“Why?”
“We found bloody clothing at the motel along with your brother’s watch. The clothes are too small to have been King’s. Based on a physical description from the motel attendant and Cole’s police file they likely belonged to Cole.”
“Do you think this man Cole also killed King?”
“We don’t know yet. We’re trying to find him. The motel is known to do a brisk business with the local prostitutes. King could have been killed during a random dispute and Cole took off, not wanting to be a part of it. Do you know whether your brother kept large amounts of cash, either on him or in the home?”
“My brother? Not that I’m aware of. Why?”
“In addition to yo
ur brother’s watch, King had upward of fifteen hundred dollars on him.”
She shook her head. “I guess it’s possible, but I doubt James would keep that much money here, and he certainly wouldn’t carry it on him.”
“What about jewelry or things King could have hocked to get that kind of money?”
She surveyed the room. “My brother sold or gave away most of his possessions when he quit practicing law. He never owned much jewelry. The watch and his class ring were the only things I knew of.”
They walked through the rooms, Logan making an inventory of possessions. The thieves had not taken the television or stereo, both of which were relics by modern standards, nor had they taken the laptop. They’d also left his collection of compact discs and a checkbook Dana found in the dresser in the bedroom. Even Logan thought that was odd.
After an hour together, they again stood in the back room. Logan flipped his notebook closed. “Okay. I’ll give you some privacy to collect your brother’s personal things. You have my business card. If you think of anything or notice anything that seems out of the ordinary, let me know. I’ll keep you informed if I learn anything new.”
Dana thanked him and watched him walk down the hallway, leaving her alone, a stranger in her brother’s home.
SHE STARTED WITH the rooms at the back of the house and worked toward the front door and her escape. She felt uncomfortable in the house, the hollow, lifeless eyes of the African tribal masks staring at her, wondering why she hadn’t spent time there when her brother was alive. She wasn’t sure what to do with them or the African tapestries and sculptures. She knew that James had brought them back after a six-week safari from which he returned thin, tan, vegetarian, and in better spirits than she could recall. His hair had grown from the corporate downtown cut to curls that lapped over the collar of his shirt, and he had exchanged contact lenses for wire-rimmed glasses. Still, she didn’t want the masks staring at her, a constant reminder of the tragedy they had witnessed. She decided she would call the Seattle Art Museum and ask if they had interest in the pieces or knew of another museum that might. The rest of the kitchen and the living room, with the exception of the larger furniture, fit in one box. James had taken on a somewhat monastic lifestyle. She assumed he ate most of his meals at the school.
She moved down the hall to the bedroom, knowing this would be the most difficult room in the house. Books and framed photographs filled the built-in shelves and overflowed onto the hardwood floor. An entire shelf was devoted to historical biographies of Civil War commanders. Another shelf held the classics: Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, and Twain. She picked up a multipane picture frame and sat on the edge of the bed. Each panel held a photograph of James with Molly—Molly in a backpack, at a museum, at the zoo with her face painted.
Dana cradled the frame to her chest, sick with the thought of how she would explain to a little girl that her uncle was gone and never coming back. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably. Sobs of pain escaped her throat. She let herself cry, a prolonged five--minute burst before she could pull herself together and open her eyes. When she did, a stocky blond man stood in the doorway.
“Jesus.” She stood, dropping the picture frame. The glass shattered on the hardwood floor.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone was here.” He was neatly dressed in a navy blue suit of good quality, a button-down shirt, and a tie.
Dana wiped the tears from her cheeks, embarrassed and angered by the intrusion. “Can I help you?”
His face was angular, with strong features, his eyes unnaturally dark, a coal black. He pulled a wallet from his jacket and showed her a badge. “I’m Detective Daniel Holmes, Ms.…”
“Hill. Dana Hill. Are you working with Detective Logan?”
He nodded and slipped the wallet back inside his jacket. “Mike is handling your brother’s murder. I’m focusing more on the burglary—items that could have been stolen. I’m sure he mentioned getting out a list to the local pawnshops. Tell me, were you married to the decedent?”
“Married? Oh… no,” Dana said. “Hill is my maiden name. James was my brother.”
“I see. Well, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“I already spoke with Detective Logan this morning, and we put a list together,” she said. “But I’m not sure I’ll be of much assistance. My brother didn’t have much besides his watch, and I don’t really know what else is missing.”
“So you’ve found nothing of interest?”
“Of interest?”
The detective pointed to two boxes outside the door. “Have you found anything that thieves would ordinarily take but left behind? Sometimes we can learn as much from what’s left as what’s taken. For instance, if they took only the electronic equipment—televisions and stereos—but left behind jewelry or artwork, we could better pinpoint the pawnshops they might target.”
“They don’t appear to have been interested in the electronics. As I said, Detective Logan has the list.”
The man nodded. There was an uncomfortable pause. “Well, I won’t delay you further. I apologize again about startling you.”
Dana followed him to the front door, closing it behind him. Then she turned the deadbolt.
Back in the bedroom, she knelt to pick up the pieces of glass embedded in the throw rug that covered the area beneath her brother’s bed. She ran her hands over the threads, feeling carefully for the smaller pieces, noticing a glint of light reflecting near the headboard, a small prism of colors. She stretched out her arm, feeling blindly for the object, and pulled it out.
“Oh, my,” she said, sitting back to consider it.
13
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Dana sat clasping her mother’s hand in the front pew of St. James Cathedral in downtown Seattle. Molly sat between her and Grant. James’s casket had been wheeled down the center aisle and draped with a white vestment. Incense permeated the darkened cathedral, puffs of smoke rising from the censer as the priest swung it, the three gold chains clinking rhythmically. The arched stained-glass windows emitted minimal light, the colored panes muted by the persistent gray skies. The candles on the altar flickered in an unfelt breeze, stirring with the movement of the large crowd that had gathered in the pews behind them.
The priest returned to the altar. Adorned in green and white robes, he spoke with a thick Polish accent that made him difficult to understand. Dana listened to the service without hearing. The weekend had passed in a slow roll, though Dana had remained in constant motion—allowing the details to take up the minutes, the minutes becoming hours, the hours becoming days. She slept and ate little, thought a lot about the past, and avoided thinking about the future. The present was difficult enough. She had been so completely absorbed by preparing James’s wake, funeral, and the reception to follow that she had forgotten about her biopsy. Then she checked her messages at work—a lawyer’s habit—and the sound of Dr. Neal’s voice brought back her anxiety. But the doctor had only called to advise that her lab results were not yet ready.
The priest invited the attendees to sit, then looked down from the altar to Dana. This was her cue. When they met to discuss the funeral, the priest had asked her for details about her brother’s life. Dana had started to compile a list, then stopped. She did not want her brother to be remembered as an afterthought—to have his eulogy given by someone who had never known him in life. Hard as it would be, she would deliver her brother’s eulogy. When the priest expressed concern about whether she would be emotionally capable, she dismissed him. “I’ll get through it,” she said, “for my brother.”
She released her mother’s hand and made her way to the lectern, hearing stifled sobs. When she adjusted the microphone, it emitted a sharp whistle. She unfolded her brother’s eulogy and cleared her throat. She had struggled with the words, with how to sum up thirty-four years of her brother’s life in minutes. The clichés would not save her. This was not a celebration of life—the funeral of an old man. Nor had James been freed of the pain of a termina
l illness or the victim of a tragic accident. Her brother had been murdered. Beaten to death in cold blood. Two men had taken his life and put an end to his existence. Stomped on him like a bug. The fact that her brother had just started to live the life he wanted only made it more painful. James had the guts to do what she did not: face the unknown, to hell with everyone else’s expectations. He set out to do what he wanted with his life only to have a couple of two-time losers steal it from him. At least that was what the police continued to maintain. They said James had been killed during the commission of a robbery. They said it happened all the time. They said it happened over drugs, over parking spaces, and over amounts insufficient to buy a value meal at a fast-food restaurant. It just didn’t happen as often to people living in middle- and upper-class white suburban neighborhoods.
And that was what bothered her.
Her legal training mandated that she try to make sense of what had happened, to question the facts and make them fit into a coherent theory. But she had yet to piece together the facts of her brother’s death. She had yet to come up with a coherent story, and in law, if the story wasn’t coherent, facts were missing or someone was lying. Foremost among those questions was why would Laurence King and Marshall Cole, two-strike felons, target her brother? If they were to risk a return to jail, possibly for life, why wouldn’t they choose a wealthier home?
As she stood at the elevated podium Dana’s stomach burned, causing her to grit her teeth. The pain came amid her sorrow and with her realization that Laurence King and Marshall Cole had not taken just her brother’s life. They had taken a big part of her life and her mother’s and Molly’s. They had stolen from every person in that church. It made her angry. It made her damned angry. So when she opened her mouth to deliver the eulogy, Dana had already decided that the best way to honor her brother would not be to live in the past. It would not be to sit around feeling sorry for herself. Remembering would not purge her anger. It would not answer her questions. No. The best way to honor her brother was for Dana to find out why he was dead.
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