by T. E. Woods
Larry pressed the button mounted beside a double front door with an inserted glass and lead panel. Less than thirty seconds later it was opened just wide enough to reveal a middle-aged white man dressed in chinos and a fleece pullover.
“Can I help you?” he asked. Mort noticed a thin gold band on the man’s left hand. He stood shoulder high to Mort and would have benefited from a thirty-pound weight loss. Dark blond hair circled his bald head like a laurel wreath, wispy and thin.
Larry spoke first. “I’m Larry Clark, Abraham’s son-in-law. This is my friend. We’ve come to speak to him.”
The man alternated his gaze between them. “He wasn’t expecting you. I suggest you call his office and make an appointment.”
Mort reached into his jacket pocket and produced his badge. “While this is Smydon’s son-in-law and I am his friend, I’m also chief of homicide, Seattle PD. This is an official visit, Mr….?”
The man leaned forward to scrutinize Mort’s shield, no doubt memorizing the number. “I’m Frank Shelby,” he said impassively. “My wife, Alice, and I take care of the house and grounds for Mr. Smydon. Can I tell him what this is about?”
“No.” Mort stepped forward and Frank Shelby opened the door wider in a mindless reaction. “But we’ll wait right here while you go get him, how’s that?”
The houseman closed the door behind Larry and promised he’d be right back before heading down a hallway off the entrance. Mort and Larry found themselves standing in a fifteen-foot square slate entry hall. A staircase with heavy oak newels and banisters done in an Arts and Crafts style switchbacked on the far wall. To the right of the stairs a wide arch led into what Mort imagined was a large living space. He could see the back of a leather sofa running perpendicular to the entry wall, forming a hallway within the room. The walls of the entrance hall extended up two stories, with an iron and amber glass chandelier suspended from the ceiling’s center. Matching sconces flanked the double door. The walls of the space were decorated with framed black-and-white photos. One showed muscled fishermen in full rain gear hauling in nets laden with salmon. Another showed the prow of a vessel pushing its way through a ten-foot wave. The vessel’s name was centered in the shot: Helen. Yet another showed men pulling in crab pots. Dozens of photos. Each showcasing the industry that supported this majestic house. None showing the man who owned it all.
Frank Shelby came back to them before Larry and Mort could share any comment about the house that Abraham built. “Come with me,” he told them.
They followed the stocky man down a broad corridor tiled in the same slate as the entry. Two archways opened on the left, each furnished with sofas and tables. The right side arch revealed a library with ceiling-high shelves filled with books. Frank led them past it to a closed nine-panel oak door.
“Can I get you gentlemen anything?” he asked without opening the door. “Alice made a nice salmon chowder this morning. And she’s roasted some early squash with late tomatoes straight from the garden. I had two helpings of that myself.”
Mort felt his stomach rumble at the mention of such delicacies. He hadn’t eaten a thing since he’d toasted a frozen bagel before leaving the houseboat. “No, thanks, Frank. I’m good.” He turned to Larry. “You?”
L. Jackson Clark held himself in a steadfast pose that signaled to Mort he’d rather starve than break bread in Helen’s father’s house. “I’m fine. Thank you, Frank.”
The houseman shrugged, rapped on the door, and opened it wide. “These are the fellas I told you about. I offered them refreshments but they didn’t bite.”
Abraham Smydon looked up. He was behind his desk, an enormous slab of cedar with natural edges. “Thank you, Frank.” Smydon nodded toward the west wall of the office, where a single overstuffed chair sat next to a small side table holding a tray with a single glass, bowl, and plate. “You can take that, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Frank Shelby walked over to grab the detritus of Smydon’s lunch.
Abraham thanked his employee again. “Close the door behind you, will you, please?”
Smydon waited until Frank was gone to address his two visitors.
“I’ve already answered your questions, Detective Grant. And if you’re here to verify that I’m staying safe until you have someone in custody, you can see Frank is quite particular about whom he lets into the house.” He turned to his son-in-law. “I wasn’t aware you had any official capacity in the police investigation into Carlton’s death.”
“Carlton was my friend,” Larry responded. “Mort’s been generous enough to include me in some aspects of the case. There may be some insights I can provide.”
Smydon looked up at Mort with a face that betrayed little evidence of his seventy-five years. He had the bearing of a lion who wanted his visitors to understand that they were standing in his territory. “If only we all had such access to our civic officials,” he said.
There were no chairs for visitors in Abraham Smydon’s office. This was his lair. Intruders were not welcome. Mort recalled Larry’s tale of Helen being banished to the outdoors when her father was in this room, never to be disturbed.
“We have reason to believe you misrepresented your earlier statement to us.” Mort went straight to the point.
Smydon seemed unperturbed by the fact that the chief of homicide had just called him a liar.
“What statement is that, Detective? And what causes you to doubt me?”
“You told Chief Willers and me you hadn’t seen your brother since Kenny Kamm’s last parole hearing,” Mort said. “That was almost a year ago.”
Smydon’s face remained calm. “I’d remind you again Carlton is my half brother, but something tells me you are perfectly aware of that. Helen’s husband, Carlton, and I were all there, as I’m sure your friend will attest.” He tilted his head toward Larry.
Mort wondered how long Abraham Smydon planned to hold his grudge against the pauper who’d dared to marry his daughter. It was apparent Larry’s international success wasn’t enough to wash away Smydon’s initial impression that a lowly professor wasn’t worthy of his attention, and certainly not the hand of his only daughter.
Mort turned to Larry. “You got it?”
Larry pulled Carlton’s personal date book from his briefcase and gave it to Mort. Mort flipped to the page for June.
“This is Carlton Smydon’s private calendar. You’ll see your name there. June fourteenth. He had a lunch date scheduled with you.”
Abraham slipped on a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses, took the calendar, and looked at the document. He flipped several pages forward, then an equal number of pages back, then handed it back to Mort. “Carlton may have wanted this, but it didn’t happen. It’s my habit to take lunch alone before heading back to the waterfront. I’m not one to sacrifice my quiet time for idle chatter.”
“What makes you think that was Carlton’s intent?” Mort asked.
Abraham Smydon smoothed his hand across the polished desktop. “Because I know my father’s second son. Carlton was an indulged child who grew into a shallow man. As a result of my hard work and our father’s shortsighted last will and testament, Carlton never had to work a day in his life. He filled his time with fanciful quests and idiotic journeys. Those matters that so captivated my half brother hold no interest to me.” Smydon gave Larry a look of disdain that telegraphed he felt the same about Larry’s chosen field as well. “I suppose you find me cruel to have denied Carlton the pleasure of a simple meal. But I’m not the type of man who squanders time, and I try very hard to avoid hypocrisy.”
“You’re saying the appointment Carlton wrote in his calendar never happened,” Larry said.
Mort thought he saw a softening in Abraham’s face as he turned to the man who was once his son-in-law. But any trace of warmth disappeared when he spoke.
“It was a simple statement. Certainly not one requiring a lifetime spent in the schoolhouse to understand.”
Mort drew a long inhale and forced the words
trying to escape his lips to stay tucked in silence at the back of his throat. His instinct to defend the man who’d seen him through the darkest days of his life urged him to put an end to Smydon’s bully tactics. But his years as a cop told him that would be ineffective. Instead, he followed Larry’s lead, stepped away from Smydon’s insult, and tried a different tack.
“How well do you know Bilbo Runyan?” Mort asked.
Abraham’s glance toward his watch was not subtle. “Carlton kept that man around him since they were in grade school. Runyan’s another man who doesn’t know the value of an honest day’s work. He and Carlton were cut from the same cloth. It’s my understanding Runyan will remain in the house he shared with my half brother.” Abraham shook his head. “Even from the grave he’s still taking care of that worthless piece of skin.”
“They were friends,” Larry protested. “Dear and lifelong. Have you no compassion, Abraham, for the loss he’s experiencing…that I’m experiencing…following the brutal murder of your only brother? Are you truly that heartless?”
“I would give all I have to be heartless, Larry.” Abraham’s voice was cold and quiet. “I find it to be an organ that brings unbearable pain with every beat. I would welcome its exorcism from my chest.” He looked down at his hands for several seconds, then raised his eyes back to Larry. “I have loved two women in my life. I’ve buried them both. My wife was taken from me and my daughter far too soon. Then my daughter…” Abraham’s voice cracked. Mort couldn’t detect if it was from grief or rage. “She died because I failed to protect her. I did everything asked of me when she was abducted. Only to find it was all for nothing. I live every second of every day of my life knowing it was my money they were after. My success that made Helen a target.” He fell silent again. “You loved her. I imagine you live with your own pain. But you loved her for a season. I loved her for a lifetime. So you’ll understand me when I tell you my compassion…my appreciation for the losses of others…I’m afraid I’m fresh out of that particular currency. What the hell good does compassion do anyway?”
Larry said nothing as his wife’s father finished his speech and fussed with papers on his desk. Then he turned, patted Mort on the shoulder, and walked to the window overlooking Abraham’s deep lawn as it tumbled to the lake.
Abraham looked up. “I believe I’ve supplied you with all the information I have, Detective. I know you want more, but the simple fact is I have nothing more to give you. I’m not a man given to idle speculation. I deal in facts and proof. I see no reason to waste my time or yours playing guessing games as to what might have happened to Carlton. Now if you’ll excuse me, shall I have Frank see you out?”
Was the protective shell that Smydon had built to fend off the pain of losing his wife and daughter worth the isolation his behavior surely brought? Mort thought not. “No need. I’ll let you know if I have any more questions.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Your son-in-law is the finest man I’ve ever known. The two of you are living the same grief. You said you’ve loved two women. From what Larry’s shared with me from your daughter’s journals, Helen felt that way about three men. Now one of them is dead. I’m sure it would make Helen proud to know the remaining two men she loved so very much were there for each other.”
Smydon’s gaze locked with Mort’s. Once again Mort thought he saw a flash of warmth. Once again he saw Smydon’s iron will extinguish it. “It’s a left out the door and straight ahead to the entry hall.”
Mort pulled himself straight and looked across the room. Larry was standing in front of one of Abraham’s bookcases, his left arm braced against it, his right hand holding something.
“Ready, Larry?”
Larry stood stock-still. A concern stirred in Mort’s gut.
“Larry? You okay, buddy?”
Larry held his right hand out. “Where did you get this?” he asked Abraham Smydon.
Larry was holding a woman’s brooch. From where Mort stood, it looked about the size of a silver dollar. Pink stones were intermixed with diamonds to give the look of a fanciful salmon leaping out of the water.
“This is Helen’s,” Larry told Abraham. “Where did you get it?”
Smydon pushed himself away from his desk, stood, and walked five quick steps to where Larry stood.
“Don’t you think I know the history?” Abraham snatched the brooch out of Larry’s hand. “I had this designed for my wife. To mark our company’s expansion into Alaskan waters. Olivia worked so hard. I left Helen’s raising solely to her. She sacrificed so much as I was building the business. I wanted her to know our success was as much her doing as mine.” He tilted the brooch this way and that, allowing it to pick up what little light was available on the cloudy day. “Olivia loved it.” A smile crossed the aging man’s face. “She wore it everywhere. Even pinned to her pajamas that first week.” His smile faltered. “She wore it on her deathbed. And when Olivia died I gave it to our daughter.”
“And Helen cherished it,” Larry said. “She used to tell me she could feel her mother’s presence whenever she put it on. She wore it to your party. I remember teasing her that it was a bit dressy for the jeans and hoodie she was wearing. She just laughed and told me she wanted her mother to enjoy every minute of your birthday celebration. I remember laughing with her when she said it, and then I kissed her. It wasn’t with the property the police gave me after her body was released. I always assumed Kenny Kamm or maybe his accomplice had stolen it. I thought I’d never see it again.”
Abraham closed his fist around the brooch, killing the light that played off it. He brought his closed hand to his lips. Then he set the brooch back on the shelf where Larry had found it.
“All these years I thought it was you who returned it to me,” Abraham said. “It arrived one day. By courier, I think. It was so long ago. Like you, I made my own assumptions. Mine was that you knew the family history. I’ve held a good thought for your kindness in returning the brooch to its rightful owner.” His eyes hardened. “Apparently I was wrong.”
Mort rested his hand on Larry’s shoulder. “Time to go.”
The two of them left the room without saying goodbye. They walked down the long hall as Frank Shelby approached them. The houseman escorted them through the entryway and opened the front door.
“You fellas get what you come for?” he asked. “Sure would have made for a better visit if you’d tried some of Alice’s salmon chowder. I’m telling you, that old girl may look plain on the outside, but there’s a first-class chef hidden behind those aprons of hers.”
Mort promised they’d try something next time and bid Frank goodbye. In silence, the two friends got in Mort’s Subaru.
“Something’s off,” Larry said.
Mort felt it, too. “What do you think kept Carlton from that lunch meeting with his brother?”
“I don’t know.” Larry stared out the side window at Abraham Smydon’s massive, costly home. “And who sent Abraham Helen’s brooch?”
Mort chose his words carefully. “That was a long time ago, buddy. And the toughest time of your life. Any chance Abraham was right? Might you have returned the brooch to him?”
Larry shifted in his seat to look directly at Mort. “I remember every moment of that time. It’s something I fear I’ll be forever unable to forget. I wanted so desperately to see that brooch again. I wanted to hold something that had been so precious to Helen. Something that had been with her when she died.”
Mort understood. The acrid smell of the emergency room where his Edie died was still in his nostrils, always waiting to grab his attention if he let it.
“Kenny Kamm couldn’t have sent it,” Larry said. “He was arrested immediately. Do you think that woman Kenny was involved with…what was her name? Kara?”
“Clara,” Mort corrected him. “Clara DuBois. Maybe. But that doesn’t make any sense. According to Kenny, Clara was always looking for anything that could get her to her next high. I don’t see her shipping off a piece of jewelry wort
h that much money out of the kindness of her sentimental heart.”
“Well then, who did?” Larry demanded.
Mort turned the key in the ignition. “That, good buddy, is a question that has just been added to my to-do list.”
Chapter 24
“What’s the longest you ever sat on a stakeout?”
Jimmy DeVilla took a huge bite from the ham sandwich he’d pulled from the cooler he’d brought with him when Rita Willers picked him and Bruiser up at the station that Friday morning. DeVilla had called Chief Willers the evening before and let her know he’d reached out to Jerry Costigan’s parole officer to request an updated address. Rita hadn’t felt like waiting. She’d tracked down the overworked man at home and got the information herself. She probably should have called Mort, but since he’d ask DeVilla to update her, she’d follow along with his chain of communication.
“I once sat two days in a bush blind, tracking three wolves who were making my neighbors’ chicken coops their own personal buffet wagon.” She pointed to Jimmy’s cooler. “Coulda used something like that.” Rita reached an arm into the backseat and stroked Bruiser’s flank. Bruiser kept his eye on the ham sandwich. “And it wouldn’t hurt if I’d have had this guy along, either. He’s good company.” Rita didn’t want to offend her fellow officer. “As are you.”
“That back on the reservation?” DeVilla handed the remainder of his sandwich to Bruiser. “Mort told me you were quite the tracker.”
Rita didn’t answer for a moment. Her gaze stayed locked on the run-down clapboard building across the street from her parked SUV. According to Costigan’s parole officer, the recently released man moved into the third-floor walk-up six weeks ago, after Costigan’s last apartment had been declared uninhabitable by the city. His new home was in the warehouse district. The building sat in the middle of the block, flanked by a plumbing supply warehouse to the east and a city impound lot to the west. The street-level offices of Costigan’s building held a tattoo parlor and a bail bond office. Rita and DeVilla had arrived on scene at seven twenty that morning. There had been no answer when they’d knocked on Costigan’s door, so the two of them and Bruiser had taken their position and waited.