Brother's Keeper

by Richard Ryker

  She grimaced. “Sorry. You were my big brother’s best friend. We talked about you a lot at our house.”

  “It’s fine,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “That was twenty years ago. I think I’ve moved on.”

  “You know, Misty’s still around,” Margot said.

  “She moved down to Aberdeen a couple of months ago.”

  “Oh, so you reconnected.”

  Interesting word, reconnected. They’d almost reignited a flame as old as high school. But Brandon was glad it ended when it did. Even if Emma had become fast friends with Misty.

  “She lived across the street. We saw each other a few times,” Brandon said.

  He had a suspicion Margot knew more about the situation with Misty than she let on. This was Forks, after all.

  “You seeing anyone now?” she asked, covering the question with a sip of coffee.

  Was she genuinely interested in Brandon’s personal life? Or were her questions information gathering. Living in the same town, they were bound to end up in the same courtroom at some point. Brandon as a witness for the prosecution, Margot as a defense attorney.

  He wished he’d eaten breakfast at home.

  “Lisa, the coroner,” he answered.

  “Is it serious?” Margot asked.

  “Not as serious as she would like,” he said, chuckling.

  He immediately regretted what he’d said. It wasn’t fair to Lisa to discuss their relationship issues with a stranger.

  Margot pressed her lips. “Not every couple is meant to be. I can’t imagine you two would have time for each other. You being the chief of police and her up in Port Angeles. Especially when you have so much going on down here.”

  Tammy delivered their breakfasts. They’d each ordered the same: two eggs, two toast, two sausages.

  “Where’d you go to school?” Brandon asked, digging into his breakfast.

  “University of Washington,” she said. “Then down to Portland for law school.”

  He recalled she said she’d been divorced. “Have any kids?” he asked.

  She smiled, and it seemed the most genuine expression she’d shown him. “A son. He’s nine.”

  Brandon did the math in his head. “Third grade?”

  “Going into fourth.”

  With mention of her son, the conversation veered into parenting, Margot describing her son’s interest in baseball, music, and acting. He wondered at the level of activities, wanted to say something about parents now days keeping their kids too busy, but decided against it.

  “Sports are good, music too,” he said, neutrally.

  “I remember you in theater,” she said.

  He grinned. “That was a long time ago.”

  “You were great,” she said. “I went to every showing of Our Town.”

  It had been his most difficult performance to date. The part had required him to act as a narrator, main character, and several minor roles.

  He had played—and excelled at—sports because his father wanted him to. But Brandon had joined theater because it was something he wanted. No one had to remind him to practice his lines well past bedtime or to show up to rehearsal five afternoons a week despite everything else he had on his plate.

  “You don’t remember me sitting there in the front row?” she asked.

  He didn’t.

  She cast him a mock frown. “Always Mark’s little sister.”

  He considered Margot now. She’d grown up in more ways than one.

  She reached across the table, sliding her hand over his.

  “I really was sorry to hear about Eli,” she said.

  He let her hand stay there for a moment too long before pulling back.

  “It’s been hard on my dad, especially,” he said.

  “It doesn’t help that they haven’t figured out who did it. That has to be frustrating.”

  “We’ll find them,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  Margot frowned. “You probably think about it all the time.”

  She was right about that. He teetered between saying more or cutting off the conversation when his phone buzzed. A text from Lisa. Call me.

  “Your daughter?” Margot asked.

  He was just about to answer when Jackson approached their table.

  “What’s up?” Brandon asked.

  “Sue said you’d be here. We have to talk,” she said. Her eyes landed on Margot. Jackson turned back to Brandon without acknowledging her. “Outside.”

  Brandon followed Jackson out the front doors of the café.

  When they reached the sidewalk, she turned to him. “I have to take the next couple of days off.”

  “What’s up?”

  “My father is ill. I need to go to Florida.”

  “What happened?”

  “They think he had a heart attack,” she said, her voice quivering.

  “I’m sorry,” Brandon said. “When do you leave?”

  “I need to be at SeaTac by three.”

  The airport was at least a four-hour drive.

  “We’ll find someone to fill in,” Brandon said.

  “Okay, but the Dunn case.”

  “We’re still on the lookout for Todd Dunn,” Brandon said. “The goal is to convince him to let us into the rental and give us a chance to find his cameras.”

  “That’s part of it,” she said. “I went to the bank this morning. They said Todd came in with the old will, claiming she’d left everything to him.”

  “I thought Todd said there wasn’t a will.”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. But Mrs. Dunn informed the bank before she died that she’d removed him from the will. There’s a note on her account.

  “How did he react?”

  Would Todd fly off the handle at the first hint of bad news?

  “The manager said he just stared back at her for several seconds, then got up and left without another word.”

  Jackson paused. “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “I heard back from the techs. The only prints on the hammer were Todd’s. And it was definitely the murder weapon, based on the autopsy.”

  Brandon nodded. You’d expect his prints to be on the hammer. It would have meant something if they had evidence someone else had held the murder weapon.

  “Did they locate any unusual footprints?”

  “Nothing,” she said. They’d expected as much, considering the murderer had used paper towels to wipe the floor clean.

  “What about out behind the back door?” Brandon asked.

  “Seems Todd’s boot prints covered everything else, if anyone else had been back there,” Jackson said. “And we’ve got Patti’s prints on the cookie jar where Mrs. Dunn kept her cash.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Besides the fact that Mrs. Dunn had heart disease and would have died in the next year, anyway? No.”

  “I’ll keep up on the case while you’re gone,” Brandon said.

  “Despite everything, I feel like we’re close to solving this one,” Jackson said. “Please don’t forget about this. I know you’ve got other things…” The implication was that he’d spent too much time working Eli’s murder.

  “I won’t,” he said.

  Jackson motioned with her thumb to the restaurant. “And what’s that about?”

  “What?” he asked, knowing exactly what she meant.

  “Just talking to an old friend,” he said with a blank expression.

  “I thought you and Lisa were a thing. Remember her? The coroner?”

  “I’m eating breakfast. It’s a public place. I can’t control who sits next to me,” he said, well aware that he’d agreed to sit with Margot.

  “Just saying…”

  “You don’t want to miss your flight,” Brandon said.

  She frowned. “I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

  “You worry about your family,” he said. “And don’t forget to
take care of yourself. I’ll need you rested and ready to go when you get back home.”

  Brandon slid into the booth across from Margot.

  “Everything okay?” Margot asked.

  “Fine,” he said, taking a bite of cold, soggy toast.

  “Just so you know,” she said, “That whole thing Tammy said about ninth grade.”

  “Huh?”

  He’d been thinking about how he was going to work on the Dunn case and at the same time find Olson. He’d planned on visiting Nygard again, with Will. Down one officer, he might not be able to do that.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said.

  Margot retrieved a compact from her purse and checked her makeup. She clicked the case shut with a snap.

  “That was a long time ago,” she said.

  His phone buzzed again. It was probably Lisa asking him to call again.

  “Yeah, it was,” he said. The flicker of attraction to Margot he’d felt minutes ago had faded under the distraction of all he had to accomplish.

  “You’ve got to get going?” she asked.

  “I better,” he said. “It was nice visiting. Can I get your breakfast?”

  “Better not,” she said. “Conflict of interest.”

  “Good point.”

  “Brandon?” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You really should look into the will. I think Todd Dunn had motive to kill his aunt.”

  He glanced at the doorway where he’d had the conversation with Jackson. Could Margot read lips?

  “It’s the obvious thing to do,” she said, her tone more like the one she’d used during the interview with her client.

  Obvious for someone trying to get their client off the hook, he thought.

  “Thanks,” he said, wondering if the entire conversation had been about this one point.

  “Judge Gillman is usually pretty easy when it comes to search warrants if you were thinking about searching Todd’s place. If you want me to put in a good word, I know someone…”

  Now she was telling him how to do his job?

  His phone buzzed.

  It was Lisa. He’d better answer. He waved to Margot and headed for the exit. She waved goodbye reluctantly, as if she had more to say.

  He answered the phone. “This is Brandon.”

  “Hey,” she said. “I’ve been texting you.”

  “Sorry. I’m working a case,” he said, glancing back at Margot. Her eyes were still on him as he swung open the door.

  “Can you talk now?” she asked. A tremble shook her voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I got a call from the King County Medical Examiner’s office. Asking for info on Alisa Nygard,” she said.

  Medical examiners? That could only mean one thing.

  “She died,” Brandon said.

  “During surgery.”

  Of anyone involved, Alisa Nygard was the one most likely to confess to what had really happened. What was her involvement—and Olson’s—in Eli’s murder?

  He swiped aside a flash of guilt that he cared more about her usefulness in solving the murder than in the fact that she was someone’s daughter. Nygard’s daughter. The guilt quickly faded as he remembered her likely involvement in Eli’s murder. A cold-blooded shooting of an innocent officer who’d pulled her over for speeding and expired tabs.

  “I’m sorry,” Lisa said.

  “Me too.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “I was hoping to obtain fingerprints from Alisa to tie her to the car,” Brandon said.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Lisa said.

  He was silent as he considered the consequences of the girl’s death. It had occurred during a high-speed chase instigated by Brandon. Sure, she was most likely connected to the murder of a police officer. But the mayor and sheriff would be more concerned about how the story ran in the news media.

  “Brandon,” Lisa said. “Don’t you think now is a good time to step back from the investigation?”

  “It’s not that simple,” he said, sliding into the front seat of the police SUV. The morning sun cast a sharp glare through the window. He flipped the visor down.

  “We talked about this,” he said. “Eli was my brother. I made a promise.”

  “And if it ends up costing you your job?”

  “So be it,” he said.

  “And your relationships?”

  Back to that again. Lisa demanding more time with Brandon.

  “Lisa…”

  He paused.

  “I’m waiting,” she said, as if knowing what he was about to say.

  This wasn’t a conversation to have over the phone.

  “How about dinner tonight? Up by your place,” he said.

  “I’ll come down there,” she said. “You’ve got a lot going on.”

  “Good point. Make it tomorrow,” he said.

  “Your house. Is Emma going to be around?”

  “She’s working until ten.”

  “I’ll bring dinner. Seven o’clock,” she said.

  “See you then.”

  Chapter 17

  There was a message from Sheriff Hart on Brandon’s voicemail when he arrived at the office. No doubt King County had given him a head’s up about Alison Nygard’s death. Next it would be the mayor, then the news. Armchair quarterbacks telling him he’d screwed up by pursuing two homicide suspects. That somehow it was his fault the girl had leaped out of a speeding truck.

  Had he made the right decision? Was she complicit in Eli’s murder? Just along for the ride? Had Olson threatened her?

  Brandon would never know.

  He was sure of one thing: now wasn’t a good time to visit Nygard. He’d planned on taking a trip out to the old mill with Will. He’d wait a couple of days, out of respect for the Nygard family, if not for Nygard himself. In the meantime, they’d keep searching for Olson.

  With Jackson out, he’d have to focus on the Dunn case. Olson wasn’t the only killer on the loose in Forks.

  He called Josiah into his office.

  “I need you to help me with the Dunn homicide,” Brandon said.

  “Jackson briefed me on everything,” Josiah said.

  Of course she did.

  “You want me to follow up Mrs. Dunn’s will? See if I can find the most recent one?”

  Jackson had done her work informing Josiah. What did they need Brandon for?

  “Let me know what you find out.”

  For the next hour, he caught up on emails and paperwork. He already had two messages from reporters asking to speak to him about the case. Brandon deleted them and let another call go to voicemail, reminding him the sheriff had left a message.

  He’d call the sheriff later, give him time to simmer down.

  Or so he thought.

  His phone rang. It was Sue.

  “What’s up?”

  “Sheriff’s on his way,” she said, whispering.

  “Thanks for the warning. When did he leave?”

  Port Angeles was more than an hour away.

  “About two seconds ago,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  Sheriff Hart appeared at the door.

  Brandon hung up as the sheriff closed the door and settled into the chair across from Brandon.

  The sheriff stared down at his hands, folding them across his stomach. Brandon had seen pictures of the sheriff in his younger years. The thick mustache he wore—seemingly a prerequisite for every sheriff in every county—hadn’t changed in twenty years. But now it was his belly, not his biceps, that pressed the limits of his uniform.

  The sheriff’s tone was even, calm. “When I agreed to allow Forks PD to handle the west end of the county, I realized there were certain risks involved.”

  His gaze rose to meet Brandon.

  “To be frank, I was against the idea,” he said.

  He considered the office. “Operating a department this far from Port Angeles, with another man—or woman—in charge meant things could slip.
We could lose the community, lose control of the officers.”

  “You haven’t lost control—” Brandon started.

  “I’m not done yet,” the sheriff interrupted. He took a deep breath, then continued. “When I heard you were interested in the job, that changed things. You had experience. And if you were anything like Eli…I had nothing to worry about.”

  Brandon caught the meaning. Eli was a follow orders at any cost man. The kind of person the sheriff wanted running the west county area.

  “You wish he was here instead of me,” Brandon said.

  Sheriff Hart shook his head, as if to deny the accusation.

  “Because I do too,” Brandon said. “I wouldn’t be here if Eli had lived long enough to apply for the chief position.”

  Brandon would be back in Seattle, still working homicide. Still reeling from his divorce. Or maybe back with Tori again. Living as one sometimes happy, sometimes not, family. He shook the thought away.

  “If you don’t want the job—”

  “What I want is to solve Eli’s murder,” Brandon said.

  “More than to be chief of police?” the sheriff asked, surveying Brandon’s face.

  “It that my choice?”

  “I got lawyers threatening my department and reporters stopping me on the way into and out of my office, Brandon. Wanting to know why one of my officers—the chief of police of Forks— was chasing an innocent young couple down Highway 101.”

  “Innocent?”

  “It’s the perception that matters,” the sheriff said.

  “Look, Sheriff. Maybe you’ve been away from the front lines for too long—”

  “Watch it,” the sheriff warned.

  “These two were involved in Eli’s murder.”

  “You can prove that?”

  “Not yet,” Brandon conceded.

  The sheriff stood. “Here’s the deal, Mattson. If I get the faintest whiff of a hint you’re poking around Eli’s case, you’re out. You want to investigate murders, go back to Seattle. You want to be a chief of police, do what I tell you to do.”

  He paused for effect. “Understood?”

  Brandon searched his eyes. He had no doubt Sheriff Hart would fire him.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  The sheriff yanked the door open. Brandon said, “Sheriff?”