Brother's Keeper

by Richard Ryker

  As if confirming his fears, his phone buzzed. It was the sheriff. He declined the call. Sue rang a minute later to let him know the sheriff had called.

  Back in his SUV, Brandon listened to the voicemail from Sheriff Hart. The garbled message said something about interrupting his fishing trip and Nygard’s lawyer threatening to sue the county for harassment. A few cuss words spread throughout. Brandon was to call him back as soon as he got the call. If he wanted to keep his job.

  He needed time to think about that last statement. Six months into his tenure as chief, he still wasn’t sure it was worth the trouble. He liked his team, enjoyed living back in his hometown. Sort of. He did miss the trappings of city life—quality restaurants, the theater, concerts and more choice in coffee than what the Forks Diner and the one espresso stand in town had to offer.

  But for all his dad’s criticism of Brandon’s work on Eli’s murder investigation, nothing mattered to him more than solving the case.

  His phone buzzed again.

  It was Lisa.

  He paused, recalling their last conversation. Brandon had as much as said he didn’t have time for a relationship. It seemed a lifetime ago, before the threat to Emma and the confrontation with Nygard.

  He let the phone ring, answering just before it went to voicemail.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “It’s Lisa.”

  “Hey.” There was a few seconds of silence and he sensed the conversation slipping away in a spiral of awkwardness.

  “I’m calling about Alisa Nygard,” she said.

  Good. A work call.

  “Okay.”

  “I contacted a friend over in the King County coroner’s office,” she said.

  “About Eli’s case?” he asked, surprised. She’d been against his involvement in the investigation from the start.

  She ignored his question. “I asked her to get Alisa’s prints into the system.”

  He waited for her to continue.

  “There’s a match,” she said. “With the prints from the restaurant receipt in the car associated with Eli’s murder.”

  His stomach lurched.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, Brandon. I’m sure,” she said.

  “That means Nygard’s daughter was in the car when Eli was murdered. Or she is the murderer. That’s why he hid her from us the day we visited,” Brandon said.

  “And the other person in the car?” Lisa said.

  “Erik Olson,” Brandon said.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “When I have his prints…”

  “What are you going to do now?” she asked. “It’s still not enough.”

  If he knew a judge he could trust, he’d ask for, and obtain, a warrant without a problem. Nygard had lied about his daughter’s involvement. She was directly connected to the murder of Eli Mattson. Nygard had been sheltering her in the trailer on the property. There was a chance the gun that killed Eli or other evidence was in that trailer.

  But Nygard was on the judge’s property, and the judge wasn’t about to let Brandon search anything within a hundred miles of Forks if it involved Nygard.

  “I’ll figure something out,” he said.

  “Be careful, Brandon.”

  “I will.”

  He paused, unsure what to say next. Should he mention their argument the night before? She’d left without saying a word. Maybe that was the way she wanted it.

  “Thanks again,” he said, hanging up.

  The information on Alisa Nygard’s prints was invaluable, but he was still stuck. Eventually, he’d have to hand everything he’d learned over to the detectives up in Port Angeles, the same ones who had mishandled the case the first time. The way things stood now, he had evidence Alisa Nygard was in the car driven by Eli’s murderers, thanks to her prints on the receipt from Frugals. He had no doubt her DNA would be on the still-cold soda container found in the car, too.

  But Alisa was dead. Olson was his target now. If Alisa had been living in Nygard’s encampment, it was likely Olson had too, and that there was something there to connect him to the murder.

  Despite all the evidence and logic on his side, he was spinning his wheels without a warrant.

  On his way back to the office, Brandon stopped by the gas station to fill up his SUV. When he’d finished, he headed inside and grabbed a bag of chips and a soda. He briefly chatted with the station’s owners, Mr. and Mrs. Kayani. The Kayani family’s store had been the center of a murder investigation earlier in the year, because it had been the last place the victim had been seen in public.

  Brandon headed back to his SUV, where he found Margot waiting for him, arms crossed, leaning back against his driver’s side window.

  “I thought this was yours,” she said. “I’m just getting gas.” She pointed a thumb at the red and cream Mini Cooper parked just inches behind Brandon.

  “I thought you drove a Saab,” he said, recalling the older vehicle she’d driven to their first interview with Patti Baldwin.

  “Picked up this beauty last night,” she said. “You like it?”

  “Sure,” he said, although he wasn’t a fan of small cars, no matter what the make or model. “You get a raise?”

  “I have one or two clients that pay me well,” she said.

  Brandon replaced the nozzle and clicked the gas cap tight.

  “Well, I’d better get going,” he said.

  He opened the SUV’s door just as a minivan pulled up to the water and air machine at the corner of the parking lot, directly in front of him. The minivan’s tire was nearly on the rim. There wasn’t enough room in the tiny parking lot to maneuver to the exit. He’d have to wait for them to finish, and that wouldn’t be anytime soon. That tire wasn’t going to take air.

  Margot hadn’t started pumping yet.

  “I won’t be long,” she said, smiling.

  She slid her card into the pump.

  “Any news on your brother’s case?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She began pumping the gas.

  Brandon turned his gaze to the ramshackle hotel across the street. The Forks Inn was reportedly the center of prostitution activity in the west county. He didn’t have any hard evidence yet, and he didn’t have enough officers to plant someone outside the hotel.

  To make things worse, a marijuana shop had popped up in the former real estate office next to the hotel. Pot shops weren’t an unusual site in the state, where the drug had been legal for years, first via prescription, and then for recreational use.

  Margot was still talking, but his eyes were focused on the man who’d just exited the pot shop and hopped into a red and black Ranger.

  It was Erik Olson.

  Brandon rushed to his SUV.

  “What’s wrong?” Margot asked.

  “It’s Olson,” he shouted.

  The minivan with the flat tire still blocked his way forward.

  “I need you to back up,” Brandon said.

  Across the street, Olson was backing out of his spot.

  “I’m not done filling my tank,” she said. “I won’t take long.”

  “Now!” Brandon said.

  “You don’t have to shout,” Margot insisted. “Besides, are you sure it’s Olson?”

  Margot hadn’t touched the gas hose.

  How could she be so calm when it was obvious he needed to apprehend Olson?

  Olson pulled out onto Forks Ave and headed south, out of town.

  Brandon yanked the nozzle out of her tank and replaced it on the pump.

  “Move your damn car now before I arrest you for obstructing justice.”

  She stared at him for a short second, sticking out her bottom lip. “Fine.”

  Margot backed her car away, too slowly, from the gas pump, still giving Brandon barely enough room to move.

  Brandon finally maneuvered his SUV onto Forks Ave.

  He spotted Olson trying but failing to pass a slow-moving logging truck just before the edg
e of town. Spotting Brandon in his rear-view mirror, Olson pulled sharply into the Thriftway parking lot. Brandon swerved into the lot, expecting Olson to head back onto the highway.

  Instead, he headed for the grocery store entrance. He jutted the Ranger around an elderly couple that had just stepped away from their car. Brandon flipped his lights on, following as closely as he could without risking the lives of anyone but Olson.

  The Ranger jerked to a stop in front of the automatic doors. Olson hopped out of his truck and bolted into the grocery store. Brandon threw the SUV in park, just a few seconds behind him.

  Brandon’s eyes adjusted to the market’s unnatural light.

  Just inside the entrance and to the right there was a deli.

  He didn’t see, but felt, the shopping cart as it slammed full speed into his groin. Gasping for air, he stared up into Erik Olson’s cold glare. Brandon grabbed onto the front of the cart and shoved it hand and foot at Olson.

  Olson let go, and the cart careened away from both of them.

  A cluster of gawkers scattered.

  Olson stepped into a wide swing, his fist missing the mark as Brandon leaned back. Brandon’s blow connected, smashing into Olson’s temple. The young man staggered back.

  Olson’s eyes, wet and red, searched his surroundings. He reached for a carafe, pitching it at Brandon’s head. The carafe bounced off Brandon’s chest, hot coffee splashing against his shirt, then his pant legs as it cracked against the concrete floor.

  Instinctively, Brandon jumped back to avoid more of the burning liquid. When he looked up, Olson was gone. Margot appeared at his side, grasping his arm.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He jerked free.

  “Where is he?”

  She pointed to the right, where the main store connected to a sporting goods department. Brandon unholstered his Glock, calling on the radio for backup.

  Brandon swept through the shelves of shirts, coats and boots. Fishing gear and archery supplies covered the walls. After an initial check, he pulled the round racks of coats and sweatshirts apart just in case Olson had hid himself. An older man wearing a Thriftway vest appeared from an area marked employees only.

  Staring at Brandon’s pistol, he asked, “Is there something wrong?”

  “Did a young man pass through here?”

  “No. I’ve been in back.”

  “He didn’t go out the back door?”

  “Impossible. I’ve been here the whole time.”

  “Dammit.”

  He returned to the deli where he found Margot staring out the front window.

  Olson’s Ranger was gone.

  Will pulled into the parking lot, lights flashing.

  “Where the hell did he go?” Brandon asked.

  “I don’t know. I followed you,” Margot said. “But when I came back...”

  Brandon turned to the growing crowd.

  “Did anyone else witness what happened?”

  Most agreed that the young man had fled into the main grocery store, not the sporting goods section. He’d returned just as Brandon left, and got back in his truck and drove away.

  Will appeared at the automatic doors.

  “APB on a red Ford Ranger,” Brandon said. “Now!”

  Brandon got back in his SUV and headed south of town.

  He reached almost ninety in the sixty zone on Highway 101 before laying off the accelerator. He’d checked every forest service road gate. All of them had been closed. Olson must have headed the other direction.

  Brandon called up to dispatch in Port Angeles to request a helicopter come search the area. He heard back fifteen minutes later that the copter was unavailable.

  Go figure.

  An hour later, he’d driven up and down every street in Forks.

  A review of the store’s cameras confirmed what the others had said. Olson headed the opposite direction, toward the bakery, then left out the other of the two front entrances.

  They’d run the plates on the truck and it had been reported stolen from down in Hoquiam a day earlier.

  Brandon questioned Margot, asked her why she’d told him he’d gone to the sporting goods section. She insisted that’s what she had seen. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Margot wanted Olson to escape.

  Chapter 23

  Brandon stopped by the office before picking up Emma from school. Jackson was at the printer. She had come on shift early to help cover patrols while the other officers assisted in the search for Olson.

  “No news?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “He’s got to be in the area,” she said.

  “That’s what I figure.”

  “Criminals are just like the rest of us,” she said. “They like routine. He’ll show up again.”

  Brandon motioned to the printer. “What are you working on?”

  “Speaking of routine,” she said, handing him a printout containing information on someone named Colin Brown.

  “What am I looking at?” he asked.

  “Sabina Brown’s husband.”

  “The one who died of prostate cancer?” he asked.

  “That’s what she told us,” Jackson said. “But the report says his death was suspicious.”

  “No mention of cancer?”

  “Nope,” she said.

  “Why didn’t we know about this?” Brandon asked.

  “Hold on,” she said. “The initial findings were changed to death due to natural causes. Apparently he had a heart condition.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Fifty-five,” she said.

  “Who changed the cause?” Brandon asked.

  “The coroner,” she said.

  “Lisa?”

  “No. This was before her time,” Jackson said. “Although I did call her and ask for this info,” she said, pulling the report from his hand.

  “I just talked to her,” he said.

  “Interesting.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “I mean, it’s clear you two are having issues. Not that it’s any of my business.”

  She hadn’t seen them interact in over a week. How could she know that?

  “Woman’s intuition,” she said.

  “Ok, use your woman’s intuition and tell me what this means,” he said, pointing at the printout.

  “It means,” she said. “That Sabina might have killed her husband. Toxicology reports showed high levels of insulin. Enough that they couldn’t rule out foul play.”

  “Except they did rule it out,” he countered.

  “He was an insulin-dependent diabetic. It could have been suicide or an accident. And the former coroner had a reputation for calling just about everything natural causes. He was lazy.”

  “Says who?” Brandon asked.

  “Lisa.”

  “That doesn’t make it true,” he said.

  “See. You are having a tiff,” Jackson said. “Maybe it’s clouding your judgement.”

  “Watch it,” he warned her.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “All I’m saying is that this indicates that Sabina isn’t the mourning widow she appears to be.”

  He thought back to the recording of Sabina and Todd. She certainly wasn’t grieving. But her husband had died years ago.

  “You want to follow up with her?” Brandon asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she said.

  Sabina wasn’t home, and a drive around town and out to the Dunn property didn’t reveal any sign of her. On the way back to the station, Brandon and Jackson picked up Emma from school. With Jackson in the police cruiser too, Emma held back her frustration at her dad for, as she put it, “Making a big deal about picking me up in front of the whole school. In a cop car.”

  Emma denied any further threats from Matthew Nygard, although the entire school had somehow learned of the note he’d left. It turned out Emma’s boyfriend Zach had told a few friends about his baseball bat heroics, thwarting Matthew Nygard’s attempts to i
ntimidate Emma in front of Carl’s Pizza.

  Brandon discovered that, as a result of the unwanted attention, Emma wasn’t speaking to Zach. For now. Brandon couldn’t say he was sad about that.

  ***

  Brandon had fallen asleep around eleven the night before. He woke just after midnight, his mind a tornado of anger, frustration, fear. What if someone from the Nygard clan threatened Emma again? He couldn’t keep her under lock and key twenty-four seven. He could send her back to Seattle. But she’d finally made friends at her school in Forks.

  Why should he have to move his family? They hadn’t done anything wrong. It was Nygard, his daughter Alisa, and Erik Olson who’d broken the law. Nygard and his clan were thieves and murderers. No different from the two-bit thugs he’d investigated back in Seattle. Be they homegrown from King County’s poorest neighborhoods, or newly arrived wannabe drug lords from eastern Europe.

  They were the same in the city as they were out here in the woods. Bullies who cared nothing for human life and willing to kill for a few dollars, or to avoid responsibility for their actions, as when they’d shot Eli.

  His dad was right. They’d already killed Eli, and now they had threatened Emma. They had to be stopped. At all costs.

  He gave up trying to sleep around four and made a pot of coffee.

  By five, he’d decided on a plan. He slept for the last hour before Emma woke and started getting ready for school.

  Judge Gillman was hearing pre-trial arguments as Brandon slid into the back row of the courtroom at half-past nine. He was a thin man, in his sixties, with a tuft of white hair and a gray and black peppered mustache above a wide mouth. He wore reading glasses that hung just off the edge of his nose.

  Brandon had made the trip up to Port Angeles in record time, using his light bar on one occasion to force an especially slow RV to pull out of his way. Typically, the local district court was held in Forks. But a remodel had displaced Judge Gillman, forcing him to share space with the superior court judges up in Port Angeles.