But Maggie had been drawn to the box itself, marveling at its craftsmanship and its red felt interior. Originally a Victorian humidor, their dad had told them. A gentleman’s cigar box, handed down from the time of his great-grandfather. Even now, if she closed her eyes and concentrated, Maggie could still smell the rich, aromatic tobacco.
A horn sounded, and Maggie realized that she’d let the Tahoe drift slightly into the adjacent lane. She corrected, checking her mirrors.
A mile later, she left I-95 at Cocoa. Once she was going west on 528, she phoned Loomis.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said after she updated him about the revolver. “That’s pure madness.”
“I know. It’s crazy, right? My dad’s gun, the murder weapon. I can’t wrap my head around it. I’d all but forgotten he even owned a gun.”
“I mean your exclusion from the case,” Loomis said. “What’s Smits thinking?”
“That right now I’m contagious, and therefore his only option is to remove me from the investigation.”
Loomis was a quick study; she didn’t need to add that if she stayed on the case a moment longer, her association with the murder weapon would definitely allow for reasonable doubt, if it didn’t do so already. The prosecutor would state that Detective Novak was removed from the case the second it was discovered that her father’s revolver was used to kill the victim. The defense would argue that she’d handled the gun, both before and after its theft, which made it tainted goods, and by the lead investigator’s hands. Inadmissible.
“It gets worse,” she said. “Smits canceled his appointment with the state attorney.”
“He . . . what?”
“Think about it. He had no choice.”
With the gun effectively excluded, the evidence against Cullen was no longer as clear and convincing. With just the muddy work boots, the burden of proof could no longer be met.
She heard Loomis curse.
“You are aware,” he said, “that once Cullen’s lawyer gets wind of this, his client will probably walk.”
“Maybe it’s a blessing,” she said, negotiating traffic. “Like I said. The more we find out, the less I’m inclined to think Cullen is guilty of anything other than being a bad husband.”
“So where do we go from here, assuming we’re still working this case?”
“We are. But I can’t be seen to be anywhere near the investigation right now.”
She’d thought about it for all of ten seconds as she’d driven the Tahoe out of the beach parking lot. Publicly, she’d accede to Smits’s bidding, standing down from the case. Given her relationship to the murder weapon and its rightful owner, it was the sensible thing to do. Privately, however, there was no way she was stepping aside and turning her back on Dana’s murder. Defeat wasn’t in her. One way or the other, she had to see this through to its conclusion, especially now that things had become even more personal.
More than ever, she needed to know who killed Dana, and why.
She told Loomis about her conversation with Nick.
“Witness protection sounds plausible,” he said when she was done. “But I’m still missing relevance here. How does this fit in with our case?”
“Revenge.”
“All right.”
“It’s like this. The more we uncover, the less I believe Cullen pulled the trigger. And Lindy turning up dead like that just proves someone else is involved. The Moreno family are dangerous. That’s why I believe the Grigoryans were placed in WITSEC.”
“And you’re waiting on Nick’s contact to confirm it?”
“Yep. It’s the perfect cover-up. Everyone thinks they died in the fire.”
“Only, twenty years later, Rita comes back to town. Albeit with a new identity.”
“Except, I recognized her at a glance. Instantly. Rita has been back in Orlando eighteen months. It’s likely someone else recognized her as well in that time.”
“Someone in the crime family. Now I see where you’re coming from. You think they had her killed.”
“I know it’s not a one-size-fits-all solution. But I think it’s something we need to consider. Dana was their way to get to Big Bob.”
“Then why kill her? Why not put pressure on her to reveal her father’s location?”
“Maybe they did and then killed her. Maybe the killer is on his way to Arizona right now. We need to warn the DoJ.”
“Whoa,” he said. “Take a beat, Novak. You’re moving faster than the speed of sound. Don’t let this run away with you. Right now, this is all supposition. We have no way of explaining how some random hit man came to use your dad’s revolver.”
“Unless Rita had it all this time.”
“You mean, she stole it?”
“It’s a possibility. I don’t know. I’m thinking out loud here, Loomis. Maybe she tried to defend herself with it, and the killer used it against her.”
She heard him mull it over, knowing he wasn’t buying it.
“How about we let Nick get the confirmation from the US Marshals Service first,” he said, “before we move things up to the next level? Okay?”
“Okay.” She let out a tense breath. “I’m also going to need you to take the wheel, for now. Publicly, at least.”
“No problem. What about you?”
“If Rita didn’t steal the revolver, I’m going to find out who did.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
A SPECIAL NEED
A chill stippled Maggie’s flesh as she left the Beachline at Exit 31. She drove northeast for a few miles before taking the Seminole Expressway to Oviedo. She switched the air-conditioning down a few notches, but the chill clung to her skin like damp clothing.
What connection was she missing?
Ten years ago, after an unpleasant divorce had alienated the grown-up children and split their loyalties, her father had used his half of the capital generated from Maggie’s purchase of the family home to buy himself a fixer-upper on the shoreline of Red Bug Lake. Back then, he’d lectured in physics at the University of Central Florida, and had done so since before Maggie was born. At the time of the divorce, the lakeside property had been one of the closest available to the campus at the price he could afford, allowing him to buy the place outright. And Maggie had been visiting him here every two weeks since.
She turned right after the park, Spartacus sitting up as the Tahoe slowed.
The scenery hadn’t changed much over the years. If anything, the street looked even more tired, weeds in the sidewalks and fences flaking. Properties still devalued after the market fall, and pockets pinched.
Spartacus jumped to his feet, tail whipping the back seat as Maggie pulled up outside her father’s house. Then she hesitated, her gaze scanning the sagging eaves and the bug screens jammed up with dead flies, all at once recalling the moment her parents had sat the family down to announce their separation a decade ago. Her mother blaming her father for loving his precious physics more than he did his wife. Atoms instead of anatomy. Her father blaming her mother for seeking solace outside of their marriage.
It had been hard not to become embroiled in the blame game. Hard not to take sides, or to join in with assigning fault. Hard not to let emotions dictate action. Maggie had resisted, determined to remain neutral even though it wrenched her heart to hold her tongue when Bryan and Nora couldn’t hold theirs.
Spoiled Nora—always outspoken, always needing to be heard, to be consoled, to be understood.
Sensible Bryan—continually pushed and directed and rewarded for very little in return.
And Maggie—Magpie, as her father liked to call her—mostly overlooked and left to her own devices. The reason being: Unlike her siblings, Maggie didn’t need pampering or supporting. She could look out for herself, and always had.
“Life’s too short not to be happy,” she said to Spartacus, echoing the words her father had said as he’d handed her the keys to the family home all those years ago. “Never settle for second best.”
&nb
sp; The dog poked his head between the front seats and licked her on the chin. She winced as his tongue touched the graze where Tyler’s ring had scuffed off skin.
Her phone vibrated. It was a text message from Loomis:
Cullen is footloose and fancy free
In other words, pending further investigation, Cullen had been released without charge.
She got out of the car, letting the dog join her on the sidewalk. She told him to stick to her like glue, and he obeyed, following her up the driveway to her father’s front door.
Unsurprisingly, her father didn’t answer to her repeated knocking. Lately, he’d become a bit of a recluse, staying home and preferring to keep a low profile, even with his neighbors. She cupped a hand against the living room window and peered inside. The TV was on, showing an afternoon movie matinee. Jack Nicholson in a straitjacket. No signs of her dad.
Maggie returned to the front door, trying the handle. The door opened. She let herself inside.
“Hello?” she shouted in the hallway. “Dad? It’s me. Maggie. Are you home? I have the dog with me.”
She waited for a second, listening, hearing the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. She moved toward it, the dog keeping close.
She paused at the bathroom doorway.
“Dad? You in here?”
When she got no answer, she peeped inside. The showerhead was on, blasting cool water into the tub. She went inside, turning off the water.
There was a disposable razor on the sink top, and blood spots in the sink, stark against the white porcelain.
She called out to him again as she returned to the hall, going through to the kitchen. Dishes stacked up in the sink and bread crumbs on the countertop. Potted herbs on the windowsill, withered and brown and beyond salvation.
Still, no sign of her father.
The back door was partly open. She went outside. The large grassy yard looked empty. Spartacus caught a whiff of something and bounded off toward a glint of lake water visible through the trees at the end of the property.
Maggie put on her sunglasses and followed.
She had always considered the large yard as the real reason her father had settled on the house by the lake. Astronomy had always been his main hobby, and the private yard was the perfect spot for setting up his telescope and stargazing.
She saw Spartacus scamper onto the wooden jetty that jutted out into the lake. Claws clattering as he ran across the planks. She spotted her father, sitting in a lawn chair at the end of the dock. He opened his arms as Spartacus rushed up.
“Well, hello there,” he said, letting the dog lavish him with licks. “I missed you, too.”
Maggie and Steve had only brought the dog to see her father a handful of times over the last six months, but the first time had been enough for the two of them to form an unbreakable bond.
“Hey, Dad,” Maggie said as she stepped onto the jetty. “I’ve been calling you the last hour.”
He ruffled the dog’s hackles, eliciting more wet-tongue kisses. “No wonder my ears were burning.”
It was hot and muggy down near the water, no air movement in the shade of the trees. Insects attracted to the stagnating mud and damsel flies buzzing. The slender white bodies of dead cigarettes floating in the reeds, unlit and never smoked.
“I got you the phone in case of an emergency,” she said.
“And that’s precisely when I’ll use it.” He urged the dog to settle down. “You know I hate talking on the phone, Magpie. It’s invasive. Communication is an art form, and technology is killing it. Who writes letters anymore?”
Maggie leaned against the wooden rail and smiled.
For someone who had spent the larger part of his adult life standing in front of a class lecturing, her father had all the hallmarks of a hermit. He’d gotten worse since he’d turned seventy last year and retired. He’d submerged himself in a solitary existence, to the point that he only ever left the house to pick up groceries or to run errands. He never socialized anymore, and he had no interest in any activities outside of his domain. Maggie couldn’t remember the last time he’d come over to the house on Wineberry, or visited with her brother and sister, for that matter. She knew it wasn’t good for him, and it worried her.
She pointed to the dried blood on his chin. “You cut yourself shaving.”
“I did?” He touched his fingertips to it. “Blade’s getting old. Much like its owner.” He motioned to Maggie’s chin. “Seems I’m not the only one. You in the market for a new blade, too?”
She touched the scuff on her jawline, the chafed skin sensitive, itchy. “I ran into something harder than me.”
“Let’s hope he learned his lesson.” He took a cigarette pack from his shirt pocket and tapped one out, sniffed it, but didn’t light it. He’d given up smoking a dozen times since retiring. “So, Magpie,” he said, “talk to me. What’s the matter? It’s a weekday afternoon. You shouldn’t be here. Did somebody die?”
Maggie folded her arms.
Beating around the bush with small talk had never been her father’s way. It was a directness that used to fascinate Maggie and infuriate her mother. To his scientific mind, things were quantifiable, measurable, either observable or unobservable, and everything in between was useless filler.
“Do you remember the revolver you used to have?”
“The .38 Special?” He shook his head in the way that people do when they pull up a fond memory. “My oh my. Where’d you dig that up from? I haven’t thought about my old revolver in years. Antique, you know. Like me.”
“It was used in the act of a crime.” She came right out and said it, steering clear of the word homicide, mainly because she knew he would hold himself partly responsible for the killing. After all, it was his gun. Stolen after her mother had raised hell about its poor security. Somebody’s going to get badly hurt someday. That kind of guilt never went away.
“I don’t remember much about it being stolen,” Maggie said. “I was hoping you could help fill in the blanks.”
Her father leaned forward in the chair, planting both elbows on his knees. He looked thinner than when she last visited. Skin and bones. “Well, I remember it was the first weekend in March. Your tenth birthday, if I recall.”
“You mean Nora’s birthday.”
“I do?”
“Dad, I was seventeen when the gun was stolen. And my birthday is in November. Nora is seven years younger than me. It was her party.”
For a second or two, he stared at her from under a heavy brow. Then he pointed at her with the two fingers holding the unlit cigarette. “Right. Yes, you’re absolutely right. Thanks for correcting me. It was Nora’s birthday. She was the one turning ten.”
“When did you first notice it was missing?”
“Later that same day. After all those noisy kids had gone home. The lockbox was turned around the wrong way on the shelf. I always had the lock facing out, see? This time it was facing in.”
“And that’s when you found it gone.”
He nodded. “I didn’t tell your mother right away. Oh boy. I spent a frantic hour going over every inch of the house, hoping to find it tucked behind a cushion or in a drawer someplace. Your brother always had a thing for the Special.”
“You thought Bryan took it?” She was surprised, but then realized it made sense.
Bryan had been twenty-one at the time, old enough to buy ammunition and sneak the revolver out of the house for target practice. In later life, the shooting range had become one of her brother’s favorite haunts. Maggie wasn’t sure how many guns her brother had in his personal armament, but she did know that he and a group of his buddies often took part in alligator hunts down in the Glades.
“Bryan was my first suspect,” her father said, sniffing the cigarette again. “But he wasn’t home all day. And I know the Special was there in the morning, because it was the first Saturday of the month.”
Like a ritual, like clockwork, religiously, her father had serviced
the revolver at the start of each calendar month, even if it had remained unused and locked up since its last clean. It was good practice, he’d said, passed down by his father, along with the gun itself. In a shoot-out, a dirty gun will get you killed quicker than you can spit, he used to say. Maggie could still recall the distinct smell of the oil cloth and the hypnotic ticking of the greased chamber as it spun around and around and around.
“I think he was avoiding Nora’s party,” her father said, bringing her thoughts back to the present. “Couldn’t blame him, mind you. All those giddy girls running amok. Frightening for any man.”
Vaguely, Maggie remembered sitting under the tree in the back of the yard with a bunch of her own friends, drinking soda and grouching while Nora and her high-octane partyers ran around like maniacs, screaming and being generally annoying. Her mother and several other attentive moms, overseeing the cake ceremony and the trite party games. Her father keeping a low profile with the other dads, amusing themselves in his workshop. Maggie, under strict instruction to enjoy the party, and sticking it out for as long as she could before boredom had set in and she and her friends, armed with fistfuls of candy, had slunk off.
“Of course,” he continued, “I didn’t find it anywhere in the house, or anyplace else for that matter. Finally, I plucked up the courage to tell your mother, and after she raised the roof, she called the police.” He broke the cigarette in half. “She wasn’t happy.”
Maggie could imagine it being the case. Her mother wasn’t known for her sense of humor, or for a tolerance for those who had one. When Maggie was young, one of her father’s favorite snipes had been With one look, your mother could kill Schrödinger’s cat. Apparently, it was a physicist’s joke, and Maggie had only gotten it later, with age. Her mother never had, seeing it as an insult only.
Her father flicked half the cigarette out onto the water. “Only struck me months later who the real culprit was.”
Maggie pushed away from the rail. “Who?”
“That feral friend of yours.”
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