When I turned away from the crime scene, Ed moved with me, letting me lead down the stairway. “I hope you’re right, because I don’t want our office to have to prosecute the person who accelerated Skovil’s expiration date.”
“Prosecute him?” Ed grumbled under his breath. “I’ll be the first to shake his hand.”
“Retirement date’s set for when?” I teased.
He didn’t have a chance to reply with whatever smart answer he was working on before a woman marched straight up to us once we set foot outside the building.
“You’re all investigating that peder-ass’s death, aren’t you?” She waved her finger between Ed and me, sounding like she’d come out of the womb with a cigarette between her lips.
“That’s right,” Ed answered.
The old woman glanced behind us at the building. “He didn’t kill himself, you know?”
Ed exchanged a look with me. There were always one or two people who couldn’t resist the urge to insert themselves into the investigation. Whether it was an endless stream of questions or a speculation as to what had happened, Ed was used to dealing with the Crime Scene Groupies, as he called them.
He put on his smile reserved for such occasions. “What makes you say that, ma’am?”
She waved toward the alley running between the apartment building and the laundromat next door, which appeared to have closed up years ago. “Because I saw someone come creepin’ out of his apartment that same night he died. I was leaving my friend Bud’s apartment there in unit two.”
Along with Ed’s, my practiced smile fragmented.
Ed shifted his weight. “Someone?”
“I couldn’t make out much. He was dressed all in black, moved like he was real familiar with sneaking around if you know what I mean.” Her eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t you be taking down my statement or something?”
Digging into his pocket, Ed pulled out a small notepad and a nub of a pencil. He flipped it open to the first blank page. “What time did you see this person?”
“Let’s see. The bars were still open, but my late night rerun of NYPD Blue hadn’t started yet.” The woman coughed. “Must have been between midnight to two in the morning. Can’t say exactly but sometime around then.”
“What night was that?” Ed continued, scribbling a few notes.
“Saturday night.”
“Did you make out any distinguishing features?”
The woman blinked at Ed. “It was dark. He was dressed in black.”
“So you could see it was a man?” Ed stopped writing.
“Didn’t you hear what I’ve been saying? I couldn’t make out nothing.” Even as she broke into another coughing fit, she was reaching for a fresh cigarette. “I just assumed it was a man because how many women do you know who are murderers?”
Ed lowered the pad of paper. “In my line of work, I see plenty.”
“Okay, fine. He could have been a she. She could have been a he. Alls I wanted to do was let you know what I saw. Give you my statement and such. Just trying to be helpful.”
Ed scratched the back of his head as he reread what he’d written. “Your statement has created a suspect pool of everyone, ma’am. So very helpful.”
Cigarette dangling in her fingers, she pointed at me with long, red press-on fingernails. “Not everyone.” She spoke to me alone, as though I was the one responsible for tracking down the killer. “You’re looking for someone who knows their way around the dark.”
Nine
His presence could be felt before I’d stepped foot in the office the next morning. The sting of rejection never dimmed with time.
A familiar whistle, dripping in disapproval, filled the gap between us. “Rolling into the office at nine o’clock? The day’s halfway over.”
I wiped the frown from my mouth before turning to face him. “I drop Andee off at school on Wednesdays. Every other morning, I’m in by seven.”
My fingers tightened around the handle of my briefcase. I hated that I was still explaining myself to him, attempting to garner some scrap of approval.
“I didn’t know you were going to be in town. How long are you staying?” I asked.
He shook the hand of one of the senior attorneys who passed by, that crafted smile a news anchor would covet sliding into place. My father was the Teddy Roosevelt of the Seattle legal world—everyone loved him. They respected him and wanted to mold a career to rival his. As his daughter, it sucked to know he was the standard I was measured to. It was like having to stand in the shadow of a mountain and try to cast my own shadow.
His attention drifted my way when he was finished. “Good to see you too, Gracey girl.”
My teeth gritted. The term of endearment was light on endearing and heavy with demeaning. “Is Mom here too?”
Giving the office a brief scan, I didn’t see her. Back when Dad worked here, she’d been like the room mom of the office, helping out where she could and dropping off the good coffee Seattle was known for instead of the vile stuff stocked in the break room.
“No, just me this time.” He stopped when he was a few steps away, inspecting me in the way he scrutinized his Lexus after picking it up at the detail shop.
Silas Payne, a.k.a. Daddy Dearest, was wrapped in a three-piece navy suit with faint pinstripes running through. Red pocket scarf to match his tie, he was the US flag in designer suit form. He epitomized the American dream, selling it as though hard work and grit were all it took to succeed in life. Never mind the family he’d been born into, the connections he had as a result, and the reality that money could purchase most things in life.
I’d learned everything about the art of bullshit from my father, and from my mother, I’d learned the finer art of concealing oneself behind the veil of perfection. Authenticity was a concept ranked low on my family’s list of desirable character traits.
The slant of his brow told me he was waiting for something.
“Would you like to come inside?” I guessed, gesturing inside my office.
“Your Honor,” Dean called from his office a couple down.
“Dean Kincaid, still setting conviction rate records?” Dad crooned back. The smile—it was as if it never left his face.
Dean strolled down the hall, his eyes drifting my way. “Your daughter’s giving me a run for my money, let me tell you.”
Dad’s chuckle came from deep in his stomach. Dean missed the undertone that accompanied it. I did not.
“That Skovil case was a real letdown though, wasn’t it?” A breath sputtered out of my father’s lips. “What a mess that’s turned into.”
I silently seethed to my desk, slamming down my briefcase harder than necessary.
“How’s the golf game?” Dad asked Dean.
“I’m no match for you, sir, but I can’t complain.” Dean extended his hand to my father. “I’ll let you go so you can talk with Grace.”
“What are your lunch plans?” Dad asked.
“A brown paper sack with whatever my housekeeper threw in it.”
“I think I can do better than that.” Dad waved at yet another attorney who passed by. “How about The Capital Grille at one? I’d love to catch up.”