These Violent Roots Read online

  I gave a dramatic sigh. “If only.” When another cruiser pulled up to the curb, lining up beside the handful of others, my mind took a turn. “Really, though? What kind of evidence are your guys going to find in there?”

  Ed checked behind him, guiding me farther away from the crime scene.

  “I’m not asking in a professional capacity. I’m having a conversation with a friend.”

  “Of course. Because detectives talk with their friends about ongoing investigations every day.” He ran his hand through his silver hair. “But I can discuss the investigation with an attorney at the prosecutor’s office who may be assisting with the case when and if we dig up an actual suspect.”

  “Just call me Eager Little Assistant,” I sang.

  Ed angled beside me, inspecting the building as I was. “If Skovil was murdered, the killer is good. Smart. Meticulous. He’s either a master of murder or hit the dumb luck award of the century.”

  The skin on my arms prickled. “So you’re convinced we’re dealing with a homicide and not a suicide?”

  “Hard to argue with the defensive marks on the body.” He retrieved a lighter and pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, ignoring the look of disapproval I aimed at him—as he had the past thirty years. “According to the ME, they occurred right before death, so either Skovil got his ass handed to him in a bar fight nearby, stumbled home and immediately hung himself, or we’re dealing with someone who did us all a favor.”

  My shoulder nudged his arm. “You’re retiring when? Because you get any more jaded from this job and you’re going to be the one popping off criminals.”

  Ed harrumphed as he lit the cigarette dangling from his lips. “If I was still young and dumb enough, I’d be all over that career change.” He took a long drag before plucking the cigarette from his lips. “I’d be taking the oath of protecting and serving more sincerely anyways.”

  “Aww,” I cooed, patting him, “someone have a hard day on the job?”

  “I’ve had thirty-five years of hard days on the job.” He scanned the crowded sidewalks, a handful of youth waving middle fingers in the police’s general direction. “In the public eye, cops are about as revered as Nazis. If we do our job and clean up the streets, we’re overfunded and overstaffed. Crime rates go up and we’re ineffective misogynists with guns and anger issues.” He took another drag. “You cannot win in this line of work, even when you catch the bad guy.”

  “All the risk and none of the reward?”

  He opened his arms. “Dream job.” Ed finished his cigarette in near record time and started for the apartment building. “You want to take a quick peek inside?”

  I fell in beside him as it began to sprinkle. “I didn’t come all this way for the stimulating conversation.”

  I’d visited plenty of crime scenes, but the unsettled feeling in my stomach reminded me of my very first crime scene visit. We moved silently inside the building, and I followed Ed up the stairway. There were ten individual units in the building, but unlike the majority of the crime scenes I visited, no one was camped outside their apartment, watching the show. I guessed that had something to do with the fact that most of the occupants had records, all felonies. I’d checked. I’d also checked to see if anyone had filed any grievances against Darryl Skovil or vice versa.

  The stairs creaked, the air smelled of cheap cigarettes and sour garbage, while the dents, marks, and splatters disfiguring the hall walls told the story of housing generations of sordid occupants. These walls did talk; one just had to pay attention.

  The door to apartment number six was wide open, revealing a swarm of activity inside. Ed came to a stop outside the door, watching the scene unfold with me for a minute. None of the investigators milling around noticed us, every one of them busy with dusting for fingerprints, collecting fiber samples, or taking photographs.

  My breath caught when my eyes trailed to the piece of rope dangling from an exposed beam in the ceiling—the instrument responsible for the extermination of Darryl Skovil’s life. Whether he cinched the noose around his neck or someone else did, that thick cut of rope had succeeded where I had failed—punishing him for his crimes.

  The rest of the apartment was in general disarray, more landfill than living space. The windows were sealed shut in a way that suggested Skovil was allergic to light or would burst into flames if exposed to it. The carpet was covered with every variety of stain I’d witnessed in all my crime scenes combined. I couldn’t imagine the type of parasites this kind of filth attracted, though I supposed the foulest kind of all was Skovil himself.

  “Nothing about this reads like a homicide to me,” I said, focused on the rope again. It was the sole clean article in the apartment.

  Ed shifted. “A piece of shit like Skovil doesn’t commit suicide. He was narcissistic, selfish, entitled, and had been given a get-out-of-jail-free card. This was a homicide.”

  As much as I wanted to argue Ed’s point, he was right. That gut radar I’d been born with and honed over the years was rarely wrong.

  “You think you’re going to catch the person?” I asked him.

  As he leaned into the doorframe, his face drew together. “I’ve been investigating crime scenes since you were in preschool, kiddo, and this one’s different. We’re not going to find a shred of physical evidence. No prints, hairs, nothing.” He gestured at the half dozen crime scene specialists as if their efforts were all for nothing.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “You do this long enough, you can feel it in your bones,” he replied.

  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.”

  Dean glanced inside the office. “Are you sure you don’t want to take Grace to lunch instead?”

  “Grace just got here. I’m sure she won’t have time for lunch today.”

  My fingers rapped across the keyboard as I logged on.

  “I’ll see you at one then,” Dean replied before sticking his head inside my office. “Have a good morning, Grace.”

  My hand lifted in response as I busied myself with checking email. I had a new case come in last night that I needed to dig into, but the aura surrounding my father was capable of rendering me witless.

  Dad closed the door behind him, appraising my office in much the same way he’d scrutinized me. As though it were lacking. He strode over to one of the bookcases. “I need you at the Highlands Country Club tonight by seven.”

  My fingers stopped typing. He showed up out of nowhere. At my office. And was throwing out orders for where and when to be? There were so many responses I could have gone with, but I led with a civil one since it was still early in the joyous reunion.

  “If you’re looking for a golf or tennis partner, I can point you in the direction of a dozen different people in the office who would actually provide you with a challenge.”

  “That’s not the reason I want you there.” He frowned when he came to the frame displaying my law degree. He’d gone to one of the best schools in the country; I’d gone to a decent one in the general Seattle vicinity since I had been newly married and had a one-year-old at home.

  “Are you going to tell me why you want me there? Or keep having me guess?” I asked, pulling up my daily schedule.

  “It has to do with a project I’m working on. Something I’d like your insight on.” He must have guessed my coming objection. “I’ve already talked to Stan about it and he’s given his blessing. I’m not hiring you as an advisor—I’m merely utilizing my daughter’s knowledge.”

  My attention drifted from my computer to him. He was still frowning at my degree. “You cleared this mystery project with my boss before talking to me? Nice, Dad.”

  “What? Are you going to say no?”

  “Depends on what it is. My plate’s a little full at the moment.” I motioned at the files spread across my desk, but if I was looking for sympathy, I was speaking to the wrong person. In his prime, he probably could have handled twice the caseload in half the hours, all while managing to keep his insides pickled with a steady flow of his favorite bourbon.

  “This won’t eat into much of your precious time, I promise. Besides, you have a vested interest.”

  My hand rolled. “A vested interest in what?”

  His thick, silver eyebrows lifted.

  “Oh, god. You’re running for mayor, aren’t you?” My stomach turned in on itself. “This is some kind of announcement where you circle the wagons and give everyone a list of what to wear and what to say and how to smile, right?”

  He chuckled. “I have no plans of running for mayor of this city. Yet.”

  “Then what is this about? I’m not showing up just because you say so.” I eyed my phone, willing it to ring. Anyone. Anything. A damn telemarketer would have been a picnic by comparison.

  “Just show up, find out what I have planned, and if you’re not interested, you ca
n walk out with no argument from me.”

  As I finished scanning my schedule, I perked up. “I can’t tonight. Andee’s Humanities class is giving some kind of presentation at the school. I told her I’d be there.”

  Of course, she’d assured me she didn’t give a crap if I was there or not, but I wasn’t eager to admit to my father yet another of my shortcomings. Motherhood, my seemingly worst subject.

  He stood beside the chair across from me, but didn’t take a seat. “This is more important than some school function. I never attended any of your school things because I was busy getting things done.” His arm lifted in my direction. “You turned out fine.”

  “The very picture of fine,” I muttered.

  He picked up this year’s school picture of Andee propped on my desk. A lot had changed from her school photo last year, as the look on Dad’s face could attest to. “And let’s not kid ourselves that you’re in the running for mother of the year here, Gracey girl.” He turned the picture toward me, almost as if he could read the contempt for me in Andee’s eyes.

  I pasted on a smile. “I already won the daughter of the year award, and one person can’t win both titles. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Your fondness for the theatrical hasn’t changed.” He set the photo back in its place.

  “Neither has your mastery of belittling subordinates.”

  A sigh followed. “Thirty minutes. Give me thirty minutes and then decide.” For the first time that morning, he made eye contact. “Please?”

  In all my memories of my father, I could only recall a few instances of his use of that word, and never directed at me. It took a minute for the surprise to wear off enough to answer.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  With a terse nod, he turned to leave. “Seven o’clock sharp,” he repeated, failing to accept my ambiguous committal.

  Even as I added the new event to my calendar in the color-coded box that meant tentative, I knew I’d be there. My dad never came to me for anything, least of all for any skills I possessed. I was more than a little eager to prove to him I’d earned my place in this office with my own skill and merit.