Damage Control (7 page)

Dana cradled the frame to her chest, sick with the thought of how she would explain to a little girl that her uncle was gone and never coming back. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably. Sobs of pain escaped her throat. She let herself cry, a prolonged five--minute burst before she could pull herself together and open her eyes. When she did, a stocky blond man stood in the doorway.

“Jesus.” She stood, dropping the picture frame. The glass shattered on the hardwood floor.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone was here.” He was neatly dressed in a navy blue suit of good quality, a button-down shirt, and a tie.

Dana wiped the tears from her cheeks, embarrassed and angered by the intrusion. “Can I help you?”

His face was angular, with strong features, his eyes unnaturally dark, a coal black. He pulled a wallet from his jacket and showed her a badge. “I’m Detective Daniel Holmes, Ms.…”

“Hill. Dana Hill. Are you working with Detective Logan?”

He nodded and slipped the wallet back inside his jacket. “Mike is handling your brother’s murder. I’m focusing more on the burglary—items that could have been stolen. I’m sure he mentioned getting out a list to the local pawnshops. Tell me, were you married to the decedent?”

“Married? Oh… no,” Dana said. “Hill is my maiden name. James was my brother.”

“I see. Well, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“I already spoke with Detective Logan this morning, and we put a list together,” she said. “But I’m not sure I’ll be of much assistance. My brother didn’t have much besides his watch, and I don’t really know what else is missing.”

“So you’ve found nothing of interest?”

“Of interest?”

The detective pointed to two boxes outside the door. “Have you found anything that thieves would ordinarily take but left behind? Sometimes we can learn as much from what’s left as what’s taken. For instance, if they took only the electronic equipment—televisions and stereos—but left behind jewelry or artwork, we could better pinpoint the pawnshops they might target.”

“They don’t appear to have been interested in the electronics. As I said, Detective Logan has the list.”

The man nodded. There was an uncomfortable pause. “Well, I won’t delay you further. I apologize again about startling you.”

Dana followed him to the front door, closing it behind him. Then she turned the deadbolt.

Back in the bedroom, she knelt to pick up the pieces of glass embedded in the throw rug that covered the area beneath her brother’s bed. She ran her hands over the threads, feeling carefully for the smaller pieces, noticing a glint of light reflecting near the headboard, a small prism of colors. She stretched out her arm, feeling blindly for the object, and pulled it out.

“Oh, my,” she said, sitting back to consider it.

13

T
HE FOLLOWING
M
ONDAY
, Dana sat clasping her mother’s hand in the front pew of St. James Cathedral in downtown Seattle. Molly sat between her and Grant. James’s casket had been wheeled down the center aisle and draped with a white vestment. Incense permeated the darkened cathedral, puffs of smoke rising from the censer as the priest swung it, the three gold chains clinking rhythmically. The arched stained-glass windows emitted minimal light, the colored panes muted by the persistent gray skies. The candles on the altar flickered in an unfelt breeze, stirring with the movement of the large crowd that had gathered in the pews behind them.

The priest returned to the altar. Adorned in green and white robes, he spoke with a thick Polish accent that made him difficult to understand. Dana listened to the service without hearing. The weekend had passed in a slow roll, though Dana had remained in constant motion—allowing the details to take up the minutes, the minutes becoming hours, the hours becoming days. She slept and ate little, thought a lot about the past, and avoided thinking about the future. The present was difficult enough. She had been so completely absorbed by preparing James’s wake, funeral, and the reception to follow that she had forgotten about her biopsy. Then she checked her messages at work—a lawyer’s habit—and the sound of Dr. Neal’s voice brought back her anxiety. But the doctor had only called to advise that her lab results were not yet ready.

The priest invited the attendees to sit, then looked down from the altar to Dana. This was her cue. When they met to discuss the funeral, the priest had asked her for details about her brother’s life. Dana had started to compile a list, then stopped. She did not want her brother to be remembered as an afterthought—to have his eulogy given by someone who had never known him in life. Hard as it would be, she would deliver her brother’s eulogy. When the priest expressed concern about whether she would be emotionally capable, she dismissed him. “I’ll get through it,” she said, “for my brother.”

She released her mother’s hand and made her way to the lectern, hearing stifled sobs. When she adjusted the microphone, it emitted a sharp whistle. She unfolded her brother’s eulogy and cleared her throat. She had struggled with the words, with how to sum up thirty-four years of her brother’s life in minutes. The clichés would not save her. This was not a celebration of life—the funeral of an old man. Nor had James been freed of the pain of a terminal illness or the victim of a tragic accident. Her brother had been murdered. Beaten to death in cold blood. Two men had taken his life and put an end to his existence. Stomped on him like a bug. The fact that her brother had just started to live the life he wanted only made it more painful. James had the guts to do what she did not: face the unknown, to hell with everyone else’s expectations. He set out to do what he wanted with his life only to have a couple of two-time losers steal it from him. At least that was what the police continued to maintain. They said James had been killed during the commission of a robbery. They said it happened all the time. They said it happened over drugs, over parking spaces, and over amounts insufficient to buy a value meal at a fast-food restaurant. It just didn’t happen as often to people living in middle- and upper-class white suburban neighborhoods.

And that was what bothered her.

Her legal training mandated that she try to make sense of what had happened, to question the facts and make them fit into a coherent theory. But she had yet to piece together the facts of her brother’s death. She had yet to come up with a coherent story, and in law, if the story wasn’t coherent, facts were missing or someone was lying. Foremost among those questions was why would Laurence King and Marshall Cole, two-strike felons, target her brother? If they were to risk a return to jail, possibly for life, why wouldn’t they choose a wealthier home?

As she stood at the elevated podium Dana’s stomach burned, causing her to grit her teeth. The pain came amid her sorrow and with her realization that Laurence King and Marshall Cole had not taken just her brother’s life. They had taken a big part of her life and her mother’s and Molly’s. They had stolen from every person in that church. It made her angry. It made her damned angry. So when she opened her mouth to deliver the eulogy, Dana had already decided that the best way to honor her brother would not be to live in the past. It would not be to sit around feeling sorry for herself. Remembering would not purge her anger. It would not answer her questions. No. The best way to honor her brother was for Dana to find out why he was dead.

She looked out over the dark clothing and somber expressions, her gaze drifting from the collage of familiar and unfamiliar faces until it came to rest on a face in the second-to-last pew on her left. Detective Michael Logan.

D
ANA WALKED TOWARD
the kitchen, the destination giving her a look of purpose, though inside she felt adrift. Around her, the alcohol flowed and the food was served buffet-style, twice what was probably needed, though she hadn’t been about to argue with her mother. Every few steps, someone would step forward to offer condolences, to express sorrow, or to tell her how much everyone had enjoyed her eulogy. She smiled, thanked the people for coming, and continued on.

The kitchen was her refuge, a place to catch her breath and compose herself. She took a minute, then walked out onto the patio. A line of guests snaked through the buffet line, filling china plates with cold cuts, steaming lasagna, poached salmon, salads, and bread rolls. The weather had cooperated. Patches of blue emerged from the gray cloud layer. Dana walked around the pool to where Grant stood talking to a partner at Dillon & Block, her father’s former firm. The limbs of the tree that still cradled her and James’s tree fort shaded Grant’s face but did not temper his voice. She heard him exhorting the facts of the Nelson case and the large dollar figure at issue. Grant never passed up an opportunity to brag. Molly sat on a folding chair next to Maria, her babysitter, looking like a porcelain doll, dressed in a dark blue dress with a white lace collar, Mary Jane shoes, and white ankle socks.

Dana stepped to Grant’s side and heard the partner at Dillon & Block ask, “Wasn’t Bill Nelson indicted on a money-laundering charge?”

Grant bristled. “The charges were dropped. The proponent of the charge—the one pushing the district attorney—was one of Nelson’s top competitors.”

The attorney furrowed his brow. “I thought there was more to it than that; that there were allegations of insurance fraud.”

Grant shook his head, defiant. “All fabricated. All baseless.”

Dana had started to interrupt when she felt a hand on her arm. “Dana?” She turned. The look on her face must have betrayed her inability to pull the balding man’s name from the catalog in her brain. Before she could embarrass herself, however, he bailed her out. “It’s Brian. Brian Griffin, from down the street.”

Her mind visualized hair on the top of his head, shaved the neatly trimmed beard, and removed the round wire-rimmed glasses. “Brian, of course,” she said, ashamed to have forgotten the name of someone she and James had played with nearly every day of their young lives.

Griffin smiled and rubbed the top of his head. “I guess I’ve changed a bit since I was thirteen.”

“N- no,” she faltered. “Well, yes, I guess we all have.”

“Not you. You look the same.”

“I don’t. I’m sorry, Brian.” She gave him a hug. “I just didn’t recognize you.” She touched his beard. “I like it. It looks good on you.”

He smiled wanly, and his eyes watered. “I’m so sorry about James. I’m so damn sorry.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“I’ll miss him. I felt like I just got him back. Everybody at the school is in a state of shock.”

She stepped back and realized that Griffin stood with a group from Seattle University. “You’re a law professor?” she asked.

“I teach tax,” he said.

“It was you who convinced James to teach.”

Griffin nodded. “It didn’t take much convincing.”

“James mentioned a friend but not by name.”

“James and I touched base at an estate planning seminar, and he sounded interested. When the opening for a trial advocacy teacher came up, I called him. James was a wonderful teacher, just a natural. The students loved him. It’s why so many of them wanted to be here. I hope it’s all right.”

“Of course,” she said, looking at the young men and women standing nearby. “It’s wonderful you brought them.”

“You can’t teach experience in the trenches, trying cases, but James was sure good at sharing it.” Griffin looked around at the pool, reminiscing. “God, I was in this backyard every day of the summer for so many years. I don’t think I’ve been here in twenty years. Where does the time go?” Again, his eyes watered. “Well… I don’t want to keep you. Today is not the day to catch up on old times. Perhaps we could get together?”

“I’d like that,” Dana said. “Thank you for coming.”

As she turned toward Grant, she noticed several of the young female students. Pending crow’s-feet remained laugh lines around their eyes; their hips were narrow and firm, without the stubborn pregnancy pounds. “Brian?” she called. Griffin stepped back from the group. “There is something.”

“Sure, Dana, anything. Anything at all.”

“It’s just that James seemed to have a whole new life.” Her voice sounded forced even to her. “Do you know if James was seeing anyone?”

“I don’t know for certain. Your brother kept some things close to the vest, and that was one of them. Every so often he would slip and intimate that he was dating someone, but it was never anything concrete, and I didn’t think it was my business to pry. I figured he’d tell me when he told me, you know?”

Would there be anyone who might know?”

Griffin touched her arm. “Dana. Your brother loved you more than anyone in the world, with the possible exception of that little girl sitting in that chair over there. If you didn’t know, I am fairly certain no one does.”

She nodded: That was true. “What about any problems? Did James mention if he was having any sort of problem recently?”

Griffin shook his head. “I can’t think of anything. He helped me a tremendous amount when I went through my divorce; I’m afraid I unburdened myself on him more than I should have, but… no. I can’t ever recall him saying he had a problem.”

“Thanks again, Brian. I’ll call you to have lunch,” Dana said.

When she turned, Grant had finished off his Scotch and soda and was wiping his mouth with a napkin. The partner from Dillon & Block had left. He nodded toward Griffin. “Who’s that?”

“A friend. We grew up together.”

“Needs a new sport coat.” He handed her the glass and an empty dish. “I have to get to the airport. My flight leaves in two hours. I’ll be staying at the Marriott in downtown Chicago. The telephone number is on the refrigerator, if you need to call, but I’ll be in court most of the time, so I’ll have my phone turned off. Leave me messages at the front desk. I’ll pick them up at the end of the day. I’m sorry about the timing. Wish me luck?”

“Good luck,” she said.

He pecked her on the lips. “I’ll call when I can. You’re sure you’re going to be okay?”

She nodded. He squeezed her shoulders. Then he walked out the lattice gate at the back of the yard, and she watched it swing closed behind him.

D
ANA WIPED DOWN
the kitchen counter and rinsed the sponge under the tap. The counter and the kitchen stove were spotless. The caterers and the rental company had removed the furniture and food. After four days of turmoil, there was suddenly nothing more to do. She put the sponge in the sink and remembered the same moment following her father’s reception. The friends and family had gone back to their everyday lives, leaving her and James and their mother to cope with their loss. Their lives had been changed forever.

She turned off the lights and made her way up the stairs, hearing the faint melody of her mother’s voice, an Irish ballad, she supposed.

Little girl, little girl, don’t cry, little girl.

‘Cause I’m coming in the morning to get you.

And you’ll smile and we’ll play and together start a day,

And we’ll all be happy in the morning.

At the top step, Dana peered through the gap between the door and the wall of what had been her bedroom. The pink lamp shade cast a rose-colored glow across the canopied bed, where her mother sat against the headboard, Molly in her lap, a book open on the flowered sheets. Molly’s head drooped, and her eyes fluttered with each soft stroke of the bristled brush pulled through her hair. Her mother had remodeled every room in the house except Dana’s and James’s. Children’s books filled a bookcase. Stuffed animals overflowed an antique steamer trunk. It remained a perfect room for a little girl, though growing up, Dana had resisted the pink lace around the canopy. She had wanted to hang out with James and his friends. It had been much more fun to play their games. When she’d graduated from college and told her father she, too, wanted to attend law school, he’d looked at her as if she had been struck insane.

“Why would you want to do that?” he demanded.

“To be a lawyer,” she replied sarcastically.

“The law is a jealous mistress,” he warned, though it apparently had not been enough to satisfy him.

Dana closed her eyes and recalled sitting on the bed, staring at the pictures of Snow White, counting every bed, every pickax, every bowl on the table to ensure there were seven, one for each dwarf. She felt the soft bristles touch her scalp and glide through her hair, the strokes in rhythm with her mother’s cadence, until she had heard the sound of the car in the driveway. She recalled her father’s footsteps ascending the staircase. In her mind, she raised her eyes and saw him standing on the top stair, looking into the room, though not crossing the threshold.

Her mother would continue to brush. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?” she would ask, not looking at him.

“I ate at the office.”

“Did you get everything finished?”