Fixed in Fear (7 page)

“Thank you for seeing us.” Rita Willers, chief of the Enumclaw Police Department, shook the hand of Abraham Smydon. “And please accept the condolences of not only my department, but our entire town. We're all sorry for the death of your brother.”

Abraham Smydon gave a brief nod. He had a full head of gray hair and wore it closely cropped. Mort read a sense of determined action in the man's eyes when Abraham turned to greet him.

“You're Mort Grant.” Abraham's voice bore the telltale rasp of a man who used shouting as his normal speech volume. “You're a friend of the man my daughter married.”

Businessmen are usually so efficient,
Mort thought.
Wouldn't it have been easier to have called Larry his son-in-law?

“Have been for years.” Abraham's crushing handshake gave no indication the seventy-five-year-old's strength was waning. “I don't like to rank, but if I had to, I'd call Larry my dearest friend.”

Abraham looked him up and down. A small smile came to his lips when he finally released Mort's hand and motioned toward a sitting area at the west end of his office. “It's odd, don't you think? A white police officer befriending a black schoolteacher. How did you two meet?”

Mort felt an urge to defend his friend against Abraham's dismissive description. A heartbeat later he decided to focus on the reason they were there. L. Jackson Clark, adviser to heads of states and humanitarian of world repute, didn't need to be defended to the self-crowned Seafood King.

“Over crossword puzzles and beer. On an afternoon long ago.”

Abraham asked Rita and Mort to take a seat on the sofa. He sat opposite them, in a straight-backed chair formed from silky smooth teak. He unbuttoned the jacket of his suit and crossed one leg over the other, all the while keeping his eyes on Mort.

“Did you know my daughter?”

“Helen died two years before I met Larry. But I feel like I know her. Larry speaks of her often. He loved her very much.”

Abraham said nothing as he considered Mort's words. “I suppose my name's come up over the years, Detective. Do you feel you know me, as well?”

Larry's told me what an arrogant jerk you can be. So far you're proving him right.

“I know you're Helen's father. I know you adored her.”

Abraham's face softened. He looked away, in the direction of his desk. Mort couldn't tell if he was focused on the stacked files there or the bustling Seattle waterfront activity just outside the wide windows behind it, but he assumed Abraham was trying to find a distraction to break the moment of pain that came with Mort's assessment of his love for his dead-too-young daughter.

“Mr. Smydon, we know you're busy. We'll ask our questions and let you get on with your morning.” Rita Willers pulled a notepad from her purse. She'd dressed in plain clothes today and Mort understood why she always wore her uniform at work. While the navy blue suit and pink blouse accented her trim figure, the overall effect was one that was more likely to inspire a man to wonder if the lovely woman was single rather than to obey any order she might bark. “When did you last see your brother?”

Abraham shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “Carlton is…was…my half brother, Chief Willers. I'll accept the simplicity of referring to him as my brother for the sake of this conversation, but I want everyone to be clear about the nature of the relationship. We shared a father. An accident of birth. Nothing more. If you intend to ask specifics about his life or the names of friends he may have had or what I know about who may have wanted harm to come his way, I'm afraid you're wasting your time.”

“When did you last see your brother?” Rita Willers asked again and Mort stifled a smile at the woman's effortless step away from Smydon's attempt to control the agenda.

“Last year at Kenny Kamm's parole hearing. Helen's husband, Carlton, and I make it a point to be there whenever the issue comes up. We didn't really speak then. We focused on the matter at hand. I haven't had any real sort of conversation with Carlton in at least two years.”

“Tell us about that,” Chief Willers said.

Smydon brushed a piece of lint from his trousers. “It was in my attorney's office. I'd purchased extra docking space in Juneau and Ketchikan. We had some papers to sign. I saw him there. My attorney took us to lunch afterward. Carlton told me about his most recent trip. India this time, if I remember correctly. After lunch I walked back to my office here and Carlton went his own way. I've not seen him since.”

“Did he keep you informed of his whereabouts? His activities?” Mort asked.

“Do you mean did he send me postcards from these—oh, what would you call them—vision quests? Spiritual journeys? No, Detective. He didn't. It's my understanding your good friend Larry would have more to offer you in this regard than I. I tend to stay focused on my business.”

“What's your brother's stake in this business?” Willers asked. “Why did he need to sign papers in regards to purchasing dock space?”

The irritation on Smydon's face was clear. “I started this company with one boat more than fifty years ago. It was me and my crew, bringing in a hull filled with fish before most people reached for their snooze buttons. I mortgaged that boat and bought two more. Business was good and I was expanding fast. By then I was married.” Smydon looked toward Mort. “My wife was pregnant with Helen. I needed to take care of them. A chance came up to buy four boats. An old salt got himself in trouble with his two ex-wives and offered his boats and his docking rights to me for half of what they were worth. I was leveraged too heavily for the bank to arrange a loan unless I could come up with a third of the price in cash. I didn't want to pass up that opportunity. I went to my father.”

“Luther Smydon.” Rita Willers didn't need to refer to her notes. “He was a postal worker, correct?”

Abraham nodded. “My father was one of the hardest-working men I've ever known. It wasn't easy for a black man to get his start back in his day.” He huffed at his own statement. “Not much better these days, for that matter. But my father provided for my mother and me by the sheer force of his will and the strength of his body. For all my coming-up years I knew him to work two, sometimes three jobs. When my mother was sick with her cancer he never slept. He'd take care of her and me and still get to work on time. He was at the post office for nearly forty years. I got my work ethic from him.” The muscles in Abraham's jaw churned. “Can't say his younger son benefited the same.”

Mort watched Rita jot her thought on her notepad. He'd keep his own to himself.

“By this time my father had remarried, of course. Carlton was young and his wife insisted he go down to just the one job. I suppose she wanted him to be part of his son's life. I can't fault her for that. I watched my father soften.”

Abraham's tone suggested no resentment for his father spending time with his new son in a way he never did with Abraham. Mort wondered if Abraham's own experience of his wife's sudden death and his subsequent renewed connection with his daughter drove that understanding.

“My father agreed to borrow against his retirement so I could expand my fleet. In return I offered him twenty-five percent of my business. It was a win all the way around. My business grew. My father saw a return on his investment that allowed him to spend more time with his family.” He hesitated. “My family, too. Olivia…my wife…and Helen would spend most of their time with my father during those early years. I was so focused on work. I'm glad my father was there for them.”

“And that's how Helen and Carlton grew so close,” Mort said.

Abraham nodded. “Yes. They were two of a kind. The life of any party. I worried about that at times.”

“How so?” Mort asked. Beside him, Rita leaned forward almost imperceptibly.

Abraham waited before he spoke, as though he was forming an answer to himself as to why he was concerned. “Like I said, my father instilled in me the need to work hard, play by the rules. Who knows why Carlton didn't get that same lesson? Maybe his mother coddled him. Or perhaps my father did, for that matter. He was more grandfather than father to his second son. It showed in Carlton's attitude toward responsibility. He did just well enough in school to keep the teachers from complaining. He never held a job in high school. Dropped out of college after two semesters.” He pushed himself back into his chair and stared straight at Mort. “You got daughters?”

Mort breathed through the knot in his stomach he got any time he was asked a similar question. “One. Two kids, boy and a girl.”

Abraham nodded. “Then you know what I went through when I came home one night and found my sixteen-year-old daughter and my twenty-six-year-old half brother down in our basement higher than kites on marijuana. Helen said Carlton got it for her. He was laughing so hard I never got a straight answer from him. If my wife hadn't stopped me I'd have punched him right in the face. I couldn't have been more disappointed in her.”

What I wouldn't give,
Mort thought,
to have disappointment be the worst of my reactions to my daughter.

“My father outlived his young wife,” Abraham continued. “When he died his share in my business passed to Carlton. I offered to bring him on board, teach him the business.” His eyes grew wistful. “I even hoped maybe someday Carlton and Helen could take over the company. Life sure changes, doesn't it?” He blinked himself back to the moment without waiting for their answer. “Carlton wanted no part of it, of course. He wanted me to buy him out. Told me he had no plans to smell like fish the rest of his life. He told me how his mother used to beg my father to visit with me out on the back porch so the smell of salmon wouldn't leech into her upholstery. I offered him ten cents on the dollar and he was stupid enough to take it without calling for an appraisal. But he did do one smart thing. He held on to five percent of the business. Maybe he knew himself too well. He never could hold on to money. Maybe he realized he'd need some source of steady income.” He looked toward Rita. “So that's why he needed to sign the papers, Chief. He's five percent owner in the company. I imagine whoever inherits his estate will need to be dealt with.”

Mort felt an unexpected pang of pity for the multimillionaire sitting across from him. A lifetime of hard work and no one to share it with. Abraham Smydon may look and act twenty years younger than he is, but death will come to the Seafood King as it comes to us all. Abraham's father, mother, wife, daughter, and now his brother were gone. Who would stand beside his bed as he dies? To whom will he leave this company to which he's given his entire life?

“The picture you paint of your brother is quite different from how Larry describes him,” Mort said. “How do you explain that?”

“I think it was Helen's death. They were so close. Carlton had nothing to steady him in the face of such loss. No career. No real relationships. He lacked a North Star to guide him through his grief. He crumbled. He'd been staying in some tumbledown apartment and I suggested he move into my house until he got his legs under him. I know he and Larry saw each other a few times. Carlton showed me that foolish tattoo the two of them got. But it wasn't enough. Larry had his classes to teach. He just wasn't available the way Carlton needed. Nor was I, for that matter. I realized Carlton was sinking into a deep depression. My housekeeper told me days would go by and Carlton wouldn't leave his room. She'd deliver food that went untouched outside his closed door. He'd stumble through the halls at night. I could hear him sobbing. I offered to pay for a psychologist, but he refused. My gardener found him one day at the end of the pier, just staring into the lake. He sat and talked with him. Next thing I know, Carlton's going with him to church. Then it was a revival meeting down in Tacoma. He started to come back to life. He was changed. He bought books and videos. He and Larry grew closer.” Abraham turned to Mort. “You know Helen's husband teaches that stuff, right?”

Mort nodded. It seemed so odd to him that anyone would hold a man like L. Jackson Clark in such casual disregard.

“Anyway, within the month Carlton was gone. He bought that small house over near the university. It's my understanding he wasn't there much. He spent his time traveling the world. Chasing his spiritual rabbit.” Abraham glanced at his watch. “And now you know the sum total of my knowledge and history of my half brother. I'm afraid I have nothing to offer by way of clues as to who may have wanted him dead.” He stood. They were being dismissed.

Rita slipped her notebook back into her purse, shook Smydon's hand, and asked him to call if he remembered anything that may be of help in the investigation.

“We'll keep you informed as the investigation continues,” Mort promised. “And, of course, we'll let you know when we make an arrest.”

Abraham held Mort's gaze. “There's no need for that, Detective. I'll get what I need from the newspapers.”

“That's a hard man.” Rita Willers buckled her seatbelt as Mort pulled his Subaru away from Abraham Smydon's dockside office. “I mean, I get family feuds and all, but his brother's been
murdered.
You'd think he'd at least act a little sad when the police come calling.”

“I get the impression he's the kind of guy who never
acts
at all.” Mort thought of all the stories Larry had told him about Helen and her father through the years. “Smydon strikes me as a guy who believes hard work is its own reward. Look what he's built from nothing. To hear him tell it, Carlton was different. I don't think it was so much a feud as a complete lack of understanding.”

“Maybe so. But Larry paints a different picture. He and Carlton were close. And a guy like Larry wouldn't hang with a slacker.” Rita Willers craned her neck to take in the skyscraper canyon that was downtown Seattle. “How do you live here, Detective Grant? All this glass and concrete. Doesn't it drive you crazy?”

Mort loved his city. Especially in the morning. He liked the way the buildings cast ever-changing shadows throughout the day—titanic sundials on every block. He loved the briny smell of Puget Sound breezing into the heart of the city, reminding Seattle that for all its sophistication and polish, its fortunes began with the churning of the sea.

“Oh, I don't know,” he said. “I've lived here all my life. I guess I'm used to it. The way you're used to the forests and the rivers of where you were raised. Maybe we're a bit like Carlton and Abraham. We know what we know and that makes it tough to understand each other.” He glanced over to her. “And I wish you'd call me Mort. I don't know how long we'll be working this case, but it seems to me we might as well be friendly.”

She continued her examination of Seattle's architecture as he drove toward the station. She was a woman of few words, and Mort wondered if she grew up on Salish land. Was it the solitude of the reservation that instilled her with an appreciation for quiet?

“You heading back down to Enumclaw?” he asked.

She turned toward him, her dark eyes intent. “Is there something you need?”

Mort pulled into the police station lot. He parked a few spaces down from the squad car Chief Willers had used to bring herself into the city before dawn that morning. “No. I'm going to meet with Larry later this afternoon. We're heading over to Carlton's house. He's going to help close it up and I said I'd join him. Maybe something there might point us in the right direction.”

“Would it help if I was along?”

Mort hesitated. He didn't want her to feel he was sidestepping her role in the investigation. “This is more of a personal thing. I want to be there for my friend as he sifts through Helen's uncle's things. If we run across anything that could help, I'll let you know, of course.”

Rita Willers nodded. Mort walked with her to her car. He glanced at his watch. “It's a little past ten. Wednesday morning. Stores will be open if you feel like taking in some big-city shopping.”

She opened the door to her squad car. “I'm the chief of police. My town pays me and I work. Despite all the shiny distractions the big city might offer.”

Mort shook his head. He'd offended her again. “I just meant what with you already up here. That's all.”

She stepped one leg into the car and turned to him with a smile. “Relax, Mort. I was just messing with you. Like you said, we might as well be friendly. Keep me posted and I'll do the same. My team's trying to grab a lead on the two men from the sweat lodge not accounted for. They're our killers.”

Mort watched her drive off, pleased she'd called him by his first name at long last. He made it all the way into the station before he realized she hadn't invited him to use hers.

Mort spent the balance of the morning finishing his department's budget projections. Poring over line items and dollar signs wasn't why he'd entered the force, and juggling personnel issues and policies wasn't the reason he'd worked so hard to get promoted to chief detective. So when he hit the
SEND
button and shipped the budgets off to whatever bureaucrat would feel honor bound to start cutting away at his monetary requests, he felt he deserved a reward for a morning spent swimming in red tape. He called down to Forensics to see who was up for lunch.

“No can do, buddy,” Jimmy DeVilla told him. “Bruiser's got an appointment for his annual physical at one o'clock. Then I'm dragging my butt back here to finish these damned budgets. Where you stand on yours?”

“Finished mine about five minutes ago. I was feeling the need for a little celebratory repast.”

Jimmy grunted. “Tell you what, give me a few hours to get mine done and we'll indulge in a liquid celebration down at the Crystal tonight.”

“Let me get back to you. I've got something this afternoon. Don't know how long it'll take.” Mort wasn't ready to give up on his reward. “What's Mick up to?”

“Ha! She's got it worse than us. I'll take budget reports over testimony any day of the week.”

Mort remembered. Micki Petty had done the forensics on a brutal rape case two years ago. She'd nailed the perp with fingerprints, bite marks, and DNA. There was no way in hell the middle-aged, church deacon, father-of-three real-estate agent identified by the rape victim
wasn't
the assailant, and a jury of his peers agreed. He was facing up to thirty years in prison, so naturally he was wasting the court's resources and continuing his torture of the victim by exhausting his right to appeal. Micki would be stuck in the courthouse all day explaining yet again how she'd collected and analyzed the evidence that would, in all likelihood, assure the guy's incarceration until his still-unborn grandchildren were old enough to vote.

He asked Jimmy to call him with the results of Bruiser's physical and hung up. It was almost noon. He looked at the stack of staff evaluations on his desk. He was scheduled to meet Larry at three, when they'd drive to Carlton's house together.

Mort pulled out his cell and called Robbie.

“What's up, Dad?” Mort could hear shouts and traffic in the background.

“Where are you? How about I buy you lunch?”

“Only if it's a picnic,” Robbie answered. “Claire and I are down at the girls' school. Big soccer tournament for field day. You haven't lived until you've seen forty-some six-year-olds scrambling to find their team.”

Mort remembered Robbie and Allie's soccer days. He'd been their coach. It felt more like trying to lasso a swarm of bumblebees than anything resembling organized sports. “Game almost over?”

“Hasn't started yet. There's a team ahead of 'em. I've been here since ten this morning.”

Mort laughed. “I feel your pain. How about I grab some sandwiches and help cheer my girls on?”

“We'll be here. And if you camouflage a couple of beers in a Starbucks cup, Claire and I will give naming rights of our next born exclusively to you.”

Mort said he'd see what he could do and hung up. He liked having Robbie and his family back in Seattle. His stomach tightened and he pushed away the dream of having Allie here, too.

I'll probably never see my daughter again,
he thought.
And if I do, she'll either be dead or in a jail cell.

The bedlam in the fields behind Seattle Urban Day was even more chaotic than Robbie had described. Mort parked in front of the private school Robbie and Claire had chosen for the twins when they relocated from Denver and could hear the noise before he saw the frenzy. The school operated an all-girls kindergarten through grade six curriculum and, despite an annual tuition he and Edie would never have been able to afford when their kids were school age, had a waiting list of parents eager to enroll their daughters in the school that consistently led the state in scholastic achievement. Mort came around the corner of Seattle Urban Day's cedar and glass main building and saw at least three hundred children, ages five through twelve, trying to make their voices heard above the rest. Four regulation soccer fields were bordered by parents and grandparents rooting on their particular student. Mort balanced a cardboard tray holding three Styrofoam cups filled with Guinness in one hand and carried a white paper bag holding three Italian grinders in the other as he made his way through the festive crowd looking for his son and daughter-in-law.

“Papa!” The delighted squeal came from behind him. Mort turned to see his granddaughter running toward him. She wore red shorts and a white shirt. Padded socks covered her tiny legs up to her knees. The front of her shirt proclaimed she was number seven and the back added
HAYDEN
above the same number. Her thick blond curls were pushed off her face by a red headband. She wrapped her arms around his legs, and Mort was glad he'd snapped plastic covers over the cups of beer. “Are you ten-ten?” Hayden used the code signifying “off duty–home.”

“Your dad told me there was a big matchup today. I wouldn't miss this for love or money.” He lifted his hands as best he could. “I brought him and your mom something to eat. Any idea where I'd find 'em?”

“I'm playing wing today. Hadley is, too.” Hayden released him to point one field over. “We're next on that field there. Mom and Dad are over there already. In those red chairs. See 'em?”

Mort looked down the sidelines and caught sight of them. Claire was laughing and shouting encouragement to the players on the field. Robbie looked like he'd rather be sitting in an endodontist's lobby waiting for a root canal.

“I'm staying on this field,” Hayden informed him. “My friend Talon is playing now and I'm cheering for her. She's not as good as me, but pretty close. You want to meet her after she's done?”

Mort looked down at the little moppet in soccer gear. What he really wanted to do was pick her up, hug her close, and make her swear she'd never grow a day older than she was right that very minute. That she'd stay six years old on a brilliant September afternoon, cheering for her best friend and showing off her mastery of police scanner codes for the rest of her life.

He smiled at her and when she returned the favor he saw Edie's grin. Wide across the cheeks with just a hint of teeth.

“I better get this stuff to your folks.” He hoped she wouldn't hear the melancholy catch in his voice. “I'm ten-nineteen in about an hour and I want to see as much of your game before I do.”

Hayden jumped. “Ten-nineteen. Back to station. I know that one. I'll wave to you from the field.” She pivoted on one foot and took off running, yelling her best friend's name all the way.

Mort called Robbie's name when he got within shouting distance. His son jumped up and trotted over, relieving him of the tray as they walked over to where Claire sat.

“Is this what I think it is?” Robbie asked.

“Just keep the lid on, kiddo. This is school property, after all.”

Robbie lifted the tray of cups in his wife's direction. Claire clapped and waved them over. When the three of them were together, Robbie distributed the beers while Mort handed out the sandwiches.

Claire took a long sip and closed her eyes. “Oh,
beau-père,
promise me when my 'usband leaves me for the Las Vegas showgirl I can still keep you.”

Mort bent over and kissed the top of his daughter-in-law's head. “If my boy's ever stupid enough to leave you, I promise I'll be the first witness at his commitment hearing. We'll lock him away for good, how's that?” He scanned the field. “Where's Hadley? I've already run into Hayden. Where's that other good-looking Grant twin?”

Robbie swallowed a giant bite of his grinder and waved his hand in a circle. “Look around you, Dad. It's kid central here. Hadley's off frolicking in the wild with her own kind. It's their coaches' jobs to ride herd on them. We're the parents. Our job is to sit here for five hours and shriek with glee as they kick the ball like some two-year-old yellow lab pimping for a treat.”

Claire ruffled her fingers through her husband's hair. “Do not listen to the grizzly bear. He is excited to be here to watch his girls. I think he is jealous he cannot be out there running up and down the field himself.”

Mort loved the easy banter the two of them shared. And Claire's French accent made it all the more endearing. He scanned the fields, looking for his granddaughters in a sea of hyped-up little girls. He had a general idea where Hayden would be and, sure enough, he was able to zero in on her. She was talking to two other girls while keeping her eyes on the game. Mort wondered which player was Talon and made a promise to himself to meet her before he headed back to the station. He noticed Hayden snap her attention off to her left. Mort tracked the direction his granddaughter was looking and there, about fifty feet east of her, stood Hadley, wearing a uniform identical to her sister's, but bearing her own number, nine. She had her hands cupped to the side of her mouth as though yelling her sister's name. Hadley then waved Hayden over. Mort saw Hayden shake her head and point to the field where Talon was playing. But Hadley called out to her again, stomped her feet, waved her over, and pointed to her left. Hayden turned to say something to the girls next to her before jogging over to her twin.

Mort relished the freedom Hayden must have felt running on young legs over green grass to meet her sister. He watched Hadley and Hayden embrace upon meeting and smiled. He'd remind them of that the next time one of them was dead set on terrorizing the other. His granddaughters were raised in a family dedicated to cherishing one another and the girls did…no matter what they may say when one thought the other was getting more of Claire's attention than they deemed fair. He watched Hadley take her sister's hand and walk five steps to the left. A woman stood there, wearing a rust-colored dress with a skirt that rippled in the soft September breeze. A navy blue scarf was draped over her hair, falling close to her face and trailing over her shoulders. They were about sixty yards away, on the opposite side of the field. Mort had a sudden urge to be closer. The woman held out her hand and Hayden took it, shaking it politely like her parents had taught. The woman held Hayden's hand and took Hadley's hand in the other. Then she knelt down and embraced the girls.