“A navy-blue Ford F10, sir.”
Silas smiles with grim satisfaction. “God bless idiots. What was he thinking, driving here in broad daylight to break into the late chief’s house?”
“I’m guessing he wasn’t expecting a vicious guard dog lying in wait,” Klein muses. “But the bigger question is, why would he want to plant cocaine and a gun in Jackie Marshall’s house?” A gun last registered to Abraham Wilkes, they’ve confirmed.
“You mean, besides trying to frame Jackie Marshall with my father’s death to cover his own tracks? His and Mantis’s?” Gracie’s lips twist bitterly.
A faint smile flitters across Klein’s face, saying that’s the conclusion he’s come to as well. It vanishes almost instantly. “And we’re sure that gun wasn’t in there before?”
“I don’t recall checking that shelf thoroughly, no,” Silas begins. “It could have been—”
“No, that gun was not in there,” I say with firm resolution.
Silas’s brow raises. “I don’t recall you checking that thoroughly, either.”
“I did. And besides, it would make no sense for her to put a bag of money and the gun holster in that hole under the floorboards, and not the gun.”
“I have to agree with you on that,” Klein murmurs.
But it then begs another question. “How did Stapley get the combination to the safe?” Because no one broke into it.
“I don’t know, son. I can’t figure it out either.” Silas’s brow furrows with worry as he watches Cyclops, standing outside the door, staring in at us.
“Just think, if this little guy hadn’t bitten him, you wouldn’t even know that someone had broken in here,” Klein offers mildly.
“Too bad Cy wasn’t around when Stapley pulled this shit at my house fourteen years ago,” Gracie mumbles.
“You think Stapley was the one who broke into your house to threaten your mother?” Silas asks her, but quickly turns to Klein. “Is that what the FBI suspects? That Stapley planted evidence in Abraham Wilkes’s house to make him appear guilty?”
Klein shrugs. “That’s one theory.”
Silas raps his fingers against the table’s surface in a rushed drumbeat, waiting for Klein to elaborate.
And Boyd’s watching this entire exchange quietly from the entryway, probably wondering what the hell kind of mess I’ve gotten myself into.
Finally, Silas gives up on an answer from Klein. “I’ll bet there’s blood in his truck. We can match it against what the FBI has collected here. Officer, are you on shift tonight?”
“For a few more hours,” Boyd says.
“I want a car patrolling this street the entire night, y’all hear? The entire night.” Silas’s phone rings then. His hand flies to answer it.
While he’s occupied on a call, Klein begins moving for the door. “How about you two try and stay out of trouble for a minute.” He’s speaking to the both of us, but his eyes are locked on Gracie, as usual, and he doesn’t even bother to hide it. A cord of tension rises inside of me. Fucking guy. He’s got to be at least ten years older than her, maybe even fifteen.
“What’d you get out of Mantis and Stapley today, anyway?” Gracie asks. Can she tell that he’s attracted to her? Does she care?
“Exactly what I expected to get,” he answers cryptically, glancing at Silas. “If anything else comes up, you call me first, got it?”
“I will,” she promises. “And thanks for coming today.”
He flashes that arrogant smirk and my fist aches with the memory of hitting that jaw. “Yes, ma’am. Anytime.”
“What?” Silas exclaims into the phone, distracting all of us. “But that press conference was . . . Right now?” He waves at the small flat-screen mounted on the wall in the kitchen. “Noah . . . quick! Fox 7!”
I grab the remote and quickly flip through, until Chief Canning’s round face appears. He’s standing on the steps outside the police station, with reporters’ microphones poised to catch his words. “. . . Officer Abraham Wilkes, who was shot and killed on May third, 2003, was previously alleged to have been participatin’ in illegal activities outside his role as a police officer. However, new evidence has come to light today that would indicate Wilkes was not engaged in any sort of illegal activity and was in fact the target of the premeditated crime of murder.” Canning speaks slowly and clearly into the microphone as all of us—Klein included—cling to his words. “The APD and FBI are working jointly to understand exactly what transpired that night just shy of fourteen years ago. I cannot speak to the new evidence or to possible suspects, but if Officer Abraham Wilkes was the victim of this horrible crime . . .” He pauses, his brow furrowing as if he’s in pain. “Well, let’s make sure this city remembers Abe for what he truly was—a good and honorable police officer. No more questions.” He walks away from the microphone.
“Is this for real?” I glance from Silas to Klein, and back to Silas, looking for answers.
Klein’s expression betrays nothing.
Silas is rubbing his forehead furiously.
Meanwhile, Gracie’s face is full of shock. “Did he just clear my dad’s name to the public?”
“Not exactly, but—”
“This is . . .” Her eyes begin to well. “I need to call my mother.” She darts outside.
“What the hell was that, Silas?” Why would Canning—a retired police chief—be doing a press conference on an old murder case, without any conclusive findings, at the beginning of the investigation that the FBI is leading?
“Apparently, he was talking to the press about the coming ceremony and a reporter started asking him about Abraham. Someone must have tipped off the media. Probably after the FBI taped off that motel room today. That kind of thing does tend to raise questions.” Silas shoots an accusatory look at Klein.
“He could have brushed them off.”
“Yes, he could have, but . . . it happened under George’s watch. He’d want to be the one to take responsibility, to make it right.”
“So he obviously knows what we’ve learned.”
“Well, if you had picked up your damn phone at all today, you’d know that I went to Canning last night and told him everything you told me.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“And?”
“What do you mean ‘and’?” He flings a hand at the television. “You just saw ‘and’! We’ve both been on the phone with everyone and their brother all day. If any APD officers were involved in this, Canning will personally have their heads mounted on a spike!”
I look to Klein, baffled. “So, Abe’s case is now a joint investigation between the APD and FBI?” And the retired chief, apparently?
“Sure sounds like it, doesn’t it?” If Klein’s bothered, he doesn’t let on, sharing a whispered word with another FBI tech before focusing on the backyard to where Gracie sits on the lounger, speaking to someone—I assume Dina—her free hand waving excitedly, her face filled with a lightness that I haven’t seen before. He exits out the French doors to the back.
Silas’s dark gaze trails after him. “He’s the one you punched?”
“Yes, sir.”
A faint smile of satisfaction flickers over Silas’s face. “I’ll make sure his superiors speak with him. Help him understand what collaboration means.” The smile is followed by a frown of disapproval, as Silas’s gaze drifts over the yard. “Your mother would be upset if she saw this.”
I sigh. Leave it to Silas to give me grief about gardens at a time like this. “Cyclops did some rearranging. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it all.” It’s a good thing he hasn’t seen the mound of dirt at the bottom of the pool.
“Yes. That’s an interesting pet.”
I chuckle. “He’s starting to grow on me, actually.”
“He definitely earned his keep today.” Silas shakes his head. “In all your twenty-five years, Noah, you have never shown me anything but the utmost respect. Until today.”
I avert my gaze.
“I called you five times and you couldn’t answer? Couldn’t call back?”
“I’m sorry.”