April 16, 2003
“Whoever said rank earned you the right to laze around don’t know nothin’ from nothin’,” I mutter, sucking back a gulp of burnt coffee, hoping the caffeine will give me a third wind, now that my second has long since passed. I’ve been on my feet and dealing with crap since seven this morning; it’s almost eleven at night.
“Go home and let the men handle this,” Mantis sneers. He’s an odd-looking man, with his sloped forehead and beady eyes; not a man that a woman would fall for on looks alone. Although he has a certain bravado that some might love.
I sure as hell don’t. But I tolerate him because I don’t have much choice.
And the fact that he’s talking to me—a commander, who grossly outranks him—with such disrespect tells me he knows it.
“Canning asked me to come down and check on things,” I say through another sip, studying the cruisers parked at various angles across the street, their lights blaring. A wiry white guy with thick glasses and messy blond hair sits in the back of one. “Do we have enough to put this asshole away?”
“He’s got a meth lab in his house, Marshall. What do you think?”
“Just making sure you boys dot all your i’s. Wouldn’t want his defense finding a loophole that puts him back on the street.”
“If he ends up back on the street, it’s because the DA screwed up.” He emphasizes DA like I’m the DA. It’s not the first time I’ve caught the brunt of these snipes, and my brother hasn’t even been elected yet. It’s enough that Silas is running in the next election for the coveted spot.
“Make sure there’re no fuck-ups, Mantis. And that’s coming straight from Canning.”
“Relax. We’ve got this one in the bag.” Mantis chuckles, that deep, scratchy timbre of his voice making it sound sinister. “He’s the type to sing like a canary to save his own ass. We’ll get a few names out of him. This is a real score for us.”
“I guess you’ll be practicing your pose for this week’s photo op, then?” Mantis has been in the newspapers more times than anyone cares to look at his face as of late. But Canning wants the public to know the APD is fighting the fight against drugs, and the best way to do that is through the media.
“Go home and sleep. You look awful, Marshall.”
He’s trying to get under my skin, as usual. “Go home and take a shower. You smell awful. Have some sympathy for the poor hooker you hire after shift.” He’s been wearing that same cheap grocery-store brand of cologne for as long as I’ve known him.
My phone rings then, interrupting whatever lewd retort Mantis was going to throw back at me.
CHAPTER 5
Noah
April 2017
I shift in the wingback chair, again, looking for a more comfortable position. There isn’t one. These chairs are designed to get rid of people and quick. That a lawyer chose them for his office is counterintuitive to me. You’d think he’d want to keep his clients lounging longer, so he could rack up billable hours.
“Given everything is going to you, this will be straightforward,” Hal Fulcher explains from across the desk as he scans the summary of Mom’s finances and I stare at the pink mole on his balding head. “She’s got a small credit-card debt . . . a car payment . . . but that’s it. We’ll get this year’s taxes filed, but I don’t expect any surprises. There’s a 401(k); that’s a good chunk of coin. And her life insurance policy will pay out, too. That’ll help with the funeral bills, so that’s great news. A lot of them don’t pay out if . . .” A frown flickers across his forehead. “Well, it depends on manner of death.”
I clear the painful lump from my throat. “My uncle already sorted all that out with the funeral home.” I’m so glad I have Silas to help me. I don’t know that I could handle this on my own. He’s good at getting what he wants out of people. He may be a lawyer, but he’s also a politician. “So, this will work at the bank?” I wave the document that states I’m my mother’s executor. I don’t know the first fucking thing about being an executor.
“They shouldn’t give you any issues. Bank statements say there’s about twenty grand in her account. Should be enough to pay the bills for a few months. Have you decided what you want to do with the house?”
“I’ll probably sell it.” My parents sunk every penny they had when they bought it twenty-six years ago, a year before I was born.
“Maybe you don’t want to rush into that. Property value around Austin is skyrocketing.”
“That’s what Silas said.” He figures that the quaint, old house, on a quiet street backing onto a park, minutes away from the river, could go for close to a million. A year from now? Even more. Besides, it has fresh blood on its walls. It’ll take time for wary buyers to look past that. If I put it on the market now, I’d be dealing with people looking to cash in on my tragedy and throw me lowball offers. Fuck that. And them.
“You might want to listen to him. Are you staying there?”
I shake my head. “I’ve been crashing at my buddy’s place.” Jenson rents a small two-bedroom bungalow with Craig a couple blocks away from Sixth Street—Austin’s big entertainment district. Easy walking distance, which means their place is the before-and-after go-to spot from Wednesday to Sunday.
For the first few days after Mom died, they kept things quiet, but it’s back to the status quo—me falling asleep on their lumpy sectional, surrounded by people jeering at each other while sucking back beer and playing video games. But I can’t complain; it’s better than being alone, and it’s definitely better than staying at home.
I can’t see myself living there again. Ever.
“Make sure someone is checking in at the house regularly. You don’t want it looking abandoned. That’s when places get robbed.”
“Yes, sir. We have a security system.”
“Are your mother’s guns there?”
“Yes, sir.” My born-and-bred Southern manners have crept back into my daily life. I lost them for a time, living in Seattle, where people just don’t say “sir” and “ma’am.”
“They’re in a safe?”
“Yes, sir.” It took two days of searching, but Silas finally found the combination in one of her files.
“I can help transfer ownership over to you. May as well add them to your collection. You don’t want to be selling those.”
“Right.” I scan the wall behind him, at the array of mounted animal trophies quietly gazing down over us with their glass eyes. The thought that I don’t actually have a gun collection wouldn’t even have crossed Hal’s mind. Had I not moved to Seattle with my father during my impressionable teenage years, maybe I would. Mom had insisted I start carrying four years ago, during a rash of muggings, so I do have a Glock locked away in a gun box under my passenger seat whenever I’m driving. I don’t need or want more.
I guess I should keep the Colt Python, though. More out of nostalgia than anything else. That’s the one Mom taught me to fire with when I was eight.
“And let me know what you decide about the house. You can sell it as part of the estate, or we can transfer the title over to you and you can do what you want with it down the road.” He puts his pen down. “Aside from that, we’re in good shape to get this all settled quickly. You’re going to be set for a few years.”
“Is that all?” I move to stand. Sitting in this office, talking about my financial windfall because my mom committed suicide, is the last thing I want to be doing.
Hal holds a finger up. “There’s one more thing.” Clearing his throat, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a white letter envelope. “She asked me to give this to you.”
The air in the room has suddenly grown thick.
I stare at the envelope, my heart hammering in my chest as all kinds of questions crowd my mind. I manage to force out the most important one. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. She dropped it off the afternoon before she passed.”