I heard those harmonies now. What they told me was to stay alert. To follow my nose and my heart, and take care of the people I love.
We rounded the corner onto Twenty-Fourth, pausing to stare at the old grocery where Maddie had been shot. It was an ugly building even in my childhood, but the owner—an old man we called Emby—had made it inviting, with baskets of flowers and brightly painted wooden benches. He’d carried staples like milk and potato chips, and the things commonly forgotten until dinner prep, like onions and sugar. He knew his community, so his shelves and coolers also held decent wines, tasty cheese, and boxes of good crackers. Racks near the front door held the local paper, and on Sundays, The New York Times.
I smiled to myself. Though the Montlake Grocery had mixed the upscale with the utilitarian, Emby had been practical. His candy shelves were filled with kid favorites, but if an adult asked, he’d happily reach behind the counter and slip a copy of Playboy into a brown paper bag.
Now, though, the glass door was smeared with dirt, the windows covered with newspaper. A swath of yellow tape screaming CRIME SCENE AREA—DO NOT ENTER stretched across the front of the building, between two orange barricades tenciled SEATTLE POLICE DEPARTMENT.
I shuddered and squeezed my friends’ arms.
The other buildings in the block dated back as far as the homes, a mix of classic styles and materials. Similar blocks dot the city, each once the commercial center of a neighborhood. Some thrive, while others struggle.
We reached the coffeehouse, a row of brightly painted Adirondack chairs lining the sidewalk. Empty now, splashed with rain. I looped Arf’s leash around the dog rail, both coffeehouse and rail the modern version of the frontier-day saloon and hitching post, and made sure the water bowl was full. “Don’t you worry, little guy. I’ll keep an eye on you.”
Busy as the place was, we found a table in the window in dog’s eye view, though Arf didn’t seem concerned. It wasn’t the full-on breakfast joint Laurel and I usually choose, where we sip coffee, savor the latest Northwest flavor experiment, and linger for hours. But the coffee was good and my quiche yummy, the crust crusty and the eggs creamy. Laurel picked at a scone, and I resisted the urge to go all anxious mother on her, as I had yesterday. She was a grown woman with a kid of her own.
“Have you talked to Gabe?” I asked.
She pressed her lips together. “He called this morning, so happy. They won Friday and he got to play a few minutes. Then the football team won yesterday. I couldn’t burst his bubble when I don’t have any real news.”
“You’ll know when to tell him.”
“I can’t wait long,” she said. “If he finds out from someone else, he’ll never forgive me.”
Especially if he knew how much his father abhorred secrets, and why.
“I just wonder,” Nate said, “what the connection between Patrick’s death and Maddie’s shooting could possibly be.”
For a long moment, Laurel said nothing. Then, “Refills?” She rose and gathered up our mugs. Nate and I exchanged a wordless glance. She returned a moment later and we gratefully accepted the creamy white mugs. She cradled hers, staring into the black liquid.
“I know there is a connection. Because of the dreams,” she finally said. “And the gun. But beyond that, I have no idea.”
“What do you think happened? Back then, I mean.” We’d been casual acquaintances before the murder, but as our friendship grew closer, I had never wanted to ask. Too intrusive. But now was different. Both she and Detective Tracy had pulled me in. I needed to know.
“None of the theories made any sense. A neighbor Pat had a dispute with, over the compost pile, of all stupid things. Pat got pretty heated, which was so not like him. But the cops couldn’t pin anything on him. The neighbor, I mean. Everybody worried about a random burglar who didn’t expect Pat to be home, but nothing was taken.”
“You always said the police were convinced it was related to his work,” I said. “That the killer wanted revenge, or to destroy evidence.”
“Right. They combed through his case files, and his home computer. Pat worked on white collar stuff—embezzlement, money laundering, corporate crimes. Not that those kinds of cases can’t turn violent.”
“You never know what people will do to protect their money and keep it flowing,” Nate said.
Conversation stopped while an employee scooped up our plates, and I wondered what crazy schemes Nate had encountered in the wilds of Alaska.
“We should probably get going,” I said, conscious of my dog outside and the caffeine-starved humans clustered by the door.
“They even interviewed friends and relatives in Chicago,” Laurel said. She reached down for her bag. “He left there ages ago.”
I started to push back my chair when she grabbed my hand. “Go with me. To the hospital.”
“They won’t let us see her. I told you Kristen talked to Tim. He said maybe in a few days.”
“You know him. I don’t. I at least want to tell him how sorry I am.”
I wanted to see Tim, too, to offer my sympathy. To find out what I could and reassure myself that Maddie would recover. There was no reason I couldn’t go—the shop was in good hands today with Matt and Reed.
I glanced at Nate. If I said yes, if I went with her, I was all in, committed to finding out everything we could about Maddie’s involvement with the property, her shooting, and its link to Patrick Halloran. And he knew it.
“Laurel?” a man said.
Laurel jolted upright, her head
