Chapter Four

The cold and rainy weather hit her hard as she left the police station. Fallon tightened her arm to keep the file in her jacket safe and dry.

Her strides lengthened as she moved up the street to the parking lot. Fallon used her right hand to unlock her father’s old Nova. Closing the door, she pulled out her cell phone and sent a text message consisting of two words: GOT IT!

On the drive back to the house she had grown up in, Fallon kept the file where it was, between her left arm and her side. The sight of the Space Needle lit against the background of the night sky made her smile.

I miss you, Pops.

The wind and rain had increased as she pulled into the driveway. Fallon reached into her jacket and touched the file folder. As the engine idled, her eyes closed as her fingers danced along the edge, almost like there was a message for her in Braille. Fallon withdrew her hand as a warm tear leaked from one eye and rolled down her cheekbone. With an angry slash, she erased the evidence, zipped up her jacket, shut off the engine, and took a deep breath. Time to figure out the plan.

Fallon walked up the steps to the front door. Hand on the knob, she glanced back out over the Seattle skyline; even through the rain it was beautiful. She had spent many nights out here, learning to love this city and all it offered. Even now, despite her rage at losing her parent to a senseless death, the serenity of the Pac Norwest reached out and embraced her.

It was good to be home.

***

They sat around the solid, dark golden maple table. Photos and the reports were scattered across the uncovered wood. Beside Fallon sat a half-empty bottle of Samuel Adams Black Lager.

“This is a cover up,” Fallon stated, tapping her nail against the bottle. “Pops wasn’t killed in a random gang shootout. The shot in the back of his head did it. Pops was executed.”

Four sets of eyes stared at her. Disbelief. Anger. Clay’s blue eyes snapped with barely suppressed rage, his jaw clenched as he repeatedly flexed one hand into a fist. Herschel’s blue eyes weren’t as angry, but more saddened and disheartened. She could see her brother fighting not to lose his temper and become enraged. That was Herschel, ever the good boy.

Shawn looked mad enough to take on an entire football team by himself, and she bet he would win. He spun his beer bottle on the tabletop as he, too, tried to absorb what she’d just said. Then there was Dylan, the baby; even now, he seemed more lost and scared than anything. Sure there was anger, but Dylan didn’t get as upset as everyone else did. Fallon sipped her beer and took another look at a photo of her father’s autopsy.

The impression around the wound told her the barrel was pressed up against his skull. She followed the burn mark left by the gun with her gaze. Kicking into overdrive, her brain began streaming through weapon types; although her gut instinct told her it was in no way caused by an AK-47 like the rest of his wounds.

She explained her reasoning to her family. “This is the only one that doesn’t match the others. The other wounds match the bullets that remained in his flesh and those were taken out of him. Except this one.”

“Why would they do this to Pops? He didn’t have any enemies,” Dylan said before he drained the rest of his beer.

She looked him over. His face was flushed and two red spots flamed against his pale cheeks She clamped her lips together to keep her comment to herself. Drinking wasn’t something Dylan did well.

Clayborne beat her to an answer. “Well, he had at least one. And it’s apparent enough that they would feed us lies to keep their crimes hidden.” His tone overflowed with disgust and hatred.

“We have to be certain of this before we go saying ‘cover-up’ all over the city,” Herschel interjected.

“God damn it, Herschel. Pops is dead!” Clayborne thundered. “Get off your fuckin’ high horse and remember who you are.”

Herschel’s tanned face flushed deep red, a sure sign he was furious. “I know who I am, Clayborne. I’m the one who stayed behind while the rest of you went on to adventure.” Clay opened his mouth but Herschel waved him off. “No, Clay. You need to listen to me. I want to catch the bastard responsible as much as anyone in this room. But we are Maddoxes. And here...that automatically puts us on the wrong side of the law.”

Fallon watched silently as Clay narrowed his sapphire blue eyes at Herschel. Their second eldest brother reached for his beer and said, “Yes, Clay. Even me. I’m a husband and a father, but no matter what I’ve done, when push comes to shove...I’m still a Maddox.”

Holding a list of her father’s personal effects, as received from the coroner, Fallon frowned as she read. She, too, reached for her beer as her eyes ran over the inventory record again and again. Something didn’t seem right.

Fallon set down the paper and half stood to locate the photo she sought. She placed it beside the report and stared at the items lying in the glossy picture.

The keys were wrong.

Without looking up, Fallon asked over her still arguing brothers. “Herschel. When you got Pops’ things back, did he still have that small key he always had when we were growing up?”

Silence fell in the Maddox kitchen. Fallon glanced up, waiting for her answer. All eyes were on Herschel. He waved for the photo and she slid it toward him.

“I don’t remember it, but according to this, he didn’t have it when they took pics of his items and it wasn't on him at the scene, or so it says. There are six keys, though, but one is not the right key.” Herschel dropped the photo. “Damn it. What the fuck is going on here?”

“You need to make sure about the key, Herschel. Make sure one of your girls didn’t get it from Pops.” Fallon gestured for Shawn to shove over the legal pad. She picked up a pen and tapped it on the yellow paper.

“What are you thinking, Fallon?” Shawn asked.

“Nothing yet, but it is time to get some answers.” Her fingers tightened around the brown bottle she held. Fallon stared at the papers before her until the words began to blur.

What did it all mean?

What am I missing?

As the night progressed, the five siblings, united by the mere fact they had been raised under the same roof and all had become members of the Maddox clan, continued to discuss the possible meanings of what they’d discovered. Different backgrounds and different blood didn’t matter; they had spent a good portion of their lives together and they were family.

***

Ian entered his darkened home. He dropped his bag by the door and walked further into the living room. His steps carried him down the hall to his bedroom. Turning on a lamp by a tall armless chair, he removed his leather jacket. Rolling his shoulders, Ian shrugged out of the double holster and hung it on a hook.

“I don’t understand what’s going on here,” he muttered as he pulled his shirt off. “I need to take another look at that file.” He removed his shoes, socks, and pants. “After my shower.”

Twenty minutes later, Ian was sitting on his tan microfiber couch, a plate with dinner untouched nearby as he went over the file that Ms. Fallon Maddox had demanded to copy.

“What was she looking for?”

Ian ate a bite of his green and white fettuccine, arugula, goat cheese, and roasted peppers. He looked at the photos and frowned. Selecting one out of the group, he held it up. This one he hadn’t seen before. But to anyone who could understand the photo, it was all wrong. Well, what was wrong was the explanation on the autopsy report.

Would Fallon understand that? “I need to dig up her information.”

Ian couldn’t let it go. Finally he gave up all attempts to eat and focused on the unpleasant thoughts of what a cover-up could mean.

Reaching for the phone, he made a call.

“Hello?” a gruff smoker’s voice answered.

“Da, it’s me. I need some help.” Ian reached for his drink.

“What do you need, lad?”

Ian took another swallow. His father had been shot in the line of duty, and when his right arm had been amputated just below the elbow he had been medically retired. However, he still kept in touch with old friends and had provided Ian with lots of good advice over the years.

“I’m a bit confused and wondered if you could fill me in on some history.”

“Well, I was about to get a snack,” his father said.

Ian smiled. His father had always loved his nightly ice cream. “Want me to pick you up?”

“Yes. It’s raining out. I’ll be outside.” Donal Cavanaugh hung up.

“Bye, Da,” Ian said to the air as he hung up the phone.

He tugged a white shirt on over his bare chest before slipping his guns into place. He grabbed his keys and his Seahawks jacket as he left his house and headed to his garage to get into his car.

Thirty minutes later, Ian sat in a small restaurant across from his father, who ate a large sundae. Ian stuck to a simple cup of coffee.

“What is it you need, son?”

“How are you doing, Da? Do you need anything?”

A sly grin crossed his father’s face. “Grandchildren would be nice.”

Ian shook his head. “Still looking for the right woman, Da.” An image of Fallon Maddox flashed in front of him, shocking him to the point of almost dropping his mug of coffee.

“I’m not gettin’ any younger, you know.”

“Of course not, Da.” Ian didn’t want to be rehashing this with him.

“Fine. I’ll let it go. I’m sure your ma bugs you enough about it. I’ll stop.”

Ian sighed. “I’m not getting in the middle of you two and your arguing.” He paused. “She’s fine, by the way.”

“I don’t care.” The answer came fast and harsh.

“Okay, Da. I’m not arguing.”

“You’re a good son. Now, what do you need?”

“What do you know about the animosity between Rick DeVane and the Maddox clan?”

Solemnity filled his father’s face as he set the spoon in the half-empty dish. “Why do you ask?”

Uncertainty flickered through him. His father hadn’t ever kept anything from him. “Fallon Maddox came to the precinct today. I’ve seen Captain DeVane be short, abrupt, and even cold to people. But the level of rudeness from him today, hatred even...I never thought he would act like that, especially considering she buried her foster father the previous afternoon.”

“So Fallon has returned.” Donal nodded and began eating his ice cream again.

Ian frowned. This was most strange. “Da, tell me about DeVane.” Fallon wasn’t what his father needed to latch onto. Perhaps later, but Rick DeVane was who he needed information on now.

“Why do you care how he treats her?”

Ian narrowed his gaze. “Because she didn’t deserve it. She’s a victim, not a perp. Da, there is something wrong with this.”

“Wrong? What do you mean?”

Wrapping his fingers around the warm cup, Ian leaned forward and told his father what was bothering him.