creations, a favorite hobby of his—leatherwork. From a metal ring, a tiny pie charm hung off the collar and the name Sweetie Pie and Charlie’s address were engraved on the back.
I fingered the pie charm as if I could reach into Pop’s head and figure out what had happened in his apartment, but it was a useless gesture. Instead, I watched the drama inside the apartment unfold.
For years, I had dreamed—no, prayed—that the brothers on the force would ostracize Jack after his testimony against Pop. I had wanted them to shun his traitorous butt for what he’d done to Pop. And from the cool, studied nonchalant way they greeted him, it was pretty obvious my wish had come true.
Strangely enough, witnessing what I’d prayed for didn’t bring me any great pleasure. I actually found myself feeling sorry for the guy.
Growing up in a cop household had taught me well how important a cop’s fellow officers were, and when Pop had been convicted, I’d watched in dismay as his buddies ostracized him—cut him out of the brotherhood. Now Jack was getting a taste of how it felt, and something told me that he’d been feeling it for quite a while.
The detective in charge snapped a few questions at Jack and then turned in my direction. His smile was warm. Elliot Standish. I hadn’t seen him come in.
He walked over, his hand out in greeting. “Hello, Killian. It’s good to see you. I’m sorry you had to return on such a sad note.” He nodded his head in the direction of Pop’s bedroom. “Not to mention coming to your dad’s house and finding that mess.”
“Not a great homecoming, I agree,” I said, standing up and shaking his hand. Over his shoulder, I could see a touch of resentment flicker across Jack’s face. He hadn’t missed the fact that he’d been pushed aside.
Standish took my arm and lead me back into the apartment. “Give me a rundown of what you observed when you entered the apartment. Don’t leave anything out.”
He and I took a slow, methodical walk through the apartment for the next fifteen minutes, while Jack was left to cool his heels in the hall.
“Any feeling for why Gibson would be here in Charlie’s apartment?”
I shook my head. “I was going to meet the guy for the first time tomorrow. Apparently, he’s handling Pop’s affairs—his health proxy and his will.”
Standish’s right eyebrow, more weathered and gray than I remembered, took a leap upward. “Charlie had the money to hire Craig Gibson?”
“Apparently. You saying the guy charges more than Pop could afford?”
“Let me put it this way—he’s out of my league, your league and Charlie’s league all put together. He and his partner take on only the highest profile cases here in Syracuse and the surrounding areas. Usually, dealers with money to burn.”
I whistled softly through my teeth. “So the question is where would Pop, a guy who is essentially down to his last nickel, get the money to pay for a guy like Gibson? And what would Gibson be doing making a house call?”
“Bingo.” Standish glanced over at the gnome looking guy hunched over the body. “Got any thoughts on how he died, doc?”
“My professional opinion is that he bled to death,” the coroner said dryly.
“No kidding, doc,” Standish said. “Can you get any more specific?”
The coroner pointed to a series of bruises on the dead lawyer’s jawline and upper chest. “They worked him over pretty good. And then they started in on him with the knife. Whoever was wielding the knife knew what he was doing. He made sure the guy didn’t exsanguinate too quickly.” The coroner straightened up, grunting slightly and placing a hand against his lower back.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he said. “Whoever did this wanted information. And he went about getting it in a slow and methodical manner. You want anything more specific than that, you’re going to have to wait until I’m done with the autopsy.”
He nodded his head and two of his staff wheeled a gurney with an open body bag on top into the room.
Standish jerked his head toward the living room. “Let’s get out of their way.”
We moved back out into the living room where a crew of CSI workers swarmed over the area, busy dusting everything for prints.
“You ready to go?”
I glanced up to see Jack standing next to me. He and Standish glanced at each other, but neither spoke. I had learned from Jack earlier at the hospital that he was actually on speaking terms with Standish, but their current coolness toward each other told me that their friendship was probably on the sly. No doubt Standish didn’t want any of his fellow officers knowing he associated with someone who had actually broken the blue wall.
“Yeah, I’m ready.” I turned to Standish. “You’ll call me as soon as you hear anything?”
Standish nodded and wandered off to talk to a few other officers congregated in the kitchen area.
Jack swung a small cat crate in my direction. “You’re going to have to put the beast in here. We’ll never get him across town otherwise.”
Sweetie Pie’s ears immediately went back and he hissed. I wasn’t sure if it was Jack’s presence or the appearance of the cat crate. Whichever it was, Sweetie Pie wasn’t happy. Jack was smart enough to know that he best not try to hustle Sweetie Pie into the crate. He left that job to me.
As we trooped back down the stairs, I asked, “Why would Pop hire a lawyer known for working for the dregs—drug dealers?”
Jack shrugged. “Guess we’ll have to ask him when he wakes up.”
A few minutes later, we were on his bike, the cat crate sitting snug between us as we headed across town. Sweetie Pie yowled his discontent the entire way.
THE ELEVATOR to Jack’s apartment was different from the one I remembered from nine years ago. Apparently, the loft had become a bit more upscale over the years. Gone was the freight elevator ambience, replaced with a sleek, metallic-looking interior filled with mirrors and recessed lighting.
“Impressive,” I said, shifting the cat crate to my other hand and glancing around.
Jack pressed the button for the fourth floor and then leaned one shoulder against the wall as the elevator started upward. “The place went co-op about five years ago. It was either move out or buy in. So, I bought in.” He grinned. “Kind of strange to be a home owner.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting domesticated.”
He laughed. “Hardly. The place is made up mostly of singles. But we’ve made a lot of improvements to the building over the past couple of years. You haven’t seen the place in a while so it’ll look pretty different.”
Haven’t seen the place in a while? Who was he kidding. I hadn’t stepped foot in his apartment since the day I got word that he’d reported to work and ratted out Charlie.
That single thought sent a flash of guilt rumbling through me. What the hell was I doing here? Hadn’t I sworn this would never happen?
It
