I considered Nathan Walker my best friend and confidant. He was with Sully that day at the bank when two gunmen took nine hostages. It had been snowing off and on for days, schools were closed, and public transportation had ceased altogether. I’ve often thought those idiots intentionally staged the robbery on that day, thinking the bad weather would slow down the cops. But bad men are usually stupid men, and they never considered how the snow would hamper their escape. Sully and Nathan were just finishing up their shift when they were called to the scene. Although I also responded, they were first on the scene and in charge.
The robbers released seven hostages. Each time, either Sully or Nathan would rush the frightened victim into a squad car where it was warm. It went on like that until we all thought the perps were close to surrendering.
Sully was up front when Sidney Lang, the bank manager, was released. The frightened man stumbled toward Sully and then slid on a patch of ice, falling backward, hitting his head. That’s when all hell broke loose.
Gunshots echoed off the granite buildings; I thought I’d go deaf. Even though we’d roped off the area, rubbernecks gathered. I tried to stay calm and in control, but for a few horrible moments, it was utter chaos.
Then deafening quiet.
Sully was down and I ran to him, shouting to the EMTs to hurry. Then I gave the order to rush the building.
There were two casualties that day: one of the robbers . . . and my husband.
Eventually Nathan’s survivor’s guilt rendered him useless out on the street and I put him behind a desk. The police psychiatrist ordered us both to take a month’s leave and attend weekly sessions. But we’d been around too long and had heard the same tired phrases the shrink threw at us too many times for any of it to stick. Our strength was in each other, the shared bond we had loving Sully.
We’d go to the sessions because they were mandatory, but the real healing came when we talked one on one. We could cry together without any embarrassment, say anything without fear of being judged or having our words repeated.
When Nathan heard about a police veteran who was looking to sell his security business and move to Florida, he didn’t think twice about retiring and buying it.
Somehow I managed to handle my duties as chief for a few more years until realizing I could easily retire and never look back. I had Lizzie and the kids to occupy some of my time. I broke out the art supplies and took a few watercolor classes. Sometimes I’d invite Nathan and his beautiful wife, Terry, over for dinner. Sometimes I’d go to their place. But without Sully, it all seemed so frivolous, just filler to take up time.
Then one day another of those travel brochures arrived. But that one wasn’t for a cruise to Mexico or a helicopter tour of the Hawaiian Islands. There was an artist’s retreat in Maine. The pictures showed six cabins scattered throughout a ten-acre area. A large meeting hall was available for three meals a day as well as group discussions. I was on a plane the following week.
Nathan and I communicated daily either by phone or e-mail, just to make sure the other was doing well. Our conversations gradually became less full of Sully and more full of the adventures we were both having in our new lives. I’d been at the retreat ten days when he called to tell me Terry had died.
Of course, I offered to fly home immediately, but he told me to stay put. If I came back to Edina, he said, it would be like replaying Sully’s death. He needed to grieve with his family; he had to make it different this time. And so I respected his wishes. But I still called everyday just to talk him through his loss.
After that, whenever I was in town, we’d meet. He’d ask about what I was working on and listen attentively as I described a new piece or gush over a new artist I’d recently discovered. I’d listen while he talked about the security business and the two men and two women he liked to call his crew.
“We’re both retired, you know,” I told Nathan as he drove toward the mansion.
“Just because we’re out to pasture doesn’t mean we can’t jump the fence every now and then.” He laughed.
“I know that. And you know that. But your timing couldn’t be worse. I was just getting a lecture from my daughter. She was complaining that I’m always profiling and analyzing.”
“And are you?” he asked.
“Of course. But that’s not a bad thing . . . is it?”
“Look who you’re asking.” When he smiled, he always reminded me of Denzel Washington. It didn’t matter that he was now sixty-four or had a few scars across his cheek and some extra pounds around the middle. He was still a ruggedly handsome man. The women at the station had been crazy for him. But back then, Nathan only had eyes for his wife.
“So how did you find out about the murder?” I asked.
“We have a police scanner at the office. A call came in about half an hour ago that a body was found on the second floor of the Pierce estate. The police are there now.”
“Do you have any idea who it is?” I asked.
“I would if Randolph would have let me install a surveillance system in the place.”
“You mean there isn’t one?” I asked, surprised. “That’s insane, considering all the artwork and antiques they have.”
“Oh, there’s a system all right, but it’s ancient. Old man Marshall was the last Pierce to live full-time in the mansion. Just him, a nurse, a housekeeper, and some old coot—”
“—Bradley. He was Marshall’s butler for years—very protective.”
Nathan nodded. “Sure, I remember him. Anyway, after the old man died—”
“—under mysterious circumstances,” I interjected.
“There was never proof of any wrongdoing, but it was strange,” he agreed.
“And the bulk of his estate went to Junior,” I said. “With one stipulation.”
Nathan glanced over at me. “I never heard anything about that.”
“Lizzie told me. A lawyer friend of hers drew up the original will. And since attorney–client privilege doesn’t cover this . . .”
“So . . . tell me.”
“It stipulated that on the centennial of the groundbreaking of the estate, which is this year, it would be transferred back to the town of Edina. Did you know it was originally named Buckhorn manor?”
“After all those poisonous plants around here?” Nathan asked.
I nodded. “They used to make paint out of them.”
“Seems fitting somehow. Marshall Senior seemed to poison everything he touched, all the time adding more to his daddy’s wealth. It’s never enough with those kinds of people. Everyone in town has a relative who was affected by his ruthlessness.”
“Did you ever have a conversation with the man?” I asked Nathan. “To hear him talk, he was a benevolent industrialist who was only trying to push the United States into the modern age. Never mind that he profited from the Depression and the war. There was even a rumor that he purchased stolen art from the Nazis. Nothing was beneath him.”
“Yeah, the old man was a real piece of work,” Nathan said. “And no one’s lived in the manse ever since. From what I’ve heard, anything of value was cleared out and stored long ago.”
“And now Randolph’s in town, renovating Buckhorn, getting it ready to be turned into a museum, I suppose.”
Nathan parked in front of the huge building. “Once everything’s back in place, he’ll realize he needs top-of-the-line security. Especially after what happened here tonight.”
We sat in the car for a few minutes and checked out the scene. Three squad cars were parked at odd angles across the gravel driveway that fanned out in front of the building, two with their lights flashing. An ambulance had been backed up as far as it could go to the front door. I could see an EMT leaning against the side of the ambulance smoking a cigarette. Yellow police tape had been wrapped around one of the tall white columns flanking the hand-carved door. Then it had been stretched and wrapped tightly around the opposite column. Two more strips of tape formed a large X across the entrance. Without another word between us, we got out of the car and walked up the long driveway.