Three days after Harold Huxham’s murder, Borough Chief Detective Peter Jacobson left a message on Sloane’s phone to meet him at the 78th Precinct at two p.m. She had failed to get a lead on the shooter’s identity and had just called in a favor to her contacts on Jacobson’s team. Jac had either figured out the shooter’s name or discovered Mike Garcia and Katie Chen had side gigs, slipping her information.
She walked the six blocks to the station, a three-story brick building with solid wood doors, arched windows, and an antiseptic interior of linoleum floors and white tiled walls. Behind the front desk, officers and plainclothes detectives scuttled in and out of doors and stopped at the watch lieutenant’s desk. A Dutch door separated them from the offices.
At two p.m. sharp, Jacobson appeared. “Hey, West. Let’s go.” She followed him to the end of a sterile corridor into an interview room. “Have a seat.” He dropped a manila folder on the table. “We got the shooter’s name and possible motive.” He sat, opened the file, and slid it in front of her.
“Liam Morris. He lived in Manhattan. Ran a security consulting business. No priors.”
Sloane continued to read. “Security business? And you failed to get a hit on his prints?” She looked up. “C’mon, Jac.”
“Yeah, well, the first attempt had a glitch or something. But the ME reran AFIS yesterday and got a hit right away.”
Sloane pinched her brows together. “Glitches?”
“It happens.” Jacobson motioned for her to turn the page. “We have Morris on CCTV thirty minutes after Mr. Huxham arrived at JFK. He hired a taxi. It dropped him off at 140 th and St. Theresa’s.”
“Stella’s?”
“That’s right.” Jacobson leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “We searched his apartment. Turn the page.” He waited. “We found that.” He sat back and crossed his arms while Sloane read the rest of the file.
Sloane’s jaw clenched. A dossier on her. He had no visible employer. It didn’t make sense. She tossed the file at Jacobson. “Let me guess, the file on me was just sitting out in the open.”
Jacobson shifted in his chair. “Evidence pictures show it on his desk.”
“Morris was a professional. He would have hidden that.”
Jacobson shrugged.
She threw her hands in the air. “C’mon, Jac. He had photos of me and Harold. I swear. Have I ever lied to you?”
“No.” He held her eyes. “I know you think you saw two photos. But maybe the shock of the attack affected what you think you saw.”
“Whatever. Since when do you think I wilt under pressure?”
“I know. I know.” He slapped his hand on the table. Listen, I’ll consider the Canadian angle if you can get me something concrete.”
Sloane pushed back in her chair and stood. “Fine. I will.”
“Oh, yeah. Another thing. We got a hold of Mr. Huxham’s family. His nephew arrived this morning. Hanson’s taking him to the morgue this afternoon.”
“Nephew?”
“That’s what Hanson said. Mr. Huxham’s only family is one nephew, Charles Huxham.” Jacobson got to his feet. “That’s all we got. I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
“Did you come to that conclusion all on your own?”
“Ouch.” He opened the door and closed it again. “One more thing. The ME ruled Morris’s COD as blunt-force trauma. Your statement stands. Self-defense. But you have to stop walloping people.” He put an arm around her shoulder. “I could use you on my team again. Not that I condone kicking someone’s ass, but I wouldn’t worry about you taking care of yourself, right? You could be back in plain clothes in less than a year.”
“Give it a rest, Jac.” She tapped the file in his hand. “I couldn’t work under these conditions.”
She left the interview room and stopped in the corridor. Tom Hanson was at the end of the hall, standing at the Dutch door. Until three days ago, she hadn’t seen him for over a year since he and Jess confessed undying love and her life had fallen apart.
Tom opened the bottom section, and a man and woman entered the office area. Sloane hurried toward them. Tom might put them in an interview room before Charles Huxham could see her. Even brief interactions revealed a lot.
The three approached. The man was Charles Huxham. No doubt. His eyes and build were similar to Harold’s. He had dark-brown hair, graying at the temples and looked to be in his early fifties. When his eyes met Sloane’s, he quickly averted them.
The woman with Charles had her arm around his, dabbing her eyes with a tissue held in her free hand. She was thin, almost gaunt, with graying, brown hair, a sharp pointed nose, and a smile too big for her sunken face. When she looked up and saw Sloane, she looked shocked and reached out as if to get Sloane’s attention.
But the man grabbed her hand and nudged her along. Were they married? Neither wore rings. But she sensed they had been close for a long time. And they must have both known Jane. Why else had the sight of her daughter nearly stopped them in their tracks? Sloane watched the couple disappear into an interview room. Tom stared back at her with an injured look, and she turned away.
As she walked back home, she considered the couple’s reactions. Was it seeing her, Jane’s look-alike, a friend they had lost so many years before? Was it because she was supposed to be dead? Were they disappointed? Guilty? Whatever it was, they had both earned a spot on her suspect list.
Inside her apartment, the smell of crime had gone, but death lingered. She lit sage and lavender incense sticks and opened the bay window. Bear brushed back and forth against her legs and meowed. “Are you hungry?” Sloane picked her up. “Me, too. How about an early dinner?” She placed her on the kitchen counter.
Bear paced, watching Sloane.
“Give me a second. Gourmet food takes time.”
The cat meowed.
Sloane chuckled. “Don’t mock me, or you’re only getting dry kibble.” She took out half a takeout burger from the fridge and stuck it in a microwave, the most sophisticated appliance in her kitchen. Not that she cared. The best bodegas and takeout restaurants in the Bronx were within a ten-minute walk, and she had mapped out her favorites years ago.
Sloane fed warm pieces of the beef to Bear while she polished off cold fries with ketchup. Then she opened a can of tuna. “Don’t say I never spoil you.”
Bear stuck up her nose.
“Yeah. It’s not fresh fish, your majesty.”
Sloane poured herself a whiskey neat and left Bear to her dinner. At her desk, she picked up the photo Harold had brought. Blood spatters had soaked into the wooden frame. She undid the back, removed the photo, and threw the rest away.
A streetlamp sputtered to life. Its hum and soft glow reached into the living room. Sloane walked to the bay window, lowered its blinds, and sank into the sofa. She propped the photo against a lamp on the side table and grabbed Jane’s mail.
Harold’s letter was there like he said it would be. He had included two business cards, his and Charles’s. They were the principals of Huxham Law.
As she read the letter, his deep, concerned voice sounded in her head. He asked Jane to return home and settle her parents’ estate and to comfort someone named Dora. Finally, he expressed his love and admiration for Jane and her parents.
Sloane folded the letter and stuffed it back in its envelope. She stared at the Wests’ blood-spattered will. What had Jane left behind? And why did Harold say the will was complicated? Reading through the legalese was frustrating, but eventually she understood that the Wests’ art gallery was on land owned in common with three other Denwick families. Purchased originally from a holding decreed by a Royal Charter Grant to a Reginald Gildey in 1850. Bear leaped onto the sofa and climbed the back cushions, curling up next to Sloane’s head. Her tail swished back and forth.
“Listen. I have to make a phone call. Then I need to run some stuff by you, so don’t fall asleep,” she said, folding up the will. She dialed Tom Hanson’s number. It rang only once.
“Sloane?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I need some information. Were you with Charles Huxham this afternoon?”
“When we passed you in the hall? Yeah, that was him.”
“How did he act at the morgue?”
“He didn’t seem too upset, but the woman with him had a hard time. Why do you want to know?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“What were you doing with the Chief?”
“I was following up on a hunch. Thanks for your help.”
“Wait. Don’t hang up. I’ve got more.” He sounded desperate. “Charles Huxham was distracted the entire time I was with him. And I’m pretty sure it was because he saw you. He asked if it was you in the hall. If you were in any sort of trouble. But I didn’t tell him anything.”
Sloane let her head fall against the sofa and got Bear’s tail in her face. She recalled Harold’s voice. “She was two years behind my nephew Charlie. They were close.”
“He knew Jane. I just reminded him of her. That’s all. Did he want to know what happened in the apartment?”
“Every detail. He was pissed. Kept saying his uncle should’ve never come to New York.”
“What about the woman?”
“She just cried the entire time. Never said a word.”
“All right. Thanks for the information.” She hung up before Tom could respond and settled into the sofa, twisting a white-gold ring on her finger. Tom had probably seen it. Likely already told Jess she was still wearing it. At least the band wasn’t on her left hand any longer.
She scratched Bear’s chin. “Time to wake up and brainstorm.”
Bear lifted her head and mewed softly.
Now Tom was no longer in her life, she briefed her cases with Bear. They didn’t sit in front of a case board late into the night. Or build a solid line of inquiry from each other’s hunches. But it worked well.
“Huxham took this photo after Jane’s graduation in June of eighty-eight. I was born in January. So that means Jane was pregnant when she came to New York. What does that mean for the case? I don’t know yet. But personally, it probably means I’ve been searching for my father in the wrong country.”
Sloane traced her finger over Jane’s image. “Did her parents know she was pregnant? Did they drive her away? Did she run because she couldn’t face them? Or did she run from the man who got her pregnant?”
Bear meowed, seeming more alert.
“Yeah. I agree. Why would she stay in contact with her parents if they drove her away? But why didn’t she tell them about me? They left their money to her. Not the action of angry estranged parents.” She put the photo against the lamp again. “I haven’t found anything else about her life other than her journals. If Jane’s parents had hidden their lives as much as she had, I doubt we’d find anything in Denwick either.”
Bear slipped down next to her, meowing.
“Yeah, I know. Whoever hired Morris is there. And they’re desperate enough to kill for the land—Harold’s and mine. Which means they might not stop until the job is done. I wonder who else owns it.”
Bear yowled.
“Whoa, big girl. No worries. Nothing is going to happen to me.”
Sloane dialed the number on Charles’s card.
“Hello.”
“Charles Huxham?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Hello, Mr. Huxham. Sloane West here. I wanted to extend my condolences—”
“Well, you saved me a call, Ms. West,” he said, interrupting her. “We have unfinished business. I will need to finalize the paperwork he gave you.”
His voice was angry. Was he masking his loss or guilt? “All right. Harold and I talked about my inheritance. But I haven’t decided if I want their money.”
He paused. “I’d appreciate a decision as soon as possible. Now I must file Harold’s will for his beneficiaries.” He scoffed. “With the Wests and your mother dead, you’ve come into quite a bit of money, haven’t you?” His words stung like the accusation he meant them to be.
Adrenaline surged through Sloane. “You’re in luck, Mr. Huxham. I just made up my mind. I’ll accept my inheritance, and I’ll sign the paperwork in Denwick.”
Charles coughed for several minutes. “That’s fine,” he replied, finally catching his breath. “I’m returning in a few days. Let me know when you plan to arrive, and I’ll have the paperwork ready.” He abruptly ended their call.
Bear purred and slipped onto Sloane’s lap, climbing up her chest. When Sloane opened her eyes, their noses touched. “All right. Pack a bag, Bear. We’re going to Canada.”