The shard of redemption, p.6
The Shard of Redemption, page 6
“I just came back from a camping trip.”
“That’s where you’ve been? Octavia is freaking out because you weren’t answering her texts or calls. That’s why she sent me to check on you.”
Sherlock finished his cookie. Aidan picked up a raisin the dog had spit out onto the kitchen floor.
“There is something you can help me with,” said Neil as he put a kettle on to boil.
“Sure, what do you need?” Aidan tossed the raisin into the garbage bin under the sink.
“Your mother was working on a book, a murder mystery.” Neil began grinding fresh coffee beans. “I found a file with a chapter in it during the investigation. Do you know anything about the story she was writing?”
“Not really. She worked on it for a while and then stopped because she began working on the article about the Trotter. It’s funny that you bring that up, though. I was thinking about getting rid of her papers. Everybody is talking about decluttering, so it got me thinking I should do something about the boxes of files. I have no use for them, but just thinking about it makes me feel so guilty.”
“I can take them off your hands,” said Neil as he slowly poured the steaming water over the coffee grounds.
“You want them? Why?” asked Aidan.
“Some of those files may hold Emily’s research. I’d like to see them.” Neil set a timer for five minutes. “You want coffee, to go along with the cookies?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Aidan. “Is there a container I can use to give Sherlock some water?”
Neil took down a soup bowl from the cupboard and filled it with water. The moment the bowl touched the floor, Sherlock began lapping the water.
“Thanks,” said Aidan. “All right. There’s an entire closet full of files. I can bring them over tomorrow.”
The timer beeped, and Neil pressed the plunger down. He pulled out two mugs and filled them. “Tomorrow will be fine.” He handed a mug to Aidan. “Sugar or cream?”
“No, black is fine. Thanks.”
They leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and munching cookies, occasionally sharing a piece with Sherlock.
Neil pulled out his phone and glanced at the time. He slipped it back into his pocket and drew out a slender metal cylinder, the kind used to carry spare leads or fine-point charcoal sticks. His initials, N. A., were engraved into the cool, smooth metal. Octavia had presented it to him on his fortieth birthday. These days, it didn’t hold graphite.
Aidan saw the slight tremor in Neil’s hands as he unscrewed the cap and tipped two tablets into his mouth, chasing them with a sip of coffee.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
Aidan drained his mug and rinsed it in the sink. “I don’t think you’re fine,” he said. “You need to call Octavia. She’s worried about you.”
Neil continued to sip his coffee and walked into the living room. Sherlock trotted past him and jumped onto the overstuffed chair. He sniffed the upholstery, spun around a couple times, and curled up for a nap.
“Come on, Sherlock, let’s go home,” said Aidan.
The dog looked at him and sighed.
“Come on, let’s go.”
Sherlock looked at Neil and wagged his tail but didn’t move.
“See, even the dog is worried about you.” Aidan stooped and scratched Sherlock’s ears. “I’ve been busy and haven’t paid much attention to him lately.” He stood up. “Um, I don’t want to impose on you, but would it be all right if Sherlock stayed with you tonight?”
“That is not a good idea.” Neil shook his head and sat his cup on the side table. “I don’t want to babysit a dog. Octavia took care of him the last time. And when I did take care of him, we were shot at.”
“You should call Octavia.”
“No.”
“No? No what?” Aidan asked.
Neil shook his head and gestured toward the dog. “I can’t—”
Sherlock sighed and wagged his tail as he gently raised his paw toward Neil.
“C’mon,” said Aidan, “it will be good for you to take him for a walk. I’m coming back here tomorrow.”
Neil glanced at the dog, then nodded.
“Good,” said Aidan. “I’ll call you before I come over, and I’ll let Octavia know you’re … okay. If you need to talk to someone—”
“I’ll call my therapist.”
“I was going to say Octavia. She’s worried about you. She wants to help.”
“She needs to keep her focus on getting well, not me.”
“Did something happen between you two?”
“Yes, we lived together for three months.”
“Call her.” Aidan handed Neil the leash. “I’ll see you tomorrow. You be good, Sherlock.”
Alone again, Neil grabbed his cup of coffee and scanned the spines of the books in his bookcase, pausing on a well-worn leather-bound edition of The Complete Sherlock Holmes. He remembered the way Emily had handed it to him, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string like some lost artifact from Baker Street.
“You’ll need a detective where you’re going,” she said, and then leaned in and kissed my cheek.
“No,” I told her. “It stays here. Safe.”
But it wasn’t the book that mattered to him. Not anymore. It was what was hidden inside, slipped between pages.
Inside, a photograph. He hesitated, then pulled it free. Decision made.
He slipped it into the breast pocket of his coat, then stuffed a sketchbook and pencil into another pocket. Sherlock watched Neil, his tail giving a small wag each time he came near. His head popped up when Neil picked up the leash. He grabbed his phone and sent a text.
NEIL
I need to talk to you. It can’t wait.
Sherlock spun around in front of him.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
Chapter 9
Neil inhaled the crisp air of the city. The sky, a breathtaking turquoise blue, seemed to hum with the energy of the day. He finally felt a sense of vitality that had been missing. His thoughts began to click. He was himself again … almost.
He pulled out the photograph. Preserved. Quietly damning. He examined it as Sherlock checked out a patch of grass.
I used to think it was Emily. The tilt of the chin, the half-smile, like she knew a secret and might tell me if I asked the right way. He closed his eyes and sighed.
“We’re going home, Emily,” he whispered.
Now I look at it, and the face doesn’t quite belong. Like it never did. I don’t know.
I’m not sure I want to.
The historic Trotter Apartments loomed in the distance, granite and shadow, unchanged and watching. Neil’s heart kicked hard in his chest. He stopped before he crossed the street and stared at the building.
It absorbs everything: the people, the lives that flicker through its halls. Emily died here. Katherine died. Part of me died too … or maybe I never really lived.
Sherlock yipped and lunged against the leash, tail wagging, pulling him toward the building.
“You think you’re going back to her, huh?” Neil murmured. “You think Katherine’s still up there.”
He gave the leash some slack. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s find what’s left of the truth.”
They crossed the street. The Trotter’s entrance steps stretched up like an invitation or a dare. Neil took them two at a time.
Let’s see if this place remembers me.
He punched in his old code. The keypad blinked. The lock buzzed.
Still works.
The lobby hadn’t changed. The carpet still held the echo of better days, and the chandelier still clung to its original glamour like a socialite who refused to admit the party was over. The Trotter wore its age with dignity, or maybe just denial. It was the kind of place that remembered everything, even if the people inside wished it wouldn’t.
Two holdouts remained from the days when Neil and Emily had lived there: Robbie Carney, the owner, and Jerry, the old hippie philosopher-janitor, who vacuumed the halls to a steady loop of Grateful Dead bootlegs.
Robbie’s office door stood slightly ajar, but it was Mary, his daughter, pacing behind the desk, phone pressed hard to her ear.
“The wall is soaked, and the carpet’s a biohazard,” she barked. “You said it was fixed. It’s not. The tenant’s in a hotel, the water’s off, and if you don’t show up today, you don’t work here again. Apartment five. First floor. You were just there two days ago. Two hours? Fine. We’ll be waiting.”
She slammed the phone down. When she turned and saw Neil in the doorway, she froze.
Her eyes narrowed. Her spine straightened.
“You,” she said, like it was a bad taste in her mouth.
“What, no welcome-back banner?” Neil asked. “Do you treat all the guests at the Trotter like this?”
“You’re not a guest,” she snapped. “You’re a—”
“Former tenant?” he offered.
“You put us through hell.”
“No,” he said coolly. “Your mother did that. She’s the one who killed Katherine Sterling.”
Mary flinched. Then she saw Sherlock. The dog rose onto his hind legs, offering his usual high five. Her expression softened … just a little.
“Sherlock! Hey, boy, want a cookie?”
She tossed one from a plate on the desk. The dog snapped it out of the air.
“I want to talk to your dad,” Neil said. He grabbed a cookie without asking and took a bite. “Mm. Peanut butter. You make these?”
“We’ve got an emergency,” Mary said, folding her arms. “He’s moving furniture. Why do you want to talk to my dad?”
“There was a murder here when you were a kid. I want to ask him what he remembers.”
“Are you trying to pin that on him now?”
“No. I don’t think he’s capable of murder. And he was on vacation when it happened.”
“Then why?”
“Sometimes people remember things when they don’t know they’re remembering.”
Mary frowned as she considered her options, then said, “Jerry would know. But he’s in the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“Cancer.”
Neil felt a tightening in his chest. “I’m sorry. I like Jerry.”
“I remember her,” Mary said. “The woman who was killed. She worked at the library.”
“Yes. She was a research librarian.”
“She was your girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Me too.”
“I helped her once. She and her sister were carrying in boxes of books and files.”
“Emily didn’t have a sister.”
Mary frowned, pulling the memory apart. “That’s how I pictured her, seeing them together. I was a kid.” She turned and locked the office door. “I better help my dad.”
“I’ll help too.”
“Can’t let you do that. You might get injured and sue us.”
“Then I’ll watch,” Neil said, already following her down the hall with Sherlock prancing beside him.
They passed Jerry’s apartment. The door was closed.
“Does he have family?” Neil asked.
“He mentioned a sister once. But I don’t think they were close.”
Apartment five was open, the hallway strewn with half-packed boxes and displaced furniture. Inside, Robbie was wrangling a couch through the doorway.
“Neil! Just in time,” he called out, still pushing.
“Dad, don’t let him—”
“Don’t worry,” Neil said. “I promise not to sue.”
Robbie and Neil angled the couch out the door.
“They said a couple of hours,” Mary said.
“Could you get me some water, honey?” Robbie asked, sinking down onto the couch. “I’m sweating like a pig.”
“Any more cookies?” Neil asked.
Mary rolled her eyes and walked away, Sherlock padding after her.
“She’s still mad at you,” Robbie said.
“I get it.”
“What brings you back?”
“Fresh evidence in Emily’s murder. Police are reopening the case.”
Robbie grunted. “I figured. A detective came sniffing around. Maybe they’ll finally nail that bastard.”
“You’ve been watching too many cop shows,” Neil said, sitting beside him.
“Maybe. Feels like the whole damn world’s just a bad cop show.”
They sat in silence, except for the sound of the antique elevator groaning and cranking in the background.
“You told me Katherine found the body,” Neil said.
“That’s what she told me. I wasn’t in the building; I was on vacation.” He sighed.
Neil pulled the photo from his pocket. “I need your eyes on something.”
Robbie adjusted his glasses and leaned in. “Looks like your girl. Emily. But something’s off. Her hair. Didn’t she wear it long?”
“She did.”
“And the face … something’s different. Maybe it’s the light, or maybe it’s the years.” He handed the photo back. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Mary mentioned she remembered Emily coming in with someone from the library. I’m wondering if this is her.”
“I don’t remember. Jerry might. Did you hear …?”
“I did.”
“He’s coming back here tomorrow. Hospice care. Six weeks, they say.”
Neil nodded. “This place won’t be the same without him.”
“No,” Robbie said. “It won’t.”
Mary returned, handed her father a bottle of water, and passed Neil two peanut butter cookies wrapped in a napkin, wordlessly, but the gesture wasn’t lost on him.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I want to keep the tradition,” she said. “Cookies in the lobby.” She looked down at Sherlock and smiled. “It’s good to have him back in the building.”
“I’m making her co-owner,” Robbie said. “She wants out from under Yuu International Holdings.”
“Don’t tell him my business!” Mary snapped.
“What’s going on with Yuu?” Neil asked.
Mary crossed her arms and stared at the floor.
“There’s been a shift. The eldest son’s taken control. New direction. They’re pulling out of all their city development deals, except the park and my building. They’re buying me out. Forcing me out is more like it.”
“Poetic justice,” Neil said, finishing the second cookie. “Considering how you and your mother tried to push your dad out of the Trotter three years ago.”
“That’s enough,” Robbie cut in. “She loves this place same as I do.”
“Doesn’t your friend work for them?” Mary asked.
Neil nodded. “She does. But they’ve been good to her, so far.” He handed her the photo. “Take a look. Do you recognize her?”
Mary glanced at it. Looked again. “I just got one of those flashes,” she murmured. “Like a smell or a sound from childhood. I think I’ve seen her. The books, the shirt. But yeah, I think she’s the one who came in with your girlfriend.” She handed it back. “Who is she?”
Neil slipped the photo back into his pocket.
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
Chapter 10
When they returned from their walk to the Trotter, Neil emailed clients, sent reports and invoice reminders, while Sherlock napped in a shaft of sunlight. When Neil set aside his laptop, the dog stretched, then rested his head on Neil’s leg, his tail swishing gently.
“What do you want?” Neil asked. “You probably want some water, don’t you?”
Sherlock stared. His tail stopped mid-wag.
“Food. You probably want food.”
The dog licked his lips and snorted.
“Your master didn’t leave any. Too obvious it was a setup between him and Octavia if he did. But we’re not fooled, are we?”
Sherlock did a quick spin and trotted into the kitchen.
“I don’t have anything for you in here,” Neil called out, swinging open the refrigerator. Then he remembered: Athena.
“You’re in luck. I’ve got some cheese and … look at that, Sherlock. The vegan left some deli chicken.”
He sliced a few pieces of cheese, grabbed a handful of chicken, and set them on a plate. Sherlock dug in. Neil filled a bowl with water and set it beside the plate, then checked his watch.
“I’ve got to go, Sherlock. I’ll pick up some proper food for you while I’m out.”
He booked an Uber, shrugged on his coat, and grabbed his sketchbook. Sherlock wandered out of the kitchen and reclaimed his spot in the sun.
“I’ll be back,” Neil said at the door. “Try not to stir-up a crime scene while I’m gone.”
Sherlock answered with a single thump of his tail.
Neil gazed at majestic Mt. Tahoma, its pristine snow reflecting the sunlight in a dazzling display as the Uber thrummed over the city streets toward the county medical examiner’s office.
Only one vehicle sat in the parking lot when they arrived, a police car.
“I won’t be in there long,” said Neil as he handed Winston a fifty-dollar tip and climbed out of the car.
The officer muttered into his radio as Neil passed by.
Dr. Keith Chen met him in the lobby. “Hi, Neil, haven’t seen you for, what, since the Katherine Sterling case?”
“What’s going on?” Neil asked. “Why the police presence?”
Dr. Chen motioned to a chair and pulled open a drawer, fishing out a Snickers bar.
“They used to call these energy bars,” he said, peeling the wrapper. “Hell, I believe them.” He took a bite. “The world’s flipping sideways. Murder rate’s up. Gangs are talking about stealing a body out of my morgue.”
Another bite. A chew.
“I was told there’d be twenty-four-hour police coverage, but they weren’t so diligent until the new captain for the Criminal Investigation Division arrived, the one reviewing John Wallace’s cases. So, I wasn’t surprised when I saw your text.”
Neil chuckled. “The police are here because of me?” He shook his head. “I think I got reported when I walked in.”
