The Advocate's Daughter (21 page)

When Sean finished, Emily was silent. He scrutinized her face in the shadows. Her expression was indescribable. It wasn't betrayal or disbelief as he'd expected. Nor anger. Maybe the expression was just shock—the kind of look someone gets when they fall through the ice into a freezing lake. Except instead of bringing a rope to save her, Sean had brought a hammer. He waited for her to speak, to say something,
anything.
And then she did.

“Did he have a family?” Her voice was quiet, steady. “The storekeeper.”

“Yes, his wife worked with him at the store. When I got the life insurance money from my dad's death, I hired a service to see if there were any other relatives. I'm not sure why or what I planned to do, but I thought maybe I could send some money or help them. But the storekeeper's wife had passed away and they found no other relatives.”

Emily looked at him. “You've carried this around since you were fourteen?”

This time Sean was the one drowning in the lake. He nodded, not looking her in the eyes. After another heavy silence, he whispered, “Abby's death. It was my fault. I'm being punished.” He said it. Finally admitted it to himself. And he now understood. His oath, his deal with God, was an illusory contract. A trick befitting the Devil himself. Give Sean a perfect family and then watch him come apart when it was ripped away. His daughter paid for it all.

Emily stood. She would be leaving, he knew. She would blame him, rightly, for the misery befallen the Serrats.
The Serrats.
It didn't even sound right anymore, without Abby. And with Emily gone, what would remain?

But Emily didn't leave. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. And he cried. A release three decades in the making in the embrace of the woman who'd given him everything.

“What are we going to do?” Sean said, his voice hoarse.

“We're going to make things right,” Emily whispered. “But first, we're going to find out what happened to our daughter.”

 

CHAPTER 54

After a restless night, Sean woke to sunshine beaming through the bedroom window, dust floating in the rays. Another headache, this time from grinding his teeth in his sleep. His thoughts immediately went to Kenny, his lifeless body, the blood … but he beat them back. Em had said they couldn't let what happened to Kenny cripple them from finding out the truth.

Downstairs, the house was still. A jar of peanut butter sat on the kitchen counter along with Ziploc bags. He looked out the window and the SUV was gone. Already the sun was erasing the evidence of the night's rain. It was one of those D.C. springs where one day it would be dark and pouring rain, the next day sunshine, birds chirping, and everything feeling Disney-movie fresh and new. If only he felt that way. Sean heard the keys in the kitchen door, then Emily came inside. Where would they go from here?

“Sorry I overslept,” Sean said. “You got the boys out?”

“Yes. You'd better go get ready if you're going to make it downtown in time.”

“My meeting with James isn't until three o'clock.”

“I know, but I have somewhere I want us to go first.”

He looked at Emily. “Shouldn't we … talk?”

She held his gaze. “We will. But we need to get going. There's someone I think we should speak with about Abby.”

Sean hastily showered and changed into jeans and a T-shirt—he would not dress up for Senator James. He and Emily stepped down their side portico to the narrow driveway. In Chevy Chase, where many of the houses were built before most people had cars, the driveways often were makeshift. The Serrats shared their driveway—a Y-shaped lane wedged between two colonials—with their neighbor. As Sean walked to the SUV, he saw a man in a sports jacket and slacks sauntering up the drive.

“Hey,” Sean said, chin cocked, “you know the rules. No reporters beyond the sidewalk.”

The man reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet as he continued up the drive. Sean glanced toward Emily, who was next to the SUV. Her face had turned sheet white.

“I'm not a reporter, Mr. Serrat. I'm Detective Whiteside with the Montgomery County police.” The man held open his wallet displaying credentials. “Homicide section.”

Sean glanced at the identification and gave the best puzzled look he could marshal. Kenny Baldwin was murdered in D.C., not over the border in Maryland, so this could be about only one thing. Billy Brice.

Emily spoke. “Honey, this is the detective I told you about who stopped by.” It was a tad stilted, but seemed casual enough.

“That's right,” Sean said, shaking the detective's hand. “My wife said you wanted to speak to me about the man who was found at the high school?”

“Correct. I'm really sorry to intrude, since I know your family is going through a tough time yourselves, but my boss…”

“I understand, detective. I know what the victim's family must be going through, so I'm happy to help.”

“Actually, the victim, his name was William Brice, doesn't seem to have any family—at least any family who cares about what happened to him.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Sean said.

“It probably seems odd, since you may have read that Brice was no angel,” Whiteside added, “but it's these kinds of cases that always get me—no family, unpopular victim. I'm the last hope for justice since no one else really gives a damn.” The detective held Sean's gaze for a second longer than comfortable.

Sean said, “I'm happy to help if I can.”

The detective studied him for another long moment. “I'm just trying to find anyone who might have seen something. Brice had some marijuana and some harder stuff on him, and we think he was selling behind the high school. If there were some kids buying from him and who saw something, they'd obviously have a lot of reasons not to come forward.”

Was the detective suggesting that Ryan was one of those kids? Sean's body stiffened.

“As your wife probably mentioned, we found your son's bike at the school, and we wondered if we could speak with him?”

“I spoke to Ryan,” Emily said, now standing next to Sean. “He wasn't at the school that night. He was with his dad, so he didn't see anything.”

“How about you, Mr. Serrat, did you see anything?”

“Me?” Sean said. He may have been imagining it, but the detective's tone had an accusatory edge. “No, I wasn't near the school that night. Ryan and I were at a friend of mine's house for dinner.”

The detective digested this. “A friend's house?” Skeptical. He shot Emily a look, no doubt remembering that Emily had told him that Ryan and Sean were at the gym that night and that Sean had been mugged. “Do you mind if I ask who the friend is, Mr. Serrat?”

The detective was a beefy man in his fifties, gray hair, seasoned. No dummy. Sean gave the detective Cecilia's name and telephone number. He could feel the detective scrutinizing him.

“Had you ever met William Brice before?” Whiteside asked, his tone again routine, but Sean heard something more. The detective pulled up a photo of Brice on his phone, it looked like a morgue shot. He slid his finger and another image appeared on the small screen. A headshot, a high school yearbook photo by the looks of it.

Sean examined the photos. “I don't know this man. He doesn't look familiar.”

“You've never seen him?”

“Not that I recall.”

“It's funny, Mr. Serrat, because two of Mr. Brice's friends say that he had a physical altercation with a man who fits your description.”

Sean scoffed. Time to play indignant. “They said
I
had an altercation with him? Who are these friends? Are they high on the stuff their buddy was selling?” His credibility challenged, Sean now added with conviction, “I never saw the man before in my life.”

“Do you mind if I ask what happened to your eye?”

Sean cocked his head toward the SUV, signaling Emily to get inside. “I had a spill on my bike. Now, if you don't mind, I'm late for an appointment.”

Whiteside started to speak, but Sean cut him off, “Have a good day, detective.” Sean climbed into the SUV. He inhaled deeply and started the engine. He looked in the rearview mirror, and Whiteside was standing in the path of the vehicle. Sean put it in reverse and the detective stepped aside as they rolled down the drive.

Before the SUV reached the curb, the detective gestured for Sean to roll down the window.

“Let's just go,” Emily said.

But Sean slowed to a stop and the window hummed down.

Whiteside said, “I just need to clarify one thing, Mr. Serrat.”

“What is it?”

“I don't think you had anything to do with William Brice's murder, just so we're clear.”

Sean nodded. Good. This was heading in the right direction. No need to be paranoid.

“You know what the kids called Mr. Brice?”

“Called him?”

“Yeah, sort of his nickname or trademark, so kids knew how to find the dealer without giving any names.”

“I have no idea.” Sean knew what was coming.

The detective smirked. “They called him ‘the man in red.' Ever heard that before? Ever seen that on Facebook or anywhere, Mr. Serrat?”

Sean suppressed a swallow. He tightened his lips and shook his head.

“You're a lawyer, right, Mr. Serrat?”

“Yes.”

“So you know the old saying?” The detective now gave him a challenging stare.

“What saying?”

The detective locked eyes with Sean and then peered over Sean's shoulder to Emily. “It's not the crime that will get you—it's the cover-up.”

 

CHAPTER 55

The Starbucks across the street from Georgetown was filled with students, most standing in line with backpacks slung over their shoulders or stooped at tables staring at phones and laptops. It was finals week, and the air was as frenetic as it was back when Sean and Emily were in law school. Then, and now, the entire semester came down to how well you did on a single exam. A test that would determine your class rank, which would control whether you made law review, which would influence how many employers offered you interviews.

Sean and Emily sat at a round table sipping their drinks. If nothing else, the Serrats, like the rest of D.C., were a caffeinated bunch, and this was
Abby's
Starbucks. That's what they used to call it. There was Dad's Starbucks on Eleventh near the Justice Department building, Mom's Starbucks on Connecticut Avenue near the house, and even fourteen-year-old Ryan had his own, the Starbucks on Wisconsin Avenue in Bethesda.

Emily's eyes roved about the coffee shop. The detective had shaken her. On the drive in, Emily had fretted aloud: Had the police talked to Ryan's school and learned about the Facebook posts linking Ryan to Billy Brice? What if a traffic cam or school camera had caught Sean that night? Or, worse, what if someone had seen Ryan? These questions had consumed Sean since he'd learned of Brice's demise. They couldn't be sure that the police had Ryan in their sights, but the detective's cover-up comment could mean little else.

A group of four young women wearing jeans and tight tops came into the shop. Sean followed Emily's gaze. They were ready to take on the world, overconfident yet insecure at the same time, laughing, playing with their phones, and pretending not to notice that the guys were checking them out. Emily blinked back tears. Sean reached for her hand.

After the women ordered, they huddled near the pickup area for their five-shot soy hazelnut vanilla cinnamon white mochas, their Crunch Berry frappuccinos, and other concoctions. Amid the whine of blenders and coffee grinders, Sean saw one of the girls stealing looks at them. She whispered something to her friends and then approached their table.

“Mr. and Mrs. Serrat?” the young woman said. “I thought that was you.”

Emily stood and the two hugged. “It's good to see you, Michelle,” Emily said. The woman, a Korean American with jet-black hair, gave a fleeting smile.

“Sean, you remember Michelle O'Leary.”

Sean nodded and shook her delicate hand.

Emily pulled out a chair. Michelle hesitated, but then waved to her friends, who ambled off, more subdued now. She slid her backpack from her shoulder and sat down.

Emily and Michelle shared an awkward silence, until Michelle blurted, “I miss her so much.” She cupped her hands around the cardboard sleeve of her drink and stared at the table.

Sean vaguely recalled meeting her once or twice—O'Leary isn't exactly a common Korean name, so she'd made an impression. He remembered Abby saying that Michelle's family owned a restaurant in Fairfax County, Virginia. She was a hard worker, and Abby had admired her study habits. They'd become fast friends their first year of law school.

“We have some questions,” Emily said. She took the girl's hands in hers. “We're trying to understand some things about Abby that may help the investigation.”

Michelle nodded, her gaze somewhere far away.

“Was Abby seeing anyone?” Emily had been obsessed with the question ever since Malik Montgomery had made the claim. Plus Billy Brice had said that a rich man in a suit paid him to get Abby's necklace back.

Michelle cleared her throat and swept the room with her eyes. “There was someone,” she whispered. “But Abby wouldn't tell me who.”

“Michelle, it's okay to tell us, there's nothing we can't handle, there's—”

“Really,” Michelle said. “She wouldn't tell me. I noticed she was staying out late, sometimes overnight. I knew it wasn't with Malik because he would call looking for her. I wish I would've known that Malik was so upset about it, I would have covered better for her. I would've—”

“There's nothing you could have done, Michelle,” Emily said. “Do you know why Abby didn't tell you who the man is?”