CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WARNING SIGNS
Shawn, as it turned out, wasn't nearly as terrifying as his associate—and apparent brother—Abraham.
In fact, immediately after his introduction, Shawn proceeded to apologize for Abraham's abhorrent attitude.
“We grew up in the foster system,” he explained, leading me away from Abraham and down a brightly lit hallway. “Our experience was … well, let's just say, it wasn't a positive one. So, my older brother is a little skeptical of strangers.”
I followed along, walking over plush blue-gray carpet between white walls decorated with landscape paintings and accented by ornately carved molding.
I noted the closed doors and their raised panels, wondering what they concealed, then remembered where I was and how unlikely it was that I actually wanted to know what was behind them.
“That must be awkward when people come in here, looking for funeral services,” I half joked as we passed a long, winding staircase.
The newel post alone looked like it was worth more than every piece of furniture in my house.
Shawn laughed as he swung a right and led me toward the only open door we'd come across.
“No offense, but there's usually a pretty big difference between mourning families and cops coming around, asking questions.”
“Touché,” I replied, passing the threshold into what appeared to be an office, with a huge desk and several chairs positioned in front of it. “Do you get cops in here a lot?”
Again, Shawn laughed, but it wasn't one of condescension or nerves. It was good-natured and light.
“Actually, you're one of the first in a long, long time,” he said, sitting behind the desk, in front of a computer screen. With a wave of his hand, he gestured toward the chairs. “Please, take a seat.”
I did just that as I asked, “So, you used to have cops pay visits?”
His features remained friendly and soft as he nodded.
“Abraham … Bram,” he seemed to correct himself with a fond smile.
“Well, when we were adopted by our father”—he gestured toward a picture on the wall of an elderly man—“Bram liked to, uh …
let's just say, rebel in whatever way he could.
You know, nothing too wild or anything like that, but he'd get into trouble.”
I nodded, suddenly understanding as I threw in a few guesses, “Shoplifting, graffiti …”
Shawn's responding nod was deep as one side of his mouth curled into a smile that said he knew I got it. “Exactly. The cops brought him home a few times when he was dumb enough to get caught. But that hasn't been in … God, decades. Not since we were kids.”
I could feel my body relaxing by the second as Shawn talked, and my understanding of Abraham's surly attitude began to make sense.
He was just a suspicious, scared kid inside a big man's body, and I couldn't help but wonder what kind of nightmares he'd lived through to make him that way.
Where did he get his scar? I questioned, but I knew I’d never ask. It wasn’t any of my business.
So, instead, I had to focus on closing the door on my own recurring nightmare, and I hoped Shawn could assist in doing just that.
“Anyway,” he said with a melancholy smile as he brushed the past aside, “what can I help you with? You said something about a man brought in here … how long ago was it again?”
“Twenty years,” I replied. “He died from a gunshot in October two decades ago.”
Shawn folded his hands on the desk, nodding solemnly as his eyes held on to a black pen laying on a sheaf of papers. “Twenty years,” he repeated, pressing his lips tightly together. “I can't guarantee we still have the records from that far back.”
“I know it was a while ago,” I said, fishing into my pocket for the picture of Tomas I'd printed out from his obituary. “But any information you can give me would be very appreciated.”
I unfolded the sheet of paper and slid it onto the desk for Shawn's perusal.
If it sparked a memory, he didn't let on as he took it within his grasp.
“What was his name?” Shawn asked, then seemed to realize I'd written it below the photograph. “Tomas Nolan?”
I nodded. “His full name was Tomas Jefferson Nolan. He went by Tommy, maybe Tom.”
He stared for a moment, his brows pinching with frustration as he emitted a sigh.
“Twenty years ago … I gotta tell you, the name isn't ringing a bell. Leonard—my father”—he gestured toward the picture on the wall again—”would've handled the funeral arrangements, and he's been gone now for six, almost seven years.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said while the disappointment and discouragement took life in my chest, crowding my heart.
“Um …” Shawn laid the picture on the desk and nudged it toward me with his fingertips.
“I can try and search our records,” he said, turning toward the computer.
“I will say though, not everything made it into our database. Leonard did everything by hand until I finally convinced him to get a computer, and that was only after he got too old to protest … much.”
He swung a tired look in my direction, and I responded with a chuckle.
“My grandpa is the same way,” I said. “He was using one of those old flip phones until my mom forced him to join this century, like, five years ago.”
Shawn laughed. I liked the sound of it. It was warm and friendly, a stark contrast to Abraham's threatening facade. I would've bet anything Shawn did more business with the public than his older brother.
“I didn't even know they still made those things,” Shawn replied, half paying attention as he began typing.
He took hold of the mouse and tapped around a bit, using the wheel to scroll. The gentle noises added a monotonous soundtrack to the otherwise quiet room as his eyes scanned the screen, gnawing a bit on his bottom lip.
He puffed his cheeks out with an exhale, then turned to glance at the picture I'd printed out, using his finger to tap on the name I'd scribbled on the page.
“That's right. Tomas with no H,” he muttered, seemingly to himself, then turned back toward the computer to type some more.
I was trying not to breathe heavily, sitting at the edge of my seat.
I tried to shift slightly to catch a peek of the screen, hoping something useful would pop up.
But the screen was turned too far out of view, and I was forced to resign myself to clamping my lips between my teeth and wringing my hands together.
Shawn twisted his mouth to the side as he slowly began to shake his head, and any hope I'd allowed to thrive was shot down.
“I'm sorry,” he said, swiveling his chair to face me once again. “There's nothing on the computer.”
“What about, um … do you keep any physical records of—”
“We do,” he replied before I could finish. “But anything that old would've been shredded. I never saw much reason to keep hard copies of anything older than five years or so.”
“I understand,” I replied with a sigh.
Shawn watched as I folded Tomas's picture and tucked it back into my pocket. He looked up into my eyes, and I appreciated the kindness he held in his gaze.
“It's none of my business, and you don't have to answer, but … what are you looking for?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and tipping his head in question.
My mind hurried to conjure an explanation before I replied, “Just a, um … cold case I'm working on.”
“A bit out of your jurisdiction, isn't it?” He sat further back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach, looking at me with genuine curiosity.
I emptied my lungs and nodded. “It is, but there's reason to believe the case is connected to another one my department handled.”
Well, it wasn't entirely a lie, was it?
His dark blond brows furrowed. “Wouldn't this be more of a job for a, uh … a detective?”
“I'm actually in the process of becoming one,” I explained easily, then added, “This assignment is a requirement to advance.”
“Hmm,” he uttered, nodding slowly before rising to his feet with a sigh. “Well, I'm sorry I couldn't be more help to you, Officer.”
I took that as my cue to leave and stood. “Honestly, so am I, but I'm grateful for you humoring me.”
“Of course,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand.
I accepted the gesture. “Thank you for your time.”
He nodded, releasing my hand to grab a business card from the desk. “If there's anything else I can help you with,” he said, passing it across the desk, “my number is on there.”
I smiled in lieu of a thanks, tucking the card away in my jeans pocket. “And if you happen to find more information or something comes to mind”—I retrieved my own business card from my pocket, the only one I had with me—“don't hesitate to give me a call.”
Shawn read the card, then looked up. “This says Detective Noah Mason.”
“Yeah,” I said with an embarrassed chuckle. “My fiancée made them up for me. To boost my confidence or something.”
He offered a knowing smile and nodded, laying the card on his desk. “Well, good luck to you, Detective … on all accounts.”
“Thank you,” I said, heading toward the door before glancing over my shoulder at him. “To leave, I just—”
“Head back the way we came, yep,” he finished with a kind smile. “Stay dry out there. It's really coming down.”
I gave him a final nod, then left through the door, walked past the winding staircase, and turned left to head down the long, carpeted hallway, both relieved to be leaving and disappointed to be doing it empty-handed.
I had known it was likely a dead end, coming here. The man had been buried twenty years ago, for crying out loud. But, shit, I'd been so hopeful to get something out of this. An address maybe or an indication of where to go next, but I had nothing else. Nothing to go off, nowhere to go.
Except home.
Is this it? I wondered as I passed the closed doors and approached the one still standing open at the end of the hall, leading to the outside world. Did I really come all this way to find nothing but a headstone?
“Careful out there, Officer.”
Abraham's voice cut through the sadness in my mind, and I turned to find him standing in a darkened alcove I hadn't seen earlier, hidden in the shadows with his black suit, like he'd been waiting for my return.
Looming, lurking … very much like the bogeyman of my nightmares.
“What was that?” I asked, stopping before I could exit the building.
He stepped into the light, holding his folded hands over his waist. Poised and professional and every bit as menacing as a movie-made mob boss.
“Roads are slippery out there,” he said, casting his gaze toward the door. “Drive safely, all right?”
I swallowed and offered a slight nod at the unnerving sentiment. “I will. Thanks. Have a good one.”
He reached an arm out to push the screen door open for me. I bowed my head and quickly made my exit, passing the threshold with the urgency of someone with a gun pointed to his head.
As I walked over the floorboards and down the wooden steps, I heard the door shut noisily behind me.
I half expected Abraham to follow, to stalk after me through the rain to my car, despite not hearing any footsteps but my own.
When I reached the door, I dared to glance over my shoulder, finding nothing but a wave of silly embarrassment.
“Oh my God, stop it,” I muttered, unlocking the car door and hurriedly climbing inside, grateful for the dry seat.
I started the engine and pulled out of the lot just as a pickup truck pulled in, in a hurry, barely missing my front bumper.
“Asshole,” I grumbled, glowering angrily before driving away, almost forgetting my defeated mind and dead-end investigation.
But only almost.