14. Omniscient Fathers
OMNISCIENT FATHERS
PATRICK
Patrick’s steps were a little lighter when he came downstairs the next morning, despite catching only a few hours of sleep.
Morgan had given him plenty to think about.
She had a sharp, analytical mind, and when she was focused, she was laser-focused.
Also nice—she’d affirmed his own thoughts and questions on the case.
He’d genuinely enjoyed her company, too. Oh, she’d been a little stiff at first, like she wasn’t comfortable in social situations. The key had been getting her to talk about her work. Instant confidence. The woman knew her stuff.
She had loosened up enough to touch on her life in Philly too.
Not much, but enough for him to glean that outside of her work, she didn’t have much she was passionate about.
Brief but telling comments suggested strained family relationships and no close friends to speak of.
The nicest thing she’d said about living in the city was that it was a good place to be invisible.
Not exactly high praise.
A loud knock had him looking to the back door, where an older man with the same dark hair and blue eyes grinned at him through the glass. Patrick waved him in.
“Hey, Dad. Come on in. What do you have there?”
Ian thrust the large cardboard box into his hands. “Care packages from your mother.”
Patrick laughed. “She knows I’m twenty-six, right?”
“She knows none of you bother to cook for yourselves,” came Ian’s reply.
“We cook.”
Ian looked at the dozen or so cereal boxes linked up on the counter, as well as the pizza boxes and takeout containers that lingered. “Uh-huh. You remember that I grew up with six brothers and a dad who thought grilled cheese and a can of Campbell’s was a 5-star meal, right?”
“Fair enough.”
“There are some bear claws from your aunt Maggie in there too.”
“Excellent.”
They stacked the containers in the fridge. Ian grabbed a couple of bear claws and put them on the table. “Breakfast of champions.”
“Should you be eating those?” Patrick asked.
“Probably not, which is why I’m eating them in your kitchen and not mine. Bro code, right? You don’t tell Mom about this, and I won’t tell her about that.” Ian waved a hand toward the cluttered counter.
“Deal. Want some coffee? I was just about to make some.”
“You read my mind. While it brews, you can show me what you guys have been doing to the place.”
“Well, we replaced the door and the frame, as you probably noticed when you were able to open it without dislocating a shoulder,” Patrick said dryly as he got the coffee going.
“I did, in fact, notice.”
“The roof is the biggest thing, I guess. No more leaks, which Wade is happy about since he claimed the third floor. Got most of the electrical up to code, too. Garrett’s got us focusing on the plumbing now.” He shrugged. “It’s a work in progress.”
“Old houses usually are.”
They moved through the downstairs, room by room, Patrick updating Ian on future plans as much as current ones. As someone who had worked on renovating the centuries old pub for years, Ian understood the value of good craftsmanship and the wisdom of doing a project right.
“You know,” Ian said after they completed the tour and re-entered the kitchen, your mother and I would be glad to float you a loan—”
“I know,” Patrick said, holding up his hand in a stop gesture. It wasn’t the first time his father had offered. “But we want to do this ourselves.”
“Got it. Had to put that out there, though.”
“I know, and I appreciate that. Now, if you want to come by next weekend and help us tear down and rebuild that rotted section of porch, the extra set of hands would be welcome.”
“I think I can handle that.”
Drawn by the scents of coffee and Maggie’s decadent bear claws warming up in the oven, Ian and Patrick were soon joined by Declan, Garrett, Wade, and Bruno, who never missed a chance to scarf down Maggie’s baked goods.
“You know, these bear claws could give my mom’s cinnamon rolls a run for their money,” Declan said around a mouthful of sweet dough.
“Your mom’s cinnamon rolls are legendary,” Garrett agreed. “We should bring some back with us next time we visit Daideo.”
“You absolutely should,” Patrick agreed.
They talked over coffee and pastries. About the house, about their jobs, about the HD4K system they wanted to install in the old parlor, which Ian was especially interested in.
Eventually, the guys left to go to their jobs, except for Declan, who went upstairs to finish replastering the wall in his bedroom.
“So,” Patrick said when it was just him and Ian again, “why don’t we talk about why you really came over this morning.”
Ian smiled, but his eyes held concern. “All right. What’s your interest in Morgan Sullivan?”
That was a question Patrick was asking himself these days.
Their paths had been crossing since she arrived in town, and he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since he’d bumped into her—literally—at the café.
He knew what his father would say about that, though.
Patrick had grown up with the stories of Callaghan men and the hand of fate when it came to croies—the one woman who was their perfect soulmate.
Patrick didn’t know if Morgan was his, but he wasn’t about to discount the possibility. She was unlike any woman he’d ever met. He felt different every time he was around her.
“We both agree that there’s something sketchy about the situation at the campground,” knowing that his father and his uncles were probably well versed in the case. Nothing happened in or around Pine Ridge without them knowing about it.
“As Frank Sullivan’s granddaughter and an MDI from Philly on a forced LOA, she has both a personal and a professional interest in the case,” Ian added.
Patrick sat up straighter. “Dad, did you run a background check on her?”
Ian’s eyes met his unapologetically. “I run a background check on anyone who suddenly appears under questionable circumstances, especially when dead bodies are involved.”
“You can’t possibly believe she had anything to do with that.”
“I don’t have enough information to believe anything yet,” Ian said carefully, “including how she wound up on your radar. Did she approach you?”
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Patrick couldn’t stop his lips from twitching at the memory.
“In a manner of speaking. She dumped coffee on me at the café in town. Random accident. A few days later, I was walking the scene at the campground and found an ME’s pocket notebook.
I traced it back to her and returned it to her at Frank’s. ”
Approval flashed in Ian’s eyes, then turned to skepticism. “From her profile, she doesn’t seem like the type to leave a notebook lying around for someone to find.”
“No,” Patrick agreed. “I don’t believe it was intentional. I think I spooked her and she took off.”
Ian considered this. “What was in the notebook?”
“The kind of stuff you’d expect an MDI to notice at a scene. Lack of vehicle, lack of ID, no signs of struggle, corruption of scene, positioning of the cabin, evidence inconsistent with an ‘unspecified medical emergency.’ Questions that should be being asked and aren’t.”
Ian nodded. “That’s consistent with what I found. The Pine Ridge PD isn't treating it as a priority. No surprise, but this is shoddy work, even for them.” His expression shifted slightly to one of disapproval. “They’re letting the preliminary ruling stand, and nobody's pushing back.”
“Except everyone who's looked at it carefully.”
“Including you.” Ian picked up his coffee. “And Frank Sullivan's granddaughter, who is risking her career by sticking her nose where she has no jurisdiction.”
“She asked me if I had a source at the PD,” Patrick said. “Someone who could get access to the official report.”
“Why? What’s she after?”
“Clothing condition, physical details, anything not in the public record.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That I knew a guy who could access the info. Probably already had, in fact.”
Ian's lips quirked. “Anyone I know?”
“Maybe.”
Ian chuckled, then grew serious again. “I pulled what I could from the county system, but here’s the thing. There’s no detail beyond the preliminary report. Nothing. They’re not just shoving this on the back burner, they’re burying it.”
“So the PD record isn't going to tell us much.”
“The official record won’t. But that body didn’t just float into the morgue itself.
Someone removed the body, and somebody knows where it’s being kept.
” Ian looked at him steadily. “If you want to realize your dream of having your own PI and security company, then you need to cultivate relationships inside these systems, not just circumvent them. To work alongside them.” He paused.
“People who know you and trust you and will pick up the phone when you call.”
“I know,” Patrick said. And he did. Between his uncles, his cousins, and the people he’d met and worked with over the years, he was quietly building an extensive network of potential resources.
“You’ve already got the foundations of a great network in place.”
“No one in the police department, though.”
Ian’s eyes sparkled. “Talk to Declan. Something tells me he might have some ideas.”
Patrick looked at his father. “You know everything, don't you?”
Ian grinned. “Not everything. But don’t tell your mother. She thinks I’m omniscient.”
Declan was nearly done plastering the east-facing wall when Patrick rapped on the door frame.
“Looks good.”
Declan turned down the volume on the Bluetooth speaker. “It’s getting there. What’s up?”
“Did you have a chance to talk to those friends of yours?”
“I did. I should have something for you tonight.”
Declan wasn’t around when Patrick got back to the house later that night, but he’d left a manila envelope with Patrick’s name on it.
Patrick pulled out the single sheet of information.
White male, forty to fifty. Nondescript. Dark hair, dark eyes, medium build, medium height. Well-groomed, with a day or two worth of beard growth. Straight, even teeth. Recent haircut. Expensive watch. No wallet, no phone, no keys found around the body.
Morgan’s words came back to him. A squatter looks like a squatter.
This was no squatter.
The question was, what was he?