Sketch of a Murder

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Michael gently pulled the scratched oak door closed. From the ten-by-twelve, concrete porch, he stared across the spacious yard surrounded by a three-foot red brick wall with a tidy cedar gate. The thirty-year-old Douglas fir Emily had planted when they first bought the house stood strong in the southwest corner. She had laughed as she placed the four-foot tall tree in the carefully dug hole, said it would be a living reminder of their love for each other. Since his wife had died, there had been days when he hated that tree.

The raised herb, flower, and vegetable beds in the middle of the yard, shaped in a star pattern, were built of cedar. Weeks after his daughter, Amber, was murdered, when he still didn't have the heart to venture from the dim confines of his bedroom, Danny had harangued, hassled, pleaded, and cajoled to get him outside. He'd at last given in because he simply didn't have the energy to continue to refuse. With every nail he'd hammered, every scoop of topsoil he'd shoveled, every moment the sun had beat down and he had felt the sweat roll like tears down his cheeks, he had remembered. Remembered that his baby girl, his sweet Amber, would never see these flower beds, would never plant a tomato plant in the vegetable bed.

Nowadays the beds reminded him of his son's love. Loss and love. Everything in the house and yard reminded him of both. A man shouldn't have to bury his wife, and then his daughter. For a moment his jaw clenched. He blinked hard as he stared across the yard to the quiet street beyond.

Five years, Amber's been gone five years and we lost Emily eight years ago. Danny thinks I need to move on with my life. Maybe if I did he'd be free to finally move out, get his own place. Maybe even go on that European art gallery tour he's always talked about. Maybe it's time to think about it.

With a sigh, he stepped off the porch and started along the red brick, serpentine walkway.

"Hey, Pops," Danny called as he bounded down the sidewalk and through the gate.

"Hey yourself." He stopped and smiled, waited for his son. Danny was unmistakably from Native American extraction with his swarthy complexion and dark, dark eyes that watched the world with compassion and wonder. So different from him. Special.

How did I get so lucky? When he looked in the mirror to shave each morning he saw a fifty-five-year-old man with skin so black it nearly shined, kinky hair, and heavy lips that didn't smile often enough. Nothing special about him. Even after all these years, he still couldn't understand what Emily had seen in him. He pushed the thoughts away, refocused on Danny. "How's the gallery show coming along?"

"Off the top, Pops." He grinned. "You have time to stop somewhere for breakfast? I'll tell you about last night. I could ride downtown with you and then catch a bus to the gallery."

When he hesitated the boy donned his patented, puppy-dog look. "Come on, Pops. Say yes. You know you want to."

"Danny, Danny." He bent his head so his son couldn't see the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The criminal world lost a great con man when you became an artist."

His grin widened. "Is that a yes?"

"Go get changed, boy. I can spare a bit of time, but I do have to show up for work at a semi-reasonable hour today." He raised his head and playfully swatted at his son's shoulder as the boy jogged past. Well, he really wasn't a boy anymore, but a young man of twenty-six.

"I'll run through the shower and zip into some clean clothes in two minutes flat!" Keys in hand, he ran up the steps, unlocked the door, and slipped inside.

Michael chuckled as he followed at a more sedate pace. "Yeah and while you're changing I'll make myself another pot of coffee. Probably have time enough to drink at least half the pot." He reached for his cell phone. Might as well warn the team that he'd be late. Slowater was his second, let her earn her place.