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“ ‘It’s too late’ are some of the saddest words.” Sam wasn’t going to be hurt that Georgia knew about Frankie’s son. He was not. Except that he was. A little. “Frankie never mentioned him. Was his last name Flynn?”
Georgia sighed. “No. Frankie’s last name was Wilson before he married Ryan. And Frankie didn’t talk about Gerald to anyone, really, so don’t be hurt, Sam. It was painful for Frankie and I don’t know why they were estranged, although I suspected it had something to do with Frankie being gay. I wish I could fix it, but it’s not my battle. Nor is it yours.”
Sam took the warning for what it was: Stay out of it. “You’re right, ma’am. And I know that family dynamics aren’t always what they seem to be on the surface.”
“No, they aren’t. Would you mind if we talked later? I need to get back to Benny. He was in the nursing ward all afternoon.”
“Is he awake now?”
“I don’t know. I was with him most of the afternoon, because I didn’t want him to wake up alone in a strange place. I think they’re moving him to his room soon.”
“You’ll call if there’s anything I can do.”
“Of course,” she said warmly. Or what passed as warmth for Georgia. Most people would think her tone gruff and prickly, but Georgia had a soft heart under her armadillo exterior.
They ended the call and Sam lifted his gaze from his phone to his computer screen. Frankie had been a Wilson before marrying Ryan Flynn.
Sam opened a new browser window and typed Franklin Delano Wilson.
Then stared in shock at the long list of links that came up.
And the photos.
Frankie had been younger in them—thirty years younger.
Frankie had been wearing a uniform.
Frankie had been a cop.
And not just any cop. A homicide lieutenant.
This was what Kit had known. This was why the antique store had been a surprise.
Frankie used to be a cop. And now he was dead. Murdered.
Chills ran over Sam’s skin. He would have sworn that Frankie had no enemies, but that opinion had just radically changed.
Cops made enemies. Had one of them plunged a butcher knife into Frankie’s chest? If so, then who? And why? Why thirty freaking years later?
He started to dial Connor’s phone, then stopped himself. Those two were good detectives. They’d be calling him soon enough for information, so he’d wait. It would probably be Connor, because Kit had cut him off.
And Sam would have to be okay with that.
National City, San Diego, California
Monday, November 7, 3:00 p.m.
“I thought it seemed off,” Detective Marshall said when Kit and Connor arrived at the motel room in which security head Kent Crawford’s body had been found. “We were called at about eight thirty this morning when housekeeping entered the room. The victim had put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on his door, but housekeeping smelled ‘something funky.’ She knocked and when he didn’t answer, she went in and found him. Apparently he’s not the first dead body she’s discovered in this place.”
Kevin Marshall was new to the homicide division, one of two detectives brought in to replace the two detectives who’d retired six months ago. Somewhere in his midforties, he’d spent the last ten years in the narcotics division, earning a reputation as a solid, ethical, and intelligent cop. Kit liked him.
“What made it seem off to you?” Connor asked him as Kit took in the room.
It was a generic room in a cheap motel, located off one of the old roads that used to be well traveled before the highway was built. The room was threadbare but clean. Well, except where bits of the victim had been blown by the bullet exiting his skull. That was always nasty.
The walls were a dingy beige, the chair in the corner old, the vinyl torn. There was a pair of athletic shoes tucked neatly under the chair.
The body had been found on the bed, now soaked with the victim’s blood and brains. The body had already been taken to the morgue.
