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“You’re quite welcome.”
SEVENTEEN
We don’t find anything else of note at the Burns apartment. From there, it’s on to the Youngs’ residence. This one is trickier, because the Youngs—at least their children and parents—are still in residence. Also, Mr. Young being dead and Mrs. Young being in prison for his murder really isn’t going to help the family feel hospitable toward the police.
Our arrival causes a scene, awkward and uncomfortable, as such scenes always are. If you are the victim of a crime, you’re usually fine with the police searching your house for clues. Not so much when you’re related to the accused.
The Youngs’ oldest child isn’t actually a child, being at least sixteen. She meets us at the door with her grandfather, and the older man just stands behind her while she reams McCreadie out. Gray steps away. While I don’t blame him, I stay where I am, understanding that McCreadie needs the support, even if it is silent.
McCreadie does the only thing he can do, really. He is calm but firm. The police have the right to search the premises again, and they are only trying to gather evidence. Their job is not to convict the girl’s mother—it’s to find out who killed her father.
“What’s she here for?” the girl says, jerking her chin at me. “She’s not the police.”
“She is the assistant to my colleague, who is a… a consulting detective.”
I’ve teased Gray with that phrase, which is even more fun twenty years before the creation of Sherlock Holmes. Apparently, that is now what we’re going with as Gray’s job title. I send up a silent apology to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
“Consulting detective?” the girl says. “What’s that mean?”
“He is an independent professional retained for his detecting skills, and this is his assistant, Miss Mitchell.”
She eyes me. “She doesn’t look much like a detective’s assistant.”
“I assure you,” I say, “I am fully trained in the art of detection and police work. As Detective McCreadie said, we only want to solve this case. Detective McCreadie was not the officer who arrested your mother, so he has no vested interest in her conviction. In fact, were he to find evidence that another party is responsible, it would be to his advantage by allowing him to solve a case already believed solved.”
She wrinkles her nose. “You talk like a schoolmistress.”
“Blame my father. He’s a university professor.”
“That’s fancy,” she says.
I shrug. “It can be. It can also mean that I was forced to read classical literature when I would much rather have picked up a gothic novel.”
She snorts at that, but it does the trick, forging that tiny bit of a connection. She steps back, still grudgingly, her gaze saying if we make one false move, we’ll be out on our asses, whether that’s her legal right or not.
I walk into the room. Theonlyroom, as McCreadie had warned. It’s no more than two hundred square feet, with makeshift dividers for bedrooms. Otherwise, it’s one big open space. The two other children are both boys and much younger than their sister, maybe four and seven. I pass them a smile. The older boy turns away. The younger one just stares at me.
Having so many people in such a small area means any worldly goods are packed tight in crates and old wardrobes. Those are the only things we can search, and it makes it even more awkward, because we are literally pawing through their possessions right in front of them.
McCreadie assigns us crates. I get the boys’ box, as I realize when I open it. It contains one extra set of clothing for each child—folded shirts and trousers so old that Goodwill wouldn’t accept them. Yet someone has lovingly kept them on life support, with perfect stitches repairing every tear and frayed seam.
As I gently unfold one of the shirts, the youngest boy gasps, as if I’ve ripped it from the box. The older one scowls, and when I turn to say something, he stomps off. I check the clothing and refold it as carefully as I can. Then it’s on to the children’s playthings—two tattered books, a few marbles, a stuffed toy worn beyond recognition, and a handcrafted miniature wagon.
“This is beautiful,” I say as I take out the toy wagon. “Is it yours?”
The little boy doesn’t respond.
“Did your father make it?”
“I made it,” the girl snaps from across the room. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll tell you how.”
“My apologies,” I say. “That was an inexcusable assumption. Itisbeautifully done.”
“No, I made a mistake on the wheels. That’s why I gave it to them. It wasn’t good enough to sell.”
If there’s a mistake, I can’t see it. That just made a good excuse for passing it on to her brothers.
I examine the wagon. Then I put it aside and continue searching everything. When the box is empty, I peer into it. I reach in and then hold out my clenched hand.
