Jill Nelson - Evidence of Murder

He pulled a cell from a belt holder. “Davidson here.” Long pause. “What? How did anyone get there before you? The case hasn’t even broken on the news yet.” Another pause. “Oh, I see. Yes, I’ll be right there.”

Ryan snapped the phone shut and turned toward Sam, gaze bleak. “That was the police. They opened my storage unit, but someone beat them to it…years ago.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someone made a stew of my family’s stuff, but it wasn’t a recent job. Everything’s covered with dust. They want me to get over there pronto and tell them if something’s missing. The trouble is I’m not sure if I’ll know. I was in such a fog when I put everything in storage.”

The rasp in his tone jerked a knot in Sam’s heartstrings. “If they need you now, let’s do it.”

“You’d go with me?” Furrows smoothed from Ryan’s brow, and his ice-blue gaze heated.

Sam’s heart-knot melted. “Well, I’m not too keen on being left on the side of the road. Besides, I can report my break-in to the authorities there.”

Ryan smiled. “Smart lady.”

Ryan stared at the carnage in the Gopher Storage garage. Boxes had been upended and the contents rooted through—loose papers tossed everywhere, his mom’s novels jumbled amidst his dad’s textbooks. Broken items were strewn across what little floor space remained among the crammed-in personal belongings. He spotted his mother’s favorite white blouse, torn and dusty and yellowed, tossed carelessly on top of a collection of his sister’s high school tennis trophies.

Memories sucked him under like quicksand.

He tore himself away and staggered the few feet to his pickup. Gripping the edge of the truck box, he hung his head, hauling in deep breaths. A warm hand fell on his shoulder. He glanced down into solemn green eyes.

“Give yourself a minute,” she murmured. “You’ll be okay.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled loud and long. “Seeing that stuff hit me hard.”

“Mr. Davidson,” a terse voice spoke from behind them, “did you notice anything missing?”

Ryan turned to face the officer who had introduced himself as Detective Connell. The lean man stood with a pen and small notebook in hand. Ryan shook his head. “Nothing obvious, but I’ll have to go through things in order to be able to give a better answer.”

“Fair enough.” The detective stuffed the pen and notebook in his suit jacket pocket. “Our guys will be through dusting for prints soon, and then we can turn you loose on the place.”

“Thanks.”

“Detective Connell,” Sam spoke up, “my business was broken into last night.”

The officer stiffened.

“I found evidence of the intrusion this morning,” Sam continued, “and my cat is gone. At first, I thought it was Ryan paying me a return visit, but he says not, and I believe him.”

Connell cocked a brow at Ryan. “Yes, I heard you were prowling the old neighborhood the other night.”

“I didn’t break into the dry cleaners.”

Seconds ticked past as their stares dueled. Ryan’s jaw clenched. What did the guy expect to see—a guilty sign flashing behind his eyeballs?

Abruptly, Connell shifted his attention to Sam. “We’ll look into this as soon as we’re done here.” He crossed the pavement toward the garage where a pair of technicians worked.

“Let’s get in the truck and turn on the AC while they finish,” Ryan said to Sam.

They climbed in, and Ryan started the vehicle. He ran his palms up and down the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the white police van that sat nose to nose with the Silverado. “It’ll be tough to go through that stuff, but it’s probably needed to be done for a long time.”

Sam didn’t say anything, just nodded. Silence fell, not uncomfortable, just…heavy, as if patiently awaiting something significant.

Ryan cleared his throat, swallowing the lump that kept creeping up his windpipe. “The last time I spoke to any of my family wasn’t much fun.”

“Tell me.”

Ryan closed his eyes and tumbled back in time.

He whizzed up the Interstate, tunes from a mellow country radio station keeping him company. His cell phone rang, and he checked the caller ID then turned down the radio. “Hi, Dad.”

“Where are you?”

No “Are you all right, son? We’ve been worried.” Ryan squelched the sarcasm before it reached his lips. Michael T. Davidson didn’t have warm fuzzies in his vocabulary. Why should his offspring expect any? “I’m almost to St. Paul.”

“Good. You’ll be home in less than an hour. Your mom and sister have nose prints all over the front window.”

“Yeah, I got a late start. Loose ends to tie up.”

“I’m on the Internet right now studying the business offerings for junior year, and I’ve got a plan mapped out that will shoot you straight into Stanford for your postgraduate work.”

Ryan squeezed his eyes shut then popped them open. Dad’s voice droned on about “the plan” that would have Davidson and Son printed on the stationery of his investment firm. A sour taste settled on Ryan’s tongue.

“I’m not going to major in business. I’ve decided to take forestry.” Wow! Did that pop out of his mouth right here on the phone? Silence roared from the opposite end of the connection. “Sure, I get good grades in the number-cruncher classes,” Ryan continued, “but I’m bored stiff. I love the outdoors—working with nature. Remember those Boundary Waters canoe trips I went on with my youth group? And all those weekends on our Mississippi houseboat? When you let me tag along hunting with your business clients, you said I had a knack—”

“I’m not in the mood for this joke, young man.” Dad’s tone was a brick wall. “You know my position. Hunting and fishing are relaxing hobbies, but there’s no money in it. My son is not making a career out of such wasted effort.”

“Too late, Dad. Before I left school, I declared forestry my major.”

“Are you on drugs, nature boy?” The words sliced like razors.

“Huh?”

“We’re not about to toss away everything you’ve planned and worked for all these years on a whim.”

Heat seared Ryan’s veins. “Wrong! All the things you’ve planned for me and made me slave for all these years. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m twenty—”

“You are a child, Ryan. An unstable little boy. I won’t have your mother and sister upset by your antics. Don’t you even mention—”

“Mom and Cassie won’t care what major I take, as long as I’m happy. You’re the one who goes ballistic if anyone tries to wiggle out from under your thumb.” Ryan winced. Had he just shouted at his father?

A foul word entered Ryan’s ear. He blinked. His controlled dad never cursed. But more followed—worse than dock lingo—mixed with orders about what an ungrateful son could do with his trees, and his wildlife, and his canoe and his pigeons. Pigeons?

His mom’s voice, high-pitched, entered the background. Dad’s thunder dialed up in volume, and Ryan pulled the phone away from his ear, words still pummeling him.

“Ryan?”

Mom. She must’ve snatched the phone.

“I’m here.” His words rasped through a tight throat.

“Come home, okay? Whatever’s going on, we’ll work it out.”

The noises faded and disappeared. Mom must have left Dad’s office.

“Cassie and I can’t wait to see you. This’ll be a great summer.” Her voice quavered, and she cleared her throat. “Don’t worry about your dad. He’s had a tough time at the office lately. We have to give him a little space to work it out.”

Good old Mom, the enabler. He’d learned that bit of shrink-speak in his general psychology elective. “See you soon. Tell Cass she’d better have her tennis game polished up, because I’m going to wipe the court with her.”