Most of the crimes they investigated were senseless. Some, like the drive-by shootings, were more so than others. Probably because the victims were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was their only “mistake.” She’d never forget Trey Marchand and his unspeakable grief at the loss of his six-year-old daughter. Sam had wondered how he was holding up in the weeks since his daughter’s death and had wished there was more she could do for him besides get justice for a little girl who was gone forever.
Justice helped, but that was only one part of the complicated maze of grief that followed such a tragic loss. She would give the idea more thought and test the feasibility of making it happen. No, she didn’t have time for anything else, but the idea had taken root anyway, compelling her to do something with it.
She left her office and went into the conference room, where Freddie, Cameron and Jeannie were reading case files. “How’s it going, people?”
“Nothing new yet,” Freddie said. “I’m sifting through the tips and making some notes on the ones that might be worth pursuing. A lot of it is more condolences than actual tips.”
“People are stupid,” Sam said.
“Sometimes.”
She took the lid off one of the boxes and began going through the contents.
“Your dad’s reports put every report I’ve ever written to shame,” Cameron said.
“He was known for having the best reports in the department. He was a great writer. Before he was shot, he used to talk about writing crime fiction in his retirement.”
“He would’ve been awesome at it,” Cameron said.
“Just another thing that was taken from him by whoever shot him.”
They spent the next few hours combing through the boxes and the files on the case thus far, and parsing through the information that had come into the tip line.
“I’d like to talk to this one.” Sam referred to a man named Frank Davis, who had called the tip line to say he’d been on G Street the day of the shooting and might’ve seen something. “More than anything I’d like to know where the hell he’s been for the last four years.”
Freddie checked his watch. “We can get that in before our tour ends if you want to head over there now.”
“Let’s do it. I’ll see the rest of you tomorrow. Thank you for your work today.”
“We want to catch this person almost as much as you do, LT,” Jeannie said.
“That means a lot. Thanks.” To Freddie, she said, “Let’s take separate cars so we can head home after.”
He handed her a piece of paper with the Adams Morgan address for Davis. “See you there.”
Sam went into her office to get her keys and to lock up before leaving for the day. As she approached the morgue exit, she ran into Lindsey McNamara.
“How’s it going, Doc?”
“I was just coming to ask you that very question.”
“I’m working the case, pulling the threads, doing what I do.”
“If there’s anything I can do for you, you know where to find me.”
“I do. Everyone is being so supportive. Well, almost everyone.”
“Do I take it you ran into your good friend Ramsey?”
“You would be correct. He’s very concerned about who’s going to clean up my messes for me now that my daddy is gone.”
Lindsey rolled her green eyes. “Someone ought to take that mess right out of our department.”
“Haven’t you heard? He has rights.”
“He’s an asshole, and everyone knows it. Don’t let him get to you.”
“Eh, he’s the least of my concerns. I’m going to talk to a guy who was on G Street the day my dad was shot.”
“Where’s he been the last four years?”
“My question exactly. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sam... If you need anything, you have a lot of friends. I hope you know that.”
“I do, and it helps. Tremendously. Take care, Doc.” She pushed through the double doors into the waning daylight, zipping her coat as she walked to her car. The temperature had dropped about fifteen degrees since she’d been out earlier. Winter was coming and bringing with it long nights and a deep chill.
As she crossed the parking lot, she was struck by a memory from four years ago, on a similar late afternoon when she’d encountered her father returning from a meeting at City Hall as she left for the day.
“Taking a half day, baby girl?” That’d been one of his favorite jokes. Anything less than twelve hours was a half day in Skip Holland’s book.
“Haha,” she’d said, weary after a long eight hours on the job. She’d been a detective sergeant then, working under Stahl’s command while married to Peter and generally hating her life and her job.
“How was your tour?”
“Just another day in paradise.” She’d always been careful to avoid too much complaining to her father, who outranked her boss.
“I hate that you’re working for that son of a bitch.”
“I’m handling it.”
“I wish there was something I could do to make it better.”
“Don’t you dare. Don’t even think about it.”
“I won’t do it, but you can’t tell me not to think about it.”
“I am telling you. Stay out of it, Dad. I mean it.”
“Are you being insubordinate to a superior officer by any chance?”
“Always.” Her cheeky grin had made him laugh.
It’d been excruciating for him at times to gracefully handle the way she was treated by Stahl and others simply because her last name was Holland. And he’d absolutely despised her husband—he’d had Peter’s number long before Sam had figured him out. It’d given Skip great joy in his final years to see her divorce Peter, ascend to Stahl’s command and marry Nick, and it gave her pleasure to know that the changes in her life had been met with his approval.
As she drove to Adams Morgan, she thought about those last days of normal with her dad still on the job, wearing the uniform of the deputy chief. They’d met for coffee most days before work as Sam had tried to navigate the shark-infested waters that came with being the daughter of one of the department’s top officers. His support and guidance had been as critical to her then as they had been later, when she assumed command of the Homicide squad and regularly relied upon his advice and counsel.
She wished she could ask him now how she was supposed to live without him.
“Don’t go there.” She was determined to keep her emotions out of the equation, so she could focus on the job. That was what he’d tell her to do if he were there. He’d tell her to do the job. And today, her job was getting justice for him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SAM FOUND THE address in Adams Morgan and saw Cruz’s beat-up Mustang parked down the block. He waited for her on the sidewalk, so she double-parked and left her hazards flashing as she got out to join him.
“That one.” He pointed to the building in question.
“Lead the way.”
She followed him up two flights of stairs to an apartment on the third floor.
He knocked on the door. “Metro PD.”
Sam rested her hand on her service weapon, wary after having recently been shot at through a closed door.
A series of locks disengaged, and the door swung open to reveal a man with wild white hair and wilder blue eyes. He took a quick assessing look at them and then gasped. “It’s you! The VP’s wife.”
“Frank Davis?”
“That’s me.”
She flashed her badge while Freddie did the same. “Lieutenant Holland, Detective Cruz. May we have a minute of your time?”
“Yeah, sure. Come in.”
Sam waited for Frank to lead the way before she followed him in. She tried to never turn her back on anyone on the job, which was one of many things her father had pounded into her head when she first started. Keep your eyes on them always. Never turn your back. Be ready for anything. Expect the unexpected. Don’t bring the job home with you. Everything she knew about how to do this job had come from him.
Davis led them into a tidy kitchen that smelled of freshly brewed coffee. “Care for some?”
“I wouldn’t mind a cup.”
Sam scowled at her partner. She hated anything that dragged things out, especially when she was eager to go home.
Freddie smiled and shrugged as he accepted the mug from Davis.
“Cream is on the table. I don’t have any sugar. Not supposed to have it cuz of my diabetes, so it’s easier not to have it in the house.”
“Cream is fine. Thank you.”
Sam glared at Freddie before returning her attention to Davis. “You called the MPD tip line about the shooting four years ago of Deputy Chief Holland?”
Davis nodded. “He’s your father, right?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Sam wanted to pound her fist on the table and tell him to get on with it, but he seemed like a nice enough man, and if he had info she needed, she didn’t want to piss him off. “What can you tell us?”
“Like I told the officer the day it happened, I was walking on G Street after work.”
“What officer did you speak to the day it happened?” She had long ago memorized every detail of her father’s case and had no recollection of a report about the shooting by anyone named Davis.
“Conklin.”
What the fuck? “Tell us what you saw.”
“I worked then at the Government Accountability Office—GAO. We work for Congress, doing investigations.”
“Yes, we’re aware of what GAO does.”
“So I left work that day and saw the cop in the unmarked car pull over another car. I kept walking past where it was happening. I was about two blocks away when I heard the gunshot. I turned around and saw the officer go down.”