The shadows of pike plac.., p.1
The Shadows of Pike Place (A Thomas Austin Crime Thriller Book 2), page 1
THE SHADOWS OF PIKE PLACE
A THOMAS AUSTIN CRIME THRILLER,
BOOK 2
D.D. BLACK
DARKNESS AND LIGHT PUBLISHING
CONTENTS
I. The Family
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
II. The Chase
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
III. The Return of the Past
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
A Note From the Author
Also by D.D. Black
About D.D. Black
A Note on Setting
While many locations in this book are true to life, some details of the setting have been changed. Only one character in these pages exists in the real world: Thomas Austin’s corgi, Run. Her personality mirrors that of my own corgi, Pearl. Any other resemblances between characters in this book and actual people is purely coincidental. In other words, I made them all up.
Thanks for reading,
D.D. Black
PART 1
THE FAMILY
"Do nothing secretly; for Time sees and hears all things, and discloses all."
–Sophocles
"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets."
–Paul Tournier
"Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead."
–Benjamin Franklin
CHAPTER ONE
Seattle, Washington
Eleanor Johnson loved having her whole family together in one place. Well, loved might be too strong a word for it.
But it only happened once a year and she never knew how many years she had left. At eighty-two years old, she’d learned to appreciate every day. On her best days, she could even love the difficult moments, like the one she was about to have.
She’d called the family into the grand living room of their Seattle mansion to hear her decisions regarding the allocations of the family charity fund. She’d done this once a year for over forty years and it always left someone upset. But when you spent enough time giving away money, you got good at disappointing people.
Today, she’d be leaving everyone in the room fuming.
“Alright,” Eleanor said, smoothing the creases of her dress. She stood in front of the giant, empty fireplace, both savoring and dreading the moment. “I’ve read the proposals, investigated the charities, and spoken to you individually about why you’d like me to donate to your chosen organizations. Here are my decisions.”
The living room was large enough for a gathering of forty people, but only held seven at the moment. Looking on were her two daughters, her only son, her decrepit brother-in-law, and a reporter from the Seattle Times. Mack, her chef, had refilled the canapés and taken a seat in front of the large bay windows. Behind him, the setting sun cast a gold-orange light on Lake Washington. For the last ten years, Mack had been allowed to make requests of the family fund and sit in on the meetings.
“This was a good year for the market,” she continued, “so we have more money available than usual. The family accountant says twenty-two million, when all is said and done. Karen…” Her eldest daughter sat on the sofa before her, eyes peering out above the rim of her Champagne flute. She was striking in her red Chanel suit, though Eleanor couldn’t help but be a little jealous. Karen had grown up in a world where women could run companies and move through society in a way that women of her generation couldn’t. “Karen, you requested twelve million for a research grant to Greenville Children’s Hospital. I’m allocating one million.”
Karen’s eyes flashed and she shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, but Eleanor turned quickly to Susan, her second daughter. As always, Susan sat beside Karen but somehow made herself subordinate, slouching and leaning away as though she was on the verge of upsetting the elder sister. She was Karen’s second in command at their pharmaceutical company, second in all things. “Susan, you asked for four million for Seattle Parks and Recreation, and four million for homeless shelters. I’m allocating one million. Split it up between the two causes as you see fit.”
Susan, always less able to control her emotions than Karen, let out a little gasp. But she knew better than to object out loud.
“John Junior.” Her son leaned on the billiard table, sipping golden-brown Cognac out of a thick-bottomed whiskey glass. He’d lost weight in prison, and his light gray suit hung a little looser than it had before his time in the minimum-security Federal Detention Center at Sea-Tac. “You requested ten million for prisoner education programs and halfway houses. I—”
“Yes, mother…” As he said ‘mother,’ he turned to Brenden, the brilliantly handsome reporter who’d been jotting notes in a Moleskine notebook. Brenden looked like a millennial Paul Newman, and Junior couldn’t help but try to impress him. “Having seen the plight of those incarcerated first hand”—Junior’s voice had grown lofty, self-important—“I’ve come to understand the needs of those less fortunate, to truly value—”
“No speeches, Johnny. I read the memo.” Eleanor had no idea where Junior had learned to love the sound of his own voice. His father had loved to hear himself talk, too, but Junior never met John senior. “I’ve allocated one million.”
Junior set his whiskey glass down hard on the wooden frame of the billiard table. “What? I lived two years in prison and—”
“It was eighteen months,” Karen chimed in. “Minimum security.”
“Still,” Junior objected.
“Children, stop. We have company.” She smiled at Brenden, who leaned against the wall in the back. She’d been inviting the press to their annual gathering for the last ten years because Seattleites loved reading about old-money Seattle, especially when that old money was being given away. Sure it made the family look good, but every once in a while it also led another wealthy family to piggyback on their donations, doubling or even tripping the gifts. Brenden was more than a reporter though, he was a rising star, destined for the New York Times, or maybe even TV. He was certainly good looking enough.
He was also ghostwriting her memoir.
Her brother-in-law sat isolated from the rest of the group in a leather armchair to her right. “Andrew, you requested twenty million for an overhaul of the library.”
“Let me guess,” Andrew said, affably. “One million?”
Unlike her ungrateful children, Andrew knew better than to complain. After all, she’d been funding his lifestyle for years.
“Very perceptive of you, Andrew.”
He winked at her, a nasty habit he had before saying something intended to be clever. “You could’ve just said ‘a million each’ from the get go.”
She smiled sarcastically. “Yes, but that would have deprived us of this lovely time together.”
“Plus,” Karen chimed in, “it’s in the bylaws. All family members must be present for a complete reading of requests and allocations.”
“These days,” Andrew said, “a million will get the library half a bathroom remodel.” He sighed, his wrinkled cheeks flapping. “But it will do.”
“It will,” Eleanor agreed.
She turned to her cook, whose bright white hair matched his chef’s coat. “And Mack, you requested five million for World Central Kitchen. To feed disaster victims. A noble cause indeed.”
“One million?” Junior called out bitterly, pouring himself another Cognac.
“Indeed,” Eleanor said.
Junior walked an angry lap around the billiard table. Karen sipped her Champagne, crossed and uncrossed her legs pointedly. Susan, following Karen, did the same. Andrew chewed at the flesh on the inside of his cheeks. Mack stood slowly, retrieved a tray of appetizers from the end table, and walked around the room, offering them to her children.
Eleanor put on a pleasant smile. “Mack, has Brenden tried one of your Bánh bèo?” She looked at the reporter. “Have you? They’re delicious. A traditional Vietnamese street food. Please.”
Mack held up the tray.
Brenden tried one, chewing as everyone watched him. Finally, he smiled. “Are those dried shrimp?”
“And pork belly,” Mack said, smiling proudly.
Brenden scribbled something in his notebook. “And this bread thingy is…”
“Steamed rice cake.”
Bren
“None at all,” Eleanor said. “French and Scandinavian, though, as you know, my great-great grandfather practically founded Seattle. We are simply adventurous eaters. I’ve told Mack, try anything on me. I don’t want to die before having the entire world served to me on a platter.” She said the last sentence with a dramatic wave of her arms, hoping it would end up in the memoir.
They sat in silence as Mack continued around the room, offering the tray to the rest of the crowd.
Finally, Junior spoke, his voice full of disdain. “So what are you doing with the other seventeen million?”
She had no idea where he got the nerve. Other than a father, he’d been given everything. The best clothes, the best schools, the best tutors when he flunked out. He’d learned little, but had mastered one skill: turning money into more money. Real estate, stocks, companies. Like her other children, he’d been given a million dollars on his twenty-fifth birthday. By his forty-seventh birthday he’d turned it into ninety million. That was also the day he was arrested for insider trading. The government had clawed back about half of his fortune, but he had little to complain about. He’d now been out of prison for six months and acted as though he’d spent two decades in solitary confinement.
Eleanor cleared her throat. “The remaining seventeen million from this year’s disbursement of our charitable fund will be donated to Douglas Senior Living, for the creation of a new senior aquatics program.”
From the sofa, Karen let out a little pfffft sound, something like disgust.
Junior stared daggers at her, mouth half open.
Andrew shuffled to the bar and poured himself a drink.
To Eleanor’s surprise, it was Susan who finally spoke. “Selfish.”
Eleanor had expected this. It was no secret that she planned to retire to Douglas next year. It was already the third-best retirement community in America, but why not ensure that it had all the amenities she’d need when she arrived? After all, it was her money.
And she didn’t have to defend her decisions. “If there’s nothing else, then?” She looked from child to child, then to Mack and Andrew. “Good, now let’s adjourn and go find those grandkids.”
The grandkids, nine in all, were gathered in the giant playroom in the northeast wing of the house. The grand Tudor had been built in the 1930s, but the playroom wing was added in the early sixties, just before she and John bought the home. When her kids were little, it had been full of rocking horses, art supplies, and more dolls than any family needed. Now it housed a department store worth of electronics she’d never understand. Her eldest grandson Kyon had assured her it was “a state-of-the-art gaming center.” Three widescreen TVs, handheld games, beanbag chairs, something called “VR” headsets, and a fridge for drinks and snacks.
As usual, Kyon sat alone, little white headphones sticking out of his ears. Eleanor was all for counter-culture—after all, she was a child of the sixties—but Kyon just seemed grim. He wore tight jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt and his nose had more piercings than a pincushion. It made her sad, even though she didn’t blame him. John Junior had never been much of a father, and his time in jail had done little to help his relationship with Kyon.
Karen sidled up and re-filled Eleanor’s wine, a delightfully stony Chablis. “Giving away your money to, well, essentially to yourself, won’t look good.” She nodded at Brenden, who observed the whole scene from the corner.
Eleanor was glad Karen had gotten over her disappointment so quickly. “He’s writing my memoir, and I’m paying him handsomely. He’ll write what I tell him to write. A million for your cause isn’t bad, and you can always add some of your own.”
“Until the sale is final, I don’t have a lot of capital.”
Karen had been working to sell her company for a year, running into delay after delay. Eleanor could understand her frustration, but having to wait a little longer for her multi-million dollar payout was not exactly a Dickensian tragedy.
Eleanor smiled. “Somehow, I think you’ll manage.”
Karen sighed and put an arm around her shoulder. “It’s nice, isn’t it, having everyone together?”
Eleanor nodded. Karen had always been quick to anger, quick to forgive. She loved that about her.
Mack approached and offered a small plate of finger foods. “Fresh rolls, and grilled beef in betel leaf.”
“You never cease to amaze me,” Eleanor said.
He smiled. “Who would have thought an old army cook would be learning regional Vietnamese dishes at age seventy-five? Praise be to YouTube tutorials.”
Karen smiled. “Seventy-five isn’t what it used to be. You look sixty.”
Mack nodded politely and headed back to the kitchen.
As the teenagers yelled at screens both small and large, Eleanor savored the spicy, tart, savory Vietnamese appetizers and sipped the wine.
Sasha, Karen’s eldest at eighteen, pulled off a VR headset and came over. “Chocolate, Nanna?”
Eleanor smiled. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Sasha was her eldest granddaughter, and nothing like Kyon. Polite, smart, beautiful, and, above all: normal. In the fall she’d be heading to Stanford to study engineering.
Sasha put her arm around Eleanor just as Karen had. “Love you, Nanna.”
Eleanor popped the raspberry-creme into her mouth and washed it down with the Chablis. “Love you, too, sweetie.”
Life wasn’t perfect—it never had been—but it was good enough. For the first time in a long time, all felt right with the world.
The sound of her grandchildren’s squeals and playfully angry shouts followed her up to bed. As matriarch of the family, she’d done her best to keep them together, keep the core of their fortune intact, and keep them respected, even revered, in Seattle. Though her children didn’t always appreciate her, the happy sounds of her grandchildren were thanks enough.
In the master suite, Eleanor changed into her nightgown, took her evening medications, and slid between her cool cotton sheets. In a life full of responsibilities, her one guilty pleasure was watching an hour or two of TV at night. Until recently, she’d refused to bring a TV into her bedroom, but now that she could watch Law and Order, CSI, Monk, and even old episodes of Murder She Wrote from the comfort of her bed, she’d never go back to the media room.
Tonight it was Cracker, a British crime drama that was darker than her usual shows. She preferred programs where the good guys had clear and decisive victories, but it was enjoyable nonetheless.
After the first episode, she stood to go to the bathroom, but something was off. She felt unsteady, like she’d had too much to drink. She finally made it to the bathroom, but stumbled on the way back, collapsing onto the bed and almost careening off the edge.
She’d only had two glasses of wine, so it couldn’t be that. Was she coming down with something? Had the dried shrimp gone bad? No, Mack was too conscientious for that.
Was it the chocolate? She’d watched a documentary about a child who’d died by eating a bunch of his parent’s chocolates, not knowing they were full of THC. Surely the teenagers weren’t eating marijuana chocolates in her home?
Her eyes were fuzzy as she studied the clicker to try to start the next episode. Fumbling with the buttons, she accidentally switched off the TV.
